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William stared without seeing as he contemplated the idea. “There is nowhere else we could so easily disappear as in Paris,” he mused. “Although it does seem rather like entering the belly of the beast.”
“Do you know of any English agents in Paris?”
“No.” William snapped his fingers. “But I do know someone who could help us! My old governess lives in Paris. We correspond, although rather infrequently of late. But I have not heard of her decease.”
“Are you certain she would help us?”
“She loves me and Georgiana like a mother. Plus, the Darcy estate pays her pension.” He nodded briskly. “Very well. We are for Paris!”
***
They embarked on the next phase of their journey in high spirits. Although Darcy did not urge the horse to run, he set a brisk pace, and they made progress as the noonday sun climbed high into the sky. They did not stop for lunch, but Elizabeth retrieved some cheese and bread from a hamper that the Martins’ housekeeper had insisted on packing for them. The roads were sparsely traveled; everyone they saw appeared to be farmers or tradesmen, with nary a soldier in sight.
Elizabeth’s health held for most of the day, with only three episodes of coughing. By late afternoon, however, she was visibly wilting. Although she had not uttered a word of complaint, her conversation had faded to single words, and her face was notably paler.
Increasingly, Darcy drove with one eye on Elizabeth. When her head began to droop, he feared she would fall. Transferring the reins to his left hand, he drew her close until her head rested on his shoulder. She showed no impulse to flinch away but made an approving noise and burrowed closer to his side. Darcy held his breath, fearing he would disturb her.
He ignored the voice in his head that screamed about the impropriety; her body was such a warm and welcome weight—its presence provoking tender, protective sentiments—that surely there could be no evil in it.
He allowed himself a brief fantasy that she was his wife in truth: she might lay her head on his shoulder at any minute of the day, and he would have the privilege of encircling her in his arms whenever the mood struck him. No wonder men pursued marriage.
Darcy was drawn from his reverie by the welcome sight of a village in the distance. Given the uncertain state of Elizabeth’s health, they would need to rest for the night. As they entered the hamlet, Darcy was pleased to find a coaching inn almost immediately. It appeared to have been built when Henry VIII had been on the throne in England, but it would have to do.
When Darcy reined in the horse, Elizabeth started, blinked, and raised her head, leaving his shoulder cold and bereft. “Should we stop already?” She peered at the sun, low in the sky and casting long shadows but not near dusk. “It is not so very late.”
“An early night will do us both a world of good,” Darcy said gently. “We can set out tomorrow at the crack of dawn.” Elizabeth viewed the inn anxiously. “We would have encountered any pursuers by now,” he reassured her.
Elizabeth allowed her shoulders to slump. “I must admit to fond thoughts of a warm dinner and soft bed.”
The inn was shabby but clean enough. It was not crowded; the innkeeper was quite happy at the sight of Darcy—and even happier at the sight of his coins. Taking the best accommodations available, he ordered dinner to be brought to the room right away. Darcy regretted that he could not avoid temptation by ordering separate rooms, but he could not protect Elizabeth effectively from another room.
Elizabeth leaned heavily on his arm as he escorted her up the stairs. An alarmed Darcy felt her forehead for fever, but it was cool.
After settling Elizabeth in the room with an admonishment to eat before sleeping, Darcy visited the stables to arrange for a fresh horse in the morning. The stablemaster was quite accommodating despite giving Darcy many puzzled glances. Only as he climbed the stairs to their room did he realize why. As his hand reached for the banister, he noticed the roughly woven fabric encasing his arm.
Darcy swore under his breath. Living with the Martins, who had guessed much of his secret, he had forgotten to play the role of a simple laborer. His clothes suited the role of a poor wanderer, but he had approached the inn as the master of Pemberley. He had commanded the finest room, ordered the best meal, and arranged a new horse. “Some spy you are,” he said to himself under his breath. Britain was fortunate that her future did not rely on Darcy’s thespian skills.
He paused at the top of the stairs, considering whether his blunder was sufficient to require an immediate departure. But he had promised both the innkeeper and the stablemaster additional payments in the morning. If they alerted the provincial authorities to the presence of a pair of odd travelers, neither man would receive those coins. Darcy continued toward the room with some misgivings. I will be a better actor in the future, he vowed.
He strode quickly to the end of the narrow hallway, worn boards squeaking with each step, and eased the door open just enough to slip inside the room. The sun was just beginning to set, but Elizabeth was already deeply asleep. A nearby tray attested to her worthy attempt to eat a dinner of hearty stew and bread. About half the food had been consumed, but sleep had plainly stolen over her before she had finished.
The innkeeper had provided a bottle of red wine, and Elizabeth had drunk half of it. Darcy chuckled to himself; no wonder she had fallen asleep so quickly. Mr. Martin had admonished her to avoid any spirits during her recovery, so the wine had a strong effect on her.
Her hair spread wantonly over the pillow in a profusion of dark curls while her hand rested next to her cheek in a gesture at once innocent and completely alluring. Darcy’s gaze slipped down her body, now clad only in her shift. Of course, he had seen her before in her nightrail and had contemplated her sleeping form. But earlier it had been easy to think of her as an invalid. Now…
Now, he was all too aware that she was an attractive, healthy woman.
Darcy ran a hand over his face, reminding himself yet again why he should not touch her. Still, his eyes wandered to Elizabeth’s chest as it rose and fell with each soft breath. She had not climbed under the coverlet before surrendering to slumber, so her bare legs and feet peeked out from beneath the shift’s hem. He could not tear his eyes from the sight, as if he had never glimpsed bare legs and feet before. But they were so well shaped, so impossibly graceful. And they belonged to Elizabeth.
His hand itched with a desire to stroke her lower leg and make her sigh with pleasure. Darcy swallowed hard. Yes, separate rooms would have been a far superior choice.
Resolutely, he averted his eyes from the alluring sight and sought his own dinner, which had been set on a small table. Suddenly realizing how ravenous he felt, Darcy tore into the meal, devouring every last crumb of bread and drop of stew. The red wine also disappeared quickly, leaving Darcy in a more mellow state of mind.
His attention was again caught by Elizabeth’s slumbering form. There was no harm in looking, he reasoned. Elizabeth would never know.
Her mouth had opened slightly, her delicately pink lips parted in just the right position to kiss. Darcy groaned. His fingers tingled with the need to touch her—at least caress a bare upper arm or stroke his thumb over her lips.
You do not have the right. She is not your wife. In the past few days he had acted like a husband to her, protecting her and attending to her needs, but it was merely a habit of mind, not reality.
