Page 47 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

“Elizabeth. I should like to speak with you,” he started seriously. “I find myself troubled by Lady Catherine de Bourgh's visit yesterday.”

“As were we all.” Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap to keep them still. “Her conduct was inexcusable.”

“Her conduct, yes.” His gaze fixed upon her face, unblinking. “But I am more interested in her meaning. She implied there exists an understanding between you and her nephew. I should very much like to know what prompted such an assertion.”

“Lady Catherine's delusions are her own invention,” Elizabeth said emphatically. “There is no truth in anything she said, Mr MacKinnon. I trust you shall not allow yourself to be swayed by her character assassination.”

“Is there no truth at all to her words?” He leant forward, elbows braced on his knees. “I have observed certain things myself, Elizabeth. Mr Darcy calls at Longbourn with remarkable frequency. He accompanies his sister for the French lessons, yes, but he remains long after they have concluded. I have watched the two of you speaking together. There is, I have come to understand, no need for him to accompany Miss Darcy anymore, as her attended has now joined them at Lucas Lodge.”

Her hands had begun to tremble. She pressed them flat against her skirts. “Mr Darcy escorts Miss Darcy for Moira's benefit. Mrs Annesley only joined them yesterday, as I understand it, having stayed at Perkins before then. As you know quite well, the lessons take place in the morning room where I supervise them, as propriety demands. If we have conversed, it is because two people in a room will naturally converse. There has been nothing improper. Nothing.”

“Nothing improper.” He turned the words over slowly, examining them as one might examine a coin suspected of being counterfeit. “And yet yesterday he defended you against his own aunt with a fervour I found most remarkable. He spoke of your character as though he possessed intimate knowledge of it. As though he held some particular claim upon you.”

Elizabeth felt her face flush at the memory. “He defended me against insult. Any gentleman of honour would have done the same.”

“Would he?”

“Yes.”

Malcolm's lips thinned. He sat back in his chair and regarded her with eyes she did not recognise. His easy charm had vanished. In its place was something cold and still and watchful, like a predator waiting for its prey to make a fatal mistake.

Malcolm's gaze moved past Elizabeth then, drifting across the room, and stopped. She followed it and felt her stomach drop.

Mr Darcy's gift sat upon the small table near the window where she had left it that morning, a slim book lying open where she had been reading.

Malcolm rose from his chair. He crossed the room in three long strides and lifted the volume, turning it over in his hands.

“This is new.” His voice had gone very quiet, very soft. “I do not recall seeing it before.”

Elizabeth rose as well. Her legs felt unsteady beneath her. “It was a gift. From Mr Darcy. A token of thanks for supervising the lessons, through Miss Darcy.”

“A token of thanks.” His fingers tightened on the volume. “A book. For informal French lessons.”

“It was kindly meant,” Elizabeth insisted. “There was nothing improper in it.”

“Nothing improper.” He laughed, a short, harsh sound that held no mirth whatsoever. “Elizabeth. Can you truly be so blind? It is entirely improper for a gentleman to present such a gift to a woman promised to another. Entirely. In any society, in any county. But most particularly here, where I am watched and measured and found wanting at every turn. Where I am the Scottish interloper, the foreign heir, the outsider who dares to claim what others believe should rightfully belong to an Englishman.”

“Mr Darcy intended no slight to you. I could not have refused the gift without giving offence.”

“Could you not?” He set the volume down upon the table with a sharp click. “How singular. You find it quite impossible to give offence to Mr Darcy, whilst offending me seems to present no difficulty whatsoever.”

She sprang to her feet. “Mr MacKinnon, I am sorry, but you are being terribly unfair.”

“Am I?” He turned to face her, and she took an involuntary step backward. There was something in his eyes she had never seen before, something hard and bright and dangerous. “Tell me what is fair, Elizabeth. Tell me what is fair about watching another man court my betrothed under my very nose. Tell me what is fair about standing silent whilst my own future wife accepts gifts and whispered conversations and passionate defences from a man who looks at her as though she belongs to him.”

“He does not look at me—”

“Do not.” The word cracked across the room like a whip. “Do not insult my intelligence by pretending you have not noticed. I have watched his eyes follow you across every room. I have watched you colour when he speaks to you. Lady Catherine did not pluck her accusations from thin air. Someone gave her cause to believe there was something worth investigating.”

In the corner, Jane had risen halfway from her chair, her face bloodless. Elizabeth shook her head, a tiny, desperate movement, and Jane sank back down, but her hands gripped the armrests as though she might fly apart at any moment.

“There is nothing between Mr Darcy and me.” Elizabeth's voice came out steadier than she had any right to expect. “I do not know what Lady Catherine believes or why she believes it. But I have given you my word, Mr MacKinnon. I have accepted your proposal. I have agreed to be your wife. What more would you have me say?”

Malcolm stood very still. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to something low and quiet, almost gentle, and somehow that was worse than the anger.

“I find I can wait no longer,” he said at length.

Elizabeth's mouth went dry. “What do you mean?”