Page 9 of His Dark Heart
George shook his head as he stared at the floor. “Not a one was left alive. I examined every single animal. They were all killed, and Soter along with them.”
His gaze settled on Elizabeth's face. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and attempted to plaster a brave, clever smile across her lips.
“We shall overcome this. Papa can help reinstate the flock. It shall be fine.”
George gazed over at her father with sorrow in his eyes and shook his head. “Beloved, thy father cannot help.”
“What do you mean? This is not a time for pride, George. Ye must accept his help.”
“No, dearest, ye misunderstand. He cannot help. He is having money troubles of his own.”
She stood, glancing from her distraught lover to her shamefaced father in disbelief. Her voice was lost, but her cry of sorrow was there, lurking behind the pit of fear in her stomach. How had this happened? How had she gone from a girl with a bright future to a pauper in just moments?
Unable to cope, she spun on her heel and ran from the room, from the house, from the horror that overwhelmed her. She darted outside, her lungs filling with the cool night air. Her legs carried her quickly, her skirts hiked up, while her silk slippers shredded along the gravel path as she kicked up pebbles.
Upon reaching the churchyard in Meryton, Elizabeth fell to her knees and allowed the tears to fall. Papa, a man who had married for love and had always wanted the same for her, had silently informed her that that destiny was no longer possible.
She glanced down. She found herself on her mother's grave! A new grief washed over her. Her mother had been so very young when she had died, and Elizabeth could not recall ever having needed her before. Wailing, she pounded at the ground with vicious effort until she was exhausted. Unable to feel anymore, she closed her eyes and curled up on the grave.
“Mama, my life is over,” she said in a pained whisper. “I just want to die.”
Chapter Three
Caroline was a convenient way to pass the time. It was easy to bed her and even easier to leave her. She would, of course, be angry in the morning, but she would forgive his sins soon enough. She always did. They had played this game for years and, Darcy had to admit, riling her up and fucking her back into complacency was more than enjoyable. Even if he had not had the charge of witchcraft to hang over her head, he could have ruined her easily enough by destroying her chances for a good marriage with proof of their affair, which was a tiny birthmark on her inner thigh to act as insurance should she ever tire of his toying with her.
Unfortunately, he had called her Elizabeth. The moment had gone crystalline as her body stiffened beneath his and her anger rose, which delighted him. Caroline was so easy to pull reactions from. He had smirked at her and finished up, leaving her in limbo. Forced to play nice after that or risk her irritation—an irritated Caroline proved to be a horror to deal with—he had given her the smallest bit of courtesy and brought her to climax. Afterward, she fell asleep which allowed his escape.
Darcy climbed out of the bed and pulled on his breeches. His physical lust sated for the moment, he restored his clothing, slipped out of Bingley's ancient castle at Netherfield, and crossed the courtyard for the stables where he instructed a sleepy stable boy to ready his mount. Once free of watchful eyes, he whipped the steed to a furious speed, letting the rush of air sting his eyes and burn his cheeks.
The horse, a great, grey stallion, flew over the road, through pastures, around rocks, and never missed a step. Eventually his steed slowed at the scene of one of Darcy's crimes against Elizabeth’s folk. The reality of what the place represented did not affect Darcy at first. A good review of the mangled bodies of the sheep that a few rats had helped themselves to ensured his grasp of the situation. In the moonlight, it was a grotesquely peaceful scene, like a lesson out of one of the morality fables his father had told him as a child.
The horse stepped around gingerly as Darcy surveyed the damage. He had asked Caroline to destroy the fortunes of the men who held Elizabeth in their hands, and she had done so with a flame, some paper, and a few words. For a moment, he was excited by her power and all the possibilities that came with it.
His brain flicked back to those morality tales again, and his father’s deep, gravelly voice boomed loud in his head. Father would never have stooped so low as to use witchcraft to attain the affection of a poor girl, no matter what she felt about him. If she had hated his father, the former High Lord would have dismissed the chit as unworthy and carried on.
Father had not loved Mother. Father had not loved anyone.
Love? Where the hell did love fit in this picture?
He cleared his throat and, with a satisfied smile, rode on.
His horse had cut through the churchyard and was boldly trotting over the graves of the Bennets and Lucases of the past when all of a sudden, he spotted a small, pale heap amongst the shadows in the cool light of the moon. Steering the stallion in the direction of the pile, Darcy's mouth curled in triumph at the prize on the grave.
Elizabeth, the flowers in her hair crushed and her fine gown ruined, was fast asleep on the ground. Deftly, he dismounted and gathered the girl in his arms, brushing a victorious kiss over her cool, colourless lips before placing her over his saddle.
“Soon enough, my lady, you shall be mine. Soon enough.”
* * *
As the sun painted orange hues on the wall across from her window, Elizabeth awoke. Thankfully, she was in her own bed and with review, was of the belief that the terror of the previous evening had been nothing more than a horrific nightmare. She gasped, though, at the sight of her hands. Her knuckles were bruised, and her nails were in tatters. Tears welled in her eyes; a lady's hands were a sign of her station, and the ruined flesh was just another symbol of her impending doom.
She sniffled, which caused Hill to awaken. The old nurse fluttered about, pulling bell cords and uttering assurances to her charge. Servants appeared in order to draw her bath and bring her food, but the girl would take neither. She could do no more than stare at her battered hands as silent tears trailed down her cheeks.
“Pray, my love, eat.” Hill’s brow was furrowed as she wiped gently at the tears.
“I am not hungry, nurse. Leave me be!” She looked up at Hill with weary eyes. “I am pleading with you!”
A knock fell on the door, and the old nurse made haste to answer. Papa poked his head inside, his face pale and his mouth pressed into a thin line. He appeared several years older than he had last night.
