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After the proposal she had often mused about their lively conversations; they enjoyed many books and pieces of music in common. He was an excellent dancer and a handsome man. She had been mortifyingly incorrect in her worst accusations against his character. And yet he had still been rude and arrogant and proud. Lively, well-informed conversation was not sufficient to induce her admiration. And yet…
The headache had crept up the base of her skull, and new pressure was building across her forehead. Why had he lied to her? Why would any man lie about such a thing? The obvious answer with most men would be to take advantage of her virtue. However, she had been in his bed, and he had steadfastly refused to avail himself of the opportunity.
She had suggested—nay, begged him—for greater intimacies. Her cheeks flamed at the memory, and she was forced to cover her face with her hands even though there was nobody to see her. How could she face him again when she had been so brazen? It was a shame amnesia could not be employed selectively; she would choose to forget a great many incidents from the past week.
What a fool I have been.
He had not avoided kissing her, and his kisses had been quite…passionate. She blushed again at the memories. How wanton she had been with a man not her husband! Still, she would admit it to herself: she would miss those kisses.
The fact was not lost on her that he had compromised her reputation most egregiously. If it were known that they had been traveling as husband and wife, he would be forced to marry her. Had that been part of his plan: to force her to marry him after she had refused his offer? Just the thought of such deliberate scheming sent shivers of horror through her body. Would Mr. Darcy stoop to such designs?
The thought of actually marrying him produced a much weaker sense of horror.
But he lied to me.
That fact was inescapable. He claimed to love her, but why would he lie so egregiously and repeatedly to somebody he cared about? Even if he did love her in his way, surely he could not possibly respect her. Or trust her.
Nor was it possible for her to trust him. Yes, she could trust him with her life and her safety, but not with her heart.
Her body broke out in a cold sweat. That was it; the decision was made. Or perhaps there had been no decision in the first place. She could not trust him with her heart. There could be no future for them.
The headache now engulfed her entire head; she tried to shift into a more comfortable position, to no avail. Even if she did occasionally have…warm feelings for him, they meant nothing without trust.
He had lied to her, and she could never trust him again.
***
The sun was sinking low in the sky when Richard decided the time was right to rendezvous with the smugglers’ boat. Supposing discretion to be the better part of valor, Darcy sent Richard into the tent to awaken Elizabeth. She soon emerged, a bit rumpled and bleary-eyed but alert enough to avoid meeting Darcy’s eyes. He sighed. It had been a vain hope that things would improve in such a short time.
They joined a line of smugglers trudging toward the gate. Many boats would depart at the same time as they took advantage of the high tide. Darcy took Elizabeth’s arm and pulled ahead of Richard. She stiffened at his touch.
“Elizabeth,” he murmured in her ear, “I understand that you are angry with me—with good reason. But we must not give the authorities any reason for suspicion. You and I must leave together and cannot be seen in Richard’s company. Remember, you are deaf.”
She gave the barest nod, but her body did not relax beneath his arm.
The soldier who took their papers gave Darcy an odd look since they were leaving without their wagon. Darcy scowled at the man. “One of the bastards out there”—he gestured to the galleys on the beach—“cheated me! I need to stop him before he gets away.”
The man took a cursory glance at their papers. “I regret we cannot provide assistance, monsieur. We do not interfere in private trade matters.”
“I understand,” Darcy growled as he grabbed the papers back. With the soldier’s eyes upon them, Darcy set a quick pace toward the beach, stalking his imaginary customer. They soon reached the wet stones of the beach where dozens of small galleys had been dragged to await the high tide. A few bigger fishing vessels were moored further out in the deeper water. Everywhere, men were climbing into boats, grabbing oars, settling onto seats, and securing cargo. A few vessels were already pushing into deeper water where the rowers—ten or twelve to a boat—jumped in and started their rhythmic strokes.
Darcy fought the urge to break into a run, keeping to the swift but steady pace of an angry man. With her skirts gathered in one hand, Elizabeth did an admirable job of keeping pace with him. Ahead of them, Richard ambled up to one of the bigger galleys where men were tying down cargo. The boat was low and long—built for utility and speed—without any kind of roof or shelter to protect the occupants from the elements. An older man, likely the captain, regarded Richard with some impatience, his arms folded over his chest. Darcy picked up their pace as Richard stopped to speak with the captain and gestured toward them. He was just as impatient to reach the open water as the smuggler was.
“There they are!” Someone shouted in French behind them. Darcy looked over his shoulder to see Dreyfus, leading a group of three soldiers running toward them—all with pistols drawn. “We must stop them from reaching England!”
Chapter Seventeen
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sp; Damnation! They were so close to safety.
“Run,” Darcy urged Elizabeth. Picking up her skirts, she took off like a shot toward the smuggler’s boat, with Darcy not far behind her. At least two shots sounded behind them; Darcy could only pray that the soldiers’ aim was poor.
“Devil take you!” the captain shouted at Richard as they raced toward him. “You promised me no trouble!”
Ignoring the man, Richard pulled a pistol from his rumpled coat and took aim at Dreyfus. When that shot went wide, Richard took out another pistol. “Time to push off!” he shouted at the captain over his shoulder.
Cursing and calling Richard a string of vile names, the captain helped his men push their boat into deeper water. There was no chance the captain would wait for them to reach the boat; they had to board it before it shoved off. Elizabeth had waded into the surf with no care for her boots, but as her skirts fell into the water, they created a drag that slowed her progress.
