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Darcy intended the kiss to be a taste, a quick reassuring pressure on her lips, but he was unprepared for her reaction. She pressed herself against the full length of his body, urging him to explore her mouth more deeply.
Every kiss with Elizabeth was intoxicating, like the finest wine he had ever tasted—rich and sweet and smooth. He could not get enough. Soon he was giddy with passion and lack of air; he might as well be foxed.
Many minutes passed before he could bring himself to pull away from her.
She stared at him, two parallel lines etched between her brows. “I do not understand…” Her voice trailed off.
“Understand what?” he asked.
She shook her head. “A vague memory of a dream. It probably means nothing.” He would have asked her more, but she looked away, her expression shuttered.
“I do love you, Elizabeth. Most ardently.” Please believe that much, even if you doubt everything else.
Her eyes fixed on a willow hanging over the river bank. “I wish I could say the same, but I cannot remember…” A tear slid down one cheek.
Darcy brushed it away with gentle fingers, cursing himself for even raising the subject. “I do not expect it. You are not sufficiently acquainted with me.”
Her gaze dropped to her hands. “I am sure when I do remember, I will…”
Darcy wished he could be so certain. “I have no doubt all your memories will return in time.”
She nodded stiffly. Darcy felt so impotent in this situation. With all his fortune and station in life, he could do nothing to mend the operations of Elizabeth’s mind.
They stood at the railing, still as statues, for long minutes. Finally, Elizabeth withdrew her hand from his. “I am tired. I think perhaps I will lie down.”
Darcy watched her retreating form, unable to repress the feeling that he was losing her.
***
Elizabeth dreamed again. She walked in the park of some great house accompanied by the man she had encountered in the previous dream: Colonel Fitzwilliam. They were speaking of Mr. Darcy’s sister, whom Elizabeth had never met. “She is a very great favorite with some of the ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth said.
“I know them a little,” the colonel replied. “Their brother is
a great friend of Darcy’s.”
For some reason these rather innocent words frustrated Elizabeth. “Oh yes,” she said drily, “Mr. Darcy takes prodigious care of Mr. Bingley.”
“I really believe Darcy does take care of him. I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He congratulated himself on having lately saved his friend from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or particulars.” The colonel cleared his throat diffidently. “I only suspected it to be Bingley.”
A terrible thrill shot through Elizabeth’s body, and she quivered with the effort to conceal her reaction from her companion. He must be speaking of Jane; surely Mr. Bingley did not form “inappropriate” attachments so very frequently. “Did Mr. Darcy give you his reasons for this interference?”
“I understood that there were some very strong objections against the lady.”
Elizabeth’s heart swelled with indignation. How could Mr. Darcy have presumed to do such a thing? Only that day she had been reading Jane’s letters and musing how out of spirits her sister seemed. Who was Mr. Darcy to judge that Jane was unworthy?
He had ruined her sister’s chance for happiness.
That high-handed… The gall of… Such an officious… Elizabeth could not think of epithets vile enough to express how she felt about Mr. Darcy at that minute.
The force of words unspoken pressed on the inside of her skull until she felt as if it would explode; her head throbbed and the muscles in her neck tightened as if preparing for a battle with Mr. Darcy. She desperately wanted to be alone but forced herself to continue walking and bantering with the colonel. He must not suspect anything…
Elizabeth awoke panting and sweating, twisted in the sheets. The dark walls of the barge’s cabin loomed over and around her, enclosing her in a room no larger than a jail cell. Pounding in her head alerted her that the headache had followed her from the dream into waking.
But was the dream a memory or a fantastical construct of her sleeping mind? A sister by the name of Jane? Yes. Such a sister had danced at the Meryton Assembly. But she could remember nothing about her sister save a vague memory from the earlier dream. Did she resemble Elizabeth? How old was she? What was her favorite color?
