Much later—or was it only minutes? she did not know or care—she heard voices. She tried to open her eyes but couldn’t. No matter. She just listened to the voices. They were pleasant. Hollow, almost echoing, with drawn-out syllables. The words were mixed up, no order or sense. She found it humorous and wanted to laugh. Maybe she did laugh, but she never remembered for sure. She drifted off again with the funny voices soothing her.

Again, she was lifted. Her hands hurt, but she could not move them. She heard a name being called close to her ear, yet from miles away. Elizabeth. She was fairly sure that was her name but was uncertain. She opened her eyes to a face near her own. It was a cat! A cat with horrible breath and a massive scar cutting through the fur on its left cheek. How strange. The cat was talking to her. Hissing, really. Silly cat, attempting to speak. She smiled and began to giggle. The cat meowed and growled. A cat growling? How strange and amusing. She continued to giggle until sleep and dreams of talking cats consumed her.

On it went. Bizarre delusions melded with reality an uncountable number of times. Finally she woke to a clearer observance. Her vision was fuzzy and there was a loud ringing in her ears, but she felt the cushions of the sofa she was lying on. Her head was resting on a soft, threadbare pillow. Her hands were still tied, as were her feet, she sluggishly recognized. They were tight and in an awkward position that was uncomfortable but not painful. Her face was sore and both of her cheeks tingled. In fact, she gradually became aware of dozens of gnawing aches and sharp pangs all over her body. Her breasts burned with the need to feed her baby, and the thought, as nebulous as it was, caused milk to leak and wetly soak into the bodice of her dirt-stained gown.

Abruptly she remembered the garden and Wickham, and the panic rose to form a cold knot deep in her abdomen. But surprisingly, she was not as distressed as one would expect. A cold, detached voice within told her this was the drug’s effects acting upon her mind, and she found this interesting, but could not decide if her lassitude was beneficial under the circumstances or a detriment.

She scanned the room, clouded eyes adjusting to the half-light. It was evening, dusk settling in the world without. Several lamps were lit and there was a glow emitting from somewhere behind her head that was probably from a fireplace. The chamber, clearly a parlor, was rustic with furniture of hewn wood and beamed ceilings of knotty oak. It was a large room, well-appointed and fine, but layers of dust and scattered cobwebs were observable even to her limited vision. She saw two windows from where she slumped on the sofa, both covered with thick drapes that allowed minimal light to escape or enter.

“She is awake.”

It was George Wickham. She recognized the voice though it was slowed and monotone. He materialized in front of her, kneeling and obscuring her limited range with his smirking face. She blinked several times, but the filmy glaze did not disappear.

“Mrs. Darcy. How delighted I am to see you. Did you sleep well?”

“Alexander?” Her voice, even to her own ears, was grating. The effort to say that one word burned a pathway through her vocal cords and she winced in pain.

“He is nearby, asleep and well. He will stay that way, as long as you cooperate.”

“Cooperate?” she murmured roughly between giggles. “I do believe you have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Wickham. I cannot see how I have much choice.”

She was laughing uncontrollably, the ache in her throat increasing, but she could not stop. Does he not see how utterly ridiculous this is? Does he not see the true danger?

Wickham frowned, his face turning red. But this just made Lizzy laugh harder.

“Oh, Mr. Wickham! I would not worry about me. It is my husband who will be killing you.”

The laughter was by then in gales, and the pain to her throat severe. A voice shouted from the background to shut her up, but it was not necessary for anyone to take action as the edges of blackness crept over her eyes. A dark tunnel that grew narrower and narrower until there was no light at all and she remembered no more for a time.

Minutes, hours, days?

Lizzy had no sense of time when she next rallied. Nor did she care. The only concern—in fact what brought her out of her drugged, unconscious state—was the violent pain and upheaval from her stomach. Her previous bouts with nausea and vomiting, even when pregnant, were minor annoyances compared to this affliction. She heaved until her midsection ached, long after the contents were evacuated. Her throat was on fire, but that was paltry compared to the hurt she felt in every muscle and the ague that enveloped her. She had absolutely no control over her body; the chills and shuddering ruled.

