Her eyes fluttered but did not open.
"It is only Darcy," he whispered, before realising this was unlikely to reassure her.
She made a faint sound and turned towards the warmth of the fire. Her hand had slipped free from the blankets. He touched it cautiously and found it still too cold. For a moment he only looked at her fingers.. Then, telling himself that this was a matter of necessity and nothing more, he took her hand between both of his and began to rub warmth back into it.
She sighed.
"There," he said, though he had no idea whether she heard him. "You are safe."
She shifted again, brow furrowing. "Jane?"
"No. Darcy."
Her frown deepened. It seemed even half-conscious, this answer unsatisfactory.
"Of course," she murmured.
Despite everything, Darcy nearly laughed.
The room grew quieter as the hours passed. The noise from the taproom faded until only the storm remained, rattling the window and sending occasional gusts down the chimney. Burke came once to report that there was still no doctor, but Thomas had reached Barley Cross and had learned nothing of Mr and Mrs Frost. The road had been almost impassable so he had not lingered, but more enquiries would be made the next day.
By midnight Darcy had abandoned the chair and sat on the edge of the bed to keep her from throwing off the blankets in her restless sleep. By one o’clock he was chafing her shoulders to try and warm her further. By two, when another violent shudder passed through her and she turned instinctively towards him, he tugged off his boots, his coat and cravat and crawled on the bed next to her.
Elizabeth Bennet was tucked against his side, her head resting near his shoulder, while he lay stiffly on top of the counterpane with one arm around her and blankets drawn up over bothof them. Gradually the violent trembling subsided, until the only movement he could feel was the slow rise and fall of her breathing against his shoulder.
Darcy lay awake for a long time staring into the darkness above the bed. Every sensible part of his mind informed him that he ought to sleep. But each time he closed his eyes he found himself listening for the sound of Elizabeth’s breathing beside him.
She shifted slightly in her sleep and burrowed deeper against his shoulder, seeking warmth even while unconscious. Darcy closed his eyes again. This was torturous. He had spent weeks trying to put distance between himself and Miss Elizabeth Bennet, had left Netherfield specifically to place many miles between them, and now found himself sharing a bed with her while the storm rattled the shutters outside.
Somewhere beside him she made a small sound of contentment and settled again. Darcy stared back at the ceiling. Sleep did not arrive for a very long time.
???
Elizabeth woke slowly and struggled into consciousness with a strange sense of unease. At first she could not understand what it was. She was warm, curled beneath a heavy blanket in acomfortable bed. It sounded as though a merry fire crackled in the grate. But it was not her bed. And her head ached fiercely.
She was in a bedchamber she did not recognise. The curtains were green and the wallpaper decorated with small yellow birds which flew cheerfully across a clear sky despite the sound of heavy rain pattering on the window. There was also, improbably, an arm about her waist. Close inspection revealed a tanned forearm covered in dark hair. She stifled a scream and turned over, the arm drawing her closer still. Beside her, in only his shirt and breeches, lay Mr Darcy.
Elizabeth pushed herself upright with a gasp. The movement woke him instantly. He sat up so quickly that the blankets slipped from his shoulders and stared at her with alarm. His hair stood in every direction and there was a crease pressed into one cheek from the pillow. The sight was so unexpected that Elizabeth's indignation faltered for a moment. "Mr Darcy," she said, in a voice that did not sound nearly as commanding as she had hoped.
"Miss Elizabeth."
She looked down at the bed. Then at him. Then at the bed again.
"Why are you in my bed?"
Mr Darcy closed his eyes. "Miss Elizabeth," he said carefully, "before you become alarmed, there are several things you ought to know."
Chapter Eight
Elizabeth sat beside the fire and watched the rain slide down the windowpane in crooked silver lines.
It had been raining when she woke and showed no sign of stopping. Mrs Goose had informed her, with some satisfaction, that the bridge some miles south of the inn had been washed away during the night and that the bridge to the north was still impassable. No one would be travelling in either direction until the water subsided.
"Three days at the very least," she had declared while pouring tea. "Though I wouldn't be surprised if it was longer."
Elizabeth suspected Mrs Goose regarded this as excellent news. An innkeeper could hardly be expected to mourn a house full of paying guests.
The information had left her with several immediate concerns. The first was for Mr and Mrs Frost, of whom there was still no news. Mr Darcy’s footman had returned from near Barley Cross with little to report beyond further accounts of flooded roads and stranded travellers. He found no sign of the Frosts. Now Elizabeth was trying very hard not to imagine every possible misfortune that might have befallen them. Now that the southbridge was gone, even getting the little news they had received last night would be impossible.
