The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy (33 page)

Unfortunately, her attacker recovered quickly. He caught her about the waist and jerked Elizabeth hard against him. Her back plastered his chest. The Rom viciously dragged her toward the tree line to the right. Soon he would have her under the cover of the bushes, and her chances of escape would decrease dramatically. She scratched at his hands and dug her nails into his wrist, but the man did not relent.

Panic had replaced determination in Elizabeth's veins. As a last effort, she twisted to elbow the Rom in his ribs. With all her strength, she hit him solidly in the side and was rewarded with a brief lessening of his hold on her. Elizabeth reacted immediately. She broke from his grasp to run, but there was no easy retreat. Her assailant remained between her and freedom. The cliff face and the lake lay at her back. It was a long way down, but she would take it if necessary. Her hands came up to ward off his next attack while she edged toward the drop.

“You do not want to jump,” he placated, but she noticed how he leaned forward. He would pounce in a heartbeat if she allowed her guard to slacken.

Elizabeth's foot searched for solid ground as she widened the distance between them. “What I want and what I am willing to do are not necessarily in alignment,” she said in warning. “I ask you again to walk away. To leave me be.”

His eyes gleamed. A lock of damp hair fell across his forehead. He leaned close. Skeptical. “It is not so easy, my pet. The Roma are never seen to be in the right. Even if I leave, your husband will hunt me down.”

Desperately, she pleaded, “I shall speak to Mr. Darcy. If you quit the area, Mr. Darcy will not pursue you.”

The Rom smiled with regret. “Such a great man would bow to the wishes of a woman? You have married for love, Milady?”

Elizabeth nodded her hopes. “It is as I said. Mr. Darcy will listen to my pleas.” Of course, it was only last evening that Darcy had ignored her wishes, but Elizabeth would never admit her reason for being alone on this cliff had been her irritation with Darcy for posturing before the Woodvine household. Her husband had chosen his pride over his loyalty to her.

She and the Rom stared at each other for a long time. Elizabeth watched a gamut of emotions cross her attacker's countenance. Finally, he said, “Mr. Darcy may wish to grant your request, but his conceit would never permit him to forget how a Rom had abused his wife. The stain would haunt him. Therefore, if I am to die at your husband's hands, it should be for more than a physical disagreement.” A sadness crossed his countenance, and Elizabeth knew they were both doomed.

Without further ado, he lunged at her. Automatically, she braced herself for the blow. The impact knocked the air from her lungs as she fell backward into the open arms of sunlight and a sweet mist. The prism of light through the water was never more beautiful, and Elizabeth closed her eyes to forever cherish the image. Beside her, she heard the Rom say, “Forgive me,” but she had no time to respond. Their combined weight had increased their velocity, and all she could do was to conjure up the image of her husband's handsome countenance before she hit the water and was dragged under by the gypsy's body.

Elizabeth had never swum in her gown and half boots, but she had swum before; therefore, she held hopes of surviving this encounter once she hit the water. One of her fears had been that they would crash onto the jagged rocks, but evidently, the gypsy's weight had carried them out over the lake's surface.

As they sank together, she turned from his grasp and kicked hard to surface for air. She broke the water and gulped in her first breath since the Rom had pounced. However, her efforts were short lived: her enemy had also surfaced. With flailing arms, he reached for her.

In a panic, the man fought to survive, but his fight would cost them both dearly if she could not calm him. “I have you,” she shouted over the sound of water being slapped by her attacker. She trod water. Her gown floated upward and wrapped about her waist, but she still thought they could reach the shore if she could make him listen to her. “I have you,” she screamed louder, but the man's shouts for assistance drowned her efforts.

She caught him about the neck to pull him through the water; yet, the Rom evidently thought she still fought him. An arm across her throat sent her backward and struggling to stay afloat. The Rom swallowed a mouthful of water and spit it out in a sputtering twirling motion, which caught Elizabeth in the side of the head. His loosely closed fist had stunned her, and she shook her head to clear it.

Again, the Rom reached for her, catching Elizabeth's shoulders and dragging them both below the surface. His grasp shoved her downward where the light did not reach, and the temperature was cool. The gypsy's grasp tightened as he realized his peril, and she was pushed deeper and deeper. Even in the murky water, she could see her attacker's eyes widen with the realization that he had breathed his last breath.

Yet, even then, the man did not release her. Instead, his fingers twisted into the material of her sleeve, and he tugged her closer. Still, she fought him, striking his face, his throat, his chest. But he held her tightly. Elizabeth struggled. She had held her breath for longer than she ever remembered doing previously. With one last effort, she brought her knees to her chest and kicked him as hard as she could. She slid farther from him, but still the gypsy clung to her gown. Her hair had come loose when he had struck her, and her bonnet's ribbons had twisted about her neck, making it harder to hold her breath. The Rom's grasp loosened when she used his chest as a footboard. A final kick to his throat sent her hurtling from him and slamming into a soft spongy object on the lake's bottom.

