CHAPTER TEN
Elizabeth tried to suggest that they did not have the right spot. She said that maybe the carriage was just a bit further on, and that the broken wheel wasn't even their broken wheel. After all, all of the scenery looked the same to her.
The road they had been traveling on wound through a thick wood, and there was nothing on either side but trees. Mostly fir trees, still dense even in the late fall.
But Darcy said they must not tell themselves lies. The carriage had been found and retrieved, probably by Wickham. Darcy thought that Wickham had it taken back to the inn where it could be repaired. He would likely be on his way in the morning. They, however, had no way to continue the journey except on foot, and now they had backtracked all the way that they had walked in the first place.
Elizabeth apologized until Darcy told her to stop. She said that it was her fault that they had gone back for the carriage. Now that she thought about it, it was really a stupid idea, and she wasn't sure why she'd insisted on it. Probably, she wasn't thinking clearly because of the wretchedness of their circumstances. Darcy shouldn't listen to her anymore. He had been against her, and he should have stayed steadfast and not given in.
"Indeed," Darcy said in response, as if he wasn't listening to her.
Mr. Darcy must think of her as such an annoyance. That ugly woman he'd never wanted to dance with in the first place who had no connections and a frightful family. Not only that, she wouldn't stop talking.
True, Mr. Darcy had his own faults. But she no longer thought of him as odious, not exactly. He had been badly treated by Wickham, even though he had attempted to do the right thing. And he cared about his sister. And she rather liked the way he looked with his beard for some reason.
"We have to rest," Darcy said to her.
"Oh, yes, I suppose so," said Elizabeth.
"Maybe we can find some sort of shelter in the woods," said Darcy. "Perhaps under one of the larger evergreen trees? I used to play inside them as a boy. We will be concealed inside. The pine needles will hide us from any who might see. And they will provide a barrier from the wind and some warmth as well."
Elizabeth suddenly realized that they were going to be sleeping on the ground that night. Poor Mr. Darcy had been sleeping on the floor for many nights already, so perhaps he would be more acclimated to it. And the bed she'd been sleeping on had been uncomfortable and cold. But this… outside in the elements? Well, she had never done such a thing, not even when she was young.
Darcy found them a large evergreen tree, as he had said.
Inside, it was as if they were in their own small cone-like shelter. It was not so bad. Of course, there were pine needles all over the ground, and they pricked her when she lay down, but she simply had to extract them as best she could. She was quite tired. She thought she might be able to sleep regardless.
She and Mr. Darcy lay down on their backs side by side, nearly a foot between them.
She shut her eyes.
It was significantly colder now that she wasn't moving. The walking had been exhausting, but it had kept her blood moving. Now her fingers were quite cold. She shivered.
"Miss Bennet?" came Mr. Darcy's voice.
Oh, was his voice always so deep like that? It seemed to reverberate through her, and the sound of it seemed to wake something in her. What it was, she didn't know. It was pleasant, though. "Yes?" she whispered back, slightly breathless.
"Are you cold?"
"Well, it isn't warm out here."
"So am I," he said. "I propose we put my greatcoat beneath us and your cloak on top, like a coverlet, and huddle closer. For warmth."
"Oh," she said. "Well, that sounds… practical." She shivered again, and she wasn't sure if it was in response to the cold or how deep his voice was.
"Yes," he said. "It's only sensible that we do whatever we can to stay warm, after all."
"We must do the sensible thing, I suppose," she said softly.
And then there was a flurry of movement, removing coats and spreading them out and trying to pull them over and scooting closer to each other. They were so close that she could smell his scent mingled with the pine needles, and he smelled so very, very male that the scent made her feel warm despite the cold.
Finally, they were still.
His coat was beneath them and her cloak was over top.
One of his arms was fitted under her neck, like a pillow, and her body was pressed into his, one of her arms trapped between them where it was quite, quite warm. The other she had wrapped around his waist, and his other arm was around her.
She had never been this close to a man before.
It was nice.
Not only because of the warmth, but because of that same pleasant feeling that had woken earlier. It was more intense now. It tingled. It seemed concentrated around her thighs, which made her wonder all the more about that comment that Mr. Darcy had been making about horses and whatever it was that men didn't want between their wives' thighs. She felt curious about that, and the curiosity seemed to come from some dark, secret place that she didn't quite understand.
No, that wasn't true. She did understand it, only the understanding came from her physical instinct, not from her mind. It was something ancient and primal, something powerful. She didn't know how to give it words, but she certainly understood, and the closer she burrowed against Mr. Darcy, the better she understood.
He made a noise, a sort of satisfied hum, and he tightened his grip on her.
She sighed a little.
"Warmer?" he asked. His voice seemed deeper still, or maybe it was because her ear was against his chest and it vibrated through her, making something in the core of her being tighten.
"Yes, much," she murmured.
"Good," he said.
"You?" she said.
"Oh, quite," he replied.
"Good," she said.
