She wished she had not: the burning fire of hatred in his green eyes would, she knew, haunt her nightmares for many months to come.
∞∞∞
Several hours later, Elizabeth found herself lying in her own bed, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, her arm cradled against her side and pulsing with a dull, persistent ache. Mr. Jones had declared it a clean wound, but the stitches tugged and throbbed with every heartbeat.
The willow bark tea she had sipped not long ago was beginning to soften the sharp edges of the pain, though not quickly enough for her liking. Laudanum had been offered—of course it had—but she had refused. It made her feel itchy and strange, as though her limbs belonged to someone else, and she could not bear the thought of being anything less than herself tonight.
As she attempted to fall into slumber, the events of the evening played out in slow, flickering scenes behind her tired eyes.
Mr. Jones had found her in the library, white-faced and tight-lipped, and tended to her arm with quiet efficiency. She had tried not to flinch under the needle. He had praised her bravery, though she thought it less bravery and more stubbornness at this point.
Her stomach had growled mid-procedure, drawing a rueful smile from Darcy, who stood behind her chair like a sentinel. He sent a servant to the kitchens, and soon she had been coaxed into nibbling on a plate of cold meats and fresh bread—what was left after the supper dance, she supposed.
Sir William Lucas and Colonel Forster had arrived shortly after, summoned by her father to take down her statement. They had both looked exceedingly grave as she recounted every moment of the attack, from the scent in the air to the gleam of the dagger to the way the cradle had tipped.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, standing in the corner like a watchful hawk, had nodded at every point and confirmed that Captain Carter had been securely bound and transported to a holding location under the watch of soldiers he trusted. He would be transferred to London in the morning.
Mr. Bennet had returned not long after the others left. He sat beside her, looking more tired than she had ever seen him,though there was a proud light in his eyes. He informed her, with a twinkle in his eye, that while she had been recovering, she had missed the announcement of Jane’s engagement and its accompanying chaos.
“Mr. Bingley proposed in the hallway after supper was concluded,” he said with a smirk. “Could not wait, the poor fool. He found me directly afterward and nearly stammered himself into a stupor asking for my blessing. Of course, I granted it, and I encouraged him to make the announcement straight away. And, well, if your mother was… distracted from any inquiries as to why you were absent, that was simply icing on the cake, so to speak.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “And Miss Bingley?”
“Ah yes,” he said with great satisfaction, “her expression was something between a cat in a rain barrel and a woman who has just been told she must live in Cheapside for the rest of her life.”
The moment made her laugh, though it had hurt her arm. After that, he called for the carriage and insisted she return home at once, saying he would send it back for the rest of the family later.
Darcy had led her gently down the corridor to the Netherfield foyer, one arm braced around her shoulders, his other hand careful beneath her elbow. It had not escaped anyone’s notice—least of all Miss Bingley’s, and the woman’s face was nearly purple with apoplexy. Elizabeth had been too weary to savor the woman’s outrage at the sight, but the memory brought a spark of amusement now.
She had arrived home exhausted, eager for a comfortable nightgown and warm sheets. She was not too tired, though, to give Benjamin a kiss before the nurse took him from hermother’s changing room up to the nursery. “It is over,” she had whispered as her lips pressed against his brow.
It is finally over. And yet…
As she stared at the ceiling above her bed, Elizabeth’s smile faded. Her body sank down into her mattress under the warmth of the covers, the pain dulled enough to allow reflection, and the fear she had pushed down during the chaos came rushing in at last.
I very nearly died tonight.
She had seen the gleam of a blade inches from her face. She had flung herself across a room, she had bled, she had screamed.
At the time, she had not allowed herself to think. She had simply reacted. But now, in the stillness of her room, the truth settled over her like a cold breath: she had faced a murderer.
And not a monster with horns or hideous scars. A man. A soldier. A familiar figure from a dozen community events—Captain Carter, who had bowed politely, who had worn a neat red coat and offered small, stiff smiles. His face was ordinary. Unremarkable. Almost kind.
And yet behind that face had lurked the devil.
Her brows drew together as a sliver of unease twisted in her gut.
Something does not feel right.
As her eyes drifted shut, the memory returned. His eyes—green and sharp with fury as he lunged at her, full of venom and desperation.
But then—
Her eyes flew open.
His eyes.
The man who attacked her at Longbourn…
