Darcy's Quest

by Marianne Lewis

  Elizabeth frowned and sipped thoughtfully at her wine. Though her mind was clearer on certain facts, her heart wasn't set to rest. If anything, it pulsed with more turmoil. Darcy hadn't said it, but their quest to return Colonel Fitzwilliam to England was fraught with danger. He'd also neglected to mention his own wound, and the fact that it hadn't been an accident. She lifted her gaze to her husband. "Someone is trying to kill you."

  Darcy nodded slowly. "Which is why Wickham was assigned by Colonel Forster, and he ordered the task of locating my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam. The men we seek learned my description, making it unsafe for me to travel to France."

  "And hardly safe to stay in England," she mused. No wonder he'd made such haste to marry. It wasn't greatly flattering that he'd chosen her for the sole purpose of securing his line, but she now understood his urgency. Still, she thought it beastly of Darcy to marry her, knowing full well he might leave her a widow in undue haste. Her heart constricted into a tight, painful knot. What if he were killed?

  The thought overwhelmed her. She needed a haven to sort out her feelings. Rising hastily from the table, she clasped her hands together to still their sudden trembling. "I rather think I shall retire now. Wickham, try not to wet your bandages whilst you bathe. Darcy, perhaps you might find Bexley and see your guest settled. Come along, Lydia. Good night, gentlemen."

  Elizabeth burrowed deeper into the covers, warding off an unpleasant chill. Instead of finding satisfaction in knowing the answers to her questions, she rather desired ignorance. True, all Darcy's strange actions made perfect sense now—his haste to take a wife, his need for an heir—but it was small consolation in light of the knowledge she'd just gleaned. His life was in danger: someone wanted him dead, and would likely stop at nothing to see that goal accomplished.

  Filthy murderers! She shivered again, and wished Darcy might come to her, to warm her with his presence.

  Thank God he wouldn't be traveling to France. At least at Pemberley he knew a modicum of safety. Her brow wrinkled in thought. Why did she feel such intense concern for the man she hadn't wanted to marry?

  Her emotions regarding her husband, she acknowledged, had undergone a radical change. Did she love him? The question posed itself stealthily. No, she quickly decided...at least, she didn't think so. After all, it was only natural to feel concern for his safety—she was his wife.

  Then why was she oddly thankful Wickham would return to France, and not Darcy? Not that she liked to see Wickham go, either, but his departure was clearly the lesser of two evils. Though Wickham was the man she professed to love, her heart hadn't fluttered when she'd seen him tonight, when she'd touched him. The rapture she'd once known at being in his presence, at feeling blue eyes caress her face, his teasing grin lifting her heart, wasn't there.

  In the darkness of her chamber, she finally admitted that Wickham no longer held her heart. She'd been infatuated with his good looks, and flattered by his attentions...but she didn't love him. Releasing the bonds of the true love she'd imagined between them was quite painless, even rather effortless. In fact, it was a relief to realize her heart belonged to no one.

  And she'd best keep it that way. Darcy desired no affection from his wife, and wanted to give none. She'd be a fool to toss her heart in that direction...if she hadn't already.

  * * *

  The next morning, Elizabeth made her way to the drawing room, hoping to find the other members of the household there. Darcy hadn't returned to her last night, and neither had he visited this morning. Was he angry that she'd tended Wickham? He had been rather tense, and even short, but why? Especially when he viewed her as little more than the means of obtaining an heir. She stepped inside the drawing room, finding Wickham its sole occupant.

  “Good morning, Elizabeth.'' He uncoiled himself from his chair and rose. Lifting her hand, he pressed a respectful kiss on the back of it.

  "Good morning, Wickham," Elizabeth returned with a smile, knowing a satisfying ease in his presence. "You look much improved, though I must say your attire seems somewhat ill suited to all that hair on your face."

  Wickham chuckled. "Indeed. Just one nuisance of being a military man. Makes it damnably difficult to charm the ladies."

  Elizabeth laughed. "Indeed. How is your shoulder?"

  "A bloody bother, but better. I mend quickly." An engaging grin lit his face, and he offered his arm. "It's a beautiful day. Might we take a stroll?"

