In Good Conscience

by Gardiner, Cat

  Knitting his brow, he was unable to control the severity of concern in his tone. He didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but it came out less than stellar—far less than she deserved to be spoken to. “What are you doing up? And not even dressed warm enough. You’ll catch your death.”

  She snorted, unaffected by his inadvertent censure. God, she knew him and how to break his severity so well.

  “You’re right, poor choice of words,” he said.

  A little smile twisted her lips and she opened the big blanket to him, which they both needed. Patting Salaam’s neck, he chuckled. “Sorry, pal, but she’s a hell of a lot prettier and smells better, too.”

  “Hi, baby,” he moaned stepping into her cozy orb as the wool wrapped around his body. His arms encircled her waist and he drew her into him, kissing her head, feeling so much better just having her body pressed to his. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “It’s almost like I sensed that you weren’t in the room with me, or that I just simply didn’t hear the clink of the ice in your whiskey.” Looking up at him, her cocked eyebrow told him exactly what she thought of his late-night drinking.

  He wanted to grunt in protestation, but he knew that sharp tongue of hers would have a passive aggressive retort.

  There was no denying it to himself or to her, he was fast becoming the man she never knew—the one who mercilessly killed Lucy Steele in Cuba without a second thought. “Back in Black” was more than a song to him; it represented the dark temperament, unattached, and un-emotional, hard-edged resolve of the stone-cold killer within him. “Jack,” his trusted liquid friend, came with the re-emergence of those unsavory attitudes. The drink was his solace and comfort; it took away all the guilt that came when his conscience surfaced, even though it innately guided his actions. In order to bury Morales, he needed to become Morales and was well on his way to doing so.

  But he wasn’t the only one who had changed since July 22. As he expected after such a trauma, Liz’s temerity and petulance died a little that day. It felt like their early days when he’d protected her in Monaco and Spain, and she was relying on him, versus her own intuition and skill. Yet, there was a strength that she’d not had before. It was even more pronounced than when they’d vacationed in Greece.

  He smiled softly in admiration of her metamorphosis into “Liz” with her quiet bravado and optimistic grit following Monte Carlo. It was hard for him to fathom that she’d ever been that sheltered “Lizzy” he’d met at the dance school. The woman hadn’t even a cell phone and allowed herself to be bullied into marrying a man she didn’t love!

  The red-hot fire, which had grown in her belly, fueled by confidence and freedom, had been only temporarily abated in the burning ash of their future at Pemberley. Her shock and fear would immobilize anyone—and for far longer than ten days. As for him, he’d lived half his life in the circle of hatred and revenge to Wickham, grooming himself in the most life-threatening danger for almost a decade waiting to take the ultimate kill-shot.

  Whereas now he acknowledged that Iceman was part of him, Lizzy of Longbourn was long gone. His wife was ready to move forward again.

  “I was wondering … can Jane come to visit for a few weeks?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry; she can’t.”

  “Well, then, can I go into the little historic town with Dixon or you?”

  “I don’t know; let me think about it.” His heart was breaking for her. Right now, his enemy thought she’d perished in the flames, and here hidden away in the Black Mountains no one knew either of them, but things could change on a dime. She sighed, and he pulled her closer.

  “How long do I have to be dead for?”

  He didn’t answer, and she pulled back.

  “Fitzwilliam, how long do I have to be dead for?” she repeated with emphasis and a set to her lips. Now it was he who pulled back with a drop to his arms before heading back to the stall, to his refuge beside Salaam.

  “I don’t know, Liz.”

  “Yes, you do. I’m not blind to what you’re doing, what you’re becoming. You’re getting ready to go after him.”

  “We talked about this. After what happened at Pemberley and then to the safehouse in DC, I have no choice. Obsidian isn’t safe; as far as I know they found you via Rick when he came back, followed him from Peru to U Street then to Georgiana’s wedding—I don’t know, but I can’t take another chance that those I love could be harmed.”

  He watched her expression change when she considered that Jane was now part of Obsidian—and possibly in danger, too.

