Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN THEY CAME upon the smoke, however, it was not from a chimney.

It was a house, but part of the house was collapsed and on fire.

The house was not exceedingly large. It couldn't rightly be called an estate, but neither was it a small tenant house for a farmer, either. It had two stories. Flames were coming out of the windows of the upper stories.

Elizabeth gasped, feeling her entire body go onto high alert. How much could go wrong today? How could there really be an overturned carriage and a burning house within two miles of each other?

"Oh, this isn't good," said Mr. Darcy.

"We can't ask anyone there for help," she said.

There were people running in and out of the house, bringing buckets of water from the well, yelling at each other.

"No, but perhaps we should help them," said Mr. Darcy.

She turned to look at him. "But we're—"

"I know, but if we leave them here with this conflagration and prioritize our own hurts above theirs—"

"We should simply keep going," she said. "There's got to be another house—"

"There is no other house for miles," interrupted a deep voice.

She and Mr. Darcy both turned to see that a man was behind them, pointing a rifle at them.

Mr. Darcy looked from the barrel of the rifle to the man's face and back. "Could you put that down?"

"What brings you here?" said the man.

"Our carriage overturned," said Mr. Darcy. "Not very far back. We were hoping to find someone who could go for help or even use of a horse to ride off myself. I have coin, if there's—"

"Let's see that, then," said the man, gesturing with the rifle.

"The coin," said Mr. Darcy flatly. "Why is this house on fire?"

The man chuckled. "Hand it over."

"Can this day get worse?" said Mr. Darcy, reaching into his jacket to pull out a small purse. He handed it to the man. "What are you? Bandits?"

"The fire was an accident," said the man with a shrug. "And no one was supposed to be here except a few servants, what we understood. We thought we'd chase them off easy, but it's all gone bad. Then you show up." He sighed, tucking away the purse. "Turn around and walk, if you don't mind."

"How's it gone bad?" said Mr. Darcy.

"Keep asking questions, that's the way," said the man, darkly amused. "It's gone bad, because we had to shoot them. I don't mind shooting you either. Maybe not the lady. It's a bit unsettling killing women. Besides, women have their uses, don't they?"

Mr. Darcy stepped in front of Elizabeth. "We'll just go on our way, sir. You have all my money. We have no way of hurting you. We can keep looking for help—"

"There's no other help," said the man. "This is the only house for miles and miles, I'm telling you. Walk. I have no qualms about shooting you."

Elizabeth snatched at the back of Mr. Darcy's jacket. "Let's walk," she whispered. She was surprised that she was still so calm. However, it had been that way since the carriage turned over.

She was on high alert, yes, and her heart might be beating more quickly than usual and her senses attuned, but she was rather calm, strangely. It was as if her body had shifted into some other sense, where she was certain of everything. No time for doubt. Action was the order of the day.

It wasn't really like her, but she sensed that if she questioned it too much, it would all crumble and she'd be like Maria Lucas, falling apart.

She didn't wish to fall apart.

She didn't think she could handle that.

Mr. Darcy glanced at her over his shoulder.

She pulled on him.

Sighing, he turned to face the house.

Elizabeth started walking towards it, and Mr. Darcy went with her.

"Good," said the man with the gun from behind them. "That's just right. Head straight towards the door, if you don't mind."

"We're not walking into the burning house," said Mr. Darcy tightly. "Neither of us wishes to be shot, but I think we'd both prefer it to burning to death."

Yes, he threatened to shoot you, thought Elizabeth, but didn't say anything out loud, because she wasn't entirely sure what it was that men did to women in these circumstances. People were very vague when they discussed ravishment, after all, but it didn't sound pleasant. Still, she supposed she'd be alive on the other side of it. Alive, yes, but shamed and worthless.

No one would marry her afterward and it would be shameful for her family, though it was different when a woman was ravished than when she did something with a man willingly. Different, sort of, she supposed.

Was it the same thing? Was ravishment that? The thing that men did with women on their wedding night?

It must be, she realized, feeling very, very stupid not to have put this together before.

Yes, belatedly now, she was remembering some discussion about ravishment and being with child and how that woman—who had it had been, no one she knew, just someone who was being gossiped over—would not wish to marry the man who had attacked her and what must become of the babe, and how awful it was.

