'Miss Bennet?' said Darcy, praying that she had suffered nothing worse than an ill-timed swoon. 'Miss Elizabeth?'

She did not stir. He knelt, his hands hovering uselessly over her shoulder, then her arm, up to her face, and back down to her shoulder as he tried to decide where it would be least improper to touch her in an effort to rouse her. He settled on the shoulder and shook her gently to no avail. There was not the slightest change in her expression, not the weakest stiffening in her form against the movement. Feeling strangely as though he himself could not breathe, he stripped off his gloves and felt at her throat for a pulse, but his fingers were half numb with cold and he could not find one. Withdrawing his hand, he leaned over and listened until he heard the slight sound of her breathing. Relief flooded him, and he turned his attention to assessing her condition in more detail. Her gown was soaked through by mud and rain, and when he shifted her from her side to her back, he saw blood. Her right hand had been pinned beneath her and he had to assume she had rolled onto it when she fell, for the joint was noticeably swollen, deep purple bruising marking out the injury; she could not possibly have decided that crushing it further was the most sensible option. Worse, when he extricated it from its position, he discovered the source of the blood: two deep gouges that ran from the left hand side of her palm to nearly halfway down her forearm.

He produced his handkerchief immediately and wrapped the wound as best he could. It was no good trying to clean it, he didn't have the resources to do so. He tried again to wake her without success before relaxing his grip on propriety for just long enough to raise her shoulders up out of the mud, turn her with difficulty, and rest her back against his chest so that he could search with one hand for evidence of a head injury while the other kept her propped against him. A raised lump a few inches back from her right temple and largely hidden by her hair explained her continued lack of consciousness. He paused, chest heaving as stress threatened to overwhelm him, and then shook himself and shifted Miss Bennet to see if there were any more injuries he had missed. A hasty survey did not turn up any new discoveries and he returned his attention to the wounds at her wrist.

His handkerchief had quickly proved insufficient to stem the flow of blood and without a second thought for decency his hand was at his throat, pulling at his cravat, cursing the vanity of the elaborate knots. Gingerly, he released her injured hand to rest on his knee and made short work of the problem, pulling the cloth free and returning his attention to Elizabeth. Lifting her hand carefully, he wrapped it tightly and forced his aching heart to ignore the soft cry that his actions tore from her lips, realising that she must be close to waking. The pain could not be helped though, and Darcy knew that devoting energy to fretting about it would not serve anyone, however ungallant it might be to admit such a thing.

The rain was falling more heavily now, one or two errant curls falling into his eyes as he bent to examine his work. Satisfied that it would hold, he turned his attention to the problem of seeking help. Had the weather been remotely cooperative, he could have left her situated somewhat comfortably under one of the surrounding trees while he rode to fetch a doctor. As it was, she would be lucky to escape a serious illness even without being left in the rain any longer. Had she been somewhat conscious, he could have put her on his horse for the journey to Longbourn, but he knew she would not be able to ride unsupported in her condition, and he could not fathom a way of situating them both on the horse without help.

There was nothing to be done for it; he would have to carry her. With a sudden clarity of purpose, he leaned away from her to strip himself of his greatcoat, berating himself for not thinking of it sooner. Wrapping an arm around Elizabeth's upper back and praying that she would not remember this, he slid the coat beneath her and manhandled her into it. Satisfied that she was as well protected as possible, he lifted her knees a little and slipped his hand beneath them, replacing his other arm around her back. Grimacing, he hauled her up and cradled her against his chest as he stood. Her head fell back and he bit back an oath, clumsily shifting her back into a more comfortable position. For a brief moment, her eyes fluttered open at the movement and he saw her eyes, frightened and unfocused, gazing up at him.

'Mr Darcy?'

Her voice was faint, the sound barely supported by the breath. Darcy's heart tightened in his chest and he buried the urge to push her hair back from her face and tuck it behind her ear, not least because he would drop her if he tried.

'Yes, Miss Bennet, I'm here. Forgive me,' he said, 'I did not see an alternative; I must return you to Longbourn and you are not well, you cannot walk.'

