Darcy thundered down the path, his heart racing, as yet another scream pierced the air. Phoenix roared around a bend, and Darcy spied a feminine form on the ground, struggling desperately against a red-coated, dark haired male who was pulling at her clothing. The master of Pemberley jerked Phoenix to a halt and raced forward, dragging the man away from the woman.
"You!" he snarled in rage and punched George Wickham across the jaw. The man, who reeked of alcohol, fell onto the cold ground, his fine hat rolling into a nearby puddle from the previous week's rains.
Darcy turned toward the woman, and he felt his face flush in fury at the sight of Elizabeth Bennet, her hair fallen down around her shoulders, her eyes wide with shock, her face pale.
"Are you injured, Miss Elizabeth?" he asked, holding out a hand toward her. For a moment she shrank away from him, but then, with a shake of her head, she took his hand and rolled awkwardly to her feet and pulled her pelisse closer to her.
"I am not hurt, no," she answered, her stunned gaze shifting to Wickham, who had picked himself off the ground and was regarding his old nemesis with angry eyes. "He ... Mr. Wickham attacked me. I do not understand. Why...?"
"Because he is a heartless, vicious reprobate," Darcy said furiously. "Wickham, you have truly outdone yourself this time. You will be severely punished for this."
"Oh, I doubt that," Wickham responded, ostentatiously brushing leaves and mud off his coat. "I doubt that very much, or Miss Elizabeth and all her sisters will be ruined. I fear that Miss Elizabeth is quite besmirched now, and since I have no intention of marrying the wench, her only hope is for you to keep quiet on this little matter."
Elizabeth gasped in horror as the full weight of her own situation smote her anguished soul. It was true; she would be ruined, and her sisters with her, if word of this came out.
Wickham took another step forward and smiled unpleasantly up into the taller gentleman's face. "I only wish I had ruined your precious Georgiana, Darcy. I was a fool to let her remain unsullied..."
Darcy snarled in rage and leaped forward to knock Wickham over, just as Elizabeth's quick eyes caught sight of the weapon which had appeared in Wickham's right hand.
"Stop! He has a knife!" she shrieked. Darcy was too close to avoid the blade entirely, but her warning came in enough time that he was able to swerve to avoid being stabbed in the torso. The blade slashed across his left arm, leaving a cut, and he reeled back as Wickham took a vicious step closer, blood covering the metallic blade.
"You are mad, Wickham! Mad!" Darcy cried out.
"Perhaps I am," Wickham hissed. "Perhaps I am. But this ends now, Darcy. You have plagued me and tormented me and taken what is mine. Now I will take your life."
Darcy retreated another step toward Phoenix, who was shifting his great body uneasily. "Wickham, you will hang if you murder me."
"Nonsense, my old enemy, nonsense," Wickham said, froth bubbling in the corners of his lips. "You attacked me, of course, being the proud, arrogant gentleman that you are. Miss Elizabeth will have no choice but to support my story, or I will tell the world that she was engaging in a tryst with you out here in the woods."
He leaped forward and Darcy jumped back a yard to avoid the knife.
"Miss Elizabeth, run to Longbourn for help!" he ordered, as Wickham closed in, the blade clasped tightly in one sweaty hand. "Run!
Wickham laughed aloud and cried out, "Yes, run Elizabeth, run! Perhaps I will hang, but it will be quite worth it to kill you, Darcy, and to break Georgiana's heart. It will be entirely..."
His words were cut off as Elizabeth, who had snatched up a heavy branch from the ground, surged forward to strike the militia lieutenant on the side of head. Wickham staggered, and the edge of his blade struck Phoenix on the left foreleg.
The great stallion reared up in pain and surprise, and Wickham, propelled by Elizabeth's attack, fell to the ground just as Phoenix came down upon the man.
Elizabeth screamed again as the great hooves smashed onto Wickham's unprotected head. There was a violent, hideous sound of breaking bone and Darcy grabbed Elizabeth's arm and yanked her away from Phoenix. The horse was maddened by his injury and the smell of blood and reared up again only to crash down once again on Wickham's still body.
"Phoenix," Darcy said in what he hoped was a soothing tone. "Phoenix, it is all right."
The stallion neighed and shifted dangerously, the whites of his eyes showing, his hooves stained with the blood of the silent man at his feet.
Darcy held out a restraining hand to Elizabeth and said, "Please do not move from here, Miss Elizabeth. Phoenix is upset and dangerous."
"Is ... is Mr. Wickham ... is he...?"
Darcy peered at the still form lying on the path and swallowed hard. For all that he loathed and despised George Wickham, it was nauseating to observe the carnage of his horse's powerful feet on the man's head and upper torso.
