“I pray you might someday forgive me.” He met her eyes. They were so profoundly dark, so troubled, so meltingly pleading.
Elizabeth’s skin prickled and burned, aware that she ought to look away but too captivated to do so. Several days of stubble covered Mr. Darcy’s chin. Rather than appearing unkempt, it made him look … rugged … dangerous. Sweat and salt curled the hair falling over his forehead, and it was with every ounce of self-possession that Elizabeth clasped her fidgeting fingers together to keep from brushing them through his curls. She had known his body was strong, but seeing the lines and angles of his form through the thin linen of his open-collared shirt made her throat go dry. She licked her lips and tried to swallow.
What had he been saying? She tried to focus, but the cabin was small, and getting smaller with every passing second.
This was ridiculous! Forcing her gaze away, she took a deep, shaky breath and summoned what clarity sheyet possessed.
An apology. Before his letter, Elizabeth would have basked in the satisfaction of Mr. Darcy’s plea, her prejudices indulged and her own vanity vindicated. And she had accusedhimof pride!
Rolling her eyes at her own folly, her humor was at last restored. “Forgive you, Mr. Darcy? Pray tell, for what? For finding Wickham and Lydia? For covering up their foolhardy behavior with a layer of respectability, thereby raising my family out of the clutches of scandal and absolute ruin?” He raised his hand to stop her, but she was not finished. “Or perhaps you refer to Jane and Mr. Bingley, who I am told has resumed his residence at Netherfield Park? You placed my sister’s happiness above your own pride and placed my family’s reputation above the small fortune you must have settled on that wicked wretch Wickham and my spoiled sister. How could I deny you forgiveness? Do you believe me so unjust?”
A sardonic half-smirk, which she found entirely too attractive, lightened his features. “I see you are still determined to misunderstand me.”
She shot back, “And you are determined to think the worst of yourself.”
His smile deepened, then faded. “It is my fault you are here.”
“How exhausting it must be to assume responsibility for everyone and everything.”
“Only for the causes—and people—I care a great deal about.”
Elizabeth could not poke fun at that. He cared for her still. She had hoped as much, seen evidence of it. But to hear him say it … it was perfect.
He looked everywhere but at her, as though searching for the right words.
She took a deep breath and held her impatient foot still, allowing Mr. Darcy time to think.
He cared for her. She dared not dream that he would propose again, but he might ask to court her. Or was she jumping to conclusions again? Did he care for her in the same manner he cared for Mr. Bingley? Was Mr. Darcy trying to tell her that his ardor had cooled into friendship? Elizabeth tried not to be disappointed, but she felt the blow deeply. Mr. Darcy did not love her anymore. She tried to take comfort in the certainty that they could still be friends. Friends were nice. Friends were good.
Mr. Darcy’s chest heaved a frustrated sigh, and Elizabeth knew that his inspection of the ceiling, floors, and walls had not revealed what he sought. Determined to prove herself a worthy friend, Elizabeth opened her mouth to voice something flippant and sure to make him laugh.
But with rushed urgency, in a manner so unusual to Mr. Darcy as to be shocking, he blurted, “I was overheard saying your name … while I slept. In my dreams.”
Elizabeth’s heart soared. “Oh!” She bit her tongue to contain her laughter. What a fool she was! Convincing herself she was nothing more thana friend to Mr. Darcy—Fitzwilliam—when she could not have been more wrong. It was heady stuff for a maiden to know she occupied a special place in the dreams of the man she loved and had thought was forever lost. It made her bold. “You think of me, then?” She cringed. She was bold, but not that bold. “Sometimes?” she added, as though the qualifier made her any less impertinent.
“As often as I blink.” His voice cracked.
Did there exist a greater happiness than what she felt at that moment? Elizabeth’s heart swelled and swayed. She reached out to steady herself, her thoughts swirling around one, singular, wonderful thought—Fitzwilliam loved her still.
He stepped forward, extending his arm to her once again, ever the gentleman. “It gets better.”
Elizabeth looked up at him questioningly.
“The rocking,” he explained. “Learning to move with the ship.”
Oh, that! Elizabeth was happy to blame her lack of balance on the ship … and not on her own wobbling knees. “That is reassuring.” She smiled. If he wished to move on to lighter topics, she would oblige. For now.
“Would you like to stroll along the walkway? The sunset is striking … and … we have a great deal to discuss.”
Elizabeth delighted in the firmness of his arm under her hand. She knew she ought to be afraid—she had been kidnapped by pirates, for heaven’s sake!—but she was not. Not with Fitzwilliam at her side.
The walkway opened up to the deck, allowing a splendid view of the sunset. Red accented with hints of purple, orange, and gold streaks dotted with small, puffy clouds. The sky was on fire. “It is spectacular,” she whispered in awe.
“It is humbling to feel our own insignificance in the vastness of the heavens, the power of the water.” Fitzwilliam turned to her, eyes pensive, mouth open to speak.
“Red sky at night, sailors’ delight,” remarked a rough voice behind them. He wore an eye patch. “We be blessed with fair weather and smooth seas.”
Fitzwilliam nodded at the man. “Thank you, Bauer.” Elizabeth heard the impatience in his tone.