Darcy had circled the garden and had emerged in the small orchard at the back of the estate. He had walked this way with Elizabeth only yesterday when Cowan had uncovered Mr. Bates' shallow grave. Now, he retraced his steps. Darcy could not imagine his wife straying too far from the paths with which she was familiar. It was not in Elizabeth's nature to place herself in danger; yet, he could not abandon his feeling of doom.

Cutting through the glen, he turned his steps toward the waterfall, which had renewed his wife's spirits after the gruesome reminder of death's true power. An unusual noise caught his attention, and Darcy quickened his steps in hopes of finding her.

But those hopes soured when he cleared the tree line. His wife stood on the top of an overhang. Her stance told him she was in trouble. Elizabeth's arms were extended as if to ward off a menacing looking man. Darcy did not need to see more. He broke into a run.

“Elizabeth!” he called, but she did not turn her head. Standing so close to the waterfall, he suspected she heard little else but the thunder of the falling water.

Darcy climbed the rough rock face. He had considered the trail to the top, but it would take too long because the path was designed as part of a nature walk. Each step brought him closer, but the distance remaining seemed interminable. His fingers searched for purchase. Darcy could not believe that she was here and in danger. He was a man prepared for every contingency, but not today. Today, he had been totally unprepared to fight for his wife's honor. His whole focus was on reaching Elizabeth in time and placing himself between her and her attacker.

But, to his horror, Elizabeth's situation deteriorated. She had stepped rearward, dangerously close to the drop, and then her assailant charged. Before Darcy could react, she tumbled over backward. She seemed to float for a moment, a jonquil-clad bird riding the air, and then she fell. The man who had accosted her kicked out to send them over the water rather than the rocks. His wife had literally sailed over Darcy's head. “No!” he screamed to the heavens.

Darcy scrambled to reach her. It would have been easier to dive in after her, but there was no way he could clear the sharp crags jutting outward from the rock face; therefore, he set his feet to slide down the way he had come.

The dirt streaked his face and temporarily blinded him. The rough surface tore at the fine cloth of his jacket. Sharp stones bruised and cut his flesh, but none of that mattered. Only his reaching Elizabeth in time would heal his anxious heart. “Please, God,” he prayed repeatedly as he bumped his way toward the bottom. Pebbles preceded his descent in a rocky rain. Finally, he lay back and allowed his weight to carry him roughly along the last fifteen feet.

Landing hard on his side, Darcy rolled to all fours. Inhaling deeply, he cursed his clumsiness before springing forward. The earth beneath his feet was damp and muddy. It smelled musty and dank and filled with death's aroma. As he ran, he stripped away what remained of his shredded jacket and tore open his waistcoat, sending buttons flying in golden droplets along the shore. “Elizabeth!” he called to the woman struggling in the water beyond his reach. A sob caught in his throat.

His wife fought to stay afloat. As they had recently enjoyed a private swim in one of Pemberley's lakes after he had rowed them out to a small island for a romantic picnic, Darcy knew her to be an adequate swimmer, but Elizabeth did not possess the skill to both fight her attacker and save her own life. Darcy was thankful that Mr. Bennet had taught his two eldest daughters not to fear the water: It could be the difference in Elizabeth's chance of survival.

“I am coming, Elizabeth!” he shouted as he flopped down upon the damp bank to remove his boots. He prayed the time he spent in doing so would not affect his success in rescuing his wife. However, he recognized the fact the heavy boots would only weigh him down, and Darcy would likely need every advantage in this life-and-death struggle. His wife grasped her attacker about the neck, wrestling with him, while the man flailed and punched.

As Darcy stood once more to judge the conflict, the dark-skinned man caught Elizabeth about the waist and shoved her under the murky water. Darcy waded into the water, but his eyes never left the spot where she had disappeared.
How long could Elizabeth hold her breath
? He wondered as he lowered himself into the water. “One. Two. Three,” he silently counted as he churned away the strokes. Could he reach her in time? “Dearest God?” his mind pleaded. “Do not take her from me.” His eyes searched the water both above and below the lake's surface. “Seven. Eight...”

Elizabeth fought with the bonnet, which tugged her backward. It had caught on something on the lake's bottom, but she had no time to untangle it. The Rom drifted downward, her last thrust finishing the man's struggle against death. She yanked at the ribbons which had wrapped about her neck, but she could not free them, so instead she reached for the offending item that had caught the straw confection, which had once been her favorite bonnet. Elizabeth could not see what held her in place, but she could feel. Twisting at an awkward angle, she reached for the impediment. As her feet fluttered in place, Elizabeth readily comprehended that she had but a few precious seconds remaining before she would join the Rom on the lake's bottom. Her fingers traced something she could not see. It was soft, yet coarse at the same time; then rough and spongy against her chilled fingertips. “Clothing!” Her mind shouted. “But not the Rom's. Another body!”

If she had had time, Elizabeth thought she would be sick, but time was her enemy. Somehow the body with which she fought had shifted in the water and now held her bonnet captive beneath its weight. Without time to reason her escape, Elizabeth used her shoulder and her numb hands to pry the unknown victim free from whatever held him in place. With each effort to loosen her trapped headwear, she silently said the one word that mattered: her husband's name. “Darcy.”