A/N: This is it gang… the very last chapter, except for the epilog. It's actually a proper chapter, about the size of three of the others. I promise, everything will make sense at the end of this… or at least as much sense as the rest of the story. Enjoy.

"Stop the coach, now"

Charles Bingley responded to Mrs. Collins' directions immediately by rapping on the top of the coach with his walking stick. Since he had the stick in hand, he took the time to smack both of the younger Bennet sisters on the side of the head while he was at it. The two had managed to exceed even the formidable authority of Mrs. Charlotte Collins, and Bingley found that was the only thing that would shut them up… sometimes for as much as a full five minutes.

Charlotte Collins jumped out of the coach and surveyed the area with satisfaction. Seeing a cart with exactly the materials she needed, she started instructing her men.

"Mr. Bingley, I need you to buy the load from that cart."

"At your service"

"And the cart as well"

"Consider it done"

"May as well get the carter while you're at it"

"Am I to buy him, or just engage him for the evening?"

"As you think best, but hand me up to the top of the coach first"

"Mr. Bingley, I am her husband and if there is any handing up to be done, I'll do it."

"Very well, Mr. Collins, hand me up but don't try my patience."

"No carrots today?"

"Funny you should mention that husband. I feel I need to inform you of a new household rule."

"Please enlighten me"

"Henceforth, you will be following my direction instead of Lady Catherine's. I'm tired of having to circumvent her the hard way."

Gasp, "My dear, you cannot mean that"

"Carrots and Sticks my dear husband. Carrots and sticks. Henceforth, you will get either depending on how well you follow my direction."

Mr. Collins for once in his life stood speechless, and then for once in his life did something useful and handed his wife to the top of the coach. Maybe he could be redeemed after all.

Charlotte surveyed Gretna Green from the top of the coach with some dismay. There were at least forty armed men, maybe more, scattered around what appeared to be a smithy. Her eyes were very acute, and she thought she could see Lizzy surrounded by armed men in the middle of the throng, so she knew she had very little time. She called her men to heel, and gave them all explicit instructions.

"Mr. Bingley. You and Mr. Darcy's men are to enter town with me and lay waste to as many scoundrels as you can. You're all well-armed, and I presume ready for battle?"

"It will be my privilege, Mrs. Collins."

"Mr. Collins, Kitty, Lydia… I have a job for you. It will require courage, aplomb, cunning, carrots, sticks and a complete disregard for common sense. I need you to convince at least a dozen of those ruffians to move over one street. Twenty would be better."

"Count us in"

With that, Charlotte Collins outlined her order of battle for her troops, moved everyone into place and set the wheels in motion.

Mary Bennet was of two minds on her current status. First off, she was thrilled and exhilarated to be in the fray, bashing heads left and right. This was the most fun she had ever had. This was considerably more fun than throwing out random quotes from Fordyce's Sermons to her sisters at every opportunity just to watch them flinch. It was even more fun than randomly mixing up words from Fordyce's to generate new quotes, which she did about half the time. This was WAY more fun than stealing the ladder Lizzy used to climb the tallest apple tree; and then pretending innocence so Lizzy was punished. This was orders of magnitude more fun than playing a dirge at the Netherfield ball just to watch the audience cringe until her father panicked and asked her to stop. Yes, this bar brawling had a lot to recommend it, and she would be joining her husband in this activity on a regular basis.

On the other hand, she was currently back-to-back with Mrs. Annesley and they were being attacked by six ruffians at the same time wielding swords. Six against two! Men against women! Swords against Clubs! Did these ruffians have no pride at all! She was actually shamed, shamed, shamed to be engaging in criminals of such little merit. In future, she would insist her husband find more worthy opponents.

Of course, the downside of the six to one brawl was that the ruffians might actually win. That part wouldn't be ideal. Mary was just about to give in to a full blown panic attack, when she saw two of the highwaymen drop like a sack of potatoes with a couple of bricks in it. Now it was four to two, much better.

She looked up to see a mountain of a man swinging his fists at one of the remainders just as two more came at him from behind. This greatly inconvenienced him, as the only real way to deal with the cowardly sneak-up-behinders was to grab one of the men accosting the two lovely lasses by the neck, and swing him like a cricket bat at the two trying to sneak up on him. That took care of them, and curiously enough, seemed to be sufficient for the cricket bat as well; and even though tea was usually served during cricket matches, he didn't feel he had time for it; not that he would drink tea when whiskey was available. He tipped his hat at the ladies, who replied by bashing in the last two of the ruffians in the skull so they could do a proper curtsey. They were ladies after all, and the proprieties must be maintained.

