Chapter 4

Four

Elizabeth wakened gradually, feeling as if she was drifting within a pleasant fog. The first hint she received of something strange afoot was the sound of horses' hooves blended with the vibrations of carriage wheels rolling upon cobblestone pavers. She must be dreaming, she concluded, a very vivid dream. Perhaps she travelled to Wales; she had always wanted to see it. She had no sooner reached this conclusion when she realised that, rather than the comfort of a seat cushion beneath the weight of her body, she felt something much different. It took her several moments to realise what it was, however; in her foggy state, deducing that she was being held within strong arms, that firm muscles and expensive wool surrounded her, seemed as fantastic as any dream. Opening her eyes required an effort, and at first, everything appeared fuzzily out of focus. Gradually, however, she was able to discern shapes, and finally details.

It began with a chin. That it was a male chin was undeniable—firm, cleft, with a shadow of beard just beginning to show. A thin scar cut through the perfection of its form, running from that chin until it disappeared into the twists and coils of the exquisitely tied cravat framing it. It was a familiar chin, somehow, and yet not Papa's; as well, neither Papa nor his man would ever expend so much effort on such a knot. Her gaze travelled to his hair, a bit overlong and barely brushing his collar, curling at its ends in just such a non-conformity as to exasperate any good valet. The urge to touch it seemed a natural one; she found it as soft as it appeared.

Her touch moved to the bristled chin, held suddenly still, motionless as a deer once startled. Her vision had not deceived her as to the hardness of its shape. A stubborn chin, she decided. A chin which knew the direction it faced, and was unafraid to travel it. The jaw supporting it was a worthy accessory, squared, determined, unwavering, perhaps even descending into dogged. She reached up farther, to the lips set above it. They ought to be soft, gentle, and tender, to restrain that chin and jaw's effect upon the whole. Gleefully tracing them with her fingertips, she realised they were everything lips ought to be.

It was absurdly difficult to lift herself so that she could explore further; thankfully, the strong arms supporting her helped, else she would have had lips and chin only, and how foolish a partial face would that be? With his assistance, however, she could now see the nose—a patrician nose, noble, even. A nose perfectly matching that chin and jawline. A nose of which, undoubtedly, his aristocratic ancestors had pridefully bequeathed to their progeny, an inheritance equally as valuable as castles, forests, and fields. She traced its aquiline shape up to an equally princely brow. The sable brows were soft; the eyes beneath shut, shielded from her explorations.

This was unacceptable. His eyes must be revealed to her. Her mouth opened, her voice emerging only as a whisper.

"Your eyes…they cannot be anything faded, mild, or meek. They must be dark, mysterious, resilient enough to hold the weight of a thousand acres. A thousand tenants. A thousand homes. A thousand mouths to feed. A thousand hearts to break."

At her charge, his eyes opened to her. They could not have been more perfectly set within his features. So shadowed, they were almost black, a fathomless regard that could have sent soldiers to their willing deaths. They were the eyes of command, of duty, of domination. They stared into her soul, seeing too much, stripping her bare. Uncomfortable eyes, and yet, somehow, she knew no other eyes would ever measure up to them in her own sight, again. Sighing, she returned her gaze to his mouth.

"Your saving grace," she said softly, touching once more his lips. "A woman could forgive much, for this."

He was a dream, a fantasy, a man like no other. He would not capitulate to feelings, to emotion; he was much too accustomed to ill winds, stormy seas, citadel-sized obstacles in his path. In that moment, she knew that if she wanted him, she must seize him herself; he would not surrender to simple need or desire. She was inexperienced, yes; but she had power in her, untapped, and he was an admirable foe. If he thought her yet an impediment to his decisive direction, unworthy, easily dismissed, she would show him the error of his ways—and she smiled at the thought. Carefully, she set her lips to his.

