Page 94 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
The men had fallen silent, stepping to either side of the doorway. I heard familiar footsteps approaching. Mr. Darcy. The sandy-haired man pointed his sword at us, demanding silence, and the other man drew his sword.
Mr. Darcy’s steps halted outside.
Please have men with you. Please be armed.
Mr. Darcy entered as nonchalantly as the tyke, alone and unarmed. “Miss Bennet?” he inquired and then froze as the man on the far side of the door placed his sword against Mr. Darcy’s collar.
The sandy-haired man was looking from the tyke to me. “You was the lady in the carriage.” He spoke to the other man in French. They argued, loud now, abandoning silence. I heard the word for uniform.
Miss Darcy drew a horrified breath.
The sandy-haired man took a step back. His sword rose, the tip of the blade pointing at my chest. His expression was fierce, but the sword hung, as if caught in the air.
Part of my brain parsed the French I had heard.Tue-la.Kill her.
The other man shouted, goading, and gestured in a flamboyant, Gallic style. His sword left Mr. Darcy’s throat.
Mr. Darcy reached out, as casually as if he wished to shake hands, and savagely bent the man’s wrist. There was a crack, and the sword fell into Mr. Darcy’s grasp. He turned and lunged, a long fencing thrust that extended hissword arm above a well-balanced forward foot, his other arm straight back. He looked gentlemanly and poised, exactly like the stage actors I had seen inHamlet.
My gaze followed his outstretched arm, then the shining steel exposed before the blade vanished into the sandy-haired man’s side. The sword’s tip protruded high on the far side, tenting the man’s upper sleeve like an embroidery needle pushed through fabric.
It seemed a strange fencing hit—sideways, both chest and arm. Something that might be disallowed as unsportsmanlike.
Mr. Darcy recovered from his lunge, and the blade withdrew. When he struck, I had heard a gasp—his, or the man’s, or mine. When he pulled back, there was a scrape of metal on bone. The sandy-haired man fell like a cloth doll into a pile of unmoving limbs. I stared down at him. It was so fast. Less than a breath.
The other man staggered back, shouting what were likely French obscenities because the words were utterly unfamiliar. Awkwardly, he drew his pistol with his left hand. He pawed at it with his injured right, then abandoned that and pressed the back of the pistol against his thigh. Trying to cock it with one hand.
Mr. Darcy was staring in disbelief at the man he had killed.
“Mr. Darcy!” I said. He did not move. Georgiana was making distraught sounds beside me. “Mr. Darcy!” I shouted. He just stood.
The pistol’s hammer clicked into place, a sound I knew from my father cleaning and checking his hunting guns.
I reached for the tyke’s awareness even as I screamed, “Stop him!” both in my mind and aloud, envisioning the French man.
The familiar, confusing double perspective returned as the tyke ran and sank his teeth into the man’s ankle with a stomach-turning crunch.
The man screamed, pointed his pistol at the tyke, and fired.
The pistol shot was deafening and bright, a flash of flame I saw twice, once a shaft of light brighter than the candles, and again as a huge spray of multi-colored heat and sparks.
And pain.
A door of red-hot fury slammed, throwing me out of the tyke’s awareness. The shock was incredible. I collapsed to my knees, head ringing, retching at the wooden floorboards a foot from my nose.
The man’s scream ended with gurgling. Then there were only the snarls of the tyke.
“Miss Bennet!” Mr. Darcy’s strong hands held my shoulders. He helped me sit. “Are you hurt?”
The French man lay on the floor. The tyke was tearing at his throat and face. Grotesque, wet shreds flew from his muzzle.
“Enough!” I called dizzily to the tyke, trying to crawl past Mr. Darcy. The tyke turned and charged at me, stopping just short of attacking, his bloody teeth bared. I recoiled in disbelief. I reached for his mind but struck that impenetrable wall of pain and fury.
Miss Darcy fell to her knees beside me. She sang a shaky note, becoming melodic, descending through strange tones. She crouched lower, easing past myself and Mr. Darcy, singing. The tyke quieted, his knife-edged teeth still bared in a soft hiss. Unafraid, she reached out and touched his head. Stroked his back. The hiss dissolved into a desperate, pained whimper.
“You are shot.” She sang the words into her song, soft and sad.
Dreadful thoughts burst into my mind. Fear for the tyke. Realization that I sent the Gardiners’ bound draca into danger, which I had no right to do. What if he died? What if my aunt was struck by binding sickness?