She hadn't been part of that conversation, not truly. She likely hadn't even been meant to be listening to it. She'd been at a card party, and at a different table. The women at the other table were all married. They wouldn't have been so free around her innocent ears, undoubtedly, if they'd known she was listening.

And she hadn't been, anyway. She'd been looking at her cards, only half-listening, and that was why—clearly—she had not put it together before now.

So, it would be like when they bred the animals on the farm, and she would have to be… She looked over her shoulder at the man with the gun. Would it be him? Or would it be… more than one of them?

She walked faster. Maybe she did want to burn to death.

As they approached, the men who were running to and fro with buckets of water stopped what they were doing to turn and look at them.

"What's this?" said one of the men, who didn't have a bucket, but who did have a pistol.

"Their carriage overturned," said the man with the rifle.

Elizabeth wasn't sure if they should keep walking or not, but she did, only because she thought they should obey.

"They came here looking for help," said the man.

"So, you pulled a rifle on them?" said the man with the pistol. "God in heaven, but you're stupid, Patrick." He advanced on Mr. Darcy and put the pistol to his forehead.

Mr. Darcy's eyes widened.

"Wait," said Elizabeth in a breathy voice. "Wait, just…"

"Could have just sent them on their way," said the man with the pistol to Mr. Darcy's head.

"You don't have to do that," said Elizabeth. "You don't have to…" She racked her brain, trying to think of why they would do that at all. Did they think she and Mr. Darcy would try to stop them? They were outnumbered, really. It would be foolish. "We're no threat to you," she said.

"Much less of a threat with bullets in your skulls," said the man. He nodded at the man with the rifle, who was Patrick, she supposed.

"Oh, I have to shoot the woman?" said Patrick.

The man with the pistol glared at him but shifted the pistol so it was against Elizabeth's temple.

She whimpered.

Mr. Darcy moved so fast, it was a blur. He tackled the man with the pistol, and the gun went off, but into the sky, over Elizabeth's head, and it hit nothing.

Darcy and the man both went down on the ground, wrestling each other.

Mr. Darcy yanked the pistol out of the man's hand and hurled it away. He kneed the other man in the stomach and put a hand to his neck, pinning him down.

And then the rifle went off and Mr. Darcy toppled over and Elizabeth screamed.

The man who had been pinned down got up.

Mr. Darcy lay there, lifeless.

The man nudged him with his toe.

Mr. Darcy didn't move. His eyes were open, and he—

Elizabeth let out another whimper. Was he dead? She hadn't really liked Mr. Darcy, but she'd never wished for him to be dead.

Patrick was reloading the rifle as the other man used his toe to nudge Mr. Darcy over onto his back. Now, Elizabeth could see that the front of Mr. Darcy's shirt and cravat were a mess of blood.

She shuddered.

"Do I really have to shoot her?" said Patrick.

"What else would we do with her?" said the other man.

The two men both turned to look at each other and then they both laughed.

THEY TIED HER up, tied her hands and tied her feet, and they left her sitting there, looking at Mr. Darcy, which was how she realized he was breathing.

It had looked as if he'd been shot in the chest, but now she realized it was lower, somewhere in his stomach somewhere, and that he was alive, and his heart was beating. She'd seen him blink, seen his eyes follow the men. He was only pretending to be dead.

She tried to catch his gaze so that he knew that she knew, but he didn't look at her.

So, she began to scoot closer and closer to him.

In the distance, she could hear the men talking about trying to get the fire out so that they could get to whatever it was they wanted inside the house. They were planning to loot this place, and their way was blocked by the flames, apparently.

She didn't know what it was they were looking for, and she didn't care.

What she cared about was simply that they weren't paying any attention to her as she worked her way closer and closer to Mr. Darcy.

Eventually, he did notice. His gaze flicked to hers, even though his body didn't move.

She licked her lips. "Mr. Darcy," she breathed, so low she wasn't sure he could hear her.

"Come closer," he said, his mouth hardly moving. "Put your feet near one of my hands and I'll untie you and then you run."

She shook her head. "You come too."

"Can't," he said. "I can barely move. You wouldn't believe how much this hurts." But he didn't sound as if he were in pain. He was matter-of-fact. "You go back to the carriage, and there's a gun in there. If my cousin is awake, have him get it. You can come back for me. They think I'm dead, after all, so they won't—"

"They'll know you're not dead if you untie me!"