In the hour or so since Elizabeth had fallen asleep in his arms, Darcy had conceived a plan—or at least, an objective. The moment she wakened, he must carefully explain to her the situation, ask her where it would be best and safest to deliver her, and get himself away as quickly as possible. He was in the worst of circumstances—with an unchaperoned young lady of good birth. He had considered taking her to the home of her aunt Philips—but that was her mother's sister, and possibly she was not to be trusted. He knew of no other relations except those somewhere in Cheapside. Her friend, Miss Lucas, would probably take her in happily enough, but Sir William was an unmitigated gossip, and instinctively he knew Elizabeth would hate anyone else knowing what had happened. Besides, whether he had her alone in his carriage for twenty minutes or twenty hours, the Sir Williams of this world always drew their own conclusions and told them to anyone who would listen. Avoiding the Lucases seemed best. For lack of a better idea, he continued on towards town; he could always turn a different direction, or even bring her home to Longbourn again once she was fully recovered.

Yet, there were further problems. He did not worry about Harwood or Frost; they would never say a word. He had given Bingley's stableman a large gratuity which hopefully ensured his silence, although one could never be completely certain. Still, it was Mrs Bennet and Collins who were the real unknowns in this situation. Mrs Bennet had shown herself to be ruthless and amoral; Collins was certainly governed by neither intelligence nor common sense. Darcy could, he was certain, have his aunt shut Collins's mouth, but how to shut Mrs Bennet's was, in a word, a pickle. The best strategy on his own part was to rid himself of Elizabeth as soon as he could manage it; the Mrs Bennets of this world could not touch him. But might Elizabeth pay a price, regardless?

He should not care, he told himself. This was not a situation of his own making. He had been avoiding the dropped handkerchiefs—and other, less obvious schemes—of managing mamas and manoeuvring misses for years. He had done what he could, would do what he could for her, but nothing more.

Then she opened her eyes, those lovely, trusting eyes.

Reaching up, she touched his lips, his nose, his brow. He was paralysed, frozen, helpless beneath those featherweight touches.

Move away , he ordered himself. Move her away. Put her on the opposite bench, as you ought to have done immediately, instead of worrying she might tumble to the floor. Do not be a fool .

He nearly obeyed that reasoned, sensible voice…that is, until she smiled at him, a slow smile, a dawn's sunlight lighting the horizon, bringing his every sense into the sharpest focus. Until she returned her fingertips to his lips, murmuring words he could not understand.

Until her lips touched his, and he lost his mind.

Darcy was a man who held his passions rigidly in control, always. He had lived in the shadow of a man, nearly his own age, who delighted in freeing them, exorcising them, using them and being used by them. He had seen the destruction in the lives of those wrecked by it. He had spent years attempting to undo its effects, trying, usually futilely, to sort through the ruins for survivors.

One touch of her mouth to his and he was the one wrecked, ruined, destroyed. One touch of her mouth to his and he simply…forgot.

His hand slid up her back, up the slim strength of her spine, up into the dense locks of her hair falling over them both, then shaping around her head, holding her to him close and closer still. Her mouth opened beneath his, sweetly, plunging them both into a new country of feelings, a wild hinterland, begging to be explored.

He forgot duty.

He forgot discretion.

There was only Elizabeth, water to a thirsting man lost in a desert so long, he had forgotten its revitalising flavour, the taste of it, its quenching power. In the history of the world, he was certain, there had never been such a kiss. She was Niagara Falls to his parched and drab life, and he could not drink deeply enough. He wanted to drown in her.

"Elizabeth," he said, in what he feared was a moan. "Elizabeth."

His mouth came back down to hers, but she reared back and looked at him, really looked, with shocked and startled eyes. She scrambled off his lap, except her limbs did not quite move properly and she fell—or would have done, had he not caught her. Still, she lunged for the door.

"Elizabeth!" he cried, trying to stop her from throwing herself again towards it. "We are moving, drat it! You will be hurt!"

"You do not understand," she panted, struggling. "Out! I must get out!"

Sunshine gleamed in from the window since he had not bothered to pull the blinds, and at last he noticed what he ought to have seen at once—her skin had turned unnaturally pale. He pounded on the roof of the carriage and immediately felt the slowing of its motion. Not waiting for aid from without—or, even, the carriage to come to a complete halt—he half-leapt from the vehicle, hauling her away from it as quickly as possible. Seeing that they were on a deserted portion of the road surrounded only by fields, he set her down beside some shrubbery growing along a low stone wall. They made it only just in time, as she dropped to her knees and retched.

At first, Elizabeth could only shudder with the spasms. She could not stop the audience to her painful humiliation, not when he gathered her hair back and held it away from her so she could cast up her accounts without interference.

