Page 155 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
I saw Pemberley House in the blueish distance, although the lake was hidden by the hills. Breaks in the clouds cast pillars of sun that lit patches of forest and field.
Mr. Darcy and Miss Darcy sat by the brook, guarded by four desultory men in ill-fitting uniforms, muskets at the ready.
Our escorts threw us to the ground. Mr. Darcy gave me one tortured look, then deliberately looked away. He did not wish to reveal our relationship. I trusted he had a reason and swallowed the words pressing my lips.
The French wyfe huddled on the grass a few steps from me, her arms hugging her knees. She was modestly pretty and about my age, tanned and fit. A farm girl. Her eyes were fixed on the dirt, her face streaked with dried tears and exhausted by grief.
She wore a wedding ring. There was no sign of her husband. He was likely dead by the lake. Had she witnessed that massacre?
Curled beside her was a lithe, bronze firedrake. Her scales were a shade more coppery than the Longbourn drake had been, and the delicate ribs in her wings curved into elegant, upswept tips.
So, French women could bind. Why could they not bind in France? There must be no draca.
I gave the drake a mental nudge. Her head turned to me, tilting inquisitively.
“Be careful,” whispered Miss Darcy, on the ground to my right. “Mrs. Wickham is powerful.”
“I know,” I said softly. “I have felt her power before. And been overwhelmed.”
Mr. Darcy heard. I saw his concerned glance. He sat on the far side of Miss Darcy.
To my left, Lord Wellington slumped, panting. His left hand fumbled at the cravat that held his collars. He pulled it free, then wrapped his right forearm above the discolored punctures from the crawler sting.
He slid his arm near me and whispered, “Tie it. As tight as you can.”
Trying not to attract attention, I took an end in each hand and pulled hard. The cloth sank into his swollen flesh. It must have hurt, but he gave no sign. I knotted it, feeling the heat in his skin. His collar had fallen open, and yellow streaks crossed his right shoulder. Even if this slowed the remainder of the poison, he would die without the Britons’ remedy.
Or we would be killed before that. But Wickham and his men had kept us alive so far. There was no reason for that other than mercy. Maybe they would tie us up and leave. That would be sensible.
Images of the massacre by the lake danced in my mind, mocking me.
Lydia and Wickham had been in conference with two men when we arrived. They finished, and men were sent to laboriously unload one chest of gold. They hauled it to the smaller cart and set off in the direction of Lambton.
Lydia and Wickham came to stand over us, their hands on their hips while they surveyed their prisoners. Lydia’s ferretworm slunk on the grass behind her like a beaten dog.
Wickham’s expression was an unreadable flicker—gloating, thoughtful, worried—as his attention shifted. Then his gaze settled on Mr. Darcy, and his emotion became clear. Hatred.
“How the manor-born have fallen,” Wickham said.
“This is between you and me,” Mr. Darcy said. “Free these others. They have done you no harm.”
Lydia squatted before the French wyfe. “Not this one. I need her.” She laughed. “You can all see my trick.”
“Ourtrick,” Wickham said, with an edge to his voice. “I discovered it. I waded through those tiresome, self-congratulatory histories of Pemberley. But I found it. The secret to break a draca’s bond.”
Wickham crouched in front of me, and his finger pulled my chin toward him. I stared back. I heard Mr. Darcy move and a guard threaten him, but I did not look away from Wickham’s eyes.
“I hunted foul crawlers,” Wickham said, his voice lower. “Lured them with rotting carcasses. Harvested their venom. Then I experimented. The odd draca here and there. But they all died. Even that pathetic tunnelworm of the Lucases, hiding in its bucket.”
He leaned closer.
Lydia snapped, “Wickie!” For once, I sympathized with her. I would be annoyed if my husband stared at another woman.
Wickham ignored her. “But I was missing something. I needed a wyfe. Astrongwyfe.” His thumb caressed my chin, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “A Bennet. And I found one.” He shoved my face hard with his palm, breaking our staring match.
He stood and stretched, oozing arrogant calm. From a pouch on his belt, he took a glass vial filled with a thick, oily substance.
“Not yet,” Lydia said, squatting by the Frenchwoman. “I must be strong for this to work.”
