“A quality most men desire in a wife, dear. It seemed to me that Colonel Fitzwilliam gave you reason to hope.”
“He did. But all the reassurances in the world mean nothing if Mr. Darcy is—” She could not say it. Could not think it. “I would give anything to know he is alive. And well.” And willing to give her another chance.
Aunt squeezed Elizabeth’s hand and bunched her lips. She would not make a promise she could not keep, no matter how badly Elizabeth wanted to hear it.
That night, Elizabeth dreamed of walking London’s streets. Swarms of tall gentlemen with silk hats whisked past her, their faces blurred.
One man looked over his shoulder. It was him! She ran, calling out, but Mr. Darcy could not hear her. Or maybe he chose to ignore her.
It did not matter. He needed her help. She ran and ran. Someone pulled her from behind, and she twisted free.
Then a rough hand covered her eyes, blinding her. She flailed out, trying to break free, but stronger hands pulled her back, lifting her off the ground.
She screamed, kicked, and lashed, startling herself awake. Sitting in bed, her chest heaving, Elizabeth looked about the dark room and sensed Lydia’s figure curled up beside her. It was only a bad dream.
Pulling the covers down where she held them over her head, Lydia whined, “Oy! I know youare cross with me, Lizzy, but pummeling me in my sleep is beneath you!” She took a pillow (one of Elizabeth’s) and made a show of placing it between them. Within minutes, her breathing fell into the soft rhythm of sleep.
Elizabeth tried to rest. If only she knew Mr. Darcy was alive.
CHAPTER 11
Nicholas Blackburne was in a foul mood. It had begun at Barataria Bay and had festered all the way across the Atlantic over the past month. The colder the water under him became, the more heated his temper.
He should have known the Lafittes would betray him. All that talk of brotherhood, family ties…. Lies. The lot of it.
Feeling downright ferocious in the back of the barred carriage, Nick ground his teeth with every jolt and bump digging into the irons binding his hands to his feet with a ridiculously short chain. Connell was taking no chances with him.
Not that Nick could blame him. He made daily attempts to escape, and nearly met with success jumping over the side of the ship and splashing intoLondon’s harbor. Even with his hands bound, Nick was an excellent swimmer. Every sailor worth his salt ought to be, though few enough were.
But Nick was too valuable a prize. Connell had not spent five years chasing the currents running along Africa and the Americas in pursuit of his prey to let Nick escape now. The man was dogged in his purpose.
The promise of coin had been enough to secure the help of a nearby waterman bobbing like a cork on the Thames. The traitor had hauled Nick over the side of his boat by the hair.
Now, Nick was wet and wreaking of filthy water, his feet and wrists rubbed raw from weeks of wearing shackles, and the back of his head throbbing where the waterman had smacked him with his oar.
He shivered, unable to rub his arms against the cold. He’d sworn he would never set foot on British soil again. It was too cold. Too damp. Too foggy. Too crowded with folks who didn’t give a jot about him. He had no family. No friends. He had nobody.
The carriage came to a stop, and masses of people poked their noses through the bars holding him inside. Protecting them from him. Like a caged animal.
He heard Connell’s voice, boasting, “That is Nicholas Blackburne. You have read stories about him, sung ballads extolling his conquests as The Blade.” Connell was determined to make certain he got the credit (and the reward) for his capture.
“The Blade,” they whispered. It was hard to tell ifthey dropped their voices in awe or fear. Dozens of eyes inspected Nick, making him feel like a lion in an exhibition. He roared for good measure, causing several to leap away from the bars and others to laugh.
The opening in the crowd allowed him a view of what was beyond—the gallows—and he shivered again, this time from something other than cold. Already, he could feel the rope chafing against the skin at his neck.
The mob’s exclamations and gasps grew. “The Blade,” they repeated.
Nick tried not to hear them. He’d been stuck with the appellation since he overtook a slave ship with that she-devil, and a handful of those scoundrels got away. He despised slavers. Men who wrenched folks away from their loved ones deserved to be gutted. They were how the stories were created and spread by men so grateful to be alive that they spun yarns about their narrow escape with death. They always glorified the details.
Nick hated the stories circulating about him. Most of them weren’t true.
“Is it true you’ve never lost a sword fight?” a boy barely taller than the floor of the carriage asked.
That was true, but Nick gave no reply. Feeding that report would set all the young blades out to test their skill against him … if he managed to escape before he was hanged. If a pirate was good at anything, it was getting himself out of trouble.
Another man asked, “Did you really fight off twenty men with a single sword?”
True, but they were untrained imbeciles. That hardly counted.
