Page 20 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
On the far side of the street, an iron-barred coach was being loaded with luggage. A steel mesh cage on top held a draca.
Wondering what fascinated him, I said, “Colonel Forster reports the regular army is recruiting married, bound officers.”
Mr. Wickham turned to me with a smile. “Indeed, I have considered joining the regular army. Serving in the militia is an honor, but the regulars, even more. I have little patience for men who shout of patriotism while playing cards in drawing rooms.” The corner of his smile dimpled. “Regretfully, I am unmarried.”
I bit my lip to squash an impending blush. “I am sure you would be welcomed. They have a great shortage of officers for the war. They award commissions to those who demonstrate an officer’s character.”
“You are well informed,” he said, abruptly defensive.
I kicked myself for overstepping. “I am sure I ampoorlyinformed, compared to an officer of the militia.” With a doting smile, I added, “Shall I call you Lieutenant Wickham now?”
The warm smile returned. “Truthfully, I enjoy hearing you say Mr. Wickham.” He gave a bow. I felt we were set right again, although my method left me uncomfortable.
Then I had to ponder whether “Mr. Wickham” was a more intimate address than “Lieutenant,” and I decided it was.
His attention returned to the cage on the carriage. The draca was agitated,jumping against the mesh so the cage shook. It was a smallish quadruped, about the size of a rabbit. A reddish underbelly pressed against the wire, and I recognized a roseworm, who take their name from their color.
Lydia and Lieutenant Denny crossed the street toward it.
Blue flame shot from the cage, shivering the blue sky, barely visible but heating my skin like an open furnace. A patch of mesh on the cage glowed red-hot, the center yellow-white and smoking. The roseworm clawed in a frenzy, and the metal tore like fabric. The creature scrambled over the carriage roof and fell into the street.
Even falling, it fell wrong. Draca of every variety are sinuous and exact in their motion, a graceful mix of stalking cat and hunting bird. But this was a flailing, painful plummet, and I heard a thump and an animal’s shriek as it hit the ground.
People crowded close. Then a woman screamed, and they scattered pell-mell like children at a game. One man cried out with every step while a woman supported him, his trouser leg in bloody shreds.
I caught a flicker of rose among the running feet, then the roseworm darted free. It ran toward Lydia and tumbled to an awkward halt a few feet from her.
Lydia’s hand extended in fright. The roseworm’s chest swelled like our drake’s had before it threw fire.
Ten paces away, my thought was an instinctive, silent scream:Stop!
The roseworm’s threatening pose froze. Lydia’s hand hung, outstretched like a command. Then Denny wrapped her in his arms and pulled her away.
The roseworm’s head twisted toward me. My vision blurred. I felt… shame. Terror and confusion. And pain. Burning pain that had struck while trapped in the cage.
With a snap, the sensation vanished. The roseworm fell on his side, convulsing and screeching. It was horrid, a creature in ultimate agony. He bounced on the ground like a child’s abused rattle, then lay still.
“She stopped the attack,” Wickham said in a wondering voice. His gaze was on Lydia.
“Kill it!” someone shouted. Men ran for sticks. An officer drew his sword. But they hung back, afraid to approach.
“He is killed already,” I whispered. I walked between the standing men and knelt by the poor creature. Dead, he was a little thing, with beautiful red scales that turned golden on his back and tail. The memory of his dying terror tightened my throat.
There was a strange odor. Sour orange and bitter almond.
Firm steps approached. “Miss Bennet, please come away—” a familiar baritone began.
“Elizabeth!” said Mr. Wickham’s concerned voice.
On each side of me, a man’s hand was extended. One was gloved beneath an elegant dark sleeve, the other bare beneath an arm clothed in scarlet regimentals.
As I rose, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham turned from me to each other. Mr. Darcy’s face became cold, then white with fury. Mr. Wickham was red-faced. He took a flustered step back before touching his hat in greeting.
With no word, not even the bare minimum of a nod, Mr. Darcy turned his back. His gray horse was a few steps away, untethered but waiting with perfect discipline. With a horseman’s uninterrupted sweep, Mr. Darcy was into the saddle and trotting away. He kicked the animal and vanished down the street at a gallop.
Mystified, I turned the other way. Mr. Wickham’s scarlet back vanished through the crowd in the opposite direction.
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