  “I understand. I really do, but it’s just … this is hard to witness. I hardly know you anymore. Alexandre Dumas and Jack Daniels are making you distant; you’re cold.” She visibly shivered.

  “I don’t mean to be, not to you.”

  She walked to him, tightly clasping the blanket with both hands. “I know you don’t, and I know that you feel responsible for what happened, but you shouldn’t. It was my fault. In Moscow I told you to stop being so overprotective of me. I even made you miss the shot to kill Morales.”

  “Damn, Liz. You didn’t cause this! You are not responsible at all!” He raised his voice—crap—Jack’s influence had gone too far. “I’m sorry … but nothing has changed from before I left for Peru. My past almost got you killed, and they’re not going to stop. First Rick, then you, then yesterday … Obsidian’s only safe place is blown to hell. Who’s next? My sister? Your sister? Who’s safe from this damn nightmare?”

  “Stop it. We’ve gone over this fear a hundred times already and everyone is prepared—even Gigi. It’s her choice not to come here. For God’s sake, she and Justin have at least half-dozen men on their security detail.”

  “Big deal. They should never have left in the first place; I all but gave the house to them. Do you realize what trauma she’s already survived—what would happen if she’s, God forbid, kidnapped again!”

  “I do. Please, honey, calm down. You need to sleep. You’ve been on guard for over a week straight and you look terrible. Your thoughts are darker, more pessimistic than I’ve ever known.”

  Closing his eyes, he shook his head feeling defeated by her rational calmness. “It’s what happens, Liz. My life has come full circle in 14 years.”

  “I know, but you’re scaring me.” She enfolded him again in the blanket. “I … I need your strength; I need the man I fell in love with. He’s so far away right now.”

  Shit. She was about to cry, but he’d not stop her from doing so. She had yet to purge after her entrapment in the burning rubble, but he had.

  “Babe, I am the man you fell in love with. This is me, stronger than ever.”

  “No it’s not you, Fitzwilliam.”

  Kissing her head, he moaned. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “I just want my life back. I need to focus on the future.”

  “And so do I, but I don’t want you to fear anything. I vow to you, you will have your life back after Bermuda. Until then, know in your heart that nothing has changed between us; I’m not entirely unfeeling, yet.”

  “Bullshit. You don’t even make love to me anymore.”

  Yeah … that was a problem. He was pulling away, like someone who knew his end was truly near, that going after Diablo would mean he wouldn’t come back to her. Maybe psychologically he was readying her for the next reality check: life without him. Or maybe he was afraid of getting her pregnant. All their plans and hopes of bringing a child into their world had died. At this time in their lives, it was the absolute worst thing he could think of.

  He couldn’t reply and just remained silent to the accurate assessment that he was changing and leaving in a day or two.

  “I’m ready to leave here,” she said. “As gorgeous as your farmhouse is and as lovely as the mountains are in the summer, and I’d normally consider our visit here a welcome retreat—but it doesn’t feel like that—not after what happened. Without any freedom to do anything but mope around, I’m lonely, even with you h
ere, and I miss the Potomac and our family. I have to restore normalcy, which includes our relationship, or I’ll go insane.”

  He deserved that. “Yes, it’s been a long week and a half, and I understand how you’re feeling, but Virginia is unsafe.” He solemnly added, “Right now, there’s nothing of ours to go back to.”

  “I don’t agree. There’s always Longbourn until we can rebuild.”

  Now he cocked an eyebrow. Living with Tom would be the death of one of the three of them, and it wouldn’t be him or Liz. Besides, it was too soon for her to show her face in any place or with anyone connected to her. Diablo was still out there.

  “Dad won’t mind if we move in with him for a short time.”

  Again, he said nothing about that, because it was no secret that Traitor Tom (as he silently referred to him) was his least favorite person. “Not even Longbourn is safe.”

  “Oh.”

  His finger lifted her chin after it dropped in disappointment. “Hey, I have an idea. How about we go for a ride down to North Fork Valley along the reservoir tomorrow? Maybe we can pretend it’s June and you can find that Fitzwilliam guy you love so much.”

