First, they rounded up Philip’s horse, and then Darcy climbed astride, allowing the brigand to mount awkwardly afterwards. The ride stopped and started, and after an hour, Darcy wondered if he had made a mistake trusting the man. Did Philip mean to escape?
But eventually, they arrived at a gloomy, wooded clearing with a barn.
Darcy realized, too late, he should have gagged his prisoner. Thankfully, Philip remained silent. They dismounted in the shelter of the trees surrounding the clearing.
“’Tis here,” Philip whispered.
Darcy nodded. He would need to rescue Elizabeth on his own, which made Philip a liability.
From the barn, an angry voice. “Get the lady down and be careful. We need her looking right sprightly for the trade. She’s a hellion, so do not let her loose from her binding. I do not fancy chasing her through the woods. We had a devil of a time getting her rounded up.”
Darcy whispered, “If you call out to them, I will tell this Lazarus exactly who led me to his lair. Is Lazarus the forgiving type?”
“No, sir.”
“Good.” Darcy pulled Kitty’s scarf from his coat where he had kept it. Quickly, he gagged the man. “As a precaution,” Darcy said. And then he offered a taste of the carrot. “Now, unlike your Lazarus, I can be the forgiving type. Provided Miss Elizabeth is well, when my fiancé and I return, we will let you escape.”
Philip’s eyes widened.
“I will,” Darcy repeated. He had no proper means to juggle his fiancé and the brigand, especially with only one horse. Best to make the man’s escape seem magnanimous rather than necessary. “Are we agreed?”
Philip nodded, and Darcy turned his back, shoulder blades itching as he crept towards the barn bandit’s camp. They felt safe here, safe enough to leave the barn door open, allowing Mr. Darcy to slip inside. He crouched down behind a hay bale and watched as the man picked up the half-eaten plate of food.
“You don’ eat much, do ye?” Darcy heard the man say. Then he watched as the man scraped the uneaten portion onto the spoon and stuff it in his mouth. “Might as not let things go to waste. If yer hungry later, don’ ask me for nothin’. Yer own fault ye got nothin’.”
The man turned, retraced his steps, and closed the door behind him, leaving Darcy in the gloom.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered.
“Fitzwilliam?” Her voice was soft and cracked as she spoke.
Darcy stepped out from his hiding place. Elizabeth ran to him, throwing her arms around him fiercely and silently. He held her as she shook, her tears wetting his shirt. “I am going to get you out of here,” he promised.
“Hurry!” Elizabeth pointed at the rope on her ankle. “I cannot get my foot out of it, and I have tried.” Mr. Darcy bent down and ran his finger over it, stuck it between her skin and the rope and thought for a moment.
“I can cut the rope,” The knife would do it. Even though he wanted his lady love freed as soon as possible, he needed to be prudent. Hopefully his cousin, an expert tracker, would find them soon. He had left enough tracks a blind man could follow his path. Every so many feet, he had torn off strips to leave on branches and bushes. It was like breadcrumbs, only his hints were more like biscuit-sized fragments.
But now Darcy was alone with only a knife, a pitchfork, and an old axe that he’d scrounged up in the back of a barn to defend his fiancée.
Darcy sawed at the rope around his wife’s ankle until it broke. The knot was still there, but she could run. He stopped to listen. The conversation and laughter outside continued.
“I will check on her,” they both heard a brigand say just outside the barn door.
“Looking for a kiss?”
Laughter.
“Quiet! Just thought I heard something.” There was more laughter in response. The door hinge squeaked, and Darcy crouched behind the hay bales.
Elizabeth, clever Elizabeth, burrowed into the straw, using it and her dress to cover her ankles and shut her eyes.
The brigand came in, carrying a sputtering, tallow candle. His gaze swept over her like greasy hands. Darcy clenched his fists as his fiancée lay beneath that horrid gaze, her breathing even.
“Anything, Arn?” came a voice from outside.
“No, just my nerves, I guess.” Arn chuckled. At the door, he turned and looked in again. “I’m going to relieve myself.” The door closed again, the hinges squeaking.
When it was dark, Darcy returned to his fiancée’s side. “We need to go while Arn is in the woods so that his sharp ears do not give us away.” Mr. Darcy went to window and opened it. “Can you get out of this window?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth whispered.
Mr. Darcy lifted her up and helped her scrabble as quietly as possible out of the window. She swung herself around the other side, hanging from the edge and dropping with a thud and exhalation.
Elizabeth crouched in the shadow of the barn’s wall. Just beyond, in a circle of firelight, five brigands sat, roasting sausages over the open flame.
Too close, but at least the firelight would make it more difficult for them to notice movement in the shadows. Darcy hoped.
His heart pounded as he dropped beside her, landing more lightly without the encumbrance of skirts.
Elizabeth smiled, teeth flashing as he stood and waved her to him.
One of the brigands called out, “Arn, that you?”
“Yes.” Darcy pitched his voice low, doing his best to imitate the other man’s gravelly voice and country accent as he hunched over, pressing his palm to his forehead with the hope the positioning and shadow would obscure his form enough to carry off this ruse. “Head hurts. Gonna lay for a bit.”
“Too much ale,” another brigand laughed. Darcy leaned against the side of the barn and made a gagging sound.
The others joined in the laughter. Darcy stole glances at the fire as he finished his mock spell of vomiting. When the others seemed well occupied again with their sausages and spirits, he waved Elizabeth towards him.
Slowly, they made their way until they were out of eyeshot of the brigands.
They had reached the perimeter of the camp when shouting erupted behind them.
“Find her!"
Then they ran.