Page 34 of Shipwrecked with Mr Darcy

She held his gaze, and he held hers. They were ostensibly discussing the rain, but the true conversation required no words. They both knew what had moved between them could not be walked back.

“Good night, Mr Darcy.”

“Good night, Miss Bennet.”

She lay down on her pallet, and he lay down on his. The fire crackled between them. Four feet of flagstone separated them. He lay awake listening. He could hear her breathing with the careful steadiness of a woman who was entirely awake.

He closed his eyes, still able to sense the warmth of her back against his chest and the curve of her hip under his hand.

The line had moved. It was not going back.

Chapter Fifteen

The argument was about the roof.

“Flat stones,” Elizabeth said. She was already on the hillside, assessing the slope above the tower. “They will not rot.”

“The beams will not hold them,” Darcy said.

“The beams have held stone for two centuries.”

“Which is precisely why they cannot hold more of it.” He picked up the sailcloth.

She turned. Her expression indicated she found this logic unpersuasive. “You have already decided.”

“The sailcloth is the correct solution.”

“The sailcloth leaked for an entire afternoon.” She followed him towards the stairs. “I would not call that correct.”

He carried it up regardless. By the time they were standing in the lower room with the fire between them, the argument had left the roof far behind.

“You do this,” she said. Her voice was not raised, but its precision was devastating. “You assess a situation and you act upon your assessment. You do not consult the other person living in the building whose roof you are repairing.”

“I consulted you.”

“You informed me. Consulting implies the possibility of disagreement, and that such disagreement might change the outcome. You merely informed me of a decision you had already made.”

“That is not what happened.”

“That is exactly what happened. It is what happened with the signal fire, the water collection, the fishing arrangement, and now the roof. You dictate, Mr Darcy. You dictate beautifully. You behave as though it is a gift you were born with, and the rest of us were born to be governed. It does not occur to you that others might have opinions as sound as your own.”

She was standing close. The argument had drawn them towards each other. She stood two feet from him, her chin up. Her eyes were bright with the particular fire of a woman who knew she was right, and who was not going to permit him to retreat gracefully.

“I am trying to keep us alive,” he said.

“We are alive. We have been alive for two weeks. Our survival has been a mutual effort, and I would appreciate it if you stopped treating it as your exclusive responsibility.”

“I do not treat it as my exclusive responsibility.”

“You treat everything as such. You dictated to Bingley, and to Georgiana. You govern Pemberley, your tenants, your cousin, and every person in your life. You exert control when you are afraid. And you are afraid, Mr Darcy—you have been afraid since we washed ashore. This unrelenting authority is how you disguise the fear. I understand it, for I do the same thing. I am telling you that on this island, with me, you do not have to bear it alone.”

The words landed heavily. She had not planned them. He could see the surprise on her face—the recognition that she had said more than she intended, and that it was true.

He was close to her. Two feet had become one. He did not remember moving, and she did not step back.

“You are right,” he said.

“I am aware.”