"Seamus O'Toole at your service ladies"

"My thanks Mr. O'Toole. We were nearly overcome."

"More like inconvenienced I'd say. You ladies were acquitting yourselves well. I just helped out a little. Are either of you Scottish by chance?"

Any answer was delayed by another group of ruffians coming their way, but apparently running for their lives in panic. They were being chased by two other ladies who were curiously enough swinging what appeared to be workbaskets, and for some reason these were sending the ruffians scurrying like rats. Curiouser and Curiouser.

Seamus and the ladies gathered their fists and clubs and prepared to get back to work. Learned discourse would have to await another time.

William Collins was not the cleverest of men, but he had enough good sense to do the one thing in this world that was absolutely and unequivocally essential for survival… listen to his wife. Her instructions were clear, so with the two youngest Bennet sisters in tow, he approached the first of his targets and the trio went to work.

"Oooohhh. What muscles! I do so like a red coat, but that one will do nicely on as handsome a man as you."

"Are you real pirates or highwaymen? I find either one fascinating and so romantic."

"Is that a real parrot on your shoulder?"

"Do you have a quiet place we could go… maybe over there!"

"Gentlemen, please pay no attention to these harlots. They have no sense or education and as my patroness the great Lady Catherine de Bourgh says, they will lead you directly to the vices of sin and fornication. Do not listen to them, I beg of you. Run for your lives. Run for your very souls."

"Is that a genuine sword? I've never seen its like. May I hold it?"

"Is that a glass eye?"

"Gentlemen, I beg you. Save yourselves. Do not follow these two wicked women."

Thus it went. Carrots and Sticks, and the mules moved in exactly the fashion, at exactly the desired pace to exactly the place where Charlotte Collins wanted them, just as she planned.

"Ladies and gentlemen, have some whiskey… I insist."

Fitzwilliam Darcy did not have to be asked twice.

"I never drink without my men. You will need some whiskey for them."

"Those don't look like your men, since they're holding swords on you."

"They just do that to be ready."

"Ready for what"

"Ready for anything"

"I can see you're a sensible chucklehead, but I'm afraid I didn't budget for that much whiskey."

"You're telling me you're a Scottish trickster that can't afford more whiskey? I'm ashamed to be utilizing your establishment."

"I'm embarrassed as well, but such is as it is."

"I'm a rich English chucklehead. I'll pay the extra."

"Why didn't you say so? Whiskey for all!"

With that, whiskey was obtained for all, and the ruffians partook of their portion. They were in Scotland after all, and didn't want to give offense.

Darcy surreptitiously poured his into the combination dousing bucket/spittoon he found curiously attached to the floor with iron bands.

No sooner had the drink been consumed, when Darcy shouted, "To the King".

"To the King"

More whiskey was poured, and more was consumed. Darcy was shocked beyond measure when Caroline Bingley sidled up close to him and using the camouflage of her body and her orange dress, helped hide his pouring activities from the rest of the assembled. With her dress, she could have covered up him committing a murder with an axe, so covering up pouring out some Scotch whiskey into a spittoon was not that much of a stretch, even though there were those in attendance who would consider the latter to be a worse offense.

Dougal Douglas Duncan was thoroughly embarrassed. Here was an English chucklehead prepared to outdrink him, in his own smithy! This was not to be borne.

"The Bruce's Health", he shouted

"The Bruce's Health"

More whiskey was poured, more whiskey was drunk, more whiskey was poured into the spittoon, which between the tobacco, the spit and the whiskey was starting to look very disreputable.

Darcy noticed Jimmy the Pirate moving towards him, and he noticed Louisa Hurst getting ready to yell at her rabble, but by the time she could get to the couples, the die was cast. Seven rounds were poured. Seven rounds were consumed. Seven ruffians were mostly tap-hackled, and Darcy and Jimmy the Pirate made their move.

Charlotte Collins said, "Now would be a good time, Mr. Smyth"

Bingley replied, "A moment, Mr. Smyth. I have just a touch of work to do with this axe first."

With that, Charles Bingley took an axe and cut a small hole in the top of each of the six massive whiskey barrels that were now positioned at the top of the hill, and once the whiskey started pouring out, they let them roll down the hill towards the now neatly placed ruffians. Of course, they were rolling towards Mr. Collins and the younger Bennets as well, but every plan has a few weak spots. Bingley gathered his men up. They all hefted clubs and swords and followed the barrels down the road, yelling like they imagined Scotsmen would if they were having to go into battle wearing a kilt.