She had an odd, stray thought go through her brain then. That the next thing she was supposed to do was to lift her face to him and offer him her lips. That they ought to be kissing now, that it was the only rational thing that could be happening.
But then she remembered that Mr. Darcy didn't even find her attractive.
He was only doing this for warmth, for practicality.
The ancient instinct inside her sent up an objection to this, but she silenced it. Mr. Darcy had not wanted to dance with her. He had offered marriage to her, but only out of obligation, and with a long list of offenses to lay at her door.
He didn't want to kiss her.
And that was a shame, she thought, sighing again, but this time wistfully, because she was feeling as though she might very much like kissing Mr. Darcy. Very much indeed.
#
Darcy was in a pleasurable sort of agony and he had only himself to blame for it.
He was the one who had suggested this closeness, and now he had it, and he couldn't wish for anything otherwise. After all, it was definitely warmer and more comfortable. If he weren't so frightfully aroused at the moment, he might be able to drift off to sleep.
He was worried she could feel him, because he straining against his trousers and they were pressed against each other. They were touching everywhere. One of her hands was pressed between them, and it was very close to his crotch. She could probably lift her hand and turn her wrist and… and cup him.
A awful shudder of ecstasy went through him at the thought.
Not that a woman like Elizabeth would do such a thing. Not that he could expect her to have any knowledge of—
He groaned softly, thinking of her talking about pistols sticking out earlier. His hips moved a little, completely against his will, and he drove himself against her softness.
She made a tiny mewling sort of noise, as if the movement pleased her. She wriggled herself against him, moving closer.
Lord, this was hell.
But he wouldn't stop it for the world. He didn't want to let go of her. And he was more convinced than ever that he was going to marry her. He simply didn't know how he was going to bring that about yet.
She hadn't objected to their closeness, the way that he embraced her small, soft form now, and so perhaps she did not despise him as much anymore.
But that was likely wishful thinking on his part. He had done nothing to recommend himself to her. In fact, he had been gruff and short with her, and he had been interrupted before he'd been able to apologize properly.
He considered speaking then, trying to apologize now, but it seemed as though such a task would require a fair amount of difficult thinking, and all the blood in his brain seemed to have traveled to other parts of his body at the moment. He did not trust his capacity for speech, which was inferior at the best of times.
And anyway, speaking would break the spell that had settled over them. She might move away from him, and he couldn't have that. He wanted to hold her like this for the rest of the night. And every night after that. He wanted them pressed close like this but without any of their clothes, and he wanted to run his hands over every soft curve she possessed.
She wanted that, didn't she? Certainly the way she fit against him, the way she eagerly huddled close to him indicated that she was as eager for him as he was for her.
Or, he thought sourly, she could just be cold.
He admonished himself to stop these thoughts and go to sleep.
#
When they woke in the morning, Elizabeth didn't want to leave the circle of Darcy's arms for the chill of the morning. They were cocooned together in their warmth beneath her cloak, and it was the closest thing to comfort she'd felt in days.
Of course, her back was cold, and her body was stiff, and her arm had fallen to pins and needles, and she wasn't really comfortable. One couldn't be really comfortable on the ground.
At any rate, she didn't move, not even to get the blood moving back to her arm. Darcy was still asleep, and she studied his face, thinking that it was a very fine face. His features were strong and straight, and his lips were framed by the growth of his beard. Even with the beard, in sleep, he looked young, and she could imagine what he had looked like as a young boy. The innocence of the child he had been was still written upon his face as he slept. It seemed impossibly intimate that she could be seeing him thus, as if she was seeing his innermost self.
Darcy's eyes fluttered open.
She flushed, realizing that he had woken up to see her staring at him.
But a smile split his lips. "Good morning," he said, his voice scratchy with sleep.
She smiled back. "Good morning."
His hand, which was resting on her back, moved. He trailed it over the dip of her waist and then over the curve of her hip.
She broke out in tingles, gasping.
He looked down at her lips and then into her eyes. "Miss Bennet, I…"
"Yes?" she breathed. He was going to kiss her. She knew somehow. She tilted back her head, giving him access.
His fingers crawled over her waist again, and then over her arm and shoulder. And then he was stroking her cheek, the line of her jaw.
She shut her eyes instinctively, in anticipation.
But there was nothing against her lips but his breath.
She opened her eyes.
He swallowed. "I do not wish to do anything you don't want."
She started to tell him she wanted it. But then she wasn't sure. If he kissed her, did that mean he would marry her? Did it matter if he wouldn't?
Yes, she decided. It did. Because it would be one thing if they were to get out of this, and she was ruined, and he wouldn't marry her. But it would be another thing entirely if he wouldn't marry her and he had kissed her. That might be too much to bear.
"Well," she whispered. "It is only that… well, do you even want to?"
"Oh, I want to," he rumbled. "Yes, I very much want to. I want… the things I want to do to you, Miss Bennet, they are not for a gentlewoman's ears."
