Page 52 of Honor Requires

“Again,” said Marcus, though they had not reached the end.

“No, now we are the rescuers,” Drew argued, seizing upon the narrative and making it instantly his own.

Bruno, unsuspecting, became the appointed steed.

The attempt to mount him was not, in itself, successful. The elder boy managed to drape himself halfway across the dog’s back before Bruno turned his great head with a look of patient bewilderment, as if uncertain why such indignities were repeatedly inflicted upon him by those he most loved. The younger boy clapped and begged for his turn, while Elizabeth, laughing so hard she could scarcely speak, was forced to intervene before Bruno’s forbearance was stretched beyond reason.

“You may not ride him,” she said, disentangling one child and forestalling the advance of the other. “He is a dog, not a pony, and a very dignified dog at that.”

Bruno sneezed, which did little to support the claim of dignity.

The boys were redirected into a game of pursuit instead, with Bruno at the center of it, charging after sticks and children alike with a joyousness that transformed the whole expedition into noisy delight. Elizabeth joined them where she could, allowing herself to be chased, to be captured, to be declared the imprisoned queen who must be rescued again from imaginary peril.

For that hour, and perhaps a little longer, she was not the woman who carried loss like a hidden wound. She was only Aunt Lizzy, teller of stories, arbiter of games, companion of children, with Bruno at her side and the springing laughter of boys ringing through the park.

And if, in the midst of it, she felt the faint ache of wishing that another might have seen her there—might have smiled to witness her in such a scene—she bore it patiently, as she bore all things now.

With love and memory, and with a heart that had never truly learned to belong anywhere else.

Chapter Twelve

Darcy paused as footsteps sounded above him. It was in the middle of the night. Guards did not typically walk this corridor after eleven. The sound was faint at first—no more than a dull echo carried through stone and distance—but it was enough. In a place where every noise bore meaning, where routine governed survival, even the slightest deviation demanded notice. His body stilled instinctively, every sense sharpening at once.

“Do you hear that?” Lucien’s voice came from behind, pitched low but urgent.

“I do. Should we retreat?”

“I think it best.”

Darcy did not hesitate. The caution was warranted. He heard his friend shuffling backwards and followed at once, careful of his footing in the narrow tunnel they had carved inch by painstaking inch. The confined space pressed close about them, the stale air thick with dust and the faint, ever-present scent of damp stone. Their progress was not swift, but it was practiced. Each movement had been learned, refined, repeated until even in darkness and tension, they could move without misstep.

They moved as quickly as they could, reaching Darcy’s cell in minutes. Lucien immediately retreated into the tunnel that led to his own cell and Darcy secured the stone behind him, easing it into place with care so that no sign of disturbance remained. His hands lingered there, feeling the rough surface beneath his fingertips, as though confirming that their secret remained intact.

Darcy crossed to the door and, after a brief pause to calm himself, peeked out the bars. There were two guards standing a little down the corridor, their heads bent together in conversation. The torchlight cast uneven shadows along the walls, flickering across their uniforms and glinting faintly off metal. Lucien’s cell was in the opposite direction. There did not seem to be an air of alarm or urgency about the soldiers, no indication that they suspected anything amiss, but Darcy wished to err on the side of caution.

He watched them closely, his breath slow and restrained, his body held in stillness so complete that he might have been mistaken for one of the stones themselves. Time stretched in such moments. Each second seemed to lengthen, to press upon him with insistence.

After ten minutes, the guards left the corridor, shutting the heavy wooden door that separated this section of the prison from the rest. The sound of it closing echoed faintly, followed by the distinct scrape of a bolt being drawn into place. Silence returned—thick, familiar, and almost oppressive in its completeness.

A few minutes later, Lucien appeared.

“They are gone,” Darcy said as his friend climbed through the hole, his voice scarcely more than a whisper.

“Good. I would hate to lose a night of progress because two sentries wished to dither about in our part of the prison.” Lucien climbed to his feet, brushing dust from his worn clothing and pushing his hair out of his face. His movements carried a restless energy, though beneath it lay the same fatigue Darcy knew in himself.

“We must be close now.” Darcy sat on his pallet, legs crossed, his posture composed though his mind remained alert.

“I would say another seven days should do it. It is nicely timed; it will be a new moon to help disguise our escape.”

Darcy kept his voice low, though there was no one to overhear them but the sea beyond the stone. “Once we are through, we do not linger,” he said, tracing the rough line of the shoreline in the dust with his finger. The motion steadied him, gave form to what might otherwise remain abstract and uncertain. “By my reckoning, the path runs west from the wall. It will be narrow, but passable in the dark. It will take us down to the water just beyond the reach of the sentry’s usual circuit.” He glanced up, meeting Lucien’s gaze to ensure he followed. “It is my hope that if we follow the coast, we shall find transportation. The Isle of Wight has a modest fishing community. We might find a small boat—fishermen’s craft, nothing more. We take the first that will float.” His hand stilled, hovering over the crude map, weighing each possibility. “We must wait for the tide to turn. If we go too soon, it will drag us back toward the island. Too late, and we lose the advantage of the current.” A brief pause followed, then more intently, “We cross for the mainland—north and west. Lymington, if we are fortunate. Hurst, if we are not. Once ashore, we leave the boat and do not look back. By daylight, we must be inland, on separate roads if necessary.” He drew back his hand, the plan laid bare between them. “There can be no hesitation. Once we begin, we are committed.”

Lucien watched him with keen interest, his expression sharpening with something that bordered on anticipation. “What of the treasure?” he asked, leaning forward eagerly.

“That will come later. We must ensure we are not caught. We will require a change of clothes, among other things. Goodness, neither of us have had a proper shave or hair cut in years. That will require money.” And how were they to get that? The thought lingered, unwelcome but unavoidable. Darcy still had difficulty believing Lucien’s account, told while they dug their tunnel, of a fortune hidden just off the Isle of Wight.

“Our escape may require…borrowing some things.” Lucien shifted, his tone lightening with a hint of mischief that seemed almost out of place in such surroundings. “We can make sure to compensate the…donors…fairly.”

Darcy did not like the idea of taking what was not his, but Lucien had a point. Necessity, it seemed, would not consult his preferences. “We have the knife you fashioned, along with the chisel.” Unlike Darcy, Lucien had a cot in his cell. He had taken some of the metal fittings from beneath it and fashioned them into tools. They had fashioned another for Darcy soon after their initial encounter.