Chapter 3
“Darcy! Is she . . .?” Fitz’s question faded away.
Elizabeth.His heart was ash; his eyes watered. Elizabeth was never still. She was never quiet, even when she did not speak. He reached out a hand to touch her sleeve.
Someone had done this to Elizabeth. To cause him grief? They could have had no idea how deep that grief would go. He would run mad with it.
But not yet.
First, he would see to her—he would do what he could to restore her dignity.
“Hold Miss Bennet’s legs, Fitz,” Darcy said numbly, sliding his hands under her arms and pulling her up so that her head rested against his chest. “We shall have to lift her out.”
Fitz eyed him and moved into position, but then hesitated. “You know her?”
He nodded once.
“Are you sure we ought to remove her?” Fitz asked tentatively. His next words were disconcertingly frank. “If she is dead, you cannot keep her here.”
Darcy’s eyes were on Elizabeth’s face. He felt nauseous. He had left Elizabeth at Netherfield. He had made his own escape and left her unprotected.
He would not cast her off now.
Despite being dressed for the weather with a sensibly warm coat and half boots, Elizabeth was pale and cold, the lips that he had admired only the night before were tinged with blue. “I will not leave her in this damned box, Fitz,” he responded hoarsely. He choked on the thought that the trunk was very much like a coffin, and he felt hot and cold all at once. Good God, had she been in the boot the entire way to London? Would Bingley have gone to such lengths to hurt him and keep Elizabeth quiet?
“Help me,” he growled, “or get out.”
His cousin offered no more protests. He stepped to Miss Elizabeth’s feet and knelt, reaching under her legs but keeping her skirt between his hands and her stockings, a sign of respect for which Darcy silently thanked him.
“Ready,” Fitz said. Anders held down the trunk so it would not turn over and make noise. Slipworth nervously placed his palms under the small of Elizabeth’s back, doing not much good at all.
Anders grabbed the blanket and spread it out on the floor before they set her down. Darcy noted that her pelisse was dirty and torn, but it was still buttoned up tight. He hoped it meant she had not been accosted in that way.
He tugged lightly at a bit of rope still attached to one slender wrist, and Slipworth gasped. Darcy pulled his hand away as though he had been burnt.
“She moved, sir!” the valet said urgently.
Fitz shifted from his position at Elizabeth’s feet to hold two fingers against her throat. Darcy waited anxiously, but Elizabeth did not stir.
“She is alive,” Fitz said at last. He looked up and met Darcy’s gaze, held it. “She is alive.” He lifted his hand and ran it through his hair. “Now what do we do?”
Darcy inhaled a deep, broken breath. Alive. “Thank God,” he whispered, laying a hand on the floor to keep himself from collapsing with the relief of it. Suddenly, his mind cleared. There were things to do—there were things he could do.
He ran his gaze up and down Elizabeth’s prone form. “Where is she injured?” he demanded. There was a red mark on one cheekbone, whether from a hand or the cold he could not say. Darcy cupped Elizabeth’s chin and carefully turned her face so he could examine the other side. There he saw a more prominent mark, red, mottled and darkening to blue, that extended from just below her cheekbone up past her temple. He brushed her curls aside to see that much of the mark was hidden beneath her hair . After having ridden so far on nothing more than a horse blanket tossed over a number of metal carriage tools, she must be bruised all over, but this—he could see that she had been struck, likely more than once. His stomach churned with acid, and he fought not to allow the rage he felt rising to overtake him. Elizabeth needed him. There would be time for anger later.
“She moved when you touched her hand,” Fitz reminded him.
Darcy lifted that hand, and Elizabeth grimaced. The movement was slight, nearly imperceptible, but it was there. He tried to push back the sleeve of her pelisse, but it was fitted too tightly. Given the tattered state of the rest of it, he did not hesitate to ask Anders for a knife. The coachman held his out, but before Darcy could take it, Fitz had it and was carefully cutting the sleeve at the seam.
“You are not steady enough,” he murmured.
When Fitz was done, he shifted his attention to the rope while Darcy separated the wool and gently rolled up the sleeve of Elizabeth’s walking dress. The glove was pushed down to her wrist and her forearm was swollen and discolored. Very carefully, he ran his hand along the bone—it appeared to be sound. He gently laid her arm down again. As he did so, he noted that the palm of her glove was bloody, and he peeled it off, then examined and removed the second one. Her hands were abraded, but not badly. Fitz finished his work and lifted the rope away before checking Elizabeth’s other arm.
“None of this would account for her remaining insensible,” Darcy said, addressing his cousin. “Even with the blow to her face. Is there another injury to her head?”
“I do not think so,” his cousin said. He lifted one of Elizabeth’s eyelids. Darcy was nearly undone to see that brown eye dull and unfocused.
Fitz scowled. “She has been drugged. Probably laudanum. It would account for the shallow breathing and her inability to wake.” He leaned over and sniffed, just as Darcy himself had with Anders. “In wine, I would guess. How long a ride is it from Hertfordshire?”