She had not spoken since they left the tree line.
Darcy had not offered conversation. He rode just ahead, his cloak whipping behind him in the wind, his silhouette stark against the dim sky as his head swiveled constantly about them. He had said nothing when she mounted. Nothing when they turned east. Nothing as Meryton fell behind them and the last pinpricks of candlelight vanished into the dark.
But he checked the road with every rise.
Twice, he paused to listen. Once, he dismounted and led her horse through a narrow copse, their path swallowed by brambles. She said nothing—would not give him the satisfaction or bother of fielding a complaint—but by the third hour her thighs trembled with effort and her hands could no longer feel the reins.
He knew. Of course, he knew.
Darcy slowed once they reached the river valley, allowing her a chance to flex her legs. “Another hour,” he said, his voice low in the close dark. “There will be a place to rest then.”
Elizabeth nodded. Practical, efficient, no sentiment. But the meaning was clear enough.
She had always thought herself capable. Her father had seen to it—long days in the saddle, summers in Devon with more mud than manners, winters where she rose with the sun and did her own grooming. She had never wanted to be one of those society girls who needed a footman just to mount, and more than once, her skills had proved the envy of her friends.
But this ride—this constant vigilance, this lurching, winding, aching ride—was something else entirely. Her stomach twisted with exhaustion.
And still he said nothing.
At the top of a narrow ridge, they paused. The moon had risen now, low and pale, casting silver across the fields. Elizabeth tugged her gloves tighter and looked out across the countryside. There was no road in sight by this time. No travelers. No sound but the wind in the hedges.
Darcy turned in his saddle, his profile etched in moonlight. “You are keeping up.”
It was not quite praise.
“I am not made of lace, Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice hoarse.
A flicker of something passed through his eyes—amusement, maybe—but he gave no reply. He merely inclined his head and turned back toward the east, spurring his mount into a steady trot.
She wanted to hate him for it.
Wanted to scream at him, rail against him, throw her aching body to the ground and demand that he see her—see her for who she was, not a burden, not a charge, not a problem to be managed. But she knew what this was. This was purpose. This was the man he became when everything else fell away.
He would carry her to the ends of the kingdom before he let her fall. But he would not touch her hand unless duty demanded it.
The thought sent a throb of something sharp and burning straight to her chest.
They crested another hill just as the first grey hint of morning filtered over the horizon, pale and cold.
Elizabeth’s entire body throbbed. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep, and her fingers—now locked in a permanent curl from gripping the reins all night—had gone stiff and useless. She had lost all sense of time hours ago, the road behind them melting into an endless stretch of wind and hoofbeats.
Then, at last, Darcy raised a hand. “There.”
Below them, half-shrouded in mist and crouched in a grove of trees, stood a cottage. Low and narrow, built of old stone. The chimney bore no smoke, and its dark shutters gave no sign of life. But as they approached, Darcy gave a sharp whistle—and after a beat, the door opened.
A man stepped out.
No lantern. No greeting. Just a brief nod. And safety at last.
Darcy helped her down. His hands were warm, steady beneath her arms. She tried not to lean into him, but the moment her feet hit the ground, her knees buckled. His grip tightened. Their eyes met in the dark.
“You are shaking,” he said, and his voice was the only warm thing she had felt on her skin for hours.
“I am tired.”
He did not answer. Just steadied her under his arm, holding her close to his side as he handed the horses to the man and guided her toward the door.
Inside, the cottage was cold, but clean. A single room, with a hearth long gone cold, a cot at the back, and a table with a pitcher of water beside a long wooden bench.