Charlotte followed at a run, and with the eagle eye of a general, she kept an eye on each of her charges, and directed them to where they could do the most good. As the barrels rolled over the ruffians, some were smashed flat, while others were distracted by the copious amounts of free whiskey flowing from the barrels, and were easy pickings for Charles Bingley and his men. The few stragglers that got past the men were quickly dispatched by Charlotte almost without thought.

I love it when a plan comes together.

Fitzwilliam Darcy made his move. First, he took off running full tilt towards the feinting couch to draw Louisa's Thugs™ away from Anne, then jumped over the top of the couch and grabbed the only weapon he could see, a wheelbarrow. Spinning around, he spun it back full speed towards the thugs who weren't really operating at full capacity and just ran over the top of them.

A wheelbarrow against six swords might seem like a bit of a stretch, but with Jimmy the Pirate cutting the men down from the back, and Darcy bashing them with the wheelbarrow from the front, it took surprisingly short work to take the drunkards out of the picture. Darcy guessed this was what people meant by the phrase Drunk as a Wheelbarrow.

Just as he cut down the last of the thugs, he looked over to see a nightmare scenario. George Wickham had for once in his life shown some initiative, and he was halfway across the street carrying an unconscious Anne de Bourgh on his shoulder.

Worse yet, he could see his betrothed being held with a knife against her throat by the very worst of the thugs in the entire company.

Charles Bingley had to admit that he was in his element and having the time of his life. Perhaps he should have been a Scottish brigand. Maybe it wasn't too late. At any rate, he found the whole criminal bashing activity to be much to his satisfaction.

Like any good foot soldier, he could follow orders and his orders included laying waste to highwaymen, so lay waste he did. He found great satisfaction in the crunch of the club, the thunk of the dropping body, the satisfaction of one more down. Like any good foot soldier, he followed orders but with just a touch of insolence, since a great enjoyment of the task was an essential quality for a good soldier. Maybe he would join Colonel Fitzwilliam fighting the French… wait a minute, Fitzwilliam wouldn't actually be fighting so that whole plan was doomed from the start.

Bingley was just getting into his stride, thumping and thunking thugs to his heart's content. He was just about to lay into the next one in line, when much to his consternation, he was felled like a mighty oak tree (or maybe like a weak little maple tree) with a single blow.

The blow came, curiously enough, from a swinging workbasket.

Georgiana Darcy had been nearly forgotten in all the hustle and bustle as usual. She quietly followed Mr. Bingley and his men into town, and simply strolled along behind them doing her best to keep the whiskey spilled all over the street from her dress. It would not do at all to show up at her brother's wedding smelling of whiskey. She was a lady, and had a reputation to maintain.

Of course, while she was walking down the street she was carrying a staff she had found in the coach, which was apparently used by her brother to knock some sense into her cousin Fitzwilliam from time to time. She was using it to knock the occasional scoundrel on the noggin if they dared to move to threaten her, or move at all come to think of it. It was actually quite leisurely, and she had only managed to knock six out by the time she arrived to a scene that drover her composure from her entirely.

She was a little dismayed that the wind had been picking up for a half hour, and was now blowing her dress and hair in all directions, and it looked likely to rain.

A beautiful woman with long flowing brown hair that had completely escaped its traditional pins was being held with a knife against her throat by the worst thug she had ever seen. Most of the thugs she had seen were not really top-quality criminals, but this was a man who meant business. The man looked like he was trying to emulate a Viking, as he had a helmet on his head… an… actual… helmet… with… horns. You would think that just made him look silly, but in his case, he made it work. He looked truly threatening.

There were three other thugs who looked equally dangerous waiting their turn and the situation was clearly hopeless, beyond redemption. Georgiana could see that there were at most a few seconds to help her newest and best sister, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, but what could she do?

Georgiana wondered to herself desperately, 'Am I the unexpected catalyst or not!'

Georgiana looked around in dismay for someone to help her, some weapon better than a staff against four real criminals and was dismayed to find nothing… nothing at all… not a single thing that could be useful… except!

George Wickham was once again escaping a scrape by the skin of his teeth, but this time he had the ultimate prize, an heiress worth an enormous amount of money. He was almost clear of the hustle and bustle of the massive fight when he ran headlong into five giant Scotsmen and none other than Lady Catherine de Bourgh, accompanied by a small, owlish man.

The five Scotsmen stopped Wickham with a conveniently placed fist to the face, took Anne off his shoulders and placed her back on her feet, quite the worse for wear since he had knocked her over the head before putting her on his shoulders.

The small, owlish man started talking.

"George Wickham"

"Yes"

"I am Mr. Slyfeel, of the Kings Revenue Service"

"What's that to me?"

