Page 35 of Honor Requires

Then he was thrown onto something hard, the impact rattling his weakened body. A door slammed and locked, and they began to move.

There were voices outside. Fragments of the conversation reached him.

“…spy…”

“…treason…”

“…liar… thief…”

The words made no sense. None at all.

The conveyance moved steadily. He drifted again, hovering at the edge of consciousness. At last, it stopped. Darcy was hauled out once more. The air had changed again. It was cooler, still. Footsteps echoed differently now, as if they were walking across stone rather than wood or ground.

Darcy was half dragged as they walked. Soon, he lost track of their direction. There were so many turns, corridors, and staircases. He knew they were going down, but to where? All sense of direction was lost.

At last, he heard a door open. His attackers forced him into a chair. His bonds were cut. His arms fell forward, numb, lifeless, pain exploding through them as sensation returned in jagged bursts.

The sack was torn from his head. Light flooded his vision. He flinched, blinking against it. Shapes formed slowly as his eyes adjusted to the bright light. He was in a room with stone walls. A simple desk was positioned in front of the chair he occupied. Behind the desk was a man, grizzled and weathered. His teeth crooked, his expression one of rough amusement.

He glanced down at a set of papers in his hand. “Welcome to Yarmouth Castle, Mr.—” He paused. “Thomas Gray.”

Darcy’s breath caught. “What—”

“I understand you will be with us for some time,” the man continued, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

“My name is Fitzwilliam Darcy,” Darcy said hoarsely.

The man's hand slammed down upon the desk. “And I be the Prince Regent,” he snapped. “Shut up.”

The force of it silenced him.

The man leaned forward. “You are who and what I say you are.”

“A worthless criminal. A treasonous dog.” He leaned forward. “And I have all the power here. Power to make your life a living hell.”

Darcy said nothing, could say nothing. He dared not. His hands trembled as he rubbed at the scruff upon his face, the unfamiliar heft of it a small, disorienting detail amidst the greater horror.

“You may call me Warden,” the man said. “Now—how about a proper welcome?”

Two men seized Darcy once more, dragging him upright. What followed, he did not fully comprehend. Only fragments remained. Pain, sharp and relentless. Then darkness again. When he became aware once more, he lay upon cold stone.

He was in a small space, bare except for a straw pallet in the corner. A sound—a metallic clatter—drew his attention. A bowl rolled toward him, coming to rest within reach.

A voice spoke from beyond the door. “Food once a day,” it said. “Bucket emptied same time.”

Darcy turned his head slowly.

“If yer bowl ain’t at the door,” the voice continued, “ye’ll get no food.”

A pause. Then the solider huffed, “best remember.” The door shut and locked, and silence fell.

Darcy lay there, bruised, bleeding, and alone. For a long moment, he did not move, did not think.

Then the magnitude of it settled upon him. All of it. Elizabeth, Georgiana, Pemberley.

Gone. Everything torn from him without warning, without reason. A sound rose in his throat—unbidden, uncontrollable. He pressed his hand to his face. It did nothing to stop it. Darcy wept.

Chapter Seven