  "Certainly." Elizabeth, happy for the opportunity of his company, took his arm. Though she knew now she did not love him nor completely trust him, his grin was so infectious. They walked in companionable silence down the wide steps and into the manicured gardens beyond.

  Wickham picked a bloom, and with a sweeping bow, offered it to her. "I neglected to say how lovely you look today, Mrs. Darcy. My apologies. It seems marriage suits you admirably. I daresay you're fairer now than when I last saw you in Hertfordshire."

  "Thank you, Mr. Wickham," she responded. "I am content."

  "Darcy treats you well?"

  "He's most kind."

  "So you've fallen in love with him?"

  "Of course I have not! What a silly thing to say. Ours is a marriage of convenience. Are you quite sure you didn't take a knock to the head, as well? You must know why Darcy married me." Not for a moment would she consider whether his words carried a whisper of truth.

  “He's in love with you."

  She glanced sharply at him. Darcy—in love with her? She quashed a tiny leap of joy, knowing it was impossible, and utter foolishness for her to hope as much. "Now I'm convinced something has happened to your powers of reasoning. He merely needs an heir."

  "Oh, I'm aware of that. But I rather suspect—no, more than suspect, I know he married you for another reason, as well." He gave her a cursory glance. "He loves you."

  "Wickham, I can scarce credit I'm hearing this! Darcy does not love me, so do stop your prattling!" Did Wickham see something she didn't? Would it be the height of idiocy to entertain the hope that Darcy regarded her in a warmer light than she suspected?

  Wickham flashed a brilliant smile, and seated himself on a nearby bench, drawing her down beside him. "I would like to say: me thinks the lady doth protest too much, but I won't. I shall not tease you with it any longer. After all, you must know better than I, and if you say it isn't so, then it isn't."

  Elizabeth accepted his words without comment, knowing he wasn't convinced that she and Darcy weren't in love with each other. Darcy had made it perfectly clear that he wanted none of her affection, but she didn't like confessing as much to Wickham. She hastened to change the subject.

  "You are different, Mr. Wickham. You seem more... mature."

  "Running for his life will do that to a man. You've changed, too."

  Elizabeth laughed. "Marriage will do that to a woman. When did you discover you had to go to France?"

  Wickham snorted, shaking his head. "The day after I asked you to elope with me." He reached for her hand. "I owe you an apology, Elizabeth. At the time, I was irritated that Darcy had the audacity to approach you when he knew his life was in danger. He'd nearly been killed three times before getting out of France, and I knew it wouldn't be long before our traitors located him in England." He grimaced. "I thought I would, under the circumstances, make a better husband. Little did I know that I'd been commissioned for the job of finding Colonel Fitzwilliam."

  He lifted one shoulder in a conceding gesture. "It was the height of foolishness for me to think I could take a wife. I had...have nothing to offer. Though I hope it won't happen, if you are left Darcy's widow, at least you'll be wealthy. I'm sorry not only for asking for you to elope with me, but also for the danger in which I placed your reputation. As your sister, Lydia, pointed out to me, it was a dashed beastly thing to ask of you."

  "Lydia said that?"

  "She did, and very heatedly, I might add. She's a regular virago when she puts her mind to it. Me thinks she has little love for me." He chuckled. "And I for her.
"

  Elizabeth grew silent, her brow furrowed in thought. Wickham's handsome apology was gratifying to receive, but the thought of becoming Darcy's widow made her physically ill. He hadn't mentioned the attempts on his life last night. And yet he'd married her, knowing it possible he might never see his son, should she have the good fortune to conceive. She didn't know which bothered her more—that she might be left a widow or that he'd known full well that he might be killed. Her heart contracted, tears pricked her eyes, coming close to spilling over.

  "Excuse me, Mr. Wickham. I must see to the menus."

  He stood immediately and reached for her hand. "One moment, Elizabeth. I must tell you that I wish you very happiness with Darcy. I think we both know now we wouldn't have suited."

  His voice, soft, gentle, pleaded for understanding. Elizabeth gave it, relieved she hadn't broken his heart. She nodded, and even mustered a smile. "Thank you, Wickham." She forced the words past the lump in her throat, and sought to quell her tears. "I'm happy we're in agreement on that subject."