"Did you, four years ago, inherit a sum of 4,000 pounds from the Darcy estate?"

"No"

One of the burly Scotsmen reached over and slapped him on the side of the head with a fist that felt like iron.

"Yes"

"Did you pay your taxes on it?"

"Taxes"

"Yes, inheritances are taxed. We're at war, you know. Everyone must pay a fair share. Have you a receipt for taxes paid?"

"No"

"That's unfortunate, Mr. Wickham. I don't suppose you have 400 pounds with you?"

"I'm afraid not"

Gentlemen, would you be so kind as to lock this man up for transportation to prison on the morrow."

"Prison"

"Yes, Mr. Wickham. Taxes are serious business. However, fear not. Our king is merciful. There's a good chance you'll just be sent to France with the fresh troops, or transported to Australia, so you will get off easy."

With a blood-curdling scream, even worse than the one she leveled at the younger Bennet sisters, Georgiana Darcy yelled, Lizzy and threw the sledgehammer that she had just discovered over the top of the ruffians, directly in front of her newest sister. Unexpected Catalyst Indeed!

True to her sketch, Elizabeth Bennet managed to slip out from the knife being held at her throat by the thug while he was momentarily distracted by Georgiana's scream, and reach up to snatch the hammer by the handle as it flew by. Using the momentum Georgiana had conveniently imparted, she allowed the hammer to swing her body around in a half-circle. As she swung around, she stood up straight, with the wind blowing her long hair behind her like some kind of Valkyrie, gripped the hammer in both hands, swung it up over her head in one smooth motion, and brought it down hard on top of the Viking helmet of her adversary. The crunch of bone and the disconnection of the horns was most satisfying. Most satisfying indeed!

With a Viking scream to rival Georgiana's, Lizzy Bennet entered the fray for real. Swinging the hammer over and over, again and again, she laid waste to the remaining thugs guarding her, the remaining thugs in the near vicinity, and then those farther out. She could smell the blood, and hear the screams of the vanquished and she reveled in every second. She didn't know how many were left but she intended to vanquish every single one.

Such was her anger and her bloodlust that it was only by the slimmest of margins, only by the narrowest of breaths, only by the slightest of corrections that she managed to deflect the hammer at the very last possible moment from crashing down on the head of her beloved Baby Bear.

"Nooooooooooooooo"

The scream was as blood-curdling as any let out by the Mighty Georgiana Darcy or the Formidable Elizabeth Bennet. It was a scream of pain. A scream of vengeance. A scream of desperate last measures. The bear and the wolf looked up in fear to see a fully insane Louisa Hurst, foaming at the mouth and bearing down on them from just a few steps away swinging a sword down towards her nemesis, Elizabeth Bennet. The hammer was already on the ground, and all Fitzwilliam had was a wheelbarrow which wasn't all that handy in this instance. In a flash, they instantly realized that it was much too late to do anything. Nobody could move that fast. There was no way to stop the madwoman.

Just at the last moment when bear and wolf were both using their lightning fast reflexes to reach for the hammer in a last ditch effort to defend themselves, they saw the most unexpected thing they could imagine. It all happened in less than a second, but it would be forever burned into their memories like hot forged iron.

Louisa Hurst was coming towards them full tilt from just a couple of paces, swinging the sword down in an unstoppable arc, when a foot reached out from the ground to trip up her skirts. Curiously enough, the leg that tripped her was orange.

The sword sailed through the air, spun around twice, and landed hilt first, directly in the dousing bucket/spittoon, just in time for Louisa Hurst to fall and impale herself on it. Louisa's last vision as she lay dying was complete mortification, that she was not only dead by her own hand, but that she was going to die covered in spit, tobacco juice and whiskey! The last thing she heard was Colonel Fitzwilliam saying, "A dousing bucket. Why didn't I think of that? It's perfect."

She was dead before she could hear the reply, "Remember dear, I did say 'yes', so there's no need to fall on your sword, although you may be called on to find me a few more thugs to bash."

"Now that you mention it, we are in Scotland"

"Yes"

"We are in a blacksmith shop"

"Yes"

"You still intend to marry me?"

"Yes"

"Well, shall we get to it. But, let's use the real blacksmith shop across the street. I don't want to get married over such a disgusting anvil, and that body there might put me off."

"Yes. Also, I believe I have a much more suitable blacksmith for the task."

"Lead on, dear girl."

With that, the entire party joined Seamus O'Toole across the street at the real blacksmith shop, to drink some real Scotch whiskey, and perform a real wedding ceremony.