Page 62 of The Lost Prophecy

Darcy felt his control narrowing. “What occurred?”

“When we prepared to leave, the officer escorted the ladies to the door. Miss Elizabeth had removed her gloves for tea and had not yet replaced them. He took her right hand and bowed over it.”

Bingley’s easy expression vanished. Hurst pushed away from the tree.

Collins stared at his own boots as he forced the account forward. “The moment his lips touched her skin, his body became rigid. His fingers closed around her hand tightly, and when he raised his face, his eyes were black. There was no visible white, no colour, and no ordinary human expression. I cannot describe what occupied his face during that instant, but I knew that he had discovered something.”

Darcy heard the horses shifting near the carriage, the faint scrape of a branch against the wall and Miss Elizabeth’s heartbeat beyond the glass. The cold discipline of centuries held his body still while every darker instinct demanded that he find Wickham before sunset and tear the knowledge from him.

“Pray, what is his name?”

Collins lifted his eyes. “Mr George Wickham.”

Bingley turned away and dragged one hand through his hair. Hurst muttered a word no clergyman could mistake for prayer, while Darcy fixed his eyes on the yew hedge until its dark needles ceased blurring into a single violent mass.

“Did he break her skin?” Darcy removed one glove and flexed his fingers against the cold, needing the sensation to govern his strength. “Consider carefully. Did you see a cut, a puncture, or any blood?”

“No. Miss Elizabeth did not cry out, although she appeared startled.”

“How long did he hold her?”

“Only a few seconds. His eyes returned to normal, and he released her almost immediately. He apologised for gripping her hand too tightly.”

“Did he attempt to touch her again?”

“No. Miss Elizabeth put on her gloves, gathered her sisters, and insisted that we leave. I confess that I offered no opposition. My principal desire was to place a locked door between the officer and myself.”

“She understood that he was dangerous,” Bingley murmured, turning back to them. “At least she will be cautious.”

“She understood that something was wrong.” Hurst crossed the narrow space to Darcy. “She cannot be cautious against a danger she does not know exists.”

Collins’s eyes moved between them. “You know this gentleman.”

“I have known him since childhood.” Darcy replaced his glove, drawing each finger into place before continuing. “I also know that his pleasant manners conceal conduct which would appal the people who welcome him.”

“His eyes changed, sir!”

“So you have told us.”

“Mrs Hurst’s hand was cold, sir!”

Hurst’s expression hardened. “You have mentioned that too.”

Collins regarded each of them in turn. Whatever conclusion formed in his mind frightened him, but it did not prevent him from following it.

“Is Mr Wickham afflicted by the same condition as Mrs Hurst?”

No one responded.

Collins swallowed. “Are all of you?”

“We are not afflicted by Wickham’s character,” Bingley protested. “Whatever else you may suspect, you must understand that distinction.”

“That was not precisely my question, sir.”

Hurst turned his face aside, but Darcy caught the brief movement of his mouth. “Terror continues to improve him.”

Darcy stepped nearer to Collins. He did not employ compulsion, though the master’s authority in his voice caused the clergyman to straighten. “You do not require the answer to that question. You require only the knowledge that Wickham is capable of harming Miss Elizabeth and that we are capable of preventing him.”