Page 103 of Midnight at Pemberley

How gently Wickham treated Lady Ellender surprised Darcy. The man this creature once was still loved the woman, despite the havoc she had brought to his life. This was a new aspect of Wickham, and Darcy hoped to use it against him.

“The gentleman has his own lady love, my dear.” Wickham brought Ellender’s delicate hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it. Then he called out, “Will you not join us, Mrs. Darcy?”

“Stay where you are, Elizabeth!” Darcy ordered.

“If you wish to see me end your husband’s life on the spot, then ignore my bidding.” Wickham purposely nicked Darcy’s neck to permit a blood bubble to appear.

Darcy warned, “It does not matter, Elizabeth. Wickham will kill me with or without your sacrifice.”

Wickham jabbed Darcy again, and a second stream worked its way towards his shirt’s collar. “Enough!” Elizabeth ordered and stepped from behind the granite. She walked slowly to where Darcy stood, taking his hand as she defiantly took her place beside him.

“That is more of the nature of the Elizabeth Darcy I have come to know and despise,” Wickham growled. “Now, play nice, Mrs. Darcy, and acknowledge my Lady Ellender.”

“I gladly acknowledge Lady Ellender,” Elizabeth contended, “but she is not your Lady Ellender, Mr. Wickham. She belongs to my ancestor Lord Arawn Benning.” Elizabeth watched with some satisfaction as her declaration caused Ellender’s spirit to drift away towards Lord Thomas’s crypt. She continued to sway to her silent music, but she traced Arawn’s name with her fingertips.

“Ellender!” Wickham roared, but the lady heard only her own longing. “Ellender!” he repeated. Then he turned on Elizabeth. “You will pay for this!” he roared, stressing each word, loading them with vehemence. With his injured left arm, Wickham lashed out at her, catching Elizabeth’s neck with his large hand, his bestial claws returning.

Elizabeth’s hands tore at his fingers, and, instantly, Darcy reacted, his own high dudgeon exploding as he struck Wickham in the chest. The impact sent Wickham reeling backwards as Darcy caught the slumping Elizabeth in his arms and knelt lovingly over her. “My love,” he cajoled as he pushed her hair from her face. “Speak to me.”

But before she could respond, Wickham charged again, and this time he plunged the rapier into Darcy’s back. Darcy collapsed on top of his wife’s body as blood oozed from the entry and exit wounds in both his back and his side. They lay perfectly still, arms and legs entangled in an intimate moment of ghostly love.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

EDWARD FITZWILLIAM SAW IT ALL, BUT WAS TOO LATE TO PREVENT WICK-ham’s attack. Armed with his own sword, he charged the brute, spinning Wickham away from Darcy’s fallen frame before he could deliver another strike. Now, they faced each other, swords at the ready, and the match in earnest. Surprisingly, Wickham adeptly fended off everything Edward threw at him as they zigzagged among headstones and mounted the banked earth indicating each of the graves. Sparks disappeared into the night as the blades grazed markers, but for Edward, this was more than a simple fight. This was for Elizabeth, for what Wickham had done to her, and for the horror of seeing his cousin skewered.

Darcy’s body pinned her to the ground, but Elizabeth managed to leverage from beneath him. Scrambling to her knees beside him, Elizabeth searched Darcy’s body for the point of entry. Fortunately, the blood flow had slowed when she pressed her hand against it, so she tore at the shirt she wore, ripping at it to make a bandage.

She could hear the battle behind her, but she needed to stop the life from being sapped from Darcy’s body. It was too much like her dream, and she would not permit him to die. “William!” She pressed against the wound, feeling the bandage go damp under her fingers. “Do not leave me!”

Miraculously, his chest heaved, and she heard him groan.

Elizabeth stretched out over his shoulders and kissed the side of his face. “Please stay with me,” she whispered close to his ear.

“Assist me up,” he moaned, his mouth turned into the earth.

Elizabeth leaned closer. “What?”

“Assist me to my feet.” In obvious pain, Darcy rolled to his side.

“You cannot!” she protested.

“Damn it, Wife. I require your assistance!”

Darcy pulled his knee up and prepared to stand. Against what she knew best, Elizabeth braced his weight against her and assisted him to a standing position, although he hunched his shoulders forward in pain.

“William, please,” she begged as he took a deep breath and staggered in the direction of the fray. Ignoring her pleas, Darcy took a few more faltering steps before his momentum gave an appearance of strength. Elizabeth trailed him, preparing to assist him in maintaining his balance.

The battle, once powerfully contested, now was one more of strike and retreat than of continuous blows. The colonel used both hands to steady his sword as he caught Wickham’s downward thrust and deflected it. Spinning counterclockwise, Edward sliced into Wickham’s side with a horizontal arc of the blade.

As Darcy staggered forward, in the distance, hilts entangled, Wickham and the colonel struggled face-to-face, hellkite strength versus human resolve. Putrid decay filled the air, and Edward instinctively retreated. A foolish mistake, which provided Wickham the advantage the fiend sought. He used his waning powers to send the colonel’s body cannonading against the side of the church.

Darcy and Elizabeth lunged into the midst of the horror, and now Darcy stood between Wickham and his cousin. “Do what I ask when I ask it,” he murmured softly as he shoved Elizabeth from him.

Wickham sighed heavily. “I thought I had disposed of you.” He pulled his shoulders back and prepared for another battle.

“I am not so easily discharged.” In a similar show of strength, Darcy pulled himself up straight.

Wickham, a lover of all things pretentious, smiled. “How shall we settle it, Darcy? Are you prepared to die today?”