Unforgiving Temper (49 page)

In a single heartbeat, he reached them,
tearing Grissholm from her and driving his fist into the man's
surprised face with unbridled fury. The blow had staggered
Grissholm, but did not fell him.

Grissholm had lunged forward in retaliation,
succeeding in making a connection of his own, followed by a second
powerful blow to Darcy's jaw. The next hit had brought a warm,
salty taste of blood to his mouth, igniting something deep
within.

An emotional powder keg filled with years of
resentment, jealousy, fear, and fury exploded within Darcy, driving
him mercilessly into his hated enemy. He had become possessed with
a single all-consuming need to kill the man. Over and over again,
his fists collided with Grissholm's body. He did not stop when
blood gushed from Grissholm's nose, nor when he heard a crack as
his knuckles found Grissholm's mouth. Without any thought to the
answering blows, he pursued Grissholm relentlessly until he had
driven him to the ground. But that was not enough.

He had continued, driving the breath from
Grissholm. Driving, driving.

And then Richard's voice had filtered through
the blinding rage.

“Darcy, enough!”

But he had ignored it. He could not stop –
would not stop, until he saw Grissholm dead. He had raised his fist
again, ready to drive it into that hated face when Richard's voice
returned with urgency.

“Darcy! Miss Bennet needs help –
now!”

Those devastating words had finally broken
through the passion of his enraged mind. The thought of Elizabeth
had stayed his hand. Her well-being was paramount. In spite of his
fervent desire to see Grissholm dead, he knew he had to help
Elizabeth first. With great reluctance he had let go and turned to
the object of his heart, leaving Grissholm dazed and bleeding
behind him.

Coming next to Richard and seeing Elizabeth's
motionless form lying on the floor, it was with even greater
reluctance that he had resisted the urge to return to Grissholm and
finish the job. Richard had covered her with his coat, but it could
not hide all of Grissholm's villainy.

“She cannot move without considerable pain,
so I suspect it is a rib at the very least,” Richard had informed
him. “There is a real danger of other internal injuries as well;
but the wound on her head is of greatest concern. Judging from her
confused state, it may be very serious.”

Darcy had bent to gather Elizabeth carefully
into his arms, fighting back a fresh wave of seething rage. Her
only response had been a soft, fading whimper that wrenched his
very soul. Gently, he pressed his lips to the top of her head,
urgently whispering in her ear.

“Dear God, no!
Miss Bennet…Elizabeth…stay with me. Please, stay with me!”

Richard had moved to help, but Darcy
stubbornly refused to give her up, motioning instead for Richard to
lead the way. Once they reached the hallway near the kitchens and
the door they had entered, Molly appeared, holding Elizabeth's
things. Their progress out of Grissholm's house and down the
streets had been accomplished with all the haste Elizabeth's
condition would allow. By the time they reached the carriage and
were on their way, it was clear their original plan was out of the
question.

Even if Elizabeth were conscious enough to
give directions, it would have been impossible to make the
treacherous journey to her uncle's house. As it was, the short
journey back to Portman Square had been unbearable; every jolt of
the carriage drawing an agonized cry from her lips, and all his
efforts to shield her from the worst of London's cobbled streets
had not been enough. By the time Harrison reined in at Burnham
House, her cries had ceased. Darcy emerged from the carriage with
great trepidation for Elizabeth had grown completely still and was
very, very pale.

* * * *

Raking his fingers through his hair, Darcy
offered up a silent, impassioned prayer for the hundredth time.
Please do not let her die! Please let her live!
He had been
pacing in his bedchamber for hours, his thoughts steadfastly turned
towards Elizabeth's room like a needle pointing north. He was as
close as propriety and the doctor would allow, but as the hours
dragged by, the short distance had become an insufferable barrier.
He needed to see her, to know that she would be all right.

Despite his frequent inquiries earlier in the
evening, the doctor had been unable to give him any assurances.
“Head injuries are not well understood,” he had told Darcy
evasively. “We can only wait and see. In the meantime, there is
nothing to be gained by holding a vigil! Go and get some sleep,
young man.”

