AllFreeNovel
Share Us
With a trembling hand, he steadied it, took a long drink, then another. He drew back. He nodded. Thanked her again, staying seated. Swayed slightly, which made her fear he might tumble right off the bed.
What would she do if he fell out of it? He was too heavy for her to lift, and the unforgiving chains might hurt him. Placing the pitcher back onto the table, impulsively she climbed up beside him and sat, close enough to shore him up. His toes touched the floor, but her legs dangled, and she tucked her slippered feet onto the bed frame to secure herself and provide more support, placing one fisted hand on the mattress, her other in her lap. She had thought to place one arm around him to further support him—except she had been unprepared for the feel of his body next to hers. It was astonishingly different than she had expected.
How long had it been since anyone had hugged her? Years and years, not since she had been a very young child, and never by her father. Was Papa the same as Darcy, with no softness whatsoever covering lean muscle? Somehow, she thought not. In her concern, she had forgotten he was more than a patient, more to her than a suffering soul. He was her…her Mr Darcy, and even in weakness, his presence was almost overpowering. It had been preposterous to consider placing her arm about him.
Mr Darcy, too, must have been surprised by her action, because he froze into stillness for several moments. Then, slowly, gradually, he relaxed against her, leant into her. He was heavy and warm along her right side. The room grew cold, the fire mere embers. Her gown sleeves were little puffs of fabric, with no protection from the chill, and she stared down at the goose-flesh rising on her arm.
Idly, she wondered what it must be like to be forced to remain in one position, flat upon one’s back. I am a restless sleeper…it would be so uncomfortable, she thought. How would it be to feel weak, sickly, without even the privilege of rolling over in bed? She ought to have been searching for the key and at least urging Georgiana to try demanding one, for all the good it would likely do. But even supposing they found it, what would be the result? How far from his family could he flee, weak and unable to speak properly?
“Are you hungry?” she asked at long last. Not that she had any food to offer him. But stealing into the kitchen was an option.
“N-no,” he said.
And that was all. She sat there with him for what felt like hours but probably was much less, trying to stay awake—fixing upon the odd warmth along her side in order to do so. But it was so late, and her sleep had been so interrupted, it was probably inevitable that she dozed. She did not know it, of course. One moment she was staring at the shrinking candle; the next, she startled awake, wondering what roused her.
Her pillow was hard.
That was when she realised she was curled up, on her side, cuddled against Mr Darcy, her head tucked into his shoulder—in a bed with Mr Darcy. He, too, was on his side, facing her, his arm thrown over her bare one, warming her. Watching her. There was so much impropriety in the situation that for a moment, she was paralysed.
“Liz-zy,” he whispered. And he smiled, or rather, his mouth quirked at one side, his version of a grin.
Time restarted. The snores were still sounding from the next room, and she breathed a sigh of relief, easing in his arms. It was a mistake. There was something about him, something salty, woodsy, and male, that made her wish to press in closer to him and inhale. Giving in to temptation, she placed her arm tentatively over his broad shoulder.
“Liz-zy,” he said again, smile disappearing, as if it were a plea and a prayer all at once.
He pressed her in more tightly to him, and she marvelled at it, at his warmth, his strength, his maleness, his power. He is more of a man than Papa ever was, even diminished and chained. His eyes were on her lips, and she wished he would kiss her.
Did you mean it?she wanted to ask. Did you mean to tell me of your love? “I should get back. It must be close to dawn,” she whispered instead.
He nodded solemnly. She could barely see him in the candle’s dim glow.
“I do not wish you to be at the mercy of that awful doctor,” she said.
He only shrugged.
She wished she could stay with him even here, order the foolish medic away, tell his aunt to jump from the London Bridge. “Would you care for another drink of water before I leave?”
He looked at her for a long moment. His eyes were shadowed in the dim light of the candle, which must be burning low; he had the longest lashes, she noticed. A temptation to touch them whispered imprudently in her mind, and she gave into it, brushing her fingers against the softness. His eyes closed, and the chain jangled softly as he moved his hand gently into her hair, combing one hand through it.
“Carrot-headed chit,” she whispered, smiling.
He groaned then stared so intently she thought he would draw her head towards his, kiss her. And she would return it, oh yes, she would. Her first kiss ought to be his, no matter the future.
But she had been foolish, for he only shook his head, slowly removing his arm. The chill was immediate. She lifted herself off the bed and brought him the pitcher while he pulled himself again into a sitting position. He was stronger, she noticed, no longer swaying or trembling.
This time he took it from her, holding the thing with both hands and drinking deeply. At first, she could only stare at the sight of him, neck open, exposing that dark hair at his chest, strong biceps outlined by the thin fabric of his nightshirt. But she bit her lower lip as she realised what he did—drinking fluids so he would have something in his belly to retch tomorrow, if the doctor continued purging him. Preparing himself to face more abuse.
She could think of nothing to support Donavan’s story of Darcy and Fitzwilliam bloods battling each other for dominance; it sounded ridiculous to her ears. But the science behind treatment of various symptoms was murky; physicians often disagreed with each other on what was best, all of them showing evidence agreeing with their own claims. Her experience was limited to treating minor complaints, such as a burn, or chronic ones, as her father’s swollen joints. She did not hold with bleeding, however, which the doctor favoured, and knew the writings of some physicians who agreed with her. She meant to search Mr Darcy’s library for articles, tomes or essays, including any information on purgation, but had already set her opinion firmly against such practises with the evidence before her eyes.
After he finished drinking, she set the pitcher nearby. She would not rewrap the chains again so he could lie upon his side for as long as possible. Let Stimple be blamed for it, if anyone is, she thought.
One more time, she took her hand in his, feeling a terrible reluctance to leave him.
“I assume Mr Stimple has a key,” she whispered. “Perhaps I should try to steal it from him? I ought to have tried sooner. He seems a very sound sleeper.”
But he immediately shook his head vigorously in the negative. “No, no, no.” He took hold of her hand more tightly. “No, no, no.” His throat worked. “Friggot, no good. Prigging…no. Promise. No Stimple.”
So great was his obvious distress at the idea, she immediately promised. How awful of a person was this Mr Stimple that Mr Darcy genuinely feared her trying to cross him?
