The Unforgettable Mr. Darcy

Darcy calculated that they would not make it to the deeper water before Dreyfus and his men reached them. His imagination supplied him with images of what that failure would mean—capture, imprisonment, torture for himself and Richard, and possibly even Elizabeth. He had failed her miserably.

He pulled out his pistol but could not fire while running.

As he neared the boat, Richard fired his other pistol, hitting one of the soldiers, who fell with a cry onto the beach. Another soldier stopped to help his compatriot.

Darcy splashed through the surf, frantic to reach Elizabeth. Dreyfus crashed through the water behind him. A bullet whistled by Darcy’s shoulder but did not find a target.

Darcy hauled Elizabeth, wet skirts and all, into his arms and carried her toward the galley. She was a sodden mess, wet fabric clinging to her skin and hair dripping into her eyes. Richard had clambered aboard the boat, preventing it from gliding out to sea by the simple expedient of putting a gun to the captain’s head.

Staying barely ahead of Dreyfus, Darcy propelled them both through the water toward the boat. He half pushed, half dragged Elizabeth over the gunwale, where Richard steadied her with his free hand. Darcy shoved his pistol into her hand, hoping the powder was still dry. If he did not make it onto the boat, she would need it to defend herself.

The moment he released her, Elizabeth reached for Darcy, but he knew they could not escape unless he did something to stop Dreyfus. “Go! Go!” he urged Richard before turning to face the double agent.

“No! William!” Elizabeth reached with her free hand. “I am not leaving you!”

Darcy had no opportunity to argue before he was tackled by Dreyfus, the man’s hands immediately clamping around his neck. Darcy tried to pry them off, but the other man had a firm grip and Darcy’s hands were slick from seawater. The back of Darcy’s legs hit the now-stationary boat, but he could not get purchase to pull Dreyfus’s hands away.

The pressure of the other man’s hands slowly constricted the flow of air, and Darcy’s vision darkened around the edges. His movements grew weaker and uncoordinated. He could only hope that the galley would escape while Dreyfus took the time to kill him.

A loud bang nearly deafened him, and suddenly Dreyfus’s grip went slack. The Frenchman fell on top of Darcy at the same moment hands grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him onto the boat. Darcy instinctively clung to Dreyfus, pulling the man into the galley with him.

“Go! Go!” Richard exhorted the captain, and the boat lurched into action under their soaked bodies. Shouts and curses in French floated over the water, but nobody fired at them. Perhaps they feared hitting Dreyfus.

Gasping for breath, Darcy pushed off Dreyfus’s limp body and sat up. Crouched by his side, Elizabeth gasped when she saw blood on his shirt. He shook his head, panting, “Not…mine. Dreyfus’s.”

Some of the tension left her body; Darcy was pathetically grateful she cared about him that much.

The men were rowing for their lives and the galley was skimming over the waves while the captain shouted. “Row! Row! Devil take it! Row!”

Darcy gave the rowers credit; they were strong and fast. The boat slid over the water like a dolphin. The coast of France rapidly grew smaller behind them.

Richard pulled Dreyfus to his feet. “Mr. Dreyfus, we have not met, but we have corresponded. I am Colonel Fitzwilliam.” Dreyfus sagged in his arms at this revelation. “I never expected to encounter you under these circumstances, but I suppose the War Office will be pleased to have you in their custody. No doubt you have plenty of useful information about Napoleon’s spies.”

“I will tell you nothing,” the man ground out. “You may shoot me again. I will tell you nothing.”

Richard grinned. “’Twas not I that shot the first bullet. It was she.” He gestured to Elizabeth with a dramatic flourish.

Darcy and Dreyfus both gaped at her, and she shrugged, the pistol still held loosely in one hand. “My father gave me shooting lessons as a girl.”

“Bah!” Dreyfus spat on the deck. “I will not cooperate with you.”

Richard shrugged. “It is your choice, but we need not bind your wound in that case.” His eyes looked pointedly at the freely bleeding bullet hole in the man’s shoulder.

“If you do not treat it, I could bleed to death!” Dreyfus protested.

Richard folded his arms across his chest and gave the man a relaxed grin. “The unfortunate consequence of becoming a double agent and shooting at my cousin. Perhaps you should re-think some of your choices.” Dreyfus’s response was unprintable, but Richard merely waggled a finger at him. “Ah, ah. Watch the language. There is a lady present.”

The Frenchman sneered derisively at Elizabeth’s sodden homespun clothing. “Lady!” he scoffed.

Darcy was happy he had regained his breath. His fist hit Dreyfus’s chin with a very satisfying thump. The man fell back into the bottom of the boat. “Lady indeed,” Darcy growled. “That is Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy, mistress of Pemberley!”

Dreyfus did not try to stand, but his eyes darted from Darcy to Elizabeth, his mouth gaping open. Richard’s eyes were alive with merriment. “Did you believe you were chasing after a fishmonger and his wife?”

Only then did Darcy remember that the marriage was a sham—and that Elizabeth knew it to be a lie. He had grown so accustomed to the falsehood. However, her stony expression suggested that she had not forgotten. On the whole, Darcy much preferred the pretense.

“Will you cooperate?” Richard asked Dreyfus, his eyes hard.

“Yes,” the Frenchman muttered, staring at the floor of the boat.