Page 67 of Ashes and Understanding
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The pounding of hooves struck the path like thunder, rising from the trees ahead.
Elizabeth turned sharply, still pressing against the sticky, blood-soaked fabric beneath her hands. Her heart surged with wild hope. Someone had heard. Someone was coming.
Please, please—
Two horses burst through the underbrush, their riders silhouetted in the pale morning light. Relief hit her like a wave as she saw two riders galloping down the path toward her.
Darcy.
And Bingley, just behind him.
Relief flooded her so swiftly it almost stole her strength. She sagged forward, but forced herself upright again.
Her breath caught in her throat, and for the first time since the horror had begun, she let herself believe everything might be all right.
Darcy saw her, and his expression—half panic, half fury—was almost more than she could bear.
“Elizabeth!” he called, vaulting off his horse before it had fully stopped. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, voice ragged. “No—no, not me—him. Smithson. He’s—he’s—”
Bingley had dismounted more slowly and stood frozen, staring at the crumpled, bloody figure on the ground.
Darcy did not pause. “Bingley, ride to Longbourn. Fetch Mr. Bennet, and as many footmen as they can spare. Then go for Mr. Jones—the apothecary. Quickly.”
That snapped Bingley from his trance. He gave a sharp nod, mounted again, and tore off down the path.
Darcy turned back and dropped to his knees beside her.
Elizabeth could feel him studying her, trying to assess her condition—his breath visible in the cold air, his chest heaving from the ride.
“Are you certain you are unhurt?” he asked, quieter now.
“You are not coughing,” she said in wonder.
He gave a sharp bark of surprised laughter. “No, thanks to you and your magic herbs. Leave it to you to think of someone else at a time like this. Are you hurt?”
“I am fine,” she managed, “but he’s still bleeding.”
Darcy reached for her hands.
“No! He—he’s still bleeding. I cannot move my hands.”
“Let me help,” he said.
She turned her face toward him, eyes wild, voice frayed with panic. “If I let go, he will die. I cannot stop!”
He paused, drawing back slightly, not in retreat but in recognition. Then, gently, with a slowness that made her want to weep, he shifted forward and knelt close—closer than propriety would ever allow under ordinary circumstances.
“I will not take your place,” he murmured. “But I can help.”
He reached down and covered her hands with his own, pressing with her, grounding her. The warmth of his grip was immediate, steadying, powerful.
“I have got you,” he said, his voice low, urgent. “You are not alone, Elizabeth. I am here. You do not have to do this alone.”
She did not answer, but she did not fight him either. His hands stayed with hers, steadying them both, his presence anchoring her in the storm.
