A Matter of Honor

by Abigail Reynolds

  She took refuge in impertinence. “You seem to have misplaced your horde of bandits.”

  “Even bandits have business that must be taken care of.” He seemed larger, more frightening in this small, dark room where ancient stone walls trapped her. What if he blocked the doorway so she could not escape?

  The air was scarcely warmer than the air outside, and the smoke made her cough. Elizabeth stepped towards the fire. She would warm her hands for a minute or two, and, having proved her point, beat a hasty retreat.

  She had her foot raised to step into the shadowy area before the fire when she realized it was a man’s body and scuttled back quickly. Fortunately, she did not seem to have woken him. Sleeping bandits most likely did not care to be disturbed by unwelcome visitors.

  “My apologies,” she said quickly. “I do not wish to disturb your friend.”

  A mocking smile greeted her words. “Not my friend.”

  “Well, then, I certainly will not disturb your enemy.”

  “Not that either. Just a fellow I found unconscious by the side of the road. He had been robbed of his boots and coat, but his linen was fine enough that I decided to see if he is worth a ransom. If he awakens, that is.” He seemed unconcerned about the possibility his guest might die.

  “You robbed him, and now you are going to hold him for ransom, too?”

  His teeth glinted in the darkness. “I was not the one who robbed him. I do not need to resort to knocking my victims unconscious.”

  Elizabeth opened her eyes wide in a look of mock innocence. “Of course you would not! You only rob people in a polite manner.”

  He laughed. “Exactly. There is no need to be rude about stealing someone’s money.”

  “It must be easy to laugh when you are not the one being robbed or lying unconscious. I do not suppose you have brought in an apothecary to look at him.”

  “My dear Miss Merton, the nearest apothecary is over an hour’s ride away, and he comes out only for rich men. Poor men must survive without his care. This rich man can do the same.”

  “What a charming approach to life you have!”

  “I brought him here this morning rather than leaving him by the side of the road to freeze. Does that count for nothing?”

  She said through her teeth, “You have already told me the reason you did that. Surely there must be someone nearby who treats people who are hurt?”

  He shrugged. “There is a fellow who sets bones and bandages wounds. Now I believe it is time for you to return to Kinloch House. You have made your disapproval of my choices clear. I have never claimed to be a saint. I will not lie awake tonight worrying about my cruelty.” He nudged the unconscious body with his toe. The man groaned faintly.

  Elizabeth’s temper snapped. “That is a human being, a child of God like you!” She knelt next to the man’s form. “And if you will not care for him, I will!”

  She gingerly picked up the corner of the threadbare blanket that covered everything but his hair. No doubt it was crawling with fleas, but she tugged it down to reveal his head and shoulders. In the faint red glow of the embers, she could make out dark hair and a trickle of something dark running down his exposed neck, but his face was turned into the shadows. His shirt, ripped at the shoulder, looked unnaturally white in this dirty place.

  It was not as if she knew anything about caring for an injured man, but surely she could do something for him. She pulled her gloves off and ran her hand over his head, feeling for a wound.

  Had she ever touched a man’s hair before? It was surprisingly soft. Ah, there it was, a lump on the side of his head, sticky with what must be blood. Poor man!

  She could make out no other obvious injury, but the darkness could be hiding it. She wiped her sticky fingers on the blanket and slid her palm under his cheek to turn his head into the dim glow, revealing a swollen, bruised, but still familiar face.

  Elizabeth gasped in horror.

  It was Mr. Darcy. Her heart tried to leap out of her chest and her hand shook as she clapped it over her mouth. How could he be here? Why was he here – and what if he did not wake up? Tears filled her eyes.

  “You know him?” the highwaymen asked.

  She nodded dumbly, unable to speak.

  “Good. That will make it easier. Will someone pay ransom for him?”

  She glared at him incredulously. “You are a monster. I hope they hang you by the neck until you are dead.”

  “You seem to forget that I saved his life.”