Why, oh why was she here in the middle of nowhere, wretchedly ill, before none other than Mr Darcy?

He said nothing, but she could feel the heavy weight of his autocratic stare, as if she was the one at fault for this entire bizarre not -a-dream state of affairs.

Was she the one? Had she truly been kissing him? Had he been kissing her? Surely not!

As soon as her stomach seemed to have ceased its upheaval, she made a motion to stand. Unfortunately, her limbs were trembling, clumsy, and disobedient. What should have been a nimble move was a general lurching towards the ground, which he only just managed to avert so that she narrowly avoided falling upon her face. It was excessively lowering, when she had already believed she could descend no lower.

"Perhaps you would excuse the imposition of proximity, and remain where you are until your balance resumes?" he asked in his usual haughty tones. "You are not feeling quite the thing, I daresay."

Sarcasm! What she wanted to do was demand explanations, censuring him for familiarity and possibly her abduction. What emerged from her mouth was…ridiculous.

"Ditzwilliam Farcy," she mumbled. "No. Argh." She slapped her palm to her forehead and nearly knocked herself to the ground again.

The act did not prevent her seeing the corner of his mouth tip up, causing an unexpected dimple to appear. "I have been called worse," he said. That almost-smile softened the supercilious air usually attending him; at the same time, it reminded her of the…dream. It had surely been a dream, had it not? It could not be real. No one kissed like that, except in foolish dreams.

Suddenly, she wanted to weep, and only the remnants of her tattered pride prevented her from bursting into tears.

Instead of anything sensible, anything at all, she heard herself semi-incoherently plead three words: "H-help me sit." She wasn't sure whether she had managed to voice even that, but as if he understood her regardless, Mr Darcy picked her up and gently set her on a shaded portion of the wall some distance from where she had…lost her composure. As he moved away from her, she nearly fell over backwards; with one swift motion he settled down beside her, a strong arm around her shoulders, supporting her.

One nod of his head to his men—both stationed beside the coach, pretending to notice nothing—brought a skin of water to her. Carefully he held it to her lips; she took small sips until at last she could no longer taste the strange metallic flavour upon her tongue.

"What… the matter w'me?" She heard the slur in her question, and wondered at it.

"You have been drugged," he said, as complacently as he might have commented upon the weather.

"Wha-what?" The single word she had managed did not begin to express the horror and fear she felt at this revelation. She struggled to move away from him, nearly tumbling off the wall in the process.

Gently, he plucked her back, tucking her into his side. She strained to move away, albeit futilely, until he caught her hands in his own.

"Not by me, mon rêve . To the best of my understanding, you must blame your mother. Evidently, she very much wished you to wed your cousin Collins, and administered to you some medication of your father's in order to render you more agreeable to the idea. I think she overdid it."

Mama ? Truly? How could it be so? It must be impossible! And yet, a memory struck her, of her mother's arrival in her bedroom this morning, carrying a breakfast tray. Had she not noted how unusual Mama's determination that she eat all of the rather unusually spiced breakfast provided to her? Since when did Mrs Bennet ever carry breakfast to any of her daughters? Her excuse of worrying over Elizabeth's exertions at the ball made no sense, in retrospect. It had been odd; she ought to have been suspicious. She had simply never dreamt that her mother would stoop to such an action.

"H-how…did you…"

"How did my intervention come about? One of your servants informed one of my servants of the plot, and he informed me, only just in time to prevent it. I apologise that there was no opportunity to procure proper chaperonage. Neither did I wish to inform any others, believing you would rather it be kept private."

"I…yes."

She had believed she could be humbled no further, but knowing now that he had been required, by his gentlemanly honour, to save her from an ignominiously plotted marriage to her cousin was the last straw. A tear fell, and then another. She felt them trickle down her cheeks and had neither the strength nor the will to stop them. Every vulgar belief he doubtless held about her family had been proved correct, and she prayed fiercely that if only she could at this moment be struck by lightning, she would never ask God for another thing.

Unfortunately, the sky remained clear, the weather mild. Another debilitating wave of dizziness swept through her, adding to her misery.

"I am sorry," she whispered. There was nothing else she could say.