Darcy
“Iam not goingto punch him,” I muttered, glaring at my horse’s ears.
“What was that, Darcy?” Bingley turned to me, all cheer and confusion as usual.
“Nothing,” I growled, adjusting the reins. My horse snorted, probably sensing that I was on the verge of losing my mind.
Behind me, I heard the distinct, sloshing sound of liquid being tipped back. Ewan was perched backward, completely at ease, on my horse’s rear end—again—and from the sound of it, he was halfway through an entire bottle of claret.
“Lad,” he slurred, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “if ye had a lick o’ sense, ye’d turn yersel’ around, get off that horse, an’ knock that smug look clean off that bloody lobsterback’s face.”
“I amnotpunching anyone!” I hissed through clenched teeth, trying to focus on anything other than the walking disaster at my back.
“But he was talkin’ to yer lass!” Ewan gesticulated, swaying slightly, and I’ve no idea how he didn’t upset my horse. “I saw ye an’ that redcoat exchangin’ glares like ye were scrapin' o’erthe last bit o' haggis. Ye’ll feel better after ye give him a proper thrashin’.”
“Quiet!” I hissed under my breath. I’d got used to the notion that nobody else could hear him, but with him blathering on like that, I could hardly hear myself. And right now, my “self” was the only thing keeping me from jumping out of my skin.
Bingley glanced over at me. “Did you say something, Darcy?”
“No,” I said quickly, plastering a smile on my face. “Nothing.”
Ewan, of course, wasn’t done. “Och, an’ that lass—Elspeth—dottin’ on him like he’s some kind o' prince. Redcoats, aye, nothin' but a plague on decent folk, an' now he’s tryin’ tae steal yer lass right out from under ye.”
“For the last time, she is notmylass!” I muttered, mostly to myself, but apparently loud enough for Bingley to hear. “And her name is not Elspeth!”
“What’s that, Darcy?” he asked, frowning slightly.
“I said ‘not my glass,’” I lied. “No need to stop for a drink, Bingley.”
Bingley blinked, confused. “Er… I wasn’t suggesting that we—”
“Ye ken,” Ewan cut in, “If I were ye, I’d’ve decked that redcoat right there an’ then. Proper punch tae the face, lad. Show him what’s what.”
“I’m not decking anyone,” I snarled under my breath, while Bingley continued to talk—still entirely oblivious.
“Oh-ho! So yedohave some fire in ye, lad!” Ewan crowed, louder still. “’Bout time, too! Thought ye’d lost all yer spine—strangled by that fancy cravat ye’re so fond of.”
At that exact moment, Mrs. Long waved us down on the road. “Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley! So good to see you both!” she called out, her smile too wide for my current level of patience.
I forced another tight smile. “Mrs. Long.”
Bingley stopped to chat—blast his good manners—while Ewan leaned in even closer over my shoulder. “What in the blazesdoes this auld moggie want?” he barked, loud enough that I was certain Mrs. Long would hear.
“Mr. Darcy, I was just wondering if you might attend our little gathering next week—oh, how wonderful it would be to have both you and Mr. Bingley there!” Mrs. Long simpered, completely unaware of my growing urge to flee.
“Yes, of course,” I answered, barely registering her words.
“Oh, splendid! You know, I thought I saw you speaking to Lieutenants Denny and Wickham—he is new in town, you know, and what a charming young man!”
“’Charming?’” Ewan mimicked in a high-pitched sing-song. “That red-coated serpent? He’s charmful as a nettle in yer boot, he is.”
For once, I agreed with Ewan. “Charming indeed,” I mumbled.
Mrs. Long beamed. “I knew you’d think so! I always say—”
“Aye, turn that horse ‘round, lad, an’ gie that redcoat a proper thrashin’! What’re ye waitin’ on, eh? A bouquet o’ flowers? Ye don’t let a man like that sniff ‘round yer lass wi’out leavin’ him wi' a fist tae remember. Go on, show him what a real man does when his pride’s on the line, instead o’ sittin’ there like a feart wee mouse!”
I ignored him. Creditably, I thought. I doubt Mrs. Long even noticed my face twitching.
