Page 115 of Honor Requires

“I have.” For years, locked in a tiny cell without direct daylight.

“And what conclusion have you reached?”

Darcy exhaled slowly. “That justice must be pursued,” he said. “Even when it is difficult. Even when it demands more than one would wish to give.” Otherwise, those who had done wrong would never feel the sting of their errors.

Elizabeth’s gaze eased, though her expression remained serious. “And who,” she asked again, “has the right to enforce it?”

Darcy’s answer came without hesitation. “Those who cannot ignore it.”

She shook her head. “That is not a right,” she said. “That is a compulsion.”

“Perhaps.”

“And compulsion,” she added, “is not always a trustworthy guide.”

Darcy looked at her then, a small frown gracing his lips. “You would have him to suffer without action,” he said.

“I would have him consider whether he acts for the sake of justice,” she replied, “or for the sake of his own hurt.” The words struck deeper than she could have known.

Darcy felt them settle, heavy and unwelcome, against the structure of his resolve. Why do you act? He did not reply to her immediately.

Elizabeth watched him. “You believe I am wrong,” she said.

“No,” he said.

“Then what?”

Darcy’s gaze shifted, his expression tightening as he searched for a response that would neither betray too much nor deny too much. “I believe,” he said, “that there are circumstances in which action is required—regardless of the cost.”

Elizabeth studied him. “And you are in such circumstances?”

He met her eyes. “Yes.” There was no evasion in the answer. Only truth—partial, but undeniable.

Elizabeth’s breath caught again. “And when it is done?” she asked. “When justice, as you define it, has been served—what then? What will become of your life? Your soul?”

Darcy did not look away. “Then,” he said, trailing off. “I know not.”

Her gaze lingered on his face, searching, questioning, understanding more than he wished her to understand.

“I think,” she said after a moment, “that you have already begun to realize the cost of such ventures.” The words unsettled him more than any accusation might have done.

He turned, breaking the intensity of the moment. “You give me too much credit.”

“I do not think so.”

They walked on. The conversation shifted then—not abruptly, but gradually, as though both felt the need to retreat from ground too precarious to hold for long. They spoke of books, as they had before, though now with more substance, more ease. Elizabeth teased him gently on his severity of opinion; Darcy responded with a dryness that drew, at last, a genuine laugh from her.

It was brief. But it was real. And it undid him more than anything that had come before. He felt it—felt the pull of it, the memory of all that had once existed between them rising with dangerous clarity.

You are not fooling her. The thought came unbidden, insistent. He glanced at her.

She was watching him again. Not openly or boldly, but with that same perception that had always seen more than he intended to reveal.

His heart whispered what his mind refused to confirm. She knows. And she walks beside you.

The path curved ahead, leading back toward the more crowded portion of the park.

Darcy slowed. “I will not detain you longer,” he said.