Becoming His

by J L Pearl

  Until tonight, apparently.

  “Captain?”

  It was no good. Neither was the horse in sight, nor would she hear him above the din of the storm. The poor animal must have been thoroughly spooked to find herself roaming alone in this mess. But how had he come to be on the ground in the first place? Surely she had not thrown him. He found it difficult to imagine she would ever do that over a little wind and thunder. Something far more terrifying would have had to have presented itself. He shook his head, trying to remember falling, but he could not.

  “No matter,” he mumbled, crawling to his hands and knees. He patted his ribs and rose, placing weight on each leg gingerly. Nothing seemed broken. Just bruised and battered, then. Nothing more time relaxing in the country couldn’t fix. Though he might avoid the saddle for a few days. That was fine as well, since Miss Elizabeth seemed to prefer to travel on foot.

  Elizabeth!

  A flood of memory came over him. He had left the Bennet house to go into town and learn of her family’s safety. That, and to report the death of one of the inspectors. But Elizabeth’s family, for all the general displeasure their presence might incur, were his chief private concern, as they must be hers. And now every concern of hers must be his.

  When had that happened?

  He found he did not know. But short lapses of memory were nothing new to him. Indeed, he had become to accustomed to them that he had all but forgotten they were not a normal experience for everyone. Since he was a boy he had gone through this. His nurse had called them “fits,” but his parents had protested the epithet, claiming nothing about his behavior was abnormal. He simply sometimes forgot a piece of time here and there.

  Was that what had happened tonight? Had he had one of his fits while riding, and somehow fallen from Captain?

  “Blast.”

  He scoured the ground but it was immediately apparent that attempting to track her was a fool’s errand. The dirt path had melted into mud, and the heavy rain distorted tracks even as he made them. What now, then? Should he continue toward town, or return? How far along was he? He did not know the area well enough. He sighed.

  His character urged him to continue, to fulfill his mission. But sheer pragmatism told him that his mount would likely return to the last familiar stable, or at least back in the direction of Mr. Bingley’s country estate. It made much more sense for him to return, therefore. Once he’d reclaimed his horse, he could make the journey in much less time.

  Unsure but decided, he turned and began to trot through the mud. If he was wrong and his decision ended up putting the Bennet family in danger, he did know what he would do.

  “Forgive me, Elizabeth.”

  4.

  Inspector Gerald coughed, then winced in pain. He should absolutely not be out in this storm in his current state, but he had no choice. He would not fail in his duty. Not again.

  The last time he had come this close to catching the villain had been nearly two years before. He would never forget the wild chase through the streets of London, past Cheapside and down to the docks, where the figure cloaked in black skirted down alleyways and up fire escapes to elude them. Gerald had been just a junior inspector then, and his post had been up on a rooftop. Not to catch the man, but to act as eyes for the others. Little had he guessed he would get as close to the action as he did, seeing the suspect pass before his eyes as he leapt from one roof to another, like a flying squirrel. Even so, he hadn’t gotten a good enough look to identify him. The cloak obscured all. But Gerald did have one piece of evidence unique to himself.

  He’d heard his voice.

  “Save yourself!” the figure had called into the night. To this day, Gerald wasn’t sure if the words were meant for him or not. The man must surely have been mad. Only, his ability to escape capture bespoke a certain level of intelligence beyond the average madman.

  Each night these past two years, Gerald had heard that voice in his dreams. Save yourself. The tone, the cadence, the gravel of it—it stuck in his ear like a wad of cotton, never falling out. And so naturally he always kept an ear open in the hope that the man’s voice would give him away, were he to present himself uncloaked in regular society. But the months had gone by without Gerald ever hearing a similar sound.

  Until this night.

  He had been in shock when he had arrived at the Bennet house. Finding his partner dead had shaken him deeply, and his usually sharp instincts and his trained procedures were nowhere to be found. But something more primal, more bestial was there. His senses, heightened by the horror of the night, did not lie to him, he was sure. They could not have.

  Mr. Darcy had to be the killer.

  When the man had left—slipped out into the night—Gerald had been beside himself with weakness, sitting at the fire trying simply to breath without wheezing. How he had cursed himself to let him go! But he knew that Mr. Darcy would return, as he obviously had an interest in the people of the house, and as Gerald had given no sign of recognizing him. For how could he? The vile man must believe himself impervious to recognition, going about disguised as he did.

  But when his horse had returned, riderless, the inspector’s worst fears were confirmed. Darcy was on the run.

  So now Gerald ran as well, come storm, come sickness, come hell or high water. He would not fail again.

  “Gah! His foot stuck in a rut and he fell to one knee, reaching his hands out to catch himself. There was more coughing and a great deal more pain, and he thought he might have caught sight of just a bit of blood when he wiped his chin. But it was difficult to confirm in the rain, and he had no time to consider its import. Every moment spent not running was another moment between him and his query.

  “Save yourself,” he muttered, lunging back to his feet and into a quick jog. “Save yourself, Darcy, if you can. For I will do my damnedest to see you hang.”