  The dim firelight revealed a large, dark bruise on one side of Darcy’s face, a swollen lip, and a jagged cut across his forehead. Her hand shaking, Elizabeth stroked his undamaged cheek, the stubble pricking her fingertips. Poor Mr. Darcy, who would never have appeared in public without shaving! A warm drop of water landed on her hand, and she realized it was a tear.

  Did he have other injuries? That dark stain on the side of his shirt must be blood. Yes, it was stiff and hard to the touch. But what was the shirt hiding? Her hand hovered over the fine linen. What was the point in paying attention to propriety when his life might be at stake?

  The bandit’s scarred hand did it for her, tugging the shirt up just enough to reveal an abrasion on his side. Averting her eyes from his exposed chest, she examined it, her heart pounding. It seemed to be scabbing over. Could it be infected? If the area was red, she could not tell in this poor light. She laid the back of her fingers against the skin by the wound as she had seen the apothecary do. Just the usual warmth of human flesh, shocking in the cold, but it was not hot. What would he think if he knew she was touching him?

  “Most likely they kicked him there,” said the bandit. “He may have broken ribs underneath, but he would have to be awake to tell us.”

  It was too easy to see in her mind’s eye, a booted foot smashing into him. Oh, how she hated this place and its vicious inhabitants!

  There might be other wounds. Gathering her courage, she felt along the side of his leg through the trousers. No swelling, and she could not feel dried blood on the cloth.

  “No need to embarrass yourself further,” the bandit sneered. “His ankle is badly swollen, no doubt wrenched when his boot was pulled off, and his leg appears broken. Hard to tell when he is unconscious. No sign of internal injuries.” The highwayman’s voice was clipped.

  Relief washed over her. She wanted to put her head down on Mr. Darcy’s chest and cry, but she would not show weakness. She grasped his shirt to pull it down, but stopped short. The shirt had not been stuck to the wound. She examined the abrasion again. No blood except on the shirt. Unless Mr. Darcy was an extremely tidy bleeder, someone had cleansed the wound. Slowly she tugged the shirt down to cover him and pulled the tattered blanket up to keep him warm, or at least less cold. She touched the lump on his head again.

  “Careful. That is still oozing.”

  How did the highwayman know that if he had been ignoring Darcy? And highwaymen did not say things like ‘no sign of internal injuries.’

  A small bowl of water and a rag appeared beside her.

  She said slowly, “I did not know highwaymen checked for internal injuries.”

  “But you have never known any other highwaymen, have you? Perhaps we all do. You can clean the wound on his head if you like.” His tone was mocking.

  She could deal with that mystery later. Right now, her heart ached for Darcy. He was always so in control, so strong, so immaculately dressed and shaved, accustomed to the finest in everything. Here he lay unconscious in a hovel, wearing no more than a torn, bloodstained shirt and his trousers, barely warmed by a tiny fire.

  She dipped the cloth in the water and carefully parted Darcy’s hair to expose the lump. He flinched when the wet rag touched his wound, and she drew back involuntarily. She had hurt him.

  “It is a good sign that he reacts to pain. If he did not, he would be unlikely to awaken.”

  She steeled herself to resume cleaning the wound. He tried to twist his head away this time. It was a strange re
lief to see him move rather than lying limp as she wiped the dried blood from his neck. That skin had always been hidden by his cravat.

  After setting down the rag, she stroked his hair, moving a lock that had fallen over his forehead. He turned his head into her touch, so it must be pleasing in some manner. She smoothed his curls, soothing her fraught spirits as well. She would not think of the impropriety of it. Nothing mattered but making him as comfortable as she could.

  Why was he here? It was vanishingly unlikely that Darcy had some acquaintance apart from her in this particular godforsaken part of the world. He had to have been trying to find her. He must have discovered where she was, and, just as he had followed her from England to Scotland, he had followed her into the Highlands. And what had she given him in return for his efforts? Impertinence and unkind rejection, pretending not to know him, and running away from him. He must have wondered why she was so desperate to avoid him. Had it hurt him? He was certainly hurt now, and it was because of her.

