The bulky figure of Roland Artois came into view from amid the brush, nodding at the colonel.
“Come. It’s time to retrieve your family!”
The next span of minutes, again seemingly agonizing in their slowness, was rather exhilarating. If the stakes were not so high and Darcy’s insides were not in a twisted knot of tension, he may have welcomed the thrill of the hunt. He was eager to confront Wickham and Orman, more than hoping there would be some resistance merely for the delight in dispensing some well-deserved physical pain! The awareness of his zealous barbarism elicited a sad smile, knowing that Elizabeth would scold him for the train of his thoughts while secretly swelling with pride.
Be strong, my love, his thoughts pleaded, I am coming for you and our son, and all will be well.
It was late in the evening, and although the setting sun still cast rays through the surrounding trees, inside the two-story lodge it was dim. No lamps were lit in the lower level chambers except for a glow from far down the hall in what they discovered was the empty kitchen. The only obvious illumination in the upper story came from the chamber at the top of the stairs and another further down the corridor. It was eerie, but certainly made stealthy reconnoitering easy.
Entering the house, investigating the empty rooms, and gathering before the dark stairway leading to the upper floor was accomplished expeditiously. The four soldiers assuredly secured the exterior and then, per the colonel’s instructions, remained posted outside the house. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that they would provide safeguarding in a far superior manner than Orman’s dismal protectors, all three of whom had been efficiently incapacitated.
The murmur of voices and movement could be detected from above as they cautiously ascended the long staircase leading to the upper floor, hugging the shadows against the wall. Richard was in the front of the line with Darcy on the next lower step and six soldiers bringing up the rear. Halfway up the steps the voices grew clearer, with words distinguishable and distinct.
“How badly do you want her now? Hmmm? Ready to take her this instant?”
At Orman’s repellent words, uttered with a sickly humorous tone, Darcy stiffened and took an involuntary step forward. It was only Richard’s steely grip on his right upper arm, fingertips digging in so harshly that he would note bruises on the morrow, along with a chary but determined push into the wall, which kept the enraged man from leaping forward into the room.
“Wait,” Richard hissed. “We must be certain where they are. Trust me.”
Darcy nodded, grimly setting his jaw and regaining mastery over his emotions. Fresh rage consumed him, but Richard’s stern warning enabled him to seek the placid restraint he needed for his family’s benefit.
The lurid exchange that followed was horrible for both Richard and Darcy to hear, but it furnished the required information. Locations could be determined and a vague grasp of layout ascertained. The surge of unfathomable joy Darcy experienced upon hearing Elizabeth’s voice was immeasurable. The relief when he realized that, although ill, both she and Alexander were alive and not violated drove out the fear. All that remained was pure, cold, rational anger and the hunger to exact justice.
Tiptoeing with incredible caution, they ascended until on the landing. With the briefest of nods and hand motions, three of the soldiers passed by and headed left to the door down the hall behind which they now knew Alexander was hidden. The remaining three soldiers spread out behind Richard and Darcy as they approached the parlor, careful to stay out of the light bathing the carpeted hall from the half-opened door.
The eight men carried a virtual arsenal of weapons. The military veterans held razor-sharp shortswords or daggers in their left hands, with two pistols holstered on their hips. The occasional gleam reflecting off steel and sundry materials fashioned into hard hafts proved the existence of additional weapons stashed upon their bodies. In fact, the man closest to Darcy, a wiry, short gentleman who nonetheless struck an imposing stance of coiled energy and cunning, had a dagger grip of what appeared to be bone carved with images of skulls, protruding from the top of his scuffed Hessian boots.
Darcy only had two weapons, not counting his hands. He held the comforting cold metal of a flintlock pistol in his right hand and a powder flask and balls in an accessible pocket if time allowed a swift reload. At his left hip he had strapped his sword, a colichemarde once belonging to his father. It was a favorite choice when he fenced, Darcy preferring something heavier that was efficient for thrusting, parrying, and cutting, and thus he was proficient with the blade.
