He gave her a grim smile and tipped his hat. “No. Godspeed. Tell Darcy I will see him in London.”
And then he was gone, galloping into the woods with four men at his heels.
She sat with her skirts rumpled and drying blood caked on her knees, Darcy slumped beside her with his weight tilted heavily against her left side. His head lolled to the shoulder that had not been bandaged, and his breath came in soft, uneven hitches.
Once, as the sun began to rise in a haze of gold behind them, he stirred more deliberately, his lashes fluttering. Her heart leaped into her throat. Was he waking?
“Elizabeth?” he rasped.
She clutched his hand, pressing it between her own. “I am here.”
“Did they…” His voice broke off.
“No. They are gone. You are safe.”
“You… what about you?”
“I am well. Perfectly well.”
He sank back into her side and did not speak again. And Elizabeth could do nothing but stroke his cheek and count his breaths. So long as his head rose and fell against her shoulder with each shudder of his chest, he lived.
They rode in silence, save for the endless drum of hooves and the rattling of the wheels. Outside, England sped past—green fields and hedgerows and towns that knew nothing of the war being waged in their capital. She wrapped her arms more tightly around him and closed her eyes.
She awoke some hours later to a burning in her stomach from hunger. Her eyes opened blearily, and she swallowed against a dry throat as she blinked out at the passing trees. They must be near Buntingford—at least, she thought that was what the sign read before it passed out of her view. Her stomach squeezed and gurgled, and she glanced round the carriage.
There was the satchel of provisions, but it was on the opposite seat. Just beside Darcy’s pistol, which Colonel Fitzwilliam had loaded for her. And so, she sat there, gazing at the answer to the painful rumbling in her belly, but too unwilling to slip out from under Darcy’s weight to retrieve it. Instead, she let her head slip back again—her temple supporting Darcy’s cheek, the tickle of his hair ruffling the mess of her curls, and his hand fallen heavily, unconsciously, over her lap.
What would the Prince say to their audacity for stumbling upon his gates in such a state? The colonel had seemed so confident in their reception, as if this affair were the supreme anxiety resting upon the royal head just now. Or perhaps Darcy himself commanded some respect with the Regent. If that were so… well, perhaps not all was lost.
The carriage hit a rut, lurching her head rather sharply against his. Darcy stirred and grunted in pain—a grunt that dissolved into a faint moan.
“Fitzwilliam,” she whispered, brushing a lock of hair from his brow.
No answer. But he shifted faintly, his brow twitching. His hand moved—just once—toward the wound on his chest.
Elizabeth sprang into action. She slipped from under his shoulder and fumbled for the satchel the colonel had given her, tugged it open with fingers that still stung from tiny shards of glass. Inside, she found not only a parcel of bread and cheese for her, but linen, a tin of salve, and a flask she dared not open yet. She found a clean cloth and peeled back the blood-soaked one that had been tied around Darcy’s shoulder. He flinched, even unconscious.
“Oh—oh, I am sorry,” she whispered, lifting the cloth gently.
The sight of the wound stole her breath. Angry red flesh, blackened at the edges with dried blood. The bullet had passed clean through, Fitzwilliam had said, but the exit wound was wider, raw, weeping.
She worked slowly, for it was all she could do to heave his body about and reach under his ruined shirt to nurse his bare flesh. Tucked clean cloth beneath him. Packed the salve against the wound. Rebound it with trembling hands, remembering the way Fitzwilliam had demonstrated it. The knot must be firm. The pressure even. She braced his weight against her body and tied the bandage tightly, whispering soothing nonsense all the while.
Darcy murmured something—her name, she thought. Or part of it. A fragment.
“It is all right,” she breathed as she wedged herself once more under his ribs, propping him up. “You are safe.”
The carriage jostled again, and he sagged harder against her, his bloodied temple brushing her jaw. She adjusted her posture to cradle him better, mindful of his wounds. Her legs ached, her hands throbbed, and her back screamed in protest, but none of that mattered. Not while he breathed.
Not while she had him.
His face was too pale. His lips, dry. She pressed the flask to his mouth, coaxed a sip between them. When he swallowed, she nearly wept with relief. A few more hours, that was all. A slow, excruciatingly slow rumble into London, and he would be able to rest.
And she would lose him to others.
As the afternoon light shifted, casting the carriage interior in muted shadows and stifling warmth, Darcy stirred more lucidly. His eyes fluttered open, meeting Elizabeth’s with a clarity that had been absent since the attack. He attempted to shift, a grimace betraying the pain the movement caused.
She cupped her hand against his cheek and pressed a kiss to his forehead—soft, reverent, meant for comfort rather than passion.
