He was already moving. In an instant, he was at her side, his arms catching her before she could sink to the floor. The scent of wind and salt and something distinctly him filled her senses as he pulled her against him, his grip fierce, unyielding.
“Elizabeth,” he breathed again, as if saying her name was the only way to convince himself she was real.
She clutched at the fabric of his coat, her fingers shaking. “You—you found me.”
His hand swept over her hair, his touch reverent, searching. “Are you hurt?” His voice was low, urgent, the words rough with restraint.
She swallowed, forcing herself to focus. “My head,” she admitted. “And I am… very thirsty.”
A quiet, strangled sound escaped him—half relief, half fury. “I will kill them,” he muttered.
Elizabeth exhaled a weak, broken laugh, the tension of hours of captivity snapping all at once. “You cannot kill all of them, Mr. Darcy.”
He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his eyes dark and storming. “Watch me.”
She did not know whether to laugh or weep. Perhaps both. But she did know one thing.
She was safe now.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“This is entirely unnecessary,”Elizabeth protested, wriggling slightly in Darcy’s arms as he ascended the stairs. “I am perfectly capable of walking.”
Darcy tightened his grip even more, adjusting her weight effortlessly. “You are barely capable of standing.”
Elizabeth let out an exasperated huff. “That is a gross exaggeration.”
Uncle Gardiner, trailing behind them with Richard, cleared his throat. “I did see her stumble a few times, Darcy. Do not listen to a word she says.”
Elizabeth twisted to glare over Darcy’s shoulder. “You are supposed to be on my side, Uncle.”
“I am on the side of reason,” her uncle replied, though his eyes crinkled in amusement.
“I have two functioning legs,” Elizabeth continued, turning her argument back to Darcy.
“You also have a head injury and have not had proper food or water for many hours,” he countered. “If I put you down, you will topple over like a poorly stacked pile of books.”
“That is an outrageous metaphor.”
The colonel chuckled from behind them. “Actually, I thought it was rather apt.”
“You are all insufferable,” Elizabeth grumbled, crossing her arms. “You cannot simply cart me about as if I were some feeble invalid.”
Darcy did not smile, but it looked like a near thing. “No one said you were 'feeble.' In fact, for a lady with a crack in her skull, you have a rather large quantity of words, Miss Bennet.”
She sighed dramatically, resigning herself with a shake of her head. “Very well. But if you dare drop me, Mr. Darcy, I shall make certain it haunts you for the rest of your life.”
His grip on her tightened. “I do not drop what is precious to me.”
The words—spoken low in her ear, and so quietly that Uncle Gardiner and Colonel Fitzwilliam never even looked up—hung between them for half a breath, before Elizabeth glanced away. “Now you are just trying to ensure I do not argue further.”
“Is it working?”
She pursed her lips. “I shall let you know after I have had a bath.”
By then, they had reached the guest chambers, and Darcy strode through the open door, ignoring Elizabeth’s theatrical sigh as he carefully placed her down on the edge of the bed. His housekeeper, Mrs. Tate, and two maids waited, their gazes darting between their master and the disheveled lady he had just carried in.
“Miss Bennet is to have everything she requires,” Darcy instructed firmly. “Food, water, warm towels. If she is not resting properly within the next hour, I will summon a surgeon.”
