Page 137 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
The new wives looked thrilled. These were willing partners, not victims of imperial decree. Two couples ran off, each ducking into one of the small canvas tents. The third stayed on the shore, still kissing.
“Now they race,” Lydia said. “It is a competition. Whoever binds first keeps their chest of gold.”
The French woman was wriggling while they embraced. Her gown fell to the ground. She wore nothing beneath.
I spun away desperately. The watching soldiers began to whoop and yell in approval.
Lydia watched with interest. “Well. He is… impressively eager.” I heard water splashing. “Oh. They think doing it in the water will raise la Tarasque. They are brave. It must be cold.” She looked at me, eyebrows narrowing. “Make sure you do your trick. They must not bind.”
My disbelief—my denial—of this bizarre situation had vanished. Oddly, it was the finality of marriage that drove home the reality. However strange this was, a country at war with England had managed an elaborate sortie into the heart of Derbyshire. This was not a whim or folly. Captured French spies were executed, and Wickham’s men, whoever they were—deserters?—would not fare better. These men faced death. The stakes could not be higher.
And the French commander was no incompetent. To accomplish this much was incredible. That frightened me for the escaped staff of Pemberley. And for Mr. Darcy. In truth, I was frightened for all of us. Including those poor French women being married in hostile England.
“Lydia,” I said. “I have no trick to do. No way to stop a binding. And it does not matter. Do you not see this is doomed? We are a day’s travel from the coast. You will all be caught. Tried as spies.” She watched me, and I fought to reach her. “The guards trust you. We could escape together. Find somewhere to hide. Constables will come soon, then the army. Bring Wickham, if you must. Tomorrow, we can go back to our lives.”
She cocked her shoulders the way she did while considering something. A hat in a window, or a gentleman at a ball. Behind me, I heard water splashing rhythmically amid enthusiastic shouts from the soldiers.
“I do notwantmy life,” Lydia said. “Iwantto be Empress.” She grabbed my wrist and pulled as she walked to Wickham. “Lizzy is useless. Can we not be rid of her?”
“Areyou useless?” he asked me. His eyes held a silent question. Asking if I was fulfilling my part of our bargain.
“I can do nothing,” I said. I was tired of pretending I had a role in their feud. Tired of guessing what magic words would save me.
“That is a shame,” he said. He called out, “Put her with the others.”
The obese man in a too-small uniform prodded me to a small cart pulled by a single horse and squeezed in beside me. We began plodding back up the hill toward the manor.
We rode in silence. I tried to ignore the rank odor of my companion, and his fleshy leg pressed against mine.
How long would it take authorities to arrive? Avoiding the road, Lambton would be six or eight miles on foot through woods. Two or three hours, if the ground was not too bad. My guess was Wickham had been here that long. Although the escape might be more recent. Rescue could be about to arrive, or hours away.
The sounds from the lake faded to nothing. We had climbed the hill but turned away from Pemberley House. The horse puffed as it pulled over the crest. The lake vanished behind.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“With the others,” the man said in a rough monotone.
We rolled along a narrow path. There was no sign of buildings or people. I did not like this.
Could I outrun this man? He did not look fast, but it was a cool morning, and I had two petticoats under my dress. Running would be a desperate thrash. And the man had a pistol on his belt. I would have to dodge a bullet.
Running was a last resort.
We clopped another two hundred yards, then he stopped the cart. There was nothing in sight but trees.
“Now what?” I asked quietly.
“A bit of a stop. A little fun. If you’re good to me—”
I hit him in the face, feeling his greasy nose flatten under my palm like a piece of dough, then vaulted out and ran. On my fourth step, something snagged my dress, cloth tangled my legs, and I slammed face first onto hard roots and earth.
For a second, I was stunned, pain shooting from a knee and an elbow. A voice cursed a foul stream behind me. I shoved myself up, but my dress caught, holding me half bent over. I yanked with both hands. It tore free just as a boot slammed the small of my back, sending me flat on my face again.
I had to see. I rolled on my back.
The man stood over me, fingers pressed under his nose, blood dripping over his lips and down his chin. He snorted wetly. “You’ll bloody pay for that, woman.”
I closed my eyes and threw my mind outward like I had never tried before.