The men stationed in the shadowy spaces near the bedroom door were tense, weapons at the ready, and eyes on the colonel, waiting for the final signal to spring into action. It was difficult for Darcy to entrust Alexander’s rescue and safety to strangers, but he was confident of their expertise. And, frankly, he did not have much choice. Seconds before Richard delivered the “Now!” sign, Colonel Artois met Darcy’s eyes. He solemnly saluted and inclined his head toward the closed door. It was subtle, but Darcy understood the silent communication. He nodded in return, feeling tremendous relief by the man’s acknowledgement.
Richard made a sharp, slashing motion with the shortsword he held in his right hand. Instantly, the leader of the rescue team for Alexander, that being Roland Artois, opened the door with a massive shove, barreling through the gap and slamming the heavy wooden door into the wall with a resounding crack. The other two men were on his heels, rushing through with a ferocious shout.
The violent entry and ruckus was intentional, of course, and it worked as the colonel planned. A shrill scream erupted from the panicked young woman, who Darcy would later learn was the only person attending to his son, adding to the clamor invading the quiet.
After a split-second of startled silence from within the parlor, precipitous movement and cursing issued forth. The response was as Richard anticipated and their slight delay in action was purposeful. No signal was necessary as the waiting deliverers noiselessly sprinted into the room.
Darcy’s eyes swung immediately to where he assumed his wife and Wickham were, the rapid scan of the room revealing it to be much as he had imagined.
A blazing fireplace was precisely in the middle of the outer wall with two large, partially draped windows flanking. A large, plush wingback of deep brown leather sat to the left of the hearth. Upon it rested the scarred and maimed Marquis of Orman. His sturdy, broad-pointed walking cane, an elaborate instrument of glossy cherry wood with a silver and brass handle shaped like a hissing snake, leaned against the chair’s arm by his knee. Orman, as hoped, was leaning forward and turned to his right toward the chamber beyond, his face a study in confusion.
There were two sofas in the room, as well as two additional chairs. The one with Lizzy and Wickham was nearest to the door, the end where Wickham sat pointing toward Darcy.
Richard headed directly toward Orman, crossing the short distance before the stunned man had any clue that people had entered his supposed impenetrable sanctuary. Wickham instinctively bolted upward, his impetuous ascent not considering that Elizabeth was partly lying on his lap. As Darcy assessed the scene, his fury escalated as he helplessly watched his precious wife go tumbling to the floor in a heap.
He yelled a snarling challenge as he lunged forward.
Wickham swung about. The shocked expression on his face instantaneously disappeared when he saw Darcy. It was replaced with a look of such vicious hatred that, if Darcy had not been filled with his own overwhelming loathing and wrath, it might have given him pause. Yet, despite his steely resolve and preparedness, he was astonished by how speedily Wickham retaliated.
“No!” Wickham screamed, charging aggressively to collide into Darcy with a resounding clash. The impact was intense, Wickham barreling into the bigger man with incredible force. Darcy was knocked backward a step, but otherwise countered the attack with tightening legs and a shove with his torso. Wickham was unfazed, one hand latching fiercely onto Darcy’s throat with squeezing fingers, while the other grasped and twisted the wrist that was aiming the firearm toward his chest.
Darcy wrenched his arm out of Wickham’s clutches, whipping the pistol about and delivering a strong clout to Wickham’s collarbone. He felt a surge of delight at the audible crack of contact on bone.
Wickham howled in pain and fury, but his assault did not lessen. The two men grappled together, squeezing, wrenching, and pummeling blows with increasing gusto. Energy and stamina were fed by their mutual hatred and ire, years of pent hostility seeking an outlet of a physical nature. Wickham did not have a weapon to use, but it was unlikely he would have used it any more than Darcy, both men perversely enjoying each landed punch.
They swayed and staggered across the floor, Wickham finally succeeding in slamming Darcy into the thick oak door.
The air was knocked from Darcy’s lungs, the back of his head also striking the surface hard enough for him to momentarily see stars and loosen his hold. Wickham shouted a victory, administering a hard wallop into Darcy’s