"He is almost certainly dead, Miss Elizabeth. I will, of course, check for any signs of life once I have calmed Phoenix."
Elizabeth gulped and whispered, "I will run for help to Longbourn, Mr. Darcy. Some of our stable hands can assist you with ... with..."
Darcy nodded, and then as she turned to rush away, he suddenly came to his senses. "Miss Elizabeth, no! You must indeed return to Longbourn, but you cannot tell what happened here."
Elizabeth turned back, her face a mask of confusion. "Why? I do not understand! He attacked me and you ... oh, Mr. Darcy! Thank you so much for coming to my aid. I thought him ... I thought him..."
She trailed off and suddenly burst into tears. Her memory was a good one, and she vividly remembered her exchange with Mr. Darcy only the night before while they danced together at Netherfield.
Mr. Darcy had looked uncomfortable and angry when he said, "Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends – whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain."
And she, fool that she was, had shot back, "He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship, and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life."
Dear Lord, what an idiot she was! She had thought herself so brave and bold to prefer the poor lieutenant to the wealthy landowner.
"I am sorry," she cried out as tears escaped her eyes to fall down her pale cheeks. "What a fool I was to believe Mr. Wickham the best of men!"
"Miss Elizabeth," Darcy returned, his face dark with sorrow, "I promise you that I do not blame you in the least. Wickham has an outward façade of charm and respectability; indeed, I am astonished that he would attack you so openly!"
"I believe he is drunk," Elizabeth said shakily, casting a quick glance toward the lieutenant's body before looking away.
"Strong drink will make many a man cast aside outward propriety in favor of his inner self," Darcy agreed solemnly. "But please, I beg of you, return home and pretend you did not come out this morning."
Elizabeth lifted her chin defiantly, "I cannot do that, sir. You saved my virtue, if not my life, and I will not see you hang for murder."
Darcy shook his head and said, "Keep in mind, Miss Elizabeth, that I am nephew of an earl, and I have proof that Wickham is a fiend. I will be well enough. Promise me you will not tell anyone what happened this morning."
Elizabeth's eyes flashed with some of her usual fire, and she shook her head, "No, sir, I will not promise. For now, yes, I will hold my counsel, but if your life teeters on the balance, I will speak. I could not live with myself if I traded your life for my reputation."
Darcy opened his mouth and then shut it. Truly, could he expect anything else from the impassioned Miss Elizabeth?
"I hope we can protect both my life and your reputation," he said gently. "Please, do run now."
She hesitated for only another moment and then turned, picked up her skirts, and fled toward Longbourn.
Darcy watched her until she was hidden by the trees and then turned wearily toward Phoenix and George Wickham. Now that the adrenalin was wearing off, he could feel the throbbing in his left arm where Wickham had slashed him. He carefully inspected the wound and found that it was still bleeding, though it was not spurting dangerously; using his right hand, he removed his handkerchief from his pocket, wound it around his bicep and used his teeth and fingers to tighten it around the torn flesh.
Now that he had accomplished that, he turned his attention back to Phoenix. It was something of a miracle that the stallion had not run away; the horse had always been well treated and was not familiar with either blood or pain. But Phoenix had been born and raised in the stables of Pemberley, and he trusted his master.
"It is all right, old boy," Darcy said soothingly, advancing cautiously toward the great beast. Phoenix shuddered and whickered, but did not advance or retreat when Darcy reached for the reins. The horse calmed considerably as Darcy patted him in a reassuring manner, and after a minute, the gentleman bent down carefully to inspect the knife wound. It was oozing blood, and while not hemorrhaging, it would need to be treated quickly.
Darcy quickly pulled his cravat off, carefully tied it around his horse's leg, then guided Phoenix over to a nearby tree where he fastened the reins so the horse could not wander further.
After breathing deeply for a minute, only then did Darcy approach Wickham. The man lay supine on his back, his face pointed toward the blue skies above him. Darcy knelt down next to the man and carefully pressed fingers against his neck, searching for signs of life, though he knew there would be none.
In spite of himself, Darcy swallowed a sob. He loathed Wickham, but it was horrifying to observe his old playmate lying in the mud, with one brown eye staring blankly toward the heaven, and the other half his face crushed and broken by Phoenix's heavy body. No, Wickham was entirely dead.
Darcy rose painfully to his feet and hesitated, looking down at the battered body on the ground. He considered removing his great coat to lay it over the man's face and torso, but Darcy was cold and his injured arm was paining him more by the minute. He could only hope that no innocent soul would come across such a violent, distressing sight before he could summon help.
He glanced at his watch; it had been more than five minutes since Elizabeth had fled, and he had best follow her to Longbourn. With a deep sigh, he walked over to Phoenix, retrieved the reins, and began marching toward Longbourn.
