Page 159 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
But I had been hit harder than that.
I threw my hair aside. “The last man who struck me was dead within a minute.”
Wickham shoved me, powerfully but without purpose, a bully pushing a smaller child. My heels caught on Lord Wellington’s legs and I fell beside him.
Lydia shouted. Wickham shouted back, and they began a raging argument.
Beside me, Lord Wellington whispered, “There are men in the woods preparing to attack. When you hear gunshots, run.”
I was not expecting that. “What?”
“The Britons from the village. Your sister is ignoring her foul sentries, and Wickham’s rabble has set no guards. They will be surprised, but they are a large force. I do not know if the Britons can overcome them. The confusion is our best chance.”
“I will not leave my husband.”
I got to my feet as the argument reached a peak. Wickham pushed Lydia aside, and she fell to her knees. I recognized the outraged O of her mouth from our youth—little Lydia, furious at not getting her way. Soon, she would recall she was not little Lydia anymore. She controlled a monstrous crawler a dozen yards from us.
Shots rang out from the nearby trees. Wickham’s men in their fake militia uniforms began shouting and running, firing their guns in every direction.
Wickham seemed not to notice. He raised his pistol, the steel muzzle a foot from Mr. Darcy’s forehead. Wickham’s face swiveled to me, his eyes crazed. “Tell him you do not love him!”
What an idiotic request. I could not renounce the purest feeling I had ever experienced.
The earth jerked under my feet. I stumbled. Wickham looked around wildly, his arms outspread for balance.
The ground shuddered like a wooden bridge crossed by an iron carriage. Confused cries ofCannon!rose from the men in the meadow. But I had heard no cannon.
Like ice and flame together, a silver dagger pierced my heart. My breath jammed in my throat. I folded at my waist, hands clutching my chest to hold the wound. But there was no blood. No pain. Slowly, I straightened, unseen silver radiance filling me.
A silver thread drew my eyes to the distant hills.
By Pemberley lake, a patch of sun streaming between the clouds flicked to shadow. An instant later, it was bright again.
“Say it!” screamed Wickham. Shots blasted to my right. A bullet whined past. But Wickham’s eyes were fixed on me. The gaze of a man I hated.
The sunlight filling a nearer field turned dark, then relit.
“Kill me instead,” I answered. “For I would sooner die.”
CHILD.
The word sang in me, vibrating through the silver cord, shaking my bones like a colossal church organ.
CLOSE YOUR EYES.
The voice was ancient thunder in my mind. I closed my eyes.
My eyelids lit red, then blazed white. A tempest slammed me. My ears were overcome. I tumbled and landed on my hands and knees, my fingertips sunk into wild grass and clover.
I opened my eyes as the wind diminished. Wickham’s militia rabble were sprawled across the meadow, arms thrown over their faces or fingers digging at their eyes.
I got to my feet. By habit, I smoothed my dress. My fingers came away wet and sticky. My dress was sprayed with blood.
Fear cut my heart. Wickham had shot my husband. The roar was the gun.
Terrified, I spun.
Mr. Darcy knelt alone, his eyes closed. He was untouched. He opened his eyes, and his astonished gaze met mine.
