Page 22 of Shipwrecked with Mr Darcy

“I have read extensively about the Mediterranean.”

“Naturally. I cannot imagine why anyone would travel to the Mediterranean unprepared. The prudent man reads about cisterns before boarding a ship, in case of pirate attack and subsequent shipwreck.”

The corner of his mouth moved. “The prudent man reads about many things that prove unexpectedly relevant.”

The exchange was neither warm nor cold. The night had burned away pretence, leaving them able to speak plainly. Conversation was the only currency they possessed, and they were both richer in it than they had known.

The sun moved lower. The wreckage dried slowly. The hard tack sat on its rock looking unpromising. Her torn dress dried stiff with salt, sticking to her skin in ways that were uncomfortable and undignified. She ignored it; dignity had not washed ashore with the sailcloth.

She sat on the sand near the pile of salvage and looked at the sea. The horizon was empty, a clean curved line where the water met the sky, unmarked by sail or smoke or any sign that the rest of the world existed beyond this cove.

No one is coming today, she thought. Perhaps not tomorrow. Perhaps not for a long time.

The thought was steady. She held it the way she had held the limpet — with a firmness she did not entirely feel, examining it for what it was, not for what she wished it were.

Darcy sat beside her at a careful distance. He clearly understood that proximity on a beach was different from proximity in the water. His wound was hurting him; she could tell by the set of his shoulders and the way he held his left arm. She did not mention it. He did not wish it mentioned, and she respected the distance.

“We should build a shelter before dark,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And try the tinderbox.”

“Yes.”

The sea moved against the sand. A white, sharp-winged bird wheeled over the cove, screaming its territorial displeasure.

“Miss Bennet,” he said.

“Mr Darcy.”

“I am aware that our current situation is”—he hesitated—”unprecedented.”

“That is one word for it.”

“I wish you to know that your safety and your reputation are my first concern, and I will conduct myself accordingly.”

Elizabeth looked at him. He was entirely, gravely serious. He sat on a beach in a torn shirt, delivering a speech about propriety to a woman whose petticoat was missing its lower six inches. The sincerity was genuine. The setting was absurd. It was so perfectly, characteristically him that she did not know whether to thank him or laugh.

She did neither. She looked at the empty horizon and then she looked at him and she said: “Mr Darcy, we are stranded without reliable food, fire, shelter, or any prospect of rescue. I believe propriety will be the least of our concerns.”

His expression shifted. He absorbed her words with careful attention, nodding once.

“Nevertheless,” he said.

“Nevertheless,” she agreed.

The word settled over the sand like a concession. He would try to maintain propriety. She understood why he needed to. Yet underneath the word, they both knew the effort would matter less with every day the horizon remained empty.

The bird screamed again. The sun touched the water. Elizabeth stood, brushed the sand from what remained of her skirt, and went to see if the tinderbox was dry.

It was not.

Chapter Ten

The tinderbox dried on the second morning. Darcy's hands shook when he struck the flint. The spark caught on the third try, and the tinder glowed. He blew on it with careful, measured breath. He understood that this small flame was the difference between eating raw shellfish for the foreseeable future and not doing so. The flame held. He fed it dried grass, then twigs, then a splintered hull plank. The fire took.

Elizabeth had been watching from three feet away with her arms crossed and her body perfectly still. She was not going to interfere, but she was prepared to have opinions about the outcome. She exhaled.