  Withdrawing her hand from his, she picked up her skirts, and walked to the house with as much haste as graceful deportment allowed. She couldn't let him see how the thought of losing Darcy tore at her. She forbade the tears to fall until she was safely in her chamber.

  Chapter Twelve

  Darcy sat at the desk in his study, staring grimly out the window and into the garden beyond. The sight of Elizabeth, with her hand on Wickham's arm, had a decidedly unpleasant effect on his temper. He wanted to throttle Wickham for having the audacity to speak with her, and he wanted to shake Elizabeth for having the temerity to seek out the man's presence.

  He hadn't liked her attending Wickham last night—not a bit. In fact, he'd thought he might choke Wickham for having the gall to be alive. And there he was, doing the pretty, flirting with Elizabeth, bowing and offering a fresh bloom. Darcy wanted to strangle him. The smile Elizabeth tilted up at Wickham only gave Darcy more cause to grind his teeth. She obviously hadn't surrendered her love for the man.

  But why, after all, should he care? What did it matter? He sighed. He loved her, that was why. The sudden knowledge didn't startle him; it seemed he'd known it forever. He cradled his head in his hands, wondering why on earth he hadn't realized it before.

  He'd loved her from the beginning, from the first time he'd seen her standing across the room at the Meryton Assembly. He loved her beauty, her smile, her honesty, her entire being. He loved Elizabeth—the soft sweetness of her melting in his arms, the feel of her lips clinging to his.

  Possessing her body wasn't enough. He wanted all of her. Had she dreamed of Wickham when she lay in his arms?

  He lifted his quill, tapping the tip against a piece of paper. He'd said he cared naught for affection. What a fool he'd been. In truth, he wanted to be loved for himself, not for what he could give. And he'd run from love because he'd never thought he could receive it. The black irony was that he'd fallen in love with a woman who wanted nothing from him, one whose heart already belonged to another.

  Elizabeth must know Wickham had to return to France. Darcy had yet to inform her that he would go with Wickham. Colonel Fitzwilliam needed two men to carry him out, and they must move with all haste lest they risk detection. Would any of them return alive?

  Darcy gazed out the window, saw Elizabeth stand, saw Wickham rise and catch her hand. There was an exchange of words, and she kissed him on the cheek. Darcy sucked air into his lungs. Elizabeth turned, coming towards the house, looking decidedly weepy. What had Wickham said? That lout! He rose from the desk and went to the door, opening it in time to see Elizabeth sweep up the stairs and towards her chamber.

  He followed her and knocked tentatively on her door, opening it to find her in tears. She turned away from him, and he felt as if a knife was being twisted in him. Loving her was one thing, but knowing that he loved her was quite another. He steeled himself for rejection, and walked to her, placing his hands gently on her arms.

  "Elizabeth," he said, her name but a whisper on his lips.

  Elizabeth turned into Darcy's arms, unable to resist the comfort he offered. She leaned into his strong, supporting chest and allowed her tears free rein. She treasured having him close, warm and alive. After some minutes, she lifted her head. "William.”

  "Elizabeth, don't weep any more," he whispered. "Please, say you won't."

  Her lashes fluttered up, and she studied him for the first time that morning. Her eyes narrowed. "You haven't shaved." The statement sounded like an accusation even to her ears.

  Darcy closed his eyes in a brief, defeated gesture. "I have to return to France with Wickham."

  She struggled out of his arms, and stared hard at him. "But they shot him! They've shot you! William— no!"

  "I have no choice, Elizabeth."

  She gasped for air, her head reeling. "Your life is in danger there."

  "My life is in danger everywhere. Wickham can't accomplish the task alone. Colonel Fitzwilliam is too weak, and two healthy men can move him faster than one. I must help bring my cousin out. If we return alive, I'll be able to live peacefully, without looking over my shoulder forever."

  "And if you don't return alive?"

  "Well, should that be the case, I daresay I'll not have to worry about guarding my backside, either. It's the only way, Elizabeth. As long as these traitors are about, we'll never be safe and free."

  He smoothed his hand over her tummy, for a moment, looking sad and pensive. His gaze met hers, full of an emotion she'd never seen in their clear depths. Love? Could Wickham possibly have been correct?

