The carriage rattled to a stop. Darcy was quickly out, glanced to see the staff bringing out the fresh horses and coming quickly with blankets and brushes for the steaming steeds being brought out of the traces. He helped Elizabeth out, and she stood, gratefully stretching. Darcy reached atop the carriage to check their few bags — and in particular the pair of rapiers lashed carefully under the other packages. He turned to confer with a servant, then gave orders to continue. The pair hastened back into the carriage.

"They are no more than an hour ahead of us," he explained, seating her next to himself, his arm about her. "We should be at their heels before sunset."

"Lydia must come home with me," Lizzie said. "And Mr. Wickham—"

"I shall deal with Wickham," Darcy said darkly.

"The last time you dealt with him, he came out much the muddier, my dear Mr. Darcy" she observed, the memory lightening her out of worry about the impending encounter. Elizabeth's smile and words pierced Darcy deeply, and he felt himself reaching for her. She reached up, helping him settle her back into his lap. She wrapped her arms about him, resting her cheek against his shoulder.

"My dear, sweet Elizabeth," he breathed, nuzzling her hair.

A sharp rap on the outside of the carriage preceded the servant's words by only moments. Darcy threw open the door as soon as the coached slowed, and soon crossed the few yards to the door of the other coach. He flung that door open and took hold of the cowering Wickham. He dragged him from the carriage and threw him into the road, stalking to stand over him while Elizabeth flew to the carriage.

Lydia was already halfway out of the carriage, a complaint on her lips, when her sister drew near.

"Lydia Bennett, young lady, you will return to Longbourn with me without one word of protest or by God I will give you the lesson that you should have had long since."

"But—" Lydia started. Lizzie glared at her and started to lift her hand. Then, both women were startled by the sound of drawn steel.

Darcy held out his hands and the blades dropped neatly into them. He nodded to his servant and tossed one to Wickham.

"You may consider yourself challenged, sir. We fight now."

Wickham seized the blade and rose. Both men unsheathed their rapiers and threw away the sheaths.

Darcy held his blade loosely across himself, while Wickham assumed a high French guard. He started to advance, then was startled by his fiancee's scream.

Lydia scrambled toward him, barely restrained by Elizabeth, who managed to keep one hand on her sister, despite looking pale with shock, herself. Both women's gazes were fixed on the swords, eyes wide with fear.

"No, we mustn't let them fight, Lizzie," Lydia cried, reaching toward her lover. "I can't let him hurt dear Wickham, my angel."

Darcy had turned toward her, and Wickham seized his opponent's moment of inattention. With the quick and steady strike of a cavalier, he thrust his sword at Darcy.

The movement had caught his eye a bare moment before the blade struck his flesh. Darcy turned into the strike, which grazed his side, while plunging his rapier toward his foe half-blindly. Wickham stared at Darcy, attempting to bring his sword up to guard once more, but it steadfastly hung dumbly by his side. He looked down to see why it would not obey and saw Darcy's blade piercing his chest. He attempted to draw breath and felt nothing, even when he hit the ground.

Lydia broke from Elizabeth's restraining hands and ran to Wickham's side.

"Oh my dear Wickham, you are hurt," she said, staring in horror at the wound.

"He has killed me, you stupid thing," he slurred, slumping away from her.

Servants pulled Wickham away from the sobbing girl, took the sword from his chest and checked for signs of life. One shook his head wearily and they bent to take the body away.

Darcy was distracted from the sight of his fallen nemesis by the feel of Elizabeth's hands on his torso. She pulled up his shirt to see the wound — in truth, not much more than a scratch — along his side. She blanched at the amount of blood, a much worse wound than ever she had ever seen. The sight of the hurt on Mr. Darcy filled her with a great anxiety, and she turned up toward him in a near-panic.

"A doctor, Mr. Darcy, we must…" she clutched him.

The pain of the graze was suddenly nothing as Darcy looked into Elizabeth's eyes, saw the concern and love there.

"Your sister," he said, the world reeling around him. He managed to locate Lydia, still kneeling where Wickham had died. "She must need you."

"She must need a good beating," Lizzie muttered, reluctantly releasing her husband to stride over to where her sister knelt. She seized Lydia's arm, marched her over to Darcy's carriage and thrust her inside.

"Sit here. Do not move or speak." Her face and voice were equally forbidding. She slammed the door shut and turned back to Darcy. His man was cleaning his wound, and he grimaced under the treatment. She hung back for a moment, but when she caught Darcy's gaze, the force of it summoned her back to his side.

Darcy gratefully drew Elizabeth to his right side while trying to ignore the pain in his left. He murmured apologies.

"I am so sorry that you and your sister had to see — that," he said.

"Hush, my love," she soothed. "All will be well." When the wound was cleaned and dressed, she consulted with Darcy's man.

"My sister must immediately return home, but I cannot think of Mr. Darcy being in the carriage for long while so injured. Is there an inn nearby?"

She was assured that there was a good house not far, and she gently helped her husband into the other carriage, unable to bear being so trapped with her wayward sibling. Darcy gave orders to the servants regarding dealing with Wickham's remains, and they were off again.

The movement of the carriage pained him no small bit, but the comfort of his wife's tender caresses eased his every hurt. She lay him with his head in her lap, holding him to keep the motion from rocking him unduly, pressing his brow and cheeks with kisses.

A few miles brought them to the inn. As she helped him from carriage to door, they watched the carriage carrying Lydia hasten to the south. Lizzie shook her head scornfully then turned to help her husband.

Darcy smiled at her as she brought the bowl of soup toward the bed.

"My dear, I am not so mortally injured that I cannot sit for my supper. You would make an invalid of me," he complained lightly.

"To be sure, your wound was not as bad as his, but it is still far too bad," she explained, reading a spoonful of rich broth for him. He reached for the spoon and she reluctantly turned it over. "You must promise me that you will never fight again, for I think it would be the death of me."

Darcy tenderly promised that his fighting days were over.

"Though, truly, I had worse wounds when I was learning to ride," he said between mouthfuls of soup.

"And there are those who wonder that I do not like to ride," she exclaimed softly, soothing his pillow.

"I thought only that you prefer to walk," Darcy observed.

"Horses have always scared me," she admitted. "Or, I thought that horses scared me. Until I saw you go overboard from the Spaniel, I do not think I was ever truly afraid."

Darcy melted with her confession. "And all the while I was on Alderney, I thought you must be rejoicing to be free of me." He reached out and gathered her to him, soup and spoon alike laying ignored.

She stroked his brow tenderly. "Not even for a moment," she confessed.

He buried his face against her side for a moment, overcome. "That you could ever forgive me," he whispered soberly. "But this…"

She smiled down at him, stirred to the very depths of her soul. "Mr. Darcy," she sighed, sliding her fingers through his hair to rest against his shoulders.

The remains of the soup grew cold while they rejoiced.