  Images filled his mind unbidden, as they always did. The bodies. The pools of blood. The ghosts of Darcy’s victims calling out from ground for vengeance, their voices amplified by God’s own shout in the thunder.

  Yes, he would see his duty done tonight.

  5.

  Elizabeth was a woman. Meant to be protected. Meant to be defended. Meant to stay at home and tend to the household while men went out into the world and dealt with all its myriad business.

  To the devil with that.

  She was lithe and quick, and she darted through the trees much more efficiently than Inspector Gerald plodded through the mud. This she knew because she had seen him upon passing him not a quarter of an hour before. He had not seen her, though, as she was keeping the lane to her right by about twenty meters. A long, narrow copse grew along its southern edge, and it was through this she ran, keeping one eye on the lane in search of Mr. Darcy. The lightening flashed just frequently enough that she was satisfied she would not pass him unknowingly.

  She smiled and laughed, feeling wild. Some girlish part of her sprang forth and she ran all the faster, feeling like a wild hair. Her joy was short-lived. It was difficult to maintain any levity when concern for her family bore her down so.

  Concern for Mr. Darcy as well, if she cared to be honest with herself. But for now she was well beyond wondering at her feelings. She knew only the dim fear of finding him unwell, or of not finding him at all, and it drove her forward through the rain.

  “Be well, my dear,” she murmured, surprising herself at calling him this. Fear, like love, has a way of revealing one’s utmost truth.

  Some ten minutes or so later, she found him.

  “Darcy!” She sprang from the woods into the lane, so relieved at finding him alive and on two feet that she abandoned all pretense of modesty, and ran to him, arms outstretched.

  “Elizabeth!” His eyes grew wide and he opened his arms to catch her.

  It was like a shooting star finding the earth. It was altogether perfect, the feel of him, the fit. Nothing else mattered for just that moment. He seemed to agree, holding her silently for several l
ong second before backing away to look at her.

  “What are you doing out here?” he cried.

  “Looking for you, of course! We were all worried sick when your horse came back without you!”

  “Ah!” His eyes grew distant for a moment. “She returned, then. But why are you here? Why not Bingley?”

  “You expect him to leave Jane’s side while she is beset with worry?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Clearly you have not observed them much together.”

  He made a sound which might have been a laugh, then drew her into his arms again. “I am glad you came,” he said, his low voice rumbling in his chest against her. “Though I do not wish you to be cold and wet. Here.” And, backing away once more, he pulled his own cloak from his body and draped it over her shoulders. It was much heavier than her current attire, and it seemed warm already, if a little mud-spattered.

  “Are you well?” she asked him.

  He frowned curiously. “I seem to be so. I do not recall losing my seat, but I came awake shortly after, I believe, having fallen. I am glad to hear that Captain made it back safely.”

  “I would have preferred to see her come back with her rider.”

  He laughed again, then reached into the inner lining of his jacket. “Elizabeth, you have risked your life coming out into this storm to find me. I wish to reward you.”

  Her eyebrows met her hairline. “You do?”

  “I do.” He nodded and pulled out some sort of narrow chain. When lightening flashed again, Elizabeth gasped. It was an elegant necklace of shining gold with a single red gem set in the center. “A ruby for you to wear over your heart and always remember me by.”

  “You mean to spoil me, Mr. Darcy.”

  He smiled broadly. “I do indeed. Please, allow me.” And with that, he opened the chain and set it upon her neck. She reached up to touch the jewel.

  “It is very lovely,” she said.

  “Made far lovelier by its bearer.”

  “But do you believe it is necessary for me to have a remembrance? Are you planning to disappear on me, Mr. Darcy?”

  She said this playfully, but instantly regretted it. His brow had grown furrowed. “Dark things are afoot, Miss Elizabeth. I dare not speak for tomorrow when we are doing everything we can just to see ourselves through this night. But come, you must allow me to escort you back to the house.”

  They had turned and begun their walk together when a cry rang out from the path ahead.

  “You!”

  Elizabeth looked up to see Inspector Gerald, coughing and looking bedraggled, clutching his side and pointed an accusatory finger at Mr. Darcy.

  “I have you!”

  TO BE CONTINUED…

  Taken by Mr. Darcy

  a steamy Pride & Prejudice variation

  by JL Pearl

  Becoming His, Part 5

  Copyright 2019 JL Pearl, all rights reserved.

  This scene is a work of original fiction using characters from Jane Austen’s beloved novel, Pride & Prejudice. This story is very steamy, and should be enjoyed responsibly by readers of a certain age.

  1.

  October 29, 1796

  Paris

  My Dear Agatha,

  I beg your forgiveness for the tardiness of this letter. I know it has been far too long since my last, and I regret this deeply, as missives from your own hand are oftentimes my only source of calm and clarity when I am away. My work has kept me busy. Indeed, matters have continued to escalate at an alarming rate, and I fear I must soon quit France altogether, or risk the possibility that I will be trapped in a burning house. She is coming down all around herself.

