Page 40 of A Stronger Impulse

Darcy had wakened to find his sister curled up at the foot of his bed, soundly asleep. He felt like the very devil, and his back and upper arms burned as if on fire. He sat up, sliding to the edge of the bed, looking around more carefully. Still in the nursery. Still at Darcy House. No chains, no doctor, no snores.

The room spun, his gut roiling. His memories were hazy; he remembered deciding that specious quack, Donavan, and his sadistic assistant, Stimple, were killing him and that he must either fight or die here in his own nursery.

His opportunity had arrived while they had lacerated his back; Stimple had freed one arm to turn him, probably thinking that he was too weak to struggle. He was nearly right; exhausted, sick, and suffering, the battle to remain conscious was almost more than he could win. But the hideous pain gave him the impetus to try it anyway.

It had been a doomed fight because one arm remained chained, but he came up swinging and managed a punch to Stimple’s ugly phiz. The doctor, in his shock, dropped his torture device—which held a red-hot iron rod—on the mattress, and Darcy snatched it up, waving it at them whenever they neared. It kept them off for as long as they attacked him individually, but of course, they soon began working in concert. Stimple managed a blow to his head whilst Donavan came at him from the other side, and soon Darcy found himself bound again.

However, he managed to draw blood with his teeth when Stimple then tried to force some noxious brew down his throat. What might have happened next, he did not know—likely they would have killed him for the violence, not that he much cared—but at that very moment, a knock sounded at the door.

A note.His life was spared because of a note from Lady Catherine ordering Donavan to deliver a report on his progress that very minute. Donavan ordered Stimple to stand down; the brute, fortunately, stalked from the room and took to his couch.

The doctor disappeared for what seemed an hour or two; during that time, Stimple began snoring, so Darcy dozed, too, but finally Donavan returned, full of fury at Lady Catherine’s displeasure, at her nephew’s insanity, at the world’s idiocy in not recognising his superiority. He ranted—raved, really—as if he were a madman himself. Perhaps he was.

Finally, though, he woke Stimple and ordered Darcy gagged and put into some hideously painful waistcoat bindings, without regard to the mutilated flesh of his back, stating his intention to begin his ‘treatment’ anew later in the day. Stimple had enjoyed Darcy’s pain—but unconsciousness had instead wrought its own peculiar mercy.

Now, uncertain he could refrain from casting up his accounts, he breathed in slowly through his nose, out through his mouth, trying to settle. When he thought he could manage the distance, Darcy dragged himself up, trying to ignore the fire in his skin and the swelling behind his eye, stumbling his way across the room until he reached the chamber pot behind a screen. He did not retch after all, but was able to take care of his other needs. Then, his head clearing a bit, he began to absorb more details.

A good fire burned, one that had been tended not long past. Every binding had been removed, and his nightshirt was a clean one. Where were his tormentors? Georgiana was here, a good sign. But he was not returned to his own room. He looked over at his precious sister, who had rolled over now, somehow finding his pillow in her sleep. It would, likely, take an explosion to wake her—she had always been a sound sleeper. It made him smile, and then inexplicably, a lump formed in his throat.

He fought against the futile panic of being unable to comprehend why his life had turned into a horrendous gothic novel, why his family employed villains, why his mouth would not work correctly.

He would go looking for answers, he decided, since he was not bound to a bed. He found his banyan hanging on the bed post, shrugged it painfully over his nightshirt, and had just made his way towards the door when it opened a crack. Immediately, he flattened himself against the wall, despite the pain.

If it was Donavan or Stimple, he would kill them or die trying.

A figure entered the room, holding a candlestick. Perfect. A weapon. The element of surprise was his only advantage.

The moment he pounced, he knew the form was female—not any female, but her. Elizabeth. The girl he dreamt of, the hope he clung to.

And he had nearly attacked her; perhaps he was as mad as Donavan believed.

* * *

One moment, Lizzy was furiously resisting the unknown hands detaining her. The next, however, she realised who held her, and she ceased her struggling. She knew he had injuries to his arms and back, and she would not exacerbate them. Nevertheless, for all she knew, he was in the maddened state that might have led to his previous bindings. Would he hurt her?

However, the hand covering her mouth slipped away, the body behind her stepping back. But he retained the candlestick.

“I am sorry,” she whispered, turning to face him, her heart pumping at an absurd rate. “I did not mean to startle you. You are up! You are awake! Oh, I am so glad!”

His dark eyes glittered in the candlelight. His jaw clenched, his hair in messy curls; he wore a banyan over his nightshirt, she saw despite keeping her gaze determinedly upon his face. If she had to apply a descriptor, she would call him angry, although the purpling bruise around his left eye might have contributed; she could not tell if he yet meant to thwack her with that candlestick.

“We are taking turns keeping watch, and it is past my turn, but your sister fell asleep, and I hoped to waken her quietly,” she added. “Do you need anything? Are you hungry? Can I bring you water?”

“Speak…slamkin…slow,” he gritted.

“Ohh,” she said, realising that in her fright and the surprise of seeing him conscious, she had been babbling. “I am sorry,” she said again.

He waved her apology away. Instead, he staggered to the other side of the room, sitting down heavily on a chair, placing the candlestick on a side table. He scrubbed the good side of his face with his hand; she noticed he did not allow his injured back to touch the chairback, resting his elbows on his thighs, breathing heavily.

She felt a bit stupid, truly. If he was fit enough to rise from his sickbed, ought she to leave? The whole world would think so. And yet, he was hardly well and certainly still unsafe in his own home. So instead of exiting hastily, she sat down in the chair opposite him, perching on its edge.

“Mr Darcy,” she said, her voice low so as not to waken his sister or James, enunciating carefully but trying not to sound as though she spoke to a child. “Did Georgiana tell you what we have done?”

He shook his head once in the negative.

“We sent for your uncle and cousin to stop your aunt from this torture of your person. We are hoping they can arrive in time to do it.”

His head snapped up. “The devil. No.”