The leader responded with the same cold efficiency as Darcy. Immediately, he lifted his rifle and focused on Darcy, deciding he was the greater threat. The shot was well targeted and fired rapidly. Darcy was missed by mere inches, saved when he attacked Clyde. The ball hit the corner of the carriage, wood splintering and showering fragments onto Darcy. Undeterred, the leader pulled one of his two hip pistols and reacquired his target, Darcy rapidly pivoting toward him with gun raised and lethally aimed, the two men in a sudden stand-off dependant on who would pull the trigger first.
Lizzy was feral, panting and yelling as she unremittingly kicked the fallen Victor—in the ribs, head, back, or wherever else he was exposed—as he flipped about on the ground screaming. Her sturdy walking boots coupled with robust legs and deranged ire inflicted a substantial amount of damage.
Mr. Anders, a coachman and groom by profession and not well accomplished in the art of marksmanship, nonetheless proved his worth by readily identifying the greatest immediate threat as the mounted leader. He stepped away from the grappling Phillips and Lou, calmly sighted his quarry, who was centered on Mr. Darcy, and fired. The bullet hit and shattered the left shoulder, not where Mr. Anders had aimed but effective. The leader flew off his horse, Darcy's shot missing him completely which was a shame, as it was well centered and would have been fatal. Still, it was providential as the shot fired in Darcy's direction was also precise and it was only the impact of Mr. Anders's ball which lifted the bandit's gun at the last second, his shot erratic and harming no one.
Lizzy continued to pummel Victor, the man seriously hurting from two broken ribs, a split lip, broken nose, and numerous bruises. Darcy glanced at his raging wife with a mixture of awe and fright, striding briskly to retrieve Victor's gun off the ground and rushing toward the leader who was already rising.
So far the entire spectacle had consumed barely a minute.
Once again, Darcy leveled his newly acquired pistol at the leader, who was on his knees with blood soaking the left side of his body but right arm rising with his other pistol steady as a rock. Darcy hesitated nary a millisecond, cleanly dispatching the man with a perfect blast to the heart. Bending to ensure the man was no longer a threat, Darcy claimed the last functioning gun and swung about to assist his wife, the blood rage still coursing through his body.
Mr. Anders, in the meantime, was torn between aiding Phillips or helping Mrs. Darcy, who was clearly at risk of harming herself in her frenzy. As he had no time to reload, his pistol was useless except—enlightenment dawned on him—as a blunt object. Deciding that Mrs. Darcy was well enough for the moment, he turned toward Phillips just as Lou's gun discharged.
The shot was random and entered Phillips's left thigh. He screamed, hands instinctively clutching at the area that was promptly slick with gushing blood as he fell to the ground. Mr. Anders swiftly raised the pistol and bashed the wooden grip forcefully onto the top of Lou's head, the man slowly sagging like a sack of grain.
Darcy rushed toward his wife, the next moments eerily dragging as if time slowed. Every second was as a minute and the clarity of the scene between Lizzy and Victor was bizarrely crisp and all-inclusive.
A frantic and agonized Victor finally managed to capture one of her flashing ankles. He wrenched harshly with a grunt of satisfaction. Lizzy was unbalanced, legs flying up as she landed on her bottom with a sharp exhale and crunch of her teeth. The impact onto the rocky ground was hard on her tailbone and felt through the stretched muscles of her lower abdomen, Lizzy clutching her belly with a groan. Victor, blood streaming from nose and lip, was no longer smirking but grimacing in pain and anger. He twisted her ankle, hauling his injured body partially onto hers. His free hand encircled her throat and with a snarl he began to squeeze, Lizzy's screams of terror and pain abruptly cut off. His other hand roughly groped under her skirts, pinching and kneading up her inner thigh.
Darcy saw it all and his thus far controlled rage boiled over into a blinding, destructive fury bordering on madness. He roared a vile expletive and latched onto the robber's hair, tossing him off Lizzy with astounding force, clumps of hair and scalp ripping painfully. “I warned you not to touch her,” he bleakly intoned to a suddenly white-faced Victor. Without blinking, Darcy fired, Victor not feeling a twinge of pain as the ball penetrated his brain.
Abrupt calm fell. Clyde and Lou were unconscious; Victor and the nameless leader were dead. Phillips moaned in torment, Mr. Anders at his side attempting to halt the bleeding.
Darcy was breathing heavily but dropped the pistol and knelt next to his sobbing wife, gathering her into his arms. Neither spoke, words simply unthinkable at this juncture. They only wanted to hold each other. Darcy's hands began roaming all over her body, testing for injury and assuring her existence. He began to tremble, clutching her face and possessively kissing with a soft sob. Both sensed their control slipping, Lizzy's hysteria rising again and Darcy's chest constricting as he was overcome with weakness.
A cry from the injured Phillips penetrated their fogged minds, Lizzy's head snapping his direction. “Phillips!” she exclaimed, struggling from Darcy's embrace. He helped her up, moving together to the fallen footman. Action was necessary for both of them to regain mastery over their shattered emotions.
Lizzy dropped to her knees beside Mr. Anders by Phillips's left leg. “William, give me your cravat. Hurry!” The wound was gaping, blackened about the edges from the gunpowder. She examined it quickly, discerning no exit wound, which meant the ball was lodged in his leg, probably in the bone. She grabbed the hole in his breeches and ripped, exposing the entire thigh. Phillips's screams were turning to weak moans and his hands were now loose by his side and face dreadfully pale. The wound continually spurt blood through Mr. Anders's pressing hands. Darcy handed the cravat to Lizzy who immediately and with surprising efficiency tied it tightly around Phillips's upper thigh above the seeping hole.
Darcy was observing her with deep curiosity and amazement. “How do you know what to do, Elizabeth?”
“That medical book in your library has a section on emergency treatments. I thought it interesting, although I never imagined having to utilize the knowledge! This is called a tourniquet and halts the bleeding by restricting the circulation. See?”
She was correct, as the bleeding had fallen to a slow trickle. “Think, Lizzy, think!” she murmured to herself. Phillips was bordering on unconsciousness, a faint bluish tint circling his lips. “Mr. Anders,” Lizzy said, “there are napkins in the picnic basket, as well as water and wine. Bring them to me and give me your cravat as well.” The coachman jumped to the task, Lizzy turning to her husband and whispering, “William, I only know to halt the bleeding and a little about shock. He must get to a physician immediately!”
Darcy nodded, standing and surveying the mess around them as the mantle of command and decision making fell over his shoulders as a warm, familiar covering. Mr. Anders returned with the entire basket and his cravat. Lizzy formed a wad with the napkins and used it as a bandage over the wound, tying snuggly with the neckcloth.
“Mr. Anders, find something to place under his feet. The legs should be elevated, I think.” She frowned, mind frantically trying to remember what she had read. She moved to Phillips's head, his glazed eyes open and blurrily focusing on his Mistress.
“Mrs. Darcy?” he murmured, “Are you… unharmed?”
“I am fine. Now hush, Phillips. Save your strength.” She lifted his head onto her lap, placing the wineskin at his lips. “Drink slowly, as much as you can. That's it, very good…”
While Lizzy continued in her gentle ministrations to the stricken man, Darcy pulled Mr. Anders aside. “We need to leave this place as soon as possible, Mr. Anders. Phillips requires a physician. Are we closer to Clowne or Whitwell?”