  When last you wrote, you inquired after certain details on my current assignment. Regretfully, I am not at liberty to share these through the post; the risk of leaking sensitive information to unwanted parties is simply too great. But to your concerns I would only say this, and trust you will understand and forgive me for being opaque: he is not, and I am not, and yes, it may yet be.

  Have you, my dear, ever dreamed you were being chased by a shade, or a man of shadow? You run through the winding streets, the blanket of night obscuring the way, your footfalls heavy against the cobblestone, traitors, sending a signal with every step. He pursues no matter the distance, no matter how clever and cautious you become, and he gains ground, bit by bit, until finally you feel his very breath hot on the back of your neck, urgent with the promise of death.

  I am that death, and the hour of my conquest is near. My prey feels the noose begin to tighten around his recalcitrant neck, and he panics. He grows sloppy. He leaves a trail, and fails to obfuscate his identity. Soon, my love, the chase will end, and I will stand the victor. Then all of my words will come back to the ears of my detractors and they will beg my forgiveness. They will elevate me above all others, and I will be lauded a hero.

  But patience, dearest Agatha. The day approaches, but is not here yet. How I long for its arrival! How much I miss you, and wish to return to your side. Your presence brings me life; your absence, a void.

  I remain yours most truthfully and faithfully. Be mine as well. Do write again; your words are a healing benison. Only I must ask you be more cautious in your next letter and hint at fewer specificities. I skate on thin ice at present.

  With All My Love,

  Theodicus Gerald

  ___

  August 1, 1797

  Paris

  Agatha,

  It is with great haste I write this brief message. The worst has happened, far worse than we feared. The current of death that spreads out across Paris seems always to follow him. He is a disease, a terrible cancer, and I fear we have failed to cut him from the city in time. He eludes us.

  The Order has relocated me, and not a moment too soon. Though I am loathe to leave the task unfinished, I know this is but one chapter in the tale. There will be more. And I will not rest until I see him face justice for his crimes, or perdition for his irredeemable fault.

  Stay far from this city, Agatha. Stay far from France. Write to your family to leave if you can, but I beg you not to come to them. The people are in arms and there is nary a shred of law or order on the streets. It is unsafe.

  Be well, my love, and remain in England,

  Theodicus Gerald

  2.

  Clouds parted just enough for a beam of moonlight to illuminate the man’s face. It was haggard with rage, recognition, and pain. He gasped. Elizabeth squinted through the darkness. He did not look well at all. Even out here in the black of night, she could see as much. No sooner had she had the thought, than he collapsed to the ground with a groan.

  “Inspector!”

  She raced to his side, Mr. Darcy not far behind. Inspector Gerald lay prone, unmoving.

  “Come, man,” Mr. Darcy said, placing a hand on the inspector’s back. He looked up at Elizabeth. “I feel his breath; he lives. Help me to sit him up.”

  Together they rolled the inspector over, brought him to the edge of the lane, and sat him up against the trunk of a maple tree. He was indeed alive, but seemed just barely so. His breath was shallow and ragged, and his eyes remained closed.

  “Inspector?” Elizabeth held him still by the arm, afraid he would collapse if she let go. “Inspector, can you hear me?”

  He did not respond.

  “He needs a doctor,” Mr. Darcy said. “He should not have left the house. I fear it will do no good to return him now.” He looked about, his face drawn in concentration, as if he were calculating the time the ailing man had left.

  “But we cannot leave him here,” Elizabeth said, aghast.

  “No. But it will be a true challenge to bring him safely to the town. We will need horses, and for that we must return. And I will not leave you alone, nor send you on without me. So we must leave him here for a short time.”

  “It is not safe! You know there is a madman about!”

  Mr. Darcy rose to his feet and offered her his hand, which she accepted, rising to stand beside him.<
br />
  “Elizabeth,” he murmured. “I will not lose you. I will not risk it.”

  His eyes were hidden in the darkness. Even so she felt his desire rolling from him like waves. It beckoned to her, pulled at her as the moon pulls the sea. It was intoxicating. She reached a hand up and felt the delicate chain he had only moments before clasped around her neck.

  “Mr. Darcy,” she said, “whatever was he talking about, just now? Why did he seem so upset?”

  Mr. Darcy frowned down at the unconscious man. “I believe he may be delusional from exhaustion. He has a heavy duty on his shoulders, and with his health failing him at such an alarming rate…” He finished by spreading his arms out, then dropping them to his sides.

  Elizabeth nodded, not sure she was satisfied with the answer. But she supposed it was as good as any. How was Mr. Darcy to know what Inspector Gerald had been talking about? Had they not only just met? Surely he did not suspect her escort of any wrongdoing—surely he would not, were he in full possession of his faculties.

  “Come,” Mr. Darcy said. “We must make haste. Every moment we are away, he comes closer to death’s door, I fear.”

  Elizabeth frowned at this choice of words. Of course he must have meant the inspector’s illness, but she felt almost overwhelmed with guilt at leaving the man alone on such a dangerous night. She breathed a silent prayer for his safety, and followed Mr. Darcy back up the path.