She closed her eyes and sighed.
She should have been furious. He had let her believe he found her bothersome, a burden he would rather do without. Had spoken to her with ice in his tone and steel in his posture. But now, looking back, she could see the cracks in that armor, for they had been there from the start. Every flinch. Every hard-won word.
He had wanted her. Even then. Perhaps most especially then.
And now… now he was out there breathing cold air because he did not trust himself to breathe near her.
She rose slowly, smoothing the blanket and folding it with meticulous care, though her hands trembled just a little. She found the bucket and rinsed off the tin plates they had used earlier. Put the room to rights and then, when that was done, she went about tidying even what had not been disturbed.
And still he did not return.
When the door finally creaked open, she turned without haste.
Darcy stood in the frame, a satchel over his shoulder, a pail of water clutched in one hand. He did not speak. Merely entered, eyes down, jaw set. She watched him set things down with the same exaggerated calm he always used when he was trying not to feel.
“You were gone a long while. I was starting to worry you had been discovered.”
“I apologize.” He set the satchel down first, then the pail, careful not to spill. “The well is farther than I recalled. Selwyn left a note tucked in the door. There was another parcel out back—more provisions.”
He did not look at her as he said it, only crouched by the hearth and began building the fire from the embers he had banked before. His hands were practiced and efficient, striking flint, nursing the flame, shielding it from the draught.
Elizabeth crouched beside the satchel and began pulling out what he had brought: more smoked sausage, dried apples, a larger round of hard cheese, a cloth-wrapped loaf of oat bread. Far more than she expected.
“I suppose we can breathe easier. At least we will not starve.”
“No,” he said, glancing at her. “Selwyn is cautious. He always prepares for three times what is needed.”
She retrieved the little pen knife and began to slice the bread. Not because she was hungry, but because her hands needed something to do. It felt strangely like being in a play—her cutting food, him coaxing flame to life like a couple acting out a well-rehearsed routine. A play about a couple who knew each other inside and out, who did not require words to understand their parts.
The thought made her throat close. Because if there was one man she could ever imagine herself living the simple life with… building a home with, rather than just commanding the one given to her…
It was this man.
As the water warmed, he fetched two cracked mugs and poured what little tea they had left into one. He passed it to her without comment, and she accepted it without thanks, both of them too aware, now, of all that remained unsaid.
When the fire had caught, and the water simmered, he straightened.
“I will go back out. Surely you would like a chance to refresh yourself now that the water is hot.” And then he left, closing the door behind him.
Thenightwasthickwith silence—the kind that hummed in the ears and made even the settling of timbers sound like thunder. Elizabeth lay stiff on the narrow cot, her arms folded across her stomach, staring up at the uneven ceiling.
Her mind refused to still. Darcy’s voice still echoed in her memory, low and rough with all he had tried to bury. She could not stop thinking of the way he had looked at her… the way he had held her, kissed her as if she were his only link to life… and then left the room in a rush because staying another moment might break him.
He now sat near the window, angled just enough away that she could not read his face. His outline was sharp against the soft gray spill of moonlight—broad shoulders drawn tight beneath his coat, one hand resting lightly on the table beside him. The other was close to the pistol he had placed within easy reach.
He had not spoken since his last return. Not a word. Not a glance. Perhaps because he would have had to see her hair drying or see her soiled dress laid out to be scrubbed.
Elizabeth turned her head slightly, watching him through the flickering light of the embers. He looked composed. Almost peaceful. But she saw the way his jaw flexed now and then. The way one boot tapped softly against the floor. He was trying to be still. Trying to seem distant. But she knew better.
That was no peace at all.
Elizabeth curled onto her side, the threadbare blanket drawn up to her chin, listening to the slow crackle of the fire dying in the grate. Its flickering warmth did little to chase the cold that had seeped into her bones—not from the night air, but from everything that had passed between them. The silence between her and Darcy was not hostile. It was reverent. Fragile. Weighted with too much.
She blinked slowly, trying to will her body into rest.
And then—
A crack like cannon fire tore through the room.
