Page 72 of Shipwrecked with Mr Darcy

“Jane does not know I am alive.”

“She will know soon. The express will reach England in days.”

Elizabeth pushed herself away from the wall and smoothed her borrowed dress. She lifted her chin with a fierce, familiar pride—the exact gesture he had first seen in a Hertfordshire ballroom.

“We require a clergyman,” she said firmly.

“I will find one.”

“An English clergyman, if one exists in Valletta,” she insisted. “If not, I will accept any denomination that can produce a legal marriage recognised by English law.”

“The consul will have a recommendation,” he assured her.

“Good. We must also send for the Gardiners. If they are in Naples, they must be brought here. My aunt should be present when I marry you. It is not about propriety, Fitzwilliam, it is about love; she is the one person in my family who will truly understand what I have done, and why.”

“I will arrange their passage immediately.”

“You will arrange it, and you will pay for it, and I will not argue with you over the expense,” she declared. “I would rather spend that time being married to you.”

He looked at her. She stood on a foreign street in borrowed shoes, directing the arrangements for her own wedding with unyielding authority.

“You are magnificent,” he said.

“I am merely practical,” she replied, though a small smile touched her lips.

Harrington quickly secured them rooms at a small, modest hotel near the harbour. It was run by an English widow named Mrs Palmer, who assessed their ruined state with a single glance. Within an hour, she had produced a basin of hot water, a bar of lavender soap, a clean shift, and a comb.

Elizabeth stared at the soap, lifting it to her face. The scent of lavender immediately recalled the gardens at Longbourn. That simple, domestic smell finally broke her composure. She had survived the pirate attack, the island, and the shocking news at the consulate, but she could not survive the lavender.

Darcy caught her as she wept. In the small hotel room, with the basin of water cooling on the table, he held her tightly. It was not the quiet, controlled crying of the island; it was the full, open weeping of a woman who had finally reached safety, and was only now allowing herself to feel the terror of the past six weeks.

He held her exactly as the island had taught him: without speaking, offering only his warm, solid presence.

She wept for a long time. The shaking slowly subsided, and her breathing gradually returned to a steady rhythm.

She pulled back. Her face was wet and her eyes were red. She gratefully accepted the handkerchief he offered.

“Lavender,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“It smells of home. I am apparently not as strong as I believed.”

“You are the strongest woman I have ever known,” he said fiercely. “Tears do not diminish that.”

She gave a wet, rough laugh, wiping her eyes with the handkerchief.

He kissed her forehead gently, holding the world at bay while the woman he loved cried over a piece of soap.

“I will go and find a clergyman,” he told her softly.

“Find a good one,” she replied, her voice steadying.

“The wedding will likely be in a small chapel in Valletta, with a borrowed dress and a congregation of two.”

“Then it will be perfect,” she said, looking up at him. “The circumstances do not matter in the slightest.”

He kissed her forehead once more before leaving the room. She listened to his steady, purposeful footsteps descending the stairs.