She kept staring at the gun.
“Or I’ll shoot you. I’ll shoot you dead. I’ll shoot you right through the brains.” And George Wickham knew he would. He would not let a second heiress escape from him. Lydia would marry him, or he would kill her. “Splatter, splatter.”
She seemed to understand his seriousness, for this time Lydia stood up, and without brushing or dusting herself off, she walked as unsteadily as a drunk in a burning brothel to the gig, and pulled herself up and into the seat. Without putting the revolver away, Wickham climbed up beside her.
They’d established the meeting point far enough away from Longbourn, and on the opposite direction from Meryton so that there was unlikely to be much traffic on the road who could recognize his companion as the daughter of one of the chief gentlemen of the town.
But now Wickham was worried that they would attract attention for a different reason.
A big purple bruise was growing on Lydia’s face and the sleeve of her dress was obviously torn.
Nothing to do for it, but smile at everyone he passed, and pretend nothing was of the matter.
They’d traveled two miles further on when a woman on horseback coming up the crossroad turned to stare widely at the carriage. She then broke into a gallop to reach them, and Wickham cursed as the woman closed the distance quickly.
As she came closer, Wickham recognized her as Caroline Bingley.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
She had certainly recognized Lydia in the carriage, and she would ride back quickly to town and raise the alarm, or at least inform Mr. Bennet, and the pursuit would be at most an hour behind him. There would be no way for him to get far enough ahead of them to escape on the Great Northern Road, and he wouldn’t have enough time in an inn before they caught up to have much certainty of completing his conquest of Lydia and forcing them to make her marry him.
Especially not with how recalcitrant the girl had turned out to be.
For all the bravado he’d felt an hour ago, he would not be able to shoot her when the result would be his certain capture and hanging. Shoot the girl, if he might escape and never be identified as the murderer, certainly.
But shoot hernow?
No.
Wickham shook out the reins, and snapped at the horses with the whip to encourage them to go faster.
The wind blew in their faces, knocking Lydia’s bonnet back. The wheels crunched over the dirt road, and they bounced up and down heavily.
And Caroline Bingley galloped behind them, quickly catching up.
Damn that bitch.
Wickham had no particular dislike for her, other than that she was a woman, and he had never really liked women. She had made Darcy an object of derision and mockery, and that was a mark in her favor.
She caught up and then passed them, and shouted at them from in front, “Stop, stop this carriage!”
The stupid bint meant to stop them herself?
Wickham pulled sharply on the reins, and then as he went for his revolver to threaten her, Lydia shouted in a panicked scream, “He’s got a gun! A gun!”
And like with Lydia, just the lovely magical sight of a pocket piece was sufficient to quiet down a raging woman. If only he’d known before the lovely salutary effect that sincere threats of murder tended to have on women, he’d have used them more often.
Miss Bingley stared at the weapon that Wickham pointed at her heart. She was pale. And then she looked up at him, with a sort of serious, almost accepting frown. “Let Miss Lydia go.”
Whatcould he do.
Shoot her?
A gunshot was not an unknown sound on any country field. Men would often shoot at birds, or rats, or just for the fun of it. But itwasnoticeable, especially when one was not in the hunting grounds of some gentleman. Others might come.
But the real reason not to shoot her was much simpler.
Wickham did not want to be hung. Despite his disappointments, he loved his life, and he was in no mood to throw it away.