She nodded slowly, barely moving. Relieved that she did not seem inclined to take offense, he continued.

'Miss Bennet, can you hold onto me?'

She nodded again and reached up, her uninjured hand trembling as she laid it tentatively upon his shoulder. He could barely feel the weak press of her slender fingers through his shirt and waistcoat, and he shifted her slightly so that her head could rest against his chest.

'Good. Do not try to move your other hand. I cannot tell if it is broken; I suspect it may be sprained. Are you comfortable?'

She graced him with a tight smile, though he could feel her shivering in his arms.

'I am perfectly well,' she said, and before he could think to school his expression he had raised an eyebrow at her in pointed disbelief. To his astonishment, a breath of laughter escaped her before she broke off as the movement jolted her wrist. She closed her eyes tightly as fresh pain and dizziness threatened to overwhelm her.

Short, rapid breathing proved ineffective almost immediately and she swooned again, her head falling back onto his shoulder, her forehead pressing against his neck. Darcy knew he should move her for propriety's sake – there was nothing untoward in the sight of a fully dressed injured lady in the arms of a fully dressed gentleman; the sight of an indecently drenched lady almost kissing the bare throat of a gentleman, however, would likely raise eyebrows – but he did not wish to disturb her, and it would be dreadfully uncomfortable for her to be carried all the way to Longbourn with her head lolling about unsupported… He resolved to shift her when they were in sight of the house, and, taking care to look where he stepped, Darcy set off in the direction of the Bennets' estate, pausing only long enough to nudge Achilles back in the direction of Netherfield and hope that the horse understood.

The rain only intensified as they came out of the cover of the copse of trees, and Darcy grimaced against the cold rivulets of water that ran down the back of his neck from his hair. He bent forward slightly to protect Miss Bennet from the worst of the rain, determinedly ignoring the feeling of her cold lips brushing his collarbone where his shirt had fallen open. What on earth had happened to the buttons? A quick glance down revealed two tiny squares of loose threads that suggested they had been an unintentional casualty of the battle with his cravat. His valet was going to murder him; or at the very least, pointedly avoid talking to him for at least a week. Two weeks, Darcy amended, thinking of the blood that no doubt had managed to find its way onto his shirt during his haphazard attempt at doctoring. Actually, it might be better just to burn the stupid thing; Rogers need never know.

A soft sound drew his attention back to Miss Bennet and he looked down to see her eyes flutter closed again as she succumbed once more to unconsciousness. Immediately he wished he hadn't looked. Miss Bennet's dress was properly drenched, and the whole thing clung to her without the slightest semblance of decency. Horrified—though whether by the sight before him or his decidedly ungentlemanly reaction to it, he refused to consider—he forced his gaze straight ahead and manfully attempted to erase the picture but it seemed to have seared itself onto his eyelids. Every time he blinked he was rewarded with the image presented by his unusual vantage point, which was putting him in a position to see far more than a gentleman ought to. Shaking himself, he heard her moan slightly in pain as he stepped down the slight embankment that lead to the path; any ardour that had managed to fight its way through his distress was immediately quelled in favour of concern.

The wind was vicious once they left the relative shelter of the trees and Darcy's hair whipped across his face and into his eyes. He shook his head like a dog shaking off flies and momentarily dislodged the wet curls only to have them cast back against his brow immediately. He exhaled and dared to glance down at Miss Bennet to see if she was having similar trouble, though what he might be able to do about it if she was, he did not know, given his decided lack of available hands. Somehow the majority of her hair was being held in place between her head and his shoulder, but the few errant ringlets that usually framed her face blew about like the ribbons Georgiana used to tie into her poor pony's mane. He swallowed, his throat suddenly thick with emotion. In all honesty, she had never looked worse; her face was pale and drawn with pain, hair plastered to her forehead, and a smear of dirt and blood across her cheek. He had never seen anything so beautiful.

