Darcy lit a lamp. The yellow glow washed over him—and for the first time, she saw how worn he looked. Dust in his hair. Creases around his eyes. His jaw set too tightly.
This was not a man playing the hero.
This was a man trying very hard not to fail.
She sank onto the bench, every inch of her body humming with pain. He poured water into a cup and handed it to her.
She drank in silence. Then, quietly, she said, “You signaled him before we left.”
He looked up.
“That man outside,” she added. “The one who met us. You arranged it before we even left Meryton for Longbourn yesterday afternoon. You had to have.”
“Yes.”
“He does not know who you are.”
“No.”
She nodded once. “You have had this place ready all along?”
His expression did not change. “I hoped I would never need it.”
Her throat tightened. “Especially not with a woman.”
A long silence. “No,” he said at last. “Most especially not with a woman.”
She looked down at her hands. At the trembling she could not hide. And then, slowly, her gaze lifted back to his.
“Who… whoareyou, Mr. Darcy?”
He did not answer. Instead, he moved past her to the hearth where Selwyn had left a parcel wrapped in oilcloth. Darcy unwrapped it and passed her a small loaf of bread and a wedge of hard cheese. It was cold, rough food, but Elizabeth took it gratefully and ate in silence, her hands clumsy with fatigue.
When she had finished, he nodded toward a narrow cot in the far corner. “There. Try to sleep.”
She wanted to protest. To ask what came next. How he meant to keep half the world from discovering them this time.
But her legs moved without waiting for her mind, and she sank down on the thin mattress. Her eyes swam with exhaustion. The air had grown paler now—the fragile grey before dawn—and her stomach twisted with nausea.
She lay back, arm curled beneath her head.
As her eyes slipped closed, she mumbled, “Where doyousleep?”
Darcy’s voice came from somewhere near the door. “I do not.”
And that was her last thought before she drifted into oblivion—the assurance that he would keep her safe.
May 31, 1812
Darcyhadnotslept.
Not truly.
A handful of times, he had closed his eyes—leaned his head back against the cool stone wall, just long enough to lose track of thought. But sleep never came. Not whileshelay a few paces away. Not while he still had breath to guard her with.
Selwyn was gone. The last signal exchanged, and the man vanished into the woods as quickly as he had appeared, leaving behind only the ghost of reassurance and two worn blankets.
Darcy had already tended the horses twice. He had checked the perimeter three times. He had washed his face in the shallow stream behind the house until his skin stung.
