“Kindly refrain from throwing my name about. Ye do not own me yet, my lord.”
“I doubt any man would truly ever own you, nor would he wish to.”
“Liar. Ye wish to own my very soul. Collecting them for the devil himself, are ye?”
“Shall I send for the village physician then? I believe he is nearby.” Darcy threw a glance towards the Queen's Knees.
“I kissed George this evening. Nothing more. I kissed him good-bye.” Her voice held a hint of regret, but Darcy could detect nothing more.
“That is all the evidence I am to receive?”
“What more do ye require, sir?”
“A kiss.”
“After ye have been inside that house? I shall not.”
“Then I shall fetch Doctor Fox.”
“Fine!” She threw her hands up in exasperation.
Darcy wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close.
“Sir, we are in plain sight. I would prefer the whole world not see that I have allowed ye to molest me.”
He released her, shaking his head and chuckling. “I no longer want to kiss you. I find no romance the act.”
She grunted, shook her fists, and attempted to walk away. Quickly, he commandeered her hand, spun her around, and embraced her. His mouth covered hers completely, crushing and bruising.
But no taste of a man lingered—no tobacco, no brandy—simply that sweet berry taste of Elizabeth. Either George Wickham lacked passion or was a dandy. How could a man not kiss her the way she was supposed to be kissed? She should be kissed like she was the only source of oxygen in the room, like her lips were a font and a man was dying of thirst.
His tongue slid into her hesitant mouth, which verified she had not been spoiled. She had barely even been kissed.
He broke the kiss and let her stumble backward. Casually, he sauntered back to his mount and was up in the saddle in a moment. Slightly confused, Elizabeth took two steps in the direction of her house before Darcy lifted her up with ease and placed her body in front of his, his arm wrapped securely around her waist, his palm flat over her belly.
He breathed close to her ear, and she shivered—it must have tickled.
Just before they reached the bend in the road that led to Longbourn, Darcy brought the horse to a halt and tightened his hold on his intended. He had sensed a change in her person. What had distracted her enough to lean against him, hold on to him? In any case, he found the heat from her body more pleasant than he had even imagined.
“Why are we stopping?” she asked quietly.
Her hands were cold and he removed his from her stomach to cover hers. She was so close he could take in details he had missed before: the way her hair, in the fuzzy dawn light, glowed like a dying fire, how she smelled clean and bright like lemons and sage, and the way she held herself on the horse despite the obvious fact that she disliked the beast. His stomach rolled in a sick way. What might have happened with that boy? She was a conquest, a challenge, and he was worried about his property. He repeated it to himself, trying to make himself believe it.
“Sunrise,” he whispered, pulling the horse in the direction of the rising sun. “I could let you go now, and we could forget this incident happened or I take you to the house where your Papa is informed of your activities.”
“I see.” She shifted in the saddle. “I suppose it is thy decision. Which do ye plan to do?”
“I shall forgive you your trespasses this morning provided you do one thing for me.”
“It is to be a pound of flesh then. Very well. What am I to do?”
“I want a kiss.”
“I have kissed ye once already!”
“Wrong answer.” Darcy clicked his tongue and the animal began moving.
“Wait!” Elizabeth cried.