"Shh.

She had said it too loudly. She shut her eyes, letting out a shaking breath. "I can't leave without you."

"Miss Bennet, if you stay, all that happens is that I get myself killed trying to stop them from ravaging you. I won't know what happens to you after that, but it'll likely be for naught. So, I'll be dead and you'll be ruined. You have to leave." This, too, was matter-of-fact. "Give me your feet."

She chewed on her bottom lip, casting her glance out towards the men, who were still rushing in with buckets of water. Did the flames look less? What did it matter? All that was important was that they weren't paying her any mind.

She moved very quickly, scooting around and thrusting her tied-up feet near one of Mr. Darcy's hands.

Then, heart in her throat, she stared at the men, hoping none of them would look at her and wonder what she was doing next to him.

His fingers began to move against the ropes on her feet.

Tears started to leak out of her eyes, and it was odd, because she hadn't been aware she was going to start crying. She was not entirely in her body anymore, she didn't think. This other realm she'd shifted into, the realm of certainty and action, it was shielding her from certain emotions in some way, but her body was still functioning in some other way.

Something was simply wrong with her.

No, something was wrong with the situation and she was handling it the best she could.

"I won't leave you to die," she said. "I can't do that."

"I appreciate that," came his voice. She couldn't see his face anymore, not from the way her body was angled now. "But you do have to do that. And with any luck, I won't die. I need you to get help, though, Miss Bennet, do you understand?"

She did, actually. Yes, it made sense, she supposed. If it all went according to plan, and she came back with Colonel Fitzwilliam and the pistol in the carriage and—

But how did that matter?

One gun was one shot, and there were so many of these men. No, Mr. Darcy was doing a stupid male, honorable thing, where he was sacrificing himself for her, and she couldn't let him do that. She wouldn't have even thought he would do that. Maybe she'd been wrong about him. Maybe Mr. Wickham had been wrong, too. Maybe she'd believed the wrong man.

She hadn't blamed Mr. Wickham for his connection to Miss King, because he needed to have money to live just as anyone did, and she must pay some mind to a suitor's financial status, after all. It would have been hypocrisy for her to have blamed him.

However, it was true that Mr. Wickham had put money first, wasn't it?

Well, this was neither here nor there. What did Mr. Wickham matter right at this instant? The point was that if the men came back and realized that she was gone, they would examine Mr. Darcy, and they would discover he was alive, and this time they would shoot him in the head. They'd already been ready to shoot them both, so casually. She still wasn't sure why it mattered to the men. What was even in that house?

"Mr. Darcy," she said in a low, urgent voice, "if I leave, you will die, and we both know it."

"I'm halfway dead already, Miss Bennet." Still matter-of-fact. "Your staying does nothing to make the situation better except it puts you at risk."

"No one is discussing me staying," she said. "The options are my going alone or my going with you."

"Impossible." No emotion in his voice. "I can't move."

"You haven't tried."

"They'll see. They'll come for us, and it'll come to the same thing."

"They'll see if I go."

"Not if you wait for the right moment."

"We can both wait for the right—" She broke off because one of the men had turned to look at her. She let out wild, shaking breaths. "Stop with the rope," she said, but it was hard to understand what she said because she didn't move her lips at all.

Still, somehow Mr. Darcy did understand. His fingers went still.

She glared at the man, silently accusing him.

"Billy, another bucket! We've got it down to the first floor. Hurry up now!" called a voice.

And the man looking at her hurried away to fill the buckets he was carrying.

Elizabeth watched as he went back into the house. "All right," she breathed.

There was only a trickle of smoke now, no flames coming out of the windows. They really were putting this fire out. She was impressed. She remembered when the Grovers' house in Meryton had gone up. It had burned to cinders.

Of course, Elizabeth rather thought people had given up on it straightaway, only the Grovers themselves seeming to want to keep fighting the fire, others saying they must think of their lives.

Maybe that was the difference. If you had a lot of very determined people who all benefited from putting out the fire, they tried harder?

Maybe this fire had just been smaller.

All of the men were inside now.

She turned, twisting to look at Mr. Darcy. "Now is the time. They're all gone. Can you untie me faster?"

