Anything to stay awake.
Anything to keep his eyes open—and off of her.
She lay still in the far corner, curled beneath a blanket. Her bundle of outer clothes lay at the foot of the cot, her boots neatly placed beneath. One hand rested over her midsection, the other under her cheek, her dark hair worked loose from its pins and tangled against the pillow.
She did not stir. Not even when the blanket she had tossed over herself so haphazardly slipped down from her shoulder.
Darcy moved before he thought.
He crossed the room in silence, crouched beside her, and gently, carefully, tucked the blanket back into place. His fingers brushed the curve of her shoulder, and he felt the warmth of her through the fabric. He could not help it—he studied her face in the pale light that filtered through the shuttered windows.
Even now, in sleep, in exhaustion, there it was.
A hint of it.
That familiar smirk—curved like a secret. She was tired, worn, and hunted… and yet she looked like she might open her eyes at any moment and laugh. At him. At the world.
He swallowed hard.
Perhaps that was what had drawn him to her from the very first time he saw her. The way she laughed, as though nothing could touch her. As though life—real, flawed, dangerous life—was a joke she had already heard the punchline to.
He stood quickly and walked away.
It was early afternoon when the spell broke.
He had been sitting by the window, staring through the warped glass into the trees beyond, when something touched his shoulder.
A hand. Warm. Gentle.
He did not startle at first. His mind was too slow, his body too numb. It took a breath. Then another. And then he turned.
Elizabeth stood beside him.
She was barefoot. The linen of her borrowed gown sagged at one shoulder, and her hair was a riot of waves down her back. In her hand, she held a glass bottle—half-full, dark amber, unlabeled.
“I found this beside the cot,” she said softly. “I thought it might fortify you.”
He stared at the bottle. Then at her. And he shook his head.
“It would only make me sleep.”
She tilted her head. “Yes. That is rather the point.”
“I cannot,” he murmured, dragging a hand through his hair. “Not yet.”
“You can,” she said, firmer this time. “And you must.”
He blinked at her.
She crossed her arms. “Do you think I am entirely useless? I can keep watch.”
“You should rest—”
“Ihaverested. You have not. I will not let you fall asleep just as someone comes to kill us both.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
She set the bottle on the windowsill, folded her arms tighter, and gave him a look that brooked no compromise. “I will wake you if there is so much as a squirrel.”