  "And our child, should we have one, will be safe to grow." His eyes pleaded for understanding. "I must go."

  Elizabeth pushed away from him. "You are a fiend, Darcy. You married me, knowing full well you might leave me a widow. I know you needed an heir, but I didn't know he might never see his father. Leave my chamber—at once!"

  Darcy sighed, deeply and heavily. He gazed at her, stepped towards her and stopped. "I'm sorry."

  Elizabeth pointed towards the connecting door. She couldn't surrender her emotions were too ravaged.

  Darcy stepped through the door, closing it quietly behind him. Elizabeth stared at it for long moments. Her knees buckled under her and she sank to the floor, bowing her head. Tears fell in silent testimony of her grief.

  * * *

  Darcy became a bit shaggier about the face in the next two days. Elizabeth had to admit the stubble rather suited him, lending him a rakish quality she hadn't heretofore associated with him. That he appeared more powerfully attractive was all very well, but his growing hair only served to remind her of the threatening prospect of living life without him.

  Perhaps a short month ago, she might have been pleased if he had disappeared from the face of the earth, but now, somehow, her spirit became morose and melancholic at the thought of his being wrenched from her side. Still, she wasn't inclined to speak to him. Oh, of a surety, she was polite, insofar as she had to be. And Darcy hadn't visited her room once since she asked him— nay, commanded him—to leave.

  She was a bundle of pent-up emotion. Darcy and Wickham spent many hours in his study, plotting their every move to get Colonel Fitzwilliam out efficiently and speedily. Knowing they also calculated their possible demise didn't soothe Elizabeth's nerves one whit.

  Even Wickham failed to lift her spirits. But his and Lydia's spats were diverting, and allowed her to maintain a semblance of good humor until Darcy announced at lunch that he and Wickham would return to France at dusk. Elizabeth's spoon froze halfway to her mouth. Her gaze flew to his, then fell to her plate.

  "I must ask for your promise, ladies, that you won't leave the garden," Darcy continued with firm emphasis. "It's imperative, for your own safety, that you stay close so the servants can protect you. We don't know with whom we're dealing. If they know we've found Colonel Fitzwilliam and the list, there's no telling what they might do to protect themselves. Do I have your word?"
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br />   Elizabeth didn't have the heart to disagree, and nodded in unison with Lydia.

  "Good," he said. "I've written to Colonel Forster. I daresay he may pay you a visit in a day or two."

  "When may we expect your return?" asked Lydia.

  "God willing, we could be back in as little as a week," Darcy replied.

  He and Wickham had apparently mapped their plans down to the very minute. The knowledge didn't decrease Elizabeth's ever-growing fear.

  At dusk, Darcy enfolded her hands in his. His eyes held a hint of sadness. "Elizabeth, if you bear our child, you won't speak ill of me to him?"

  A sudden, powerful constriction in her throat rendered her unable to speak. She shook her head, knowing her eyes were wide with unshed tears.

  "Goodbye, Elizabeth," he murmured softly, his eyes eloquent with tenderness. He placed a gentle kiss on her mouth and turned away.

  "God speed, Darcy," she whispered, forcing the words past the lump in her throat. The desire to throw her arms about him and beg him not to go increased, but her dignity, and the knowledge of his sense of duty, forbade her.

  She watched him and Wickham depart, staring at his back until he disappeared from her view.

  A week seemed a lifetime of agony and anxiety to Elizabeth. She'd tried to sleep, she'd tried to eat, she'd even tried tending her herb garden—all with the same result: failure. She'd spent more time in the drawing room, gazing out the French doors to the waters beyond.

  "Lizzy, you've been staring outside this past age. It's four in the morning, and ever so dark. Can you not come and share a pot of tea with me?" Lydia asked, her voice gentle.

  Elizabeth turned from the window, her fingers pleating the folds of her gown. "Lydia, I vow I couldn't drink a drop. They're due back, and what if he doesn't return?" Her voice ended in a whisper, and she flicked at the tears spilling from her eyes.

  Lydia frowned in sympathy, moving forward to take Elizabeth's hands in hers. "Oh, dearest! How awful for you. I wish I could assure you that they'll return, but we both know how empty those words would be. However, for your sake, Elizabeth, I do hope Wickham doesn't die."