Page 34 of Honor Requires

It did no good. The bindings held. His breath came fast, uneven.

Think. He must think. Panic would serve him nothing.

He forced himself to still, to lie back against the hard surface beneath him, to draw in slow breaths despite the pounding in his head.

Elizabeth. The thought came unbidden. Her face rose before him—clear, vivid. The warmth evident in her expression, the luminescence in her eyes, and the serene conviction of her voice were striking.

Two weeks. He had said it. He had promised.

Georgiana. His sister’s gentle smile, her trust—so complete, so unquestioning. He could not fail them. He would not. “I will return,” he murmured, the words barely audible through the sack.

Time passed. Or perhaps it did not. There was no way to measure it—no light, no sound beyond the faint echo of his own breathing. Hunger came first. A dull ache, easily ignored at the outset.

Then thirst, sharper and more insistent. His head throbbed without respite, each movement sending new waves of pain through him. He drifted—between wakefulness and something less defined—clinging always to the same thoughts.

Elizabeth. Georgiana. Home. He must endure. He must survive.

At length, a sound intruded into his thoughts. The door again. It opened without warning. Hands seized him—rough, unyielding—dragging him upright before he could brace himself. He staggered, his legs weak, unsteady.

“The papers are in order,” a voice said—the same voice as before. “The boat awaits.”

Boat. Darcy’s pulse surged. “Where are you taking me?” he demanded, struggling against their grip. The answer was a fist driven hard into his stomach. Air fled his lungs in a violent rush, leaving him doubled, gasping, unable to speak.

“Quiet,” the man said coldly.

They dragged him forward. The air changed. It was cooler, and Darcy could feel the open space around him, the faint shift, the movement of air across his face through the coarse weave of the sack. It was dark. That much he could tell. No warmth of sun. No brightness pressing against the cloth.

Night. How long have I been here? They forced him onward, his steps uneven, his strength failing. Then, suddenly, he was confined again. It was sudden, crushing confinement. He was shoved into a space so small it drove the breath from him once more. Wood pressed against his sides, his back, his knees.

A crate, or perhaps a trunk. The lid slammed shut. Darkness within darkness. He could not move. His breath came fast, shallow, the air already stale.

Think. He must think. Hoofbeats sounded, distant at first, then nearer. The sound of wheels upon cobblestone. He was being transported. His shoulders burned, the strain of his bound hands becoming unbearable. His head swam, hunger and thirst gnawing at him until thought became difficult. Time lost all meaning. The motion slowed and stopped. The lid was wrenched open.

Hands seized him again, dragging him out, forcing him upright though his legs could scarcely support him.

“Farewell, Mr. Darcy,” the voice said lightly. “Good riddance.”

Darcy tried to speak—tried to demand, to protest—but no words came.

They hauled him onward. The ground beneath his feet shifted—uneven, unsteady. It felt like wood beneath his feet. It was swaying lightly. A path that moved beneath him.

A gangplank, his befuddled mind supplied. A boat. Realization struck, sharp and immediate.

He was at sea or would be soon. He struggled, sudden panic rising, but his strength failed him. Darcy was dragged forward—then released, falling hard. The impact jarred him, leaving him breathless once more.

Then came the sound of a hatch shutting above him. Darkness returned. Only now, there was movement. Not of carriage wheels or firm ground—but a slow, relentless sway.

He could hear voices above, and footsteps. There was the creak of wood. Disbelief warred with the fear inside him. He was aboard a vessel, bound and helpless, and he did not know where he had come from. Nor did he know where he was being taken.

Time passed, again, unmeasured. The hatch opened at last. Light—faint, distant—filtered through the sack. Hands seized him once more.

“Up,” a voice barked.

He tried to stand and failed. A blow struck him again, forcing what little breath remained from his lungs.

“Move.”

He was dragged, half-carried, his feet barely touching the ground. Cold air struck him, sharper now, and salt-laden. He stumbled over uneven ground—rocks, perhaps—unable to steady himself.