Sleep? Impossible! Nothing mattered as long
as Elizabeth remained in danger. All through that first night and
into the next day, he had walked the hall outside her room,
pestering his own servants that hurried in and out until even his
housekeeper, Mrs. Adams, had looked at him askance.

A clean shirt for Darcy was all Denham had
managed to accomplish before what little tolerance there was for
such things was spent, and the valet's subtle suggestions for
getting some rest or taking some food were soon silenced with a
brusque dismissal.

His distress over Elizabeth's fragile hold on
life had made everything else an insufferable imposition. After the
doctor banished him from the hall, Darcy had withdrawn to his
rooms, leaving the door open so that he would hear any news at
once. He now paused in his pacing and leaned against the window,
absently contemplating the brilliant, star-filled sky. His once
fixed and orderly life had been wholly and unexpectedly turned
upside down by a beautiful, spirited young woman from
Hertfordshire. To imagine his life without her was impossible. He
heaved an anguished sigh.
Please, dear God, she cannot die, she
cannot! I was proud and arrogant, and a fool to ever think myself
above her. But I have changed, you know my heart; you know I have,
and if I could but have the chance, I would show her. I would love
her and protect her the rest of my life, no matter what. I failed
her with Grissholm, but it shall never happen again. I swear on my
life, never again! Please let her live and I shall find a way to
make it up to her. I will find a way, even if –
Darcy's pleas
were interrupted by a sudden cry down the hallway.

“Doctor! Come quickly, oh, please, come at
once! It's Miss Bennet!”

The night maid's sudden, urgent cry at
Dr. Lawrence's door rang down the hallway and struck Darcy
like a thunderbolt. A cold terror swept through him, and even
before the echoes faded he was already charging into the hall
towards Elizabeth's room, aware of nothing except the desperate
need to reach her.

Bursting through the door, he went straight
to her side, staring anxiously at the bruised, motionless form
before him, afraid of what he would find. Grissholm's handiwork
stood out in stark contrast on her pale, creamy complexion and
Darcy stifled a growl at the four large bruises marring the
delicate line of her neck. Reluctantly, he let his gaze slide
further down, his tortured mind not wanting to consider the
unthinkable. He did not know how he would go on without her.

* * * *

A strange noise filtered into Elizabeth's
mind, slowly pulling her up from a deep, unsettled sleep. It came
again, grating against her nerves. The peculiar heaviness that
gripped her mind and body made it nearly impossible to think. What
was it? The offending sound came once more and she finally
recognized the quiet scraping of iron against stone.

Forcing her heavy eyes open, she searched the
room and found the source. A maid – one she did not recognize – was
bent over the hearth, carefully stirring the fire before adding
another chunk of coal. The flames jumped in flickering bursts of
light that illuminated the room and Elizabeth started. This was not
her room! What had Lord Grissholm done? She searched her
memory for an explanation only to find fragmented bits that she
could not pull together.

A new, louder sound of metal on metal as the
poker was returned to its stand sent a painful ache flaring through
Elizabeth's head. She shifted, trying to ease the queasiness and
escape the general discomfort which was now growing with every
waking moment. Immediately, a crushing pang shot through her side,
arresting any further movement and bringing another
stomach-churning throb to her head.

“Uhhh,” she groaned softly.

The unfamiliar girl jerked back and took a
hesitant step toward the bed. “Miss Bennet?”

“Where is Molly?” Elizabeth managed to get
out before another spate of nausea silenced her.

Eyes wide, the maid turned and darted out of
the room without a word, leaving a miserable, confused Elizabeth in
her wake. Her hushed, frantic voice floated in from the
hallway.

“The doctor, where is the doctor ?!”

“Down on the end, the blue room,” a deep
voice answered.

“Yes, of course.” A few retreating steps were
heard, and then “Oh, and I think you should tell the master! He
will want to know.”

Elizabeth's breath caught in her throat. The
master? Lord Grissholm was coming! How much time did she have?
The painful haze in her head was muddling her thoughts.
Think,
Elizabeth, think!
She would have to hurry. If she missed
meeting Mr. Darcy, all her carefully laid plans would be for
nothing.
Oh, where is Molly?