  “I know where he is.” She tapped his chest with her index finger. “He’s trapped in here.”

  “Hmm ... maybe. We’ll leave the security team at the farmhouse and it’ll be just us—”

  “And your Beretta.”

  “And your Hibben knives.”

  Like a burst of sunlight through the dark clouds, she grinned, enthusiastically asking, “I can practice?”

  “Sure,” he laughed lightly, bent and then whispered in her ear. “And I know the perfect place to seduce you.”

  “You do? And where is that?”

  “At an abandoned hunter’s cabin I bought a few years ago following Cuba when I considered becoming a hermit.”

  “Oh dear. It was that bad?”

  He smiled wryly. “Steele’s betrayal was one thing, but my total disregard of principles in killing her tormented me. One-shot, one-kill without so much a consideration shouldn’t apply to someone you supposedly care for. The line was not blurred when I crossed it that day.”

  “I can see how it would upset you; you chose your profession to help change the world for the better. I believe that everything you do is in good conscience, but you’re human, not superhuman, and that day her duplicity blinded you.”

  “It blinded my conscience when a simple left hook and a toss off the boat would have sufficed … so, I restored a log cabin to hide my demons away in.”

  “Yet you changed your mind.”

  “Yeah. Before I left for Cuba, life was very different for Georgiana, having just moved out of my aunt’s house and in with me. I had assumed that we needed time together, but quickly realized she didn’t have any interest in reacquainting with me—not that we didn’t get along, but she spent most of her time down with Asheville’s bohemian hippies, chasing guys, and protesting one thing or another. So, after a few months of licking my wounds after Operation Mambo by working up a sweat making the cabin livable, I finally decided to go back to Obsidian instead of hiding away in some one-room rustic cabin. My anger toward Wickham had grown in transference from Lucy.”

  He patted the horse’s neck, then smoothed it. “I should have listened to my instinct and remained in that damn cabin by myself,” he regretfully voiced.

  “Stop it.” Dropping the blanket, she cupped his face with both hands, locking her eyes to his. “You are the best of men, Fitzwilliam Darcy, but I’m afraid of you losing yourself like you did back then. You have my absolute support to make that bastard Diablo pay for what he did. Those guys who were determined to protect me deserve justice—your kind of justice. But you don’t have my support in destroying your soul to bring it.”

  Taking her hands in his, he held them against his chest, his heart full of absolute contrition and tender love. “Liz, you’re my salvation and so long as you love me … so long as I have you to come home to, that won’t happen. I promise you, and my word is my bond.”

  3

  Freedom

  August 2

  Standing at the kitchen sink, Liz admired the wildflowers climbing up the dilapidated fence beyond the open casement window. Colorful Morning Glories entwined with overgrown Mountain Mint made such a pretty picture. The distinct scent of the mint fragranced the air, and the loveliness of the open blossoms and birdsong filled her heart. The sun was bright this late morning but the temperature was mild for this time of the year. For long minutes, she stood there lost in thought as the water trickled from the faucet into her glass, her mind drifting to the beauty and tranquility of Pemberley’s greenhouse and her orchids, particularly her recent rare addition. The Lady’s Slipper clipping had come anonymously from England and, of course, she assumed it was a gift from Fitzwilliam, but he denied being the sender stating it was highly illegal to even touch the wild plant. Of course, its mysterious arrival added to his justified paranoia; he even went so far as to drive to the Post Office and to ask his friend in the Leesburg police department to fingerprint it! His reply was simply, “Paranoia is the height of awareness.” Still, the recollection of the Cypripedium calceolus and the disappointment she felt of it never blossoming for her caused her heart to sink at the loss of such a protected beauty no matter who sent it.

