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Elizabeth’s brow creased with worry. She was unaware, but not surprised, that Mr. Darcy had undertaken these measures. Elizabeth set her jaw. She refused to show fear to Wickham. “I said nothing to Mr. Darcy that was not true.”
Wickham continued on as if she had never spoken. “Now I cannot return to London, and I may need to flee England altogether.” He whirled her around to face him, grabbing her other arm in a painfully strong hold. “And. It. Is. Your. Fault.” He punctuated each word with a bone jarring shake of Elizabeth’s body.
Her instincts cried at her to fight the man and run for her life, but she fought back this panicked reaction, knowing it would be useless. Focus, keep your head, Elizabeth. “Mr. Darcy will not be happy to learn you have treated me thus. He is not a man to cross. Perhaps you had best leave.”
Wickham laughed harshly. “By the time Darcy learns of this, I will be long gone.”
Elizabeth lifted her chin as she looked at him. “What do you want from me?”
He sighed. “If only you had given me the money when I first asked so politely, things would not have come to this pass.”
Despite the perilous situation, Elizabeth’s temper flared. How dare he blame her? “You destroyed my garden and threw rocks through my windows! How is any of this my fault?”
“Do not blame me!” Wickham roared. “You drove me to it!” He released one of her arms only so he could deal her a violent slap across the face that sent her careening backward and falling onto the dead grass of the churchyard.
He is a madman! Elizabeth thought, clutching her hand to her cheek. Momentarily freed from his grip, she scrambled backward awkwardly, heedless of the dirt and mud. Wickham advanced slowly, towering over her menacingly. He is enjoying this, she realized. Relishing his sense of power over me! Elizabeth looked desperately over her left shoulder. There it was! Her reticule, abandoned on the flat rock where she had been sitting.
In no hurry, Wickham simply smiled like a cat anticipating fun with a mouse. “You will pay for the way you have treated me!”
She did not want to take her eyes off him, but it was necessary. Lunging toward the reticule, she grabbed it as she scrambled further back, her boots gaining little purchase in the dry grass.
Wickham laughed at the sight. “Yes, by all means, get your handkerchief! I will give you something to cry about.”
Elizabeth pulled out the pistol and pointed it at him. His smile died. “Leave me alone!” She shouted.
Wickham swallowed and seemed to regain his equilibrium. “What? A present from your dear departed betrothed? But I doubt you know how to use it.”
“Do not make assumptions, Mr. Wickham.” Without daring to glance away from him, she tried to stand. But as she was getting her feet under her, her boot heel caught on the hem of her dress, upsetting her balance. Wickham took advantage of her momentary distraction to lunge forward.
Elizabeth reacted instantly. She could not allow Wickham to hurt her again! She squeezed the trigger.
The blast from the pistol was deafening as the smell of gunpowder filled the air. The pistol’s recoil pushed Elizabeth back onto the grass, but she stood hastily, ready to fend off Wickham. But it was not necessary. The man was lying on the ground a few feet away from her.
For an awful moment, Elizabeth thought she had killed him. Then Wickham screamed—an awful, blood curdling sound. “Damn you to hell, woman! You shot me!”
Relief washed through Elizabeth. The man could not be too badly hurt if he could curse. Clutching the pistol, which was useless as a gun but could make an effective projectile if necessary, she carefully approached Wickham’s prone figure.
He was clutching his right leg, below the knee, where blood seeped through his fingers. “Damn you! You shot me!” He repeated.
For a moment, Elizabeth was struck with an absurd impulse to laugh. What had he expected? “I warned you.”
“But I never thought you would do it! You’re a woman!” This was followed by some more unsavory language. “Damnation, it hurts!”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. Underneath all the bluster, the man was such a coward.
Peering down the hill, she could see the carriage had not returned. Why were they taking so long? She supposed they would have to take Wickham to a doctor. Undoubtedly, he would try to persuade the authorities she had attacked him without provocation. She sighed.
Well, there was nothing for it. Turning back to the still-cursing man, she knelt next to him and examined the wound. She shoved down his stocking and pushed up his trouser leg, but every time she touched his leg, Wickham would moan and curse.
The wound needed binding, and she must sacrifice a petticoat to tear into strips. Making quick work of the project, she started binding up the wound to the best of her ability; it seemed to staunch the bleeding, at least for the moment.
As she worked, the sound of approaching hoofs rose from the road, but they were coming from the wrong direction; it could not be Weston and Carter. The rider was pushing his horse to run. Did Wickham have a henchman? The thought made her sick with worry. She looked up, but the angle was wrong, and she could see nothing.
Elizabeth finished tying the last knot in her makeshift bandage, but before she could stand to get a better view of the road, Wickham grabbed her arm. Using it as leverage, he flipped his body over hers and pinned her to the ground.
Elizabeth tried to strike out at him with her fists, but he held down her hands with his—and straddled her hips with his legs. The indecency of the position made Elizabeth blush. “I was trying to help you!” She hissed at him.