"Going as fast as I can," he said.

A figure darted out of the house. It was the man with the buckets, Billy, the one who'd been looking at her.

"Stop!" she said again, freezing.

Mr. Darcy stopped.

Billy rushed over and skidded to a stop next to her, brandishing a small knife. "Don't." He pointed right at her nose with one, thick, sooty finger.

Don't what? What was he going to do?

But all he did was cut her ropes. "Now, run. Mind, if they catch you, and you say it was me who let you free, you'll regret it." Billy scrambled back to the house without a backward look.

Elizabeth stood up, brushing at her skirts. Her legs were shaky and her inner core felt as if it had been stretched too tight and released and now everything was the wrong kind of loose. She reached down her hands to Mr. Darcy. "I'm going to pull you up."

He hesitated. But then he put his hands in hers.

She gave a mighty tug.

He got up, throwing back his head in agony at the movement, but somehow not making any noise. He sagged into her, and she staggered, butting her shoulder up into his armpit to steady them both.

They both panted noisily, trying to find their balance.

"I can't," he breathed, his voice threaded full of anguish.

"Attend to me," she managed, "we shall simply get out there, to the treeline." She nodded ahead of them at the wooded area of which she spoke. "You will stay there, hidden, and I shall go for the carriage, as we spoke of." It wasn't a perfect plan, for perhaps the men in the house would come looking for Mr. Darcy and perhaps they would find him. But at least it gave him a chance.

"All right," he gasped. "I think I can make it that far."

Together, they began to walk.

He tried very hard not to cry out loudly in pain, but his face was twisted and his breath was labored.

She wished there was something she could do to assist him, but she felt helpless.

It took a very long time, for they could not walk quickly. She turned to look over her shoulder at intervals, frightened she should see the men coming out of the house toward them.

But luck was on their side and no one came out. They made it under the canopy of trees without incident.

Mr. Darcy was covered in blood, and so was she, for that matter.

She helped him sit down against a tree trunk, and his head wavered backwards and his eyes rolled up in his head.

Oh, Lord! He was going to pass out from loss of blood. She didn't know a great deal about caring for wounds, but it was common knowledge to bandage, to stanch blood. She sat down, ripped at her skirts, and then, with trembling fingers, began to unbutton his waistcoat and shirt beneath.

She wasn't sure why she was feeling nervous about this. It was improper, yes, but certainly the man's impending death mattered more.

His eyes fluttered open and he looked down at his half-open, bloody shirt. "Miss Bennet—"

"I need to stop the bleeding," she said.

"Oh, yes, that's smart." He shrugged out of his jacket and waistcoat, letting out a low groan.

"Careful," she said.

"Here." He used his waistcoat to dab at his wound. "It's small. I can feel the hole the bullet made, and it went through and through, so that's… that's good, I think."

There was a great deal of blood. Elizabeth looked down at the piece of her skirt she'd torn off. It would do to tie around his chest, perhaps, but it was too dirty to go against his wound. She set it aside and wriggled out of her petticoat beneath.

Mr. Darcy raised his eyebrows. "What are you doing now? You don't have some wound, Miss Bennet?"

"This," she said, balling it up and placing it against the hole in his stomach, because now that he'd sopped up the blood with his waistcoat, she could see the seeping wound there. Then, tightly, she tied the strip of her skirt around his body.

He grunted, shutting his eyes, letting out a series of labored breaths. Finally, he opened his eyes. "Where did you learn about field dressings?"

"I don't know. Nowhere. Just… when something is bleeding, you cover it. It's what you do."

He nodded. "True enough. Thank you. It's well done. Will you go now?"

"You're very eager to get rid of me." She eyed him. Now, he was half-dressed and she found her gaze skittering over places where his skin was bare. What was wrong with her? She pushed to her feet. "I should go, I suppose."

"Yes, to get help," he said, looking up at her.

"You promise you're not simply shooing me off because you think it would be impolite to die in front of me."

"I don't wish to die if I can help it, Miss Bennet," he said.

"Good," she said. "Because I don't wish you to die."

"Well, go find my cousin," he said. "Go find Sir William."

"I shall," she said, nodding at him.

"Godspeed, Miss Bennet."

She scampered off into the woods, back in the direction of the carriage.