  Trying to buoy her emotions, she closed her eyes and imagined the beauty within Longbourn’s greenhouse; soon she’d be there—her protective cocoon, the sanctuary she cultivated after her mother’s sudden departure. Life would return to normal and she and Fitzwilliam would have another greenhouse, other beautiful blossoms and, more importantly, his tortured soul would be at ease once again. The storm would pass, but right now she felt helpless to help him through it. She frowned with worry at the burden and fears (particularly for Gigi and her) he carried with him every day. As for her, every morning since that terrible morning was a struggle, but she’d not let Fitzwilliam know of her own demons. Good Lord, he was a mess as it was. Her memories of being trapped and polarized by fear in the panic room would send him into hyper-overdrive. She needed to be strong for him; she needed to smile through her nightmare and focus on their future—and in order to do so she needed to keep the details of her experience to herself. Some white lies should be kept to oneself and it was in good conscience that she resolved to maintain the charade.

  Yes, the delicate white star trumpets of the Ipomoea lacunose clinging to the fence were beautiful, perhaps heralding new beginnings.

  “Howdy, Mrs. D,” Dixon greeted from behind her.

  “Oh! Good morning, Dixon. Did you get any sleep last night?”

  “Don’t you worry about me, ma’am. I was born at night.”

  “Just like my husband then.”

  “SEALs or Marines, we boys were made tough.”

  “Apart from you, the only other Marine I know is Fitzwilliam’s cousin. He’s sort of an unassuming tough guy behind his expensive suits and agreeable disposition.”

  “Some of us leathernecks are saltier than others, especially us older guys,” he said with a wink before filling a coffee mug from the old-fashioned percolator he swore by. “Mr. D asked me to tell ya’ that he’ll be back in time for your ride this afternoon. Seein’ that the rest of the team went with him, it’s just you, me, and Clarice ‘til they get back,” he said confidently patting the 1911 pistol tucked in its shoulder holster. She’d chuckle at the name of his handgun if she didn’t feel so annoyed by the information of her husband’s sudden disappearance.

  “Gee, I didn’t hear them drive away; I just assumed he was down at the stable this morning. Did he say where he was going?”

  “Lennox and Bell left at sunrise for Asheville with your husband, and Higgins took the H2 on some special errand to run for him.”

  Unable to stop her angry reaction, she turned with a huff. Truly, it wasn’t Dixon’s fault, but after all she and Fitzwilliam discussed the night before and his adamant refusal to let her out of this mount
ain prison, his going into town screamed a dangerous double standard!

  “Asheville? Oh, it better be important. The man took away my mobile. I can’t text or call my dad or sister, and he’s running into town and not just that rinky-dink podunk one on the outskirts. He’s in a city—and not with Nick protecting his back! What the hell?”

  “Aw, he’ll be fine. Those Army boys have his back—” he stopped his sentence when they heard a familiar sound coming up the drive: the growling rumbles of dual exhaust motorcycles!

  She turned from Dixon and eagerly searched out the window. Her heart flipped when two black Harleys rolled over the gravel. Oh Lord—Fitzwilliam looked incredible straddling the bigger of the two bikes, his muscular thighs surrounding the hard leather seat, his gloved hands wrapped around the handlebar grips, boots propped on the foot pegs. He kicked the stand down then removed his helmet, revealing tousled hair and a two-day old dark stubble.

  Butterflies fluttered in her stomach at the hard-core biker image he presented: charcoal-colored T-shirt under the worn leather jacket, his black jeans and long hair. She’d frequently seen him like this, but something about this morning stirred her out of any doldrums or ire! His look reminded her of the day she got on the back of his Harley for the first time. That illogical image was imprinted in her memory forever: she, crying, in her white wedding dress, and he, scowling, in his black leather. Stone-cold, bad-to-the-bone, and unforthcoming—he was mysterious and dangerous, and sexy as hell. On that eventful night when she shamefully (and very uncharacteristically, but super effectively) manipulated him by smoothing her hand down the front of his jeans, she was gone—totally, undeniably, gone to the dark side—and probably would have screwed him right there in her hothouse. There was no doubt at the time that he would have dispelled her pre-conceived notions that sex was overrated. One year later, and he still had that passionate effect on her; the only difference being that her attraction to him extended way beyond the physical. Fitzwilliam Darcy had a pure heart and a keen intellect.