Pushing the covers aside, she tried to sit
up, but as soon as she began to rise, her head exploded in a
blinding pain. She took several bracing gulps of air and then tried
again, only to have the same results with the added torture of an
intense, prolonged pain in her side. After a third time, she had to
stop and wait until her strength returned for another try.

She reached for her blankets, only to stop
mid-way and stare at her arm in astonishment. The thin linen sleeve
of her nightgown had slipped down, revealing an alarming array of
scrapes and bruises along the length of her arm. Slowly raising the
other one, she sucked in her breath at the sight of more black and
blue marks. Reaching up to her head and then to her chest, she felt
bandages wrapped around each one.
What in heaven's name
happened? Did I fall? Was there an accident?

She searched her mind again, looking for
something – anything – that would explain her alarming condition;
and just as before, there were only vague, disturbing impressions
that she could not wrap her mind around. Her last clear memory was
of Lord Grissholm's lingering good-night kiss on her hand just
before she went upstairs. She remembered thinking about what she
would take away from Peyton House, but she could not recall
actually getting to her room.

Whatever had passed between her leaving
Lord Grissholm and waking just now was lost in the thick, hazy
fog that clouded her mind. She felt inexplicably sad and mourned
the loss of something she couldn't quite put a name to – something
that was hidden in the dark shadows of her mind. Another wave of
nausea pulled her eyes shut, and she concentrated on her breathing
until it could subside.

Suddenly, she heard heavy footsteps
thundering in the hallway, almost at a run as they neared her door.
Elizabeth's heart stuttered, then began a frantic pounding against
her injured ribs. Had Lord Grissholm discovered her plans?
Would he be angry? She forced her face into an impassive
expression. With any luck, he would think her still asleep and go
away. Then she would find a way to get to Mr. Darcy's waiting
carriage by herself.

The door crashed open with a thunderous bang
and it took all her willpower to remain absolutely still as the
daunting footsteps came across the room, making an abrupt stop at
her side. She could hear a man's labored breathing, and then it
drew closer. Her efforts to keep her breathing slow and steady were
suddenly made ineffectual when his hand came down on hers.

“Thank God!” His voice came in a low,
strangled whisper as he lowered his lips to her hand and gently
kissed it. “You are alive.”

Elizabeth's eyes flew open in shocked
surprise. “Mr. Darcy!”

“Elizabeth!” He kissed her hand more
forcefully and held it to his chest. “I was so afraid I had lost
you!”

For a moment, she only stared, open-mouthed
at his passionate declaration; then in the next instant, she
reached with her free hand to grab at the blankets she had earlier
pushed aside. His eyes followed her movement, catching a fleeting
glimpse of gossamer fabric and shapely curves before she covered
herself to her chin, biting back an agonized cry.

The twin blossoms of scarlet that colored her
deathly pale cheeks and tightened her mouth into a thin line of
pain drew a self-reproving scowl from Darcy. What a bumbling idiot
he was!

“Please, forgive me! I should not have
intruded, only I heard the girl calling for the doctor and she
sounded so frantic that I feared you were…that is, I thought you
were gone, and I had to see for myself. But you are not, and you
shall recover. You
must
recover!”

“Oh! Well, I shall do my best to oblige,
sir.”

“You were so still and pale. How do you feel?
Is there much pain?”

“Only when I move,” she gave him a weak smile
that quickly faded to a puzzled frown. “Mr. Darcy, what are
doing here?”

It was Darcy's turn to be self-conscious. “I
apologize for not waiting for the doctor. I could not – ”

“No, I mean what are you doing in this
house?”

Darcy's face mirrored her frown, trying to
understand the question. “I live here. This is my home.”

“
Your
home?!” she gasped, looking
around the room. “Where are my things?”

“Molly brought your box. It is over there. My
housekeeper, Mrs. Adams, is trying to salvage your gown, but I fear
it is beyond repair.” His bitter remorse consumed him. “I am so
very sorry I failed you! I was a fool not to have guessed he would
do something like this. Can you ever forgive me? You have my word
he shall pay for it; on my honor, he shall pay!”