He increased his pace, her pallor reminding him all too suddenly of the danger of illness if he did not see her safely warm and dry before too long. Distractedly, he caught himself cursing Georgiana's ridiculous novels and the misleading ease with which the heroes always carried the heroines; Miss Bennet certainly was not as light as a feather, or a leaf, or any of the other impossible similes Mrs Radcliffe and her ilk were wont to employ, and the struggle to keep her limp extremities in a position that would not upset his balance certainly had not featured in The Mysteries of Udolpho. Really, someone ought to explain to that woman how difficult the job of carrying an unconscious person of any size actually was, since it was evident that she'd never attempted it. But he was being uncharitable; he could not imagine Mrs Radcliffe's novels selling half so well if in the middle of some great romantic scene the hero informed the heroine that she was far too heavy to be carried any great distance and she'd much better walk. And besides, it would hardly change his current situation.

As he climbed a low hill on their path, Miss Bennet's fingers slipped from his shoulder and down his chest until her palm rested against his heart. If she'd been awake, he was sure she would have felt its wild beating through the inadequate layers of cloth that separated him from her touch. He sent a silent thank you to the heavens at her continued senselessness, and then felt guilty and revised his prayer to reflect his wishes for her good health as well as his desire to escape embarrassment.

Longbourn came into view in the distance as he crested the hill and he walked onwards with renewed determination. It was some time before he noticed that Miss Bennet had stopped shivering. Another might have taken this as a sign of improvement but Mr Darcy had been brought up in Derbyshire, where the winters were colder and harsher than those in Hertfordshire, and he knew well what serious danger such a chill posed. Against his will, he remembered the sight of the youngest stableboy, little Thomas Baxter, being brought in out of the snow the winter of Mr Darcy's tenth birthday, pale as a corpse and no less lifeless. He'd caught only a glimpse of the boy before his father saw him perched on the staircase, peering through the gaps in the decorated wooden banister, and yelled at him to go, but it was enough. Baxter's face had been as white as the snow that the men tracked into the entrance hall when they carried him in, and his lips a stark, sickly blue. His eyes had been shut, Darcy remembered, but he did not look peaceful; he was frowning. It was years before Darcy understood that his features had been frozen in the attitude in which he died, and the thought of that boy still turned his stomach.

Darcy held Miss Bennet closer and prayed that his warmth might bring her some relief. For he was warm, he realised; while the exertion of carrying a young woman such a distance was not insignificant, and though his extremities were chilled and his clothing thoroughly soaked, there was a warmth in his chest that he suspected had nothing to do with the exercise.

He ignored it, focusing on the task of returning her to her home as soon as possible, and organising his thoughts into some kind of order that he might better be able to ensure the proper care was taken when they arrived. A fire ought to be built in her room and a warm bath drawn—not hot but warm—and then she must be stripped and her skin chafed with a dry towel. Her sisters must know not to force too much heat upon her all at once.

His arms were beginning to protest the strain and he shifted her upwards to allow her weight to rest more against his chest in the hope of relieving the ache that was settling in his muscles. Thoughts of decency had been unceremoniously discarded in favour of the practical concerns of the moment, and he did not think of the picture they made as he passed through the gate and finally approached the house.

The same could not be said for the occupants of Longbourn, who had been alerted to the appearance of a dark figure at the gates by an undignified shout from Kitty, whose possession of the window seat afforded her the best view of the path and whose occupation of needlepoint made her the most likely to seek other sources of distraction.

'Mama! Jane! Look, there is a man coming! And he is carrying something!'

Mrs Bennet craned her neck to peer towards the window.

'A man? Whatever can he be thinking of, walking in all this rain? I am sure I don't know.'

The downpour blurred the edges of the figure as he approached, but it was undoubtedly a man, Kitty decided, and as he came within a few yards of the house she recognised him.

'My God!' said Kitty. 'It is Mr Darcy!'

The Bennet women surged towards the windows.

'Lizzy!' Jane cried in horror. 'He is carrying Lizzy!'

And with that, the Bennet household was plunged into chaos.