Despite his momentary surprise, Wickham responded instantly. He lurched forward, bounded through the thicket, and dashed across the lawn in seconds. Lizzy released a sharp cry that was cruelly cut off when Wickham crushed her head between the wet rag cupped in one hand that pressed harshly over her face, and the other hand that painfully twisted into the hair pinned into a lovely arrangement on the back of her head. He hauled her upward, relishing the pain he knew he was causing, until she was facing him.
Her eyes were wild with fright as she met Wickham’s triumphant gaze. There was immediate recognition, but also, to his amazement, a blaze of indescribable fury. With a jolt of astonishment he realized that she was holding her breath! Additionally, although he had expected some feeble struggling, she nearly overwhelmed his considerable strength by her strenuous counter-assault. She violently wrenched her head to the left while lashing out with her limbs. Her legs, stout and supple from years of walking, pounded into his shins with well-aimed kicks. Her hands contorted into dangerous claws, gripping and slashing with frenetic attacks to his face and neck.
Several hopping steps were required to avoid tumbling over, but he managed to collect himself and widen the stance of his stiffened legs, planting his feet into the soft turf. In desperation he tightened his grip to her hair, waiting for the muffled squeal of pain that she refused to release, and pulled her into his chest for additional support.
“Breathe damn it!” He growled, the fingertips holding the cloth digging into the tender flesh of her cheeks.
But Lizzy did not breathe. Instead she fought, frantically. Her body writhed and strained, every muscle contorting and contracting with incredible power. She grabbed on to his wrists, twisting the leather covering his flesh abrasively. She fisted her hands, raining clouts over his shoulders and upper arms. Her feet, encased in sturdy half-boots, beat into his shins and feet. The maniacal struggle led to an odd sort of dance, Lizzy’s zealous maneuvers forcing him to sway and bend in order to maintain control.
He arched his head backward, both to avoid inhaling the ether or presenting an easy target for her fingernails, and held her in a crushing embrace. He knew she would have to breathe eventually, so he ignored the bruising blows peppering his legs and upper torso.
It seemed to last forever, although in truth less than two minutes passed before the need for air overwhelmed her. He felt her inspiration, marveling anew that even in her panic it was shallow. It was followed by fresh thrashing, but he sensed her weakening as another wheezing breath was taken and her flails lessened. He kept the pressure steady as her muscles began to relax.
Nonetheless, he was again taken by surprise at her resilience when she acted in a final, ferocious protest. She released an animal scream into the wad of sweet vitriol soaked cloth, raked the fingers of her right hand deeply across his left cheek while pulling the protective scarf away from his nose, and aggressively pushed with her legs and shoved her lower body into his. The combination again disrupted his balance, only this time he was unable to correct his equilibrium, and they toppled onto the spongy clover.
His clasp was lost, the ether-doused cloth falling forgotten to the ground, and Lizzy rolled away from his side. Wickham had enough presence of mind in his blinding rage and pain to follow after her, prepared to reestablish his domination. He sprawled bodily onto her, straddling her legs and pressing them together with his knees while his hands reached to encircle her slender throat. But it was not necessary. Her last outburst and gasping shriek had overwhelmed her, the drug finally penetrating to subdue her brain.
The only sound was his harsh respirations. He was so angry that his vision was hazy and mind clouded. It did not occur to him to consider that their struggle may have drawn attention, nor was he coherently able to halt his rage.
He lashed out, delivering a stunning slap to her slack face. “Witch!” he bellowed, following with another blow to the opposite cheek and additional foul expletives. He sat back on his heels, breathing raggedly, and then heaved to his feet. Sanity and calm were slow to be restored, but he had not planned this revenge only to allow one unsuspecting difficulty to ruin all.
His fingertips wiped the oozing blood away from the four stinging wounds rived into his left cheek. “You will pay for this, Elizabeth Darcy. Now it is not just about Darcy. Another score will be settled this day.”
“Point to Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
The declaration rang out, but Richard did not experience the elation he normally felt when scoring one on his cousin. He frowned behind his protective mask, raising his left hand to signal a suspension. Pulling the mask away from his sweating brow, he approached his opponent.
Darcy removed his own mask and raised his arms in question, sword firmly gripped and by all outward appearances ready to continue the match. He was not breathing heavily and only a light sheen moistened his forehead, but that was all the more reason Richard knew something was not quite right.
“Do you want to tell me why I am beating you so easily?” Richard inquired, his voice low and a faint smile lighting his face. Still, he peered into Darcy’s eyes with clear concern. “You are hardly trying, and have been distracted all afternoon. Are you yet disturbed over the information I gave you this morning? I did not plan to win on default.” His tease was met with a blank stare.
“Put your mask back on, Colonel. The match is far from over.” Darcy clapped the hood in place, gesturing with his sword arm, and resumed a precision fencer’s stance.
The battle recommenced and although Colonel Fitzwilliam did ultimately defeat the younger man, it was not the resounding victory he suspected based on how it began.
Darcy managed to rally his focus and skill, but remained preoccupied and was not in top form. He could not bury his vacillating emotions over what had transpired with Lizzy that morning and all afternoon the iciness of fear raced uncontrollably through his veins. The four months since he and Lizzy rekindled their relationship and her mysterious illness faded was too short a time to expunge the trauma from his memory. The terror of revisiting such a place of agony was as real as if it had happened yesterday.
He hated that their interview was so abruptly cut short. He had not been able to articulate his feelings and to discuss with her as they always did until understanding was reached. The idea that she may be confused as to his concerns, reaching the conclusion that he wanted no further children, or fearing his displeasure regarding another baby, greatly weighed on his mind.
Indeed, he had not anticipated her conceiving so rapidly, so part of his shock was due to that. He was not an imbecile and knew precisely the mechanics of where babies came from. However, probably due to the fact that it had been well over a year between Alexander’s birth and Michael’s creation, he had somehow not given the possibility any thought.
Nevertheless, it was the worry over his wife’s health that overwhelmed him and sent shivers of foreboding through his body. It had taken her so long to regain her physical stamina. Weeks after her mental and emotional status returned to normalcy—his uncle’s stated diagnosis that it was primarily the breach with her husband that prohibited her spiritual recovery proving true—she had remained tired, weak, and delicate. For only the past month or so had her constitution and physique rejuvenated to her prior vigor and lushness. In fact, Darcy recognized with daily surging happiness, she was robust beyond what she had previously been. Thus, the hint of anything disrupting her hard-fought wholeness and vitality was enough to numb his bones.
Yet, oddly, amid the rivers of cold he began to detect a warm center of happiness. It began deep in his belly, almost touchable, and gradually spread to dispel some of the frostiness. It was bizarre and unexpected, but his mind was continually invaded with the image of a tiny face. A feminine, delicate, and beautiful face.