  “Who is he?” asked the highwayman.

  She did not look up. “His name is Darcy. He is a gentleman from Derbyshire.” Somehow she got the words out despite the lump in her throat.

  “Who are his relatives?”

  Darcy’s relatives? They were her worst enemies. “I would rather not tell you. You would be wise to steer clear of them.” If only she had been able to follow that advice herself, Darcy would not be lying here unconscious. Unshed tears burned the corners of her eyes.

  He rolled his eyes. “Why is that?”

  “I do not need to explain my reasons, but it is in your best interest as well. His family is powerful and ruthless, and you would likely end up being hanged.” And if they discovered her there, he might not be the only one. She could not afford to forget that.

  “I thought you wanted to see me hanged by the neck until I was dead. That is what you said, is it not?”

  “That was when you were pretending to be cruel and uncaring,” she said tiredly, laying her fingers gently on Darcy’s cheek.

  “I am cruel and uncaring. And I want that ransom.”

  “Then wait for him to regain consciousness and ask him to have it sent. I do not want anyone’s blood on my hands, not even yours.” Her voice shook.

  “In that case, Miss Merton, it is time for you to return to Kinloch House now,” the bandit said. “It will be dark soon.”

  “Not without him.” How could she bear the luxury of Kinloch when Darcy was unconscious in this uncomfortable hovel?

  The bandit sighed. “Totally apart from the ransom question, the only way to get him there would be in a wheelbarrow or slung across a horse’s back. Either one is likely to worsen the injury to his head.”

  Elizabeth rested her hand on Darcy’s linen-clad shoulder. “You got him up here somehow.”

  “Aye, but my choice was between letting him die and risking further injury. He will do as well here as anywhere else. The discomforts will not trouble him in his condition.”

  “Then I will stay here with him.” The words came out of her mouth unplanned, but they were true. She would remain until he woke. She could not even think about the alternative.

  The highwaymen muttered something explosive under his breath. “Don’t be ridiculous. Your reputation would be ruined.”

  Elizabeth watched the steady rise and fall of Darcy’s chest. “Unless you are planning to go to Edinburgh to announce my sins to society, I have little to fear.”

  He threw his hands up. “There is nowhere for you to sleep, and not enough food to keep from going hungry.”

  “Then I will go hungry. It will not kill me.” Could he not tell she was on the edge of hysteria?

  “You are returning to Kinloch House if I have to tie you up and carry you!” he snarled.

  She glared at him. “I would simply come back. It would be much easier if you went to Kinloch House and asked the housekeeper to send someone here with food and a few blankets. She can even send a maid if you are that concerned about propriety.”

  He studied her silently, his lips compressed. His right hand was at his belt, rubbing the grip of his pistol.

  Had she gone too far? She was at his mercy, and he was a criminal. Her mouth went dry and she turned back to Darcy. Not that there was anything she could do for him, but she would rather look at him than the angry bandit. Would her aunt’s name protect her this time? If he planned to shoot her, she would rather not know it was coming.

  Her chest felt tight with each breath and her neck ached with tension. What was she doing, invading a criminal’s lair and issuing orders to him? It would do Darcy no good if she were killed. Alive, she could at least send blankets to keep him warm.

  She bowed her head. In a low, trembling voice, she said, “Very well. I will leave. If I may, I would like to return in the morning to see if there has been any change, but I will not stay.”

  Silence was her only answer. She gazed on Darcy’s face one more time and forced herself to her feet. Slipping on her gloves, she looked up and discovered she was alone. The bandit must have left without a word.

  She pushed aside the blanket that served as the door. The keep was empty, too, except for the Highland pony in the corner placidly chewing hay. Perhaps she could catch the man on the path outside, but that would leave Darcy alone.

  Where had he gone? A criminal living in hiding would not have taken her flippant suggestion of going to Kinloch House to ask for supplies. Perhaps he was going elsewhere for the night.

  The cold wind made her shiver, so she withdrew inside the small shelter. It was really no warmer than the outdoors, but the absence of wind helped a little.