A man swore, and Lizzy felt the end of the sofa she was laying on give as he jumped up. It was Wickham, her clearing mind noting that he must have been sitting with her legs on his lap. The image was greatly disturbing, but fresh waves of tremors took over her thoughts. Breathing became increasingly difficult and painful, so she assigned all concentration to the mere act of inhaling and exhaling. However, she did hear another man laughing.

“Fortunate that I insisted on the tub sitting there, eh, Wickham?” Orman laughed, the sight of Elizabeth Darcy suffering highly amusing, as was the disgust on Wickham’s face as he looked at the mess. “How badly do you want her now? Hmmm? Ready to take her this instant?”

Wickham ignored the gibe, crossing instead to a door located on the far wall. “You there!” he bellowed. “Leave the boy and come clean this mess. He will not be going anywhere.”

The girl who entered at Wickham’s bidding was dressed in a ragged gown, her emaciated frame unable to keep the neckline from gaping and showing her bony chest. She cowered, dropping an ungainly curtsey in Orman’s direction before setting to the task Wickham ordered.

He stood away, covering his nose with a scented handkerchief until the job was done. “How is the boy?”

“Asleep, milord. Woke and got sick once. Fell ta sleep agin.”

“You keep him breathing, understand girl?” Orman growled from his chair near the fireplace. “Thanks to his incapability in handling an infant, the whelp in there has been dosed with enough sweet vitriol for a grown man.”

“You did not have a miniature ruffian pounding your shoulders and stomach, all while screaming directly into your ears. The monster actually bit me on the neck! It was nearly my life, as the imp thrashed so as I almost fell down the stairs, breaking both our necks. Be thankful I had the ether at hand. Should have known Darcy’s progeny would be the devil’s spawn.”

Orman grunted. “Be that as it may, you are lucky you did not kill him. Keep him tied down and gagged, girl. I do not want the brat waking up and screaming for his mother. But keep him breathing or it will be your hide, understand?”

She performed her clumsy bob again, departing into the room where a trussed and muzzled Alexander lay on a narrow bed. Wickham closed the door firmly on the sight, turning to see Orman staring at him with derision.

“Do not make me retch,” the Marquis said scornfully. “Does seeing the brat in such a state injure your tender heart?”

“Hardly. I am more concerned over him dying too soon, that is all.”

Orman cackled. “He will recover enough to be conscious and crying out to his papa when we slit his throat. Ah, the look on Darcy’s face while he watches his precious son and wife die! The joy, Wickham, the incredible joy!”

“Well,” Wickham interrupted what he knew could easily bloom into a full-fledged manic tirade, “I shall allow you that task. I will take care of Mrs. Darcy in the way that best satisfies me. We shall both have our revenge before he dies.”

“You are a fool,” Lizzy rasped through clattering teeth, “if you truly believe you will get away with any of this. Fitzwilliam will not fall for your pathetic ruse or be taken so easily. He is stronger than you, Wickham, and always has been. This you know and you are afraid.”

Wickham smiled confidently, only a glimmer of nervousness showing in the depths of his eyes. “How touching,” he drawled. “The faith you have. All the more reason why taking you while your hero watches powerless to intervene will be so extremely pleasurable, for me anyway.” He leered, one hand rubbing vulgarly over his crotch while lecherously scanning over her body.

He sat again onto the sofa, pulling Lizzy’s lower legs and feet onto his lap and commencing a lazy caress over her bare shins.

Lizzy jerked her legs from his offensive touch, kicked powerfully with every ounce of her strength into his jaw, and watched his head snap backward as blood spurt from between split lips in a gushing stream along with teeth.

At least that was what she imagined doing. That was what her mind desired to happen. But her muscles and nerves betrayed her, refusing to obey the brain’s command. Instead she cringed and quailed, her stomach threatening to again disgorge, and her weeps of anguish caught in her chest.

Wickham and Orman talked on, with glee, about the plans they had laid. How Darcy would be, even at that moment, collecting the funds to retrieve his wife and child, funds that they would enjoy, but were only a diversion. How he was probably agonizing over the loss to his fortune while also agonizing over the fate of his loved ones. How he would suffer all through the long night and all the next day before he received his instructions. How they would drop vague hints of Lizzy and Alexander’s torment designed to torture him. How they would lure him with promises of a safe return, only to capture him when he played to their directives like a marionette. How they would follow through with the final monstrous assaults to Lizzy and an innocent child, ending their heinous campaign with Orman killing Darcy.