“You were misled,” Darcy said. “Whatever folly may have been spoken, there is no princess here.”
The pistol-man’s eyes narrowed. “You sound certain.”
“I am.”
“That is a lie.” The man’s tone turned mocking. “For we have it on good authority that thereisa foreign princess in this coach, bound for her royal grandpapa. That her people are anxious for her safe arrival. That they would pay handsomely to secure it.”
“Handsomely,” echoed the man near the horses.
His anger flared—thatheshould be accused of falsehood. Darcy merely inclined his head. “Your authority is as false as your enterprise is criminal. The lady’s companion has allowed an innkeeper to credit her charge with a title that does not belong to her. She has done so for no reason other than to secure better lodgings. If you persist in your present course, you will find you have risked the gallows for nothing more regal than a country gentleman’s daughter.”
He intended the contempt to cut and knew that it did. These men were notcompletefools. They understood at once that if there were to be a ransom, it would be smaller and slower in its coming if the prize proved to be merely a genteel young lady instead of a foreign princess. A lady’s family might require some time to gather funds or might not have access to anything significant at all. It was too great a risk for so little reward.
For a moment, the thought seemed to weigh with them. The man with the club shifted, his brow furrowing.
Darcy had allowed his irritation with Mrs. Hobart, his dislike of imposture, his own impatience and fatigue, to blind him to the full extent of the danger. He ought to have corrected the innkeeper so firmly that first night that the word “princess” would never again have been uttered within those walls. He had not. He was paying for that neglect now. They all were.
“We are losing daylight,” he said. “Let us pass, and we shall forget this unfortunate meeting.”
The leader smiled, slow and wolfish. “Oh, you shall forget, shall you.” He lifted the pistol a little. “Have her step out, your honour. We will judge with our own eyes whether she is worth the trouble. Or I could always just fire into the carriage and see what we carry out.”
Darcy did not move.
“If you fire into that coach,” he said, “you may kill a woman who has never harmed you. That would be murder, not robbery. There is a difference even for men such as you. I do not advise that you cross that line.”
The man’s lip curled, but he did not answer at once. His gaze flicked past Darcy’s shoulder to the carriage and back again, measuring the distance, weighing the risk. There was a hardness in his eyes. Yet there was also an unease that betrayed respect for consequences beyond his present desire.
The man nearest the horses spoke. “We do not want her dead, John, there is no ransom to be had from a corpse. Let us have a look at her and then decide what is to be done.”
“You will not—” He had scarcely spoken when he heard the faint click of the coach latch. For a heartbeat he thought it some trick of the wind; then the door moved and a familiar voice, steady and clear, called out.
“Pray do not fire!”
Darcy half-turned, hoping to order her back into the carriage. “Miss Bennet—”
She had already stepped down. There was a kind of noble decorum in the way she held her ground, but it did not extend to her appearance. Her gown was a plain brown travelling dress, her pelisse serviceable rather than fine, her bonnet worse for the snow and a long morning upon the road. There was not so much as a ring upon her hand that a pawnbroker would look at twice.
Her eyes betrayed the strain; they were wide, and a little too bright.
She made him a slight curtsy as she reached his side, as if they had met in a drawing-room rather than in a frozen hollow with pistols levelled at them.
“You will oblige me by returning to the coach,” Darcy said between his teeth, low enough that the men could not catch the words.
“I think not,” she murmured back, without looking at him. “No one will be shot on my account, Mr. Darcy, not even you.”
Then she faced the highwaymen.
“You have been ill-informed,” she said, speaking clearly enough for them all to hear. “If you came to seek a princess, I fear I must disappoint you. I am only a country gentleman’s daughter on my first visit to town. I do not travel with ready money and have no jewels at all. If you mean to ransom me, my father will be very much surprised to hear of it, and still more surprised to learn that he is thought rich enough to make it worth your risk.”
The man holding the club stared at her through narrowed eyes. “You?” he said coarsely. “Yoube the princess?”
Colour touched her cheek, but she did not waver. “If I were, do you suppose I would travel in such a gown? Or with only a single companion, without so much as a maid or a footman of my own? I assure you, sir, I am no more a princess than you are a lord.”
“That is just the sort of thing a princess would say,” the leader muttered, but there was doubt in his eye. He had, it seemed, expected feathers and diamonds, even a crown, not a young lady in plain clothing and well-worn half boots, even if she stood very straight and met his gaze without flinching.
Darcy shifted half a step so that his body stood a little before hers. The movement was slight, but it placed his shoulder between her and the nearest gun.
“You heard me before,” he said. “Now you see with your own eyes what your folly has earned you. There is no royal prize here. I advise you to leave while you may.”