How Darcy came to be from the parsonage to Rosings Park, Darcy knew not how. The maelstrom of emotion assailing him seemed simply to pick him up from one location, toss him about, then deposit him in another. He was not even aware of entering that grand house until Colonel Fitzwilliam called out to him.
Fitzwilliam, who knew every particular of Darcy's past, was instantly on guard when his gaze fell upon Darcy's wild, dishevelled appearance. His hand instinctively went to the place where, if he had worn his usual regimentals, his sword would have been.
He had to give the man credit. Though they were as fond of one another as cousins could be, Darcy knew Fitzwilliam wouldn't hesitate to do what must be done to protect their great family.
"Darcy," Fitzwilliam said, placing himself between the parlous entrance and Darcy, "you are… unwell?" His words were steely, full of questions he dare not speak.
Are you in control?
Are you a danger?
What have you done?
Raising gloved fingers to his lips, Darcy found them still wet with blood. With Elizabeth's blood.
Good God.
Hunger flared to life within him. At once, all Darcy could think or feel was her. Already, Elizabeth coursed through him, energizing him, filling him with life and power yet the hint of blood tickled Darcy's senses drove him wild.
Fitzwilliam took a warning step forward as Darcy's eyes brightened with Bloodlust.
Get control of yourself, man!
Grabbing the elegant balustrade for support with one hand, Darcy held up the other to halt the other man.
"No," he said in a voice that was nowhere near certain. "I am well." His grip on the bannister tightened as he fought himself. "I am well," he insisted, more to himself than Fitzwilliam.
Darcy heard what his cousin could not: the faint crack of wood coming apart. He slowly unwrapped his fingers from around the highly polished wood. Begging Fitzwilliam to make his excuses, Darcy hurried up the staircase seconds before his aunt's indelicate footstep warned of her approach.
He would, no doubt, be subjected to more than one lecture about proper decorum when next his aunt got a hold of him, but he cared not. The only concern Darcy had was to get Miss Bennet's blood off his lips before it led him to do something regrettable.
Such as attacking the woman you love in broad daylight? Forcing yourself upon her person after she so succinctly dismissed your affections?
The door slammed behind Darcy as he enshrined himself in his room. His manservant took one look at Darcy and hastily excused himself under the pretence of finalizing their travel arrangements. Darcy could not blame the man; he was faithful, but not foolhardy.
Alone, Darcy removed his gloves, splashed water into a basin, dipped his hands in, and raised the pooled water to his lips. There, he hesitated, unable – perhaps, if he were honest, unwilling – to remove the final traces of Miss Bennet's blood from his person.
His tongue darted out, seemingly of its own accord, to press against the fullness of his bottom lip. Just the merest taste of her was enough to shatter Darcy's tentative control. In two quick strides, he was at the door. Throwing it wide, he-
-found himself staring down the muzzle of a pistol.
Fitzwilliam's eyes were hard. "I love you as though you were my brother," he said in a voice barely above a whisper, "but you are not leaving that room until you are in full control once more."
The rational part of Darcy's mind was grateful for the man's interference. It was not so large nor so fierce, as the part that longed to tear through his beloved cousin on his way to Elizabeth. Dimly, through the haze of furious hunger, Darcy heard the click of a gun being cocked.
"You cannot kill me with that," Darcy snarled.
"No," Fitzwilliam conceded, "but it will, at least, inconvenience you."
Amusement broke through the Bloodlust. 'Inconvenience,' indeed. Spending the next several days regrowing a brain would certainly be that. A dry chuckle escaped Darcy as he retreated into his room once more. Fitzwilliam kept his wary vigil.
"Hold your fire," Darcy said, dragging a hand through his already mussed hair. "I assure you I am in control."
Now.
"I have no intention of leaving this room, regardless," he assured the other man.
Colonel Fitzwilliam's gaze did not waver as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. "And I? Am I to be called away to Hunsford, to the site of some unexplainable tragedy?"
A shiver ripped through Darcy. He had, himself, never been the cause of such a tragedy, but both he and Fitzwilliam had been called upon to conceal the truth of Wickham's wrongdoings. The thought of Elizabeth's body, completely drained of blood, shook him.
What he had done…
What he might have done!
"No," he breathed. "No." No matter what, Darcy must never again lose control around Elizabeth. But, could he trust himself? Resist the daemon within?
Fitzwilliam's stance relaxed after a moment's consideration. "That is a comfort. Tell me, cousin, what happened to cause you arrive in such a state?"
Darcy could keep nothing from his dear friend. He haltingly told of his failed proposal. Though he said nothing, a range of emotions crossed the man's face, from surprise, to disappointment, and horror.
"And Miss Bennet?"
Motioning to the bloody gouges streaking his face, Darcy gave his cousin a wry grin. "That lady defends herself admirably."
"So I see." Fitzwilliam gazed out the window a moment before continuing. "Your behaviour is unforgivable, Darcy."
As if that must be said!
"Yes, it is."
Fitzwilliam knew Darcy too well to doubt the torment he put himself through. As such, he kindly chose not to focus on the attack but, rather, the proposal.
"I must confess my astonishment that Miss Bennet rejected you so vehemently before she knew of your ailment," he said. "That someone of her circumstance should-"
"No," Darcy interrupted. "The fault is my own. I have used my affliction as an excuse for ungentlemanly behaviour."
Pressing his lips together, Fitzwilliam did not press the issue but turned to give Darcy a curious look. "And you say her refusal was based on the fact that you wronged Wickham?"
Anger flashed through Darcy at the mention of his childhood friend. At the man who had cursed him to this existence. To think Miss Bennet might prefer that scoundrel made him want to…
He shook off the rage clawing at him with some difficulty. "It would seem Mr. Wickham has been spreading untruths among some social circles."
"Indeed, it does," Fitzwilliam agreed. He crossed to where Darcy stood and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Well," he said, "at least in that you may defend yourself."