  She sat down beside Darcy’s waist, facing his head. She tucked the blanket in as close to him as she could. “There, that will help you stay warm. I do not know why I am talking to you when you cannot hear me, but it seems strange to sit in silence.”

  Now she could feel something poking out from underneath him. She ran her fingers over it. Some kind of springy plant. Heather, perhaps, by the feel of it. “I suppose it must be his bed you are lying on, and his blanket. I cannot see anything else he might sleep on. He seems to live very simply here.”

  Darcy’s hand had been lying outside the blanket all this time. The thieves must have taken his gloves, too. His fingers would be freezing. She stripped off her own gloves again to check. Yes, his hand was like ice. She pressed his fingers between the palms of her hands. “Does that help? I hope it warms them, not that mine are particularly warm, either.”

  At Hogmanay his fingers had been warm on hers when he kissed her hand. She had thought it felt so intimate. It was nothing compared to the intimacies she had undertaken with him today.

  Her cheeks felt hot despite the chill in the air. If she had to be embarrassed, she might as well use it on his behalf. She pulled down her muffler on one side and pressed the back of his fingers to her cheek. That would do more to warm them. “I know, this is truly shocking behavior on my part! But it is the least I can do after all the difficulty I have caused you. I suppose you would not complain that I am taking liberties, after all.”

  He did not respond, of course.

  Gradually the room, if she could call it that, became even darker as the sun went down. The only light came from the glowing embers, casting a reddish sheen on Darcy’s face. How would she know if he became worse if she could barely even see him? And what could she do if his condition deteriorated, apart from holding his hand?

  Desperation gnawed at her chest. Why had she not agreed to leave when the highwayman told her to? She could have gone back to Kinloch and sent servants back with blankets. She could have asked the housekeeper to get medical help to Darcy. But no, she had to refuse to leave him, and he was paying the price for her foolishness. Now it was too late; she could never find her way to Kinloch in the dark. All she could do was to wait for morning and hope he was still alive then.

  Tears started to run down her face. She dashed them away before the wetness added to
the cold that ached down to her bones. Her stomach growled, in search of the dinner she would not have.

  What if he died? It would be her fault. This would not have happened if she had not run away from him. Unable to bear the thought, she placed her hand on his chest. It was still rising with each breath. A sob of relief threatened to choke her. She rocked her torso back and forth, not sure if she was hoping for warmth or consolation. She found neither.

  Had it been minutes or hours since the highwayman left her? There was no way to know, and dark winter nights lasted for almost eighteen hours here. It would be an eternity of cold, misery, and worry. She would run mad waiting for each second to pass.

  Perhaps she could count to herself. Sixty slow counts for a minute, sixty minutes to an hour, eighteen hours to a night. How many seconds was that? Thousands? Millions?

  She needed to calm herself. How else could she make time pass? A desperate laugh escaped her. She could always run lines. She stopped needing a script long before Jasper did. Perhaps the sound of her voice might somehow reach inside Mr. Darcy’s stupor and offer him comfort. It was not as if she had anything else to do. “Act I. My lord, I’ll tell you that self bill is urged which in th’ eleventh year of the last king’s reign was like, and had indeed against us passed...” It felt silly, but it was better than doing nothing, so she kept going.

  By Act II, her voice was getting scratchy in the cold air, and she switched over to reciting the lines silently to herself. Only a few weeks ago, in a different world, she and Mr. Darcy had heard these same lines together in the actor’s box. If only she could go back to that moment! But that was impossible.

  Eventually her head began to nod, despite her hunger and the cold.

  THE SOUND OF A MAN’S voice awakened her from her light doze. It was not her bandit’s voice. Could it be one of his outlaw band? What would he do when he discovered her presence? She stiffened with fear and bent over Mr. Darcy as if she could somehow protect him. There was nowhere to hide.

  That new sound – could that be hoofbeats on the packed earth of the keep? That jingle could well be a horse’s harness.