Oh, what did that mean? Why did it make her heart race to hear it? "Yes, but… my lack of connections. And my looks. You can only tolerate them. I don't tempt you—"
"You tempt me. You are more tempting than the devil himself." And now he was extricating himself from her and propping himself up on one elbow to look down on her. He continued to speak quite earnestly. "I have been trying to explain this to you, Miss Bennet. When I was at the ball in Meryton, I said what I said only to get Mr. Bingley to leave off and let me be. I did not wish to dance with anyone. I don't like crowds of strangers. They badly affect my mood. And what I said was more a reflection on the state of my temper than the way you look. Because you are beautiful."
She blushed. Deeply this time.
"Do you believe me?" he said.
"I…" Her arm was now painful with pins and needles. She was compelled to shake it out. That hurt worse.
"Is your arm all right?"
"It's only from having slept on it," she said.
"Oh, perhaps it was my fault. I might have crushed it in the night. I am dreadfully sorry."
"No, it was warm. There was nothing about the way we were laying together that was unpleasant. It was…" She swallowed. "Very nice." Ouch. Her hand throbbed. She sat up and began to massage it.
"So, you did not mind it, then?" he said. "I thought it might have been trying for you. I know that you hate me. Being forced to be close to me, I thought you might have disliked that rather immensely."
"Oh, Mr. Darcy, that…" She sighed. "I have been too hard on you, I fear. You are a good man, and I do like you. You are very good to me and you have nice shoulders and I like looking at your beard and…" Oh, dear, what was she saying?
He touched his face as if he had not realized he had grown a beard.
Her face was very, very hot. "I don't hate you at all anymore. Quite the opposite." She massaged her numb fingers and didn't look at him.
"Well, that's excellent news," said Mr. Darcy.
She looked up at him shyly.
He smiled back at her.
She wondered if he still wanted to kiss her. Had he in fact been about to earlier? She couldn't be sure. And she could think of no way to get back the moment before, when he could have kissed her. It didn't seem right anymore.
Her stomach growled.
"I'm hungry too," said Darcy. "We'd best get moving, I suppose."
"Yes," she said. Of course they had to get moving. She couldn't expect Mr. Darcy to stay here under this tree all morning. After all, his sister was in danger. They had no time to waste.
They didn't have possessions to gather beyond his coat and her cloak, so they were soon off, walking down the road.
When a carriage came by, which only happened twice, they hid themselves in the wood to watch it pass for fear it was Wickham. But none of the carriages that came past them were the one they had stolen the day before.
They could take hope from this that Wickham was still at the inn and had not gotten ahead of them, but they could not be certain.
After some time, they came to an estate house with a long winding drive up to the main door. Darcy was pleased, saying that soon all would be well. "We will be able to send word to your family about your whereabouts," he said. "I'm sure they are worried. And I will alert the authorities of Wickham's treachery. He will likely be locked up before the morrow. This awful interlude will soon be over."
Together, they walked up the drive. Darcy went first, head held high, shoulders squared. Elizabeth came behind him, quiet, hoping that her fears about their appearance would prove groundless and that Darcy would be right. She knew that her family must be quite concerned about her indeed.
However, if it were all over, as Mr. Darcy said, then there would be other things to be concerned about, like the matter of her having denied Mr. Darcy's marriage proposal. Surely, if he had wanted to kiss her that morning, that would mean that he also wanted to marry her.
But she didn't know. That could have been a bit of madness. They had been sleeping on the ground under a tree. Perhaps he might change his mind. And certainly, his concern would not be for Elizabeth, but for his sister's safety and for the apprehension of Wickham. That was only right. But what would she say to her family when she wrote to them? They would likely be concerned not only for her future, but for the family's. If her reputation was tarnished, it would affect them as well.
At the top of the drive, the two climbed up a set of stone steps to the front door of the estate and Darcy knocked on the door.
Several moments later, the door was opened by a footman. He didn't say anything. He looked them over, his eyes widening.
"My good man," said Mr. Darcy, "if you will please announce us to the man of the house. My name is Mr. Fitzwilliam Darc—"
"Excuse me?" said the footman, looking scandalized.
"If you could please announce us," said Mr. Darcy. "I realize it may be somewhat early for guests, but we have been through quite an ordeal, and it is of some importance that we are able to send word on to others."
The footman swallowed hard. His face was a mass of furrows. Then, slowly, his face relaxed. "Ah, I see now. This is a jest of some kind. Who has sent you? Are you come at the behest of the driver, Williams? You may tell me. I promise I shall only laugh at the good joke." He laughed then, but it sounded forced.
It was Darcy's turn to furrow his brow. "Sir, I am a gentleman."
The footman laughed again, but this time it sounded more genuine. "Yes, and I am the King of England."
"No," said Darcy. "I truly am a gentleman, and my companion is—"
"Tell Williams I was most surprised," said the footman and slammed the door in their faces.