“Completely insane?” she finished for me, a wry smile tugging at her lips.
I winced. “Yes.”
She looked up from the book, her eyes locking onto mine. “Mr. Darcy, you are many things. Stiff, brooding, and occasionally insufferable... but I don’t believe you’re a liar.”
The words hit me harder than I expected, and for a moment, I couldn’t speak. She believed me—or at least, she believed that I believed myself.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
Elizabeth’s smile softened. “Besides,” she said, turning back to the book, “I don’t think you’re nearly clever enough to invent something like this.”
Elizabeth
Iturned the pageof the latest book I’d picked up from the stack—an ancient tome on Highland folklore—with a sigh. It was an account of banshees, ghosts, and various other Scottish superstitions, all intriguing in their own right, but none of it was helping us unravel the puzzle of Ewan McLean or why he was bound to Mr. Darcy.
Mr. Darcy sat across from me at the table, scanning yet another book, his brow furrowed in concentration. He had been enough of a gentleman to scavenge some firewood for us and had even found an old flint among the dusty stones of the mantle. Now, a fire crackled merrily in the hearth. It was the only sound in the room, and for a moment, I allowed myself to glance at him, just once.
There was something oddly... calming about him now. He wasn’t the aloof, haughty man I’d first encountered in Meryton. He was still stiff, still proud in many ways, but I was beginning to see flashes of something else beneath the surface—something far more complex. I was no longer sure if I found him intriguing or infuriating. Both, most likely.
But we were here for answers, not distractions.
A sudden thought struck me, and I looked up from the page. “Mr. Darcy?”
He glanced up from his book. “Yes, Miss Bennet?”
“There’s something we’ve overlooked.” I closed the book in front of me, leaning forward slightly. “We’ve been so focused on Ewan, but why did Isobel McLean make you her heir? Surely, that’s unusual—especially if she had no direct connection to your family beyond what you’ve told me.”
His expression shifted—just the barest flicker of surprise, followed by a thoughtful frown. “I’ve wondered the same myself, but I never found a satisfactory answer.”
I drummed my fingers on the table, thinking aloud. “Do you think that question might be part of this... mystery? Could it help us understand why all this is happening to you?”
Darcy’s eyes darkened slightly as he considered my words. “It’s possible. I hadn’t thought to investigate that aspect in much depth. I was more focused on ending Ewan’s presence altogether.”
“Well,” I said, reaching for another book, “perhaps we should try a different approach. Isobel McLean must have had some reason to favor you. Maybe her family history holds a clue.”
He leaned back slightly, nodding. “You could be right, Miss Bennet. I will send a letter to my solicitor at once to ask him to report any and all details of Miss McLean’s life and circumstances. He gave me very few details before, but I am sure there are some that I have forgotten.”
“You said she was your grandmother’s friend?”
He lifted his shoulders. “That was the claim. Perhaps my grandmother…” He narrowed his eyes, and then an inspired light shone in his eyes. “I shall write to my housekeeper at Pemberley to have my grandmother’s journals sent to me. Excellent notion. Thank you, Miss Bennet.”
I couldn’t help but smile a little. “Good thing you’ve got me here, then.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, almost—but not quite—a smile.
We resumed our search, but after that, we were both more vocal about our findings. Any curious notion, any strange little fact, was sufficient cause for an uttered musing, which was usually received and considered by the other. It was strange, really—sitting across from Mr. Darcy in a deserted cottage, poring over dusty old books and grunting at our discoveries like a pair of conspirators. I hadn’t realized until now just howaccustomed I’d become to his presence, and even more so to the strange... warmth that came with it.
As I reached for yet another book, my hand brushed against one of the larger volumes I had brought, one I’d nearly forgotten about in the shuffle. It was a thick, heavy book—likely one of the oldest in Papa’s collection—titledAn Account of the Glorious Fight at Culloden, with a Record of the Fallen and Imprisoned, Collected from Reliable Sources.
I pulled it toward me and opened it, the old pages crackling slightly under my fingers. As I flipped through, my breath caught. “Mr. Darcy... look at this. What luck! Fancy me grabbing this when I did not even know what I would be looking for.”
He leaned forward, and I pointed to the page in front of me. It was a list—long and detailed—of the names of those who had died or been imprisoned after the battle of Culloden. Ewan McLean’s name should be here.
Mr. Darcy scanned the page, his frown deepening as he read. “There it is. Clan McLean… Not Ewan, though.”
I shook my head, biting my lip. “Interesting. But I doubt this is the complete list. The book says there were more than fifteen hundred dead, and this looks like it is only heads of clans. Perhaps there is a more exhaustive list further on.”
He stared at the page for a moment longer, then glanced at me. “May I...?”
