"And now?"
"Now I think I never really understood you at all. You are a man of many layers, Mr Darcy."
Slowly, almost absent-mindedly, she drew one hand from beneath the blankets until it rested upon the coverlet between them. It remained there for several moments before inching, almost imperceptibly, across the small stretch of linen that separated them.
Darcy looked at it, then at her. His own hand moved as though entirely independent of its owner, meeting hers halfway. Their fingers touched first, then slowly intertwined, fitting together easily, comfortable—as if they were designed to fit.
Elizabeth smiled without taking her eyes from his. "I believe," she whispered, "we are becoming rather reckless."
"My heart," he answered just as quietly, "we passed that point some time ago."
Encouraged beyond all reason, he lifted their joined hands and brushed the lightest kiss across her knuckles before looking back at her face. She had not looked away. If anything, she had moved a little nearer.
Very carefully, giving her every opportunity to retreat, he reached up with his free hand and tucked one escaping curl behind her ear.
"Elizabeth."
He said it like a prayer. It was the first time he had spoken her name aloud and she closed her eyes for the briefest moment.
"Yes."
He leaned towards her slowly enough that she could have stopped him with the smallest movement. She did not. Their first kiss was almost impossibly gentle. His lips rested against hers only for a heartbeat before he drew back again, searching her face with such uncertainty that she could not help smiling.
"You are overthinking it," she whispered.
She closed the remaining distance herself, lifting her face to his with a smile before brushing her lips feather soft over his. There was still nothing hurried about it. They lingered over each other, easing into and exploring each other with gentle movements. She tasted so sweet, he felt he could drown in her. He ran his fingers through her curls and when she moaned—a very small noise but so intimate he wanted to weep—he knew that he was lost forever. When at last they parted, neither moved very far, their foreheads resting lightly together as though both were reluctant to break whatever fragile spell had settled over the room.
After a long moment Elizabeth shifted closer still and, with complete ease, rested her head against his shoulder.
Darcy hesitated only long enough to be certain she truly wished it before his arm settled gently around her. She came willingly into the shelter of it, her head resting against his shoulder as though it was the most natural thing in the world. He could feelthe steady rhythm of her breathing against him and the curve of her smile against his shoulder. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was where they were meant to be. They were formed for each other and he wanted to share this intimacy every night for the rest of his life.
The fire burned lower, while beyond the shutters the storm that had first brought them together gave way at last to perfect stillness. Neither felt any urgency to disturb it. Their hands remained entwined beneath the blankets, his thumb occasionally brushing unconsciously across her fingers until even that small movement slowed and stilled. Held close in one another's arms, with the world beyond the inn forgotten for a few precious hours, they surrendered at last to sleep.
Chapter Twelve
Darcy woke before the first hint of dawn had touched the shutters. For several blissful moments he did not move. The room was wrapped in darkness, the fire burnt down to the palest embers. He was aware of Elizabeth before he opened his eyes. Her hand still rested lightly against his, their fingers barely touching now in sleep, and the quiet rhythm of her breathing punctuating the early morning silence. He loved her. It struck him as the simplest thing in the world to love her. And all of the obstacles he had considered seemed little more than the smallest inconveniences. He was a gentleman, she was a gentleman’s daughter. They were—in every way that mattered—equal.
He had always thought romantic love a self-indulgent thing. Like an overindulgence in gambling or strong drink—pleasurable in the moment but ultimately irresponsible. Affection might grow between a well-matched couple, but it was hardly a necessity for a respectable marriage. Watching Bingley moon after Jane Bennet had often left him privately despairing of his friend's sanity. But now, now he had met the person who seemed as vital to him as breathing, he found that he understood every poem he had once dismissed, every sonnet hehad once considered overwrought and every lovesick fool he had ever secretly pitied. They had not been exaggerating. If anything, language had failed them.
He watched her for a long time. In sleep she seemed younger, her lively wit and ready expressions softened into perfect peace. A curl had fallen across her cheek and he found himself wanting to reach out and brush it aside, to feel the silkiness of her hair and smoothness of her skin beneath his fingers. He did not dare break the spell that was the most perfect night of his life. Instead, he slipped carefully from the bed, pausing only to look back once before leaving the room. That was his Elizabeth, the woman he would marry. The one he would build a life alongside.
The weather had transformed the world whilst they slept. The storm had blown itself into memory, leaving behind a pale blue morning washed clean by days of rain. Everywhere the inn had come alive with renewed purpose. Stable boys hurried across the yard carrying harnesses over their shoulders whilst ostlers led horses from the stables to be groomed and watered. Coachmen who had spent days pacing the yard now inspected carriages in readiness for departure. Labourers returned from the bridge with muddy boots and cheerful faces, reporting that the temporary crossing would bear coaches, and travellers were busy settling accounts and arguing good-naturedly over the quickest route home. For the first time since Darcy's arrivalthere was laughter instead of anxious speculation. Hope, he reflected, was remarkably infectious.
He had scarcely crossed the yard when Thomas—the footman he had tasked with hunting down the Frosts—appeared from the lane at a brisk walk, his horse flecked with dried mud from a long ride. The moment he recognised his master's figure he removed his hat and smiled broadly.
"I thought I should find you here, sir," he said, jumping down from his mount.
Darcy crossed to meet him. "You have news?"
"I do, sir. Good news."
Thomas reached into his coat and produced a folded letter.
"I found Mr Frost yesterday evening. The flood carried the road away entirely near Barley Cross, but he managed to get the horses clear before the bank collapsed. He and his wife took shelter at a farm to the east until the water subsided. The carriage has since been recovered and one of the wheels replaced by the blacksmith there. Mr Frost asked me to tell you they mean to collect Miss Bennet tomorrow morning, God willing."
Darcy closed his eyes for a brief moment thinking of Elizabeth’s reaction to the happy news. "Thank God."
Thomas continued. "He was greatly concerned that Miss Bennet should know he had not abandoned her, sir. He spoke of little else."
