"No, sir, we're that grateful."
Darcy nodded. "Then expect the doctor soon. We'll come by again to see how you fare."
Elizabeth and Darcy left the house amid a chorus of "thank yous" and "bless yous". They waved to the children straggling out behind them, and turned their mounts towards home.
"I can scarce credit he's lain there for two days without anything for pain!" Darcy said in tones of disbelief and anger, shaking his head. "That ankle needs setting, and he needs a good dose of laudanum."
"He also needs to bring down that swelling," Elizabeth replied, already preparing a healing potion of sorts in her head.
"Tell me, do you suppose you might get Cook to prepare a package of goods whilst I see the doctor summoned? Poor souls, it can't be easy for them, wondering how they'll fare through the next weeks. I'll try to make it as easy as possible for them."
"It shouldn't take me long," she said, "but we'd best step up the pace. I can't imagine Nate is all too comfortable."
Darcy inclined his head, and urged his driver to hurry home.
Yes, Darcy was kind, thoughtful and efficient—certainly a man worthy of Elizabeth's respect, even if she couldn't give him her heart.
Chapter Nine
Three days later, Elizabeth made for the carriage. Darcy awaited her, handsome in buckskin breeches and a blue coat. He smiled at her approach, extending a hand for her parcel before assisting her inside the carriage.
Elizabeth returned his smile, finding warm pleasure in the fact that Darcy truly seemed to enjoy her presence. She almost felt wanted, and not for anything but herself. It was a novel sensation, and one she was loath to study in too much detail. Darcy climbed into the carriage with a lean, athletic grace. Elizabeth admired his form and balance as much on this occasion as she had on several others.
They arrived at their destination shortly there after. "You get to carry this packet of herbs."
He lifted the forgotten parcel, grinning. He turned and leant towards her, brandishing the package.
Simultaneously, a loud crack split the morning air and reverberated through the quiet countryside.
Darcy gasped and rocked back, the herbs falling from his hand. Before Elizabeth realized she'd heard a pistol shot, he'd grabbed at his wife turning them about. "Home, Elizabeth, as fast as you can!"
He tossed Elizabeth back inside the carriage, whacked one of the horses neatly on the rump, and urged the driver to take off in haste. Another report sounded, mingling with the pounding of hooves, and the thudding of Elizabeth's heart. Merciful God, whatever was happening? And Darcy, why wasn't he beside her in the carriage, instead of riding behind? He was protecting her! But what about himself?
The stableyard had never been so inviting. Darcy galloped in, bringing his sweating mounts to a thundering halt.
"Tom!" Darcy shouted. "Tom!"
Elizabeth didn't wait to be helped. "Oh, William, your shoulder! You were shot! It all happened so fast I couldn't be sure!"
Tom ran out of the stables. Darcy sent him a piercing stare. "Poachers, I make no doubt. Damned bad shots, too. Gather some men and see what you can find; be sure to determine if any of the local lads were out today. Report back immediately if you learn anything.”
Tom nodded and ran back into the stable, shouting for his undergrooms. Darcy turned to Elizabeth, and enfolded her in a one-armed embrace. Elizabeth rested her head on his shoulder, finding comfort in the beat of his heart and his warm nearness.
Darcy smoothed his hand down her back, pulling her close, as if gaining the same measure of reassurance from her proximity. After some moments, he eased her gently away. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth. Are you all right?"
Elizabeth drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Shaken and trembling, she was otherwise none the worse for the experience. She nodded. "But we need to get you inside and determine the extent of that wound. It's not bleeding much, but I daresay it must painful."
"Yes, it does burn a trifle, though I doubt it's more than a flesh wound. Come, then." He placed a hand at her back, and guided her through the door. Bexley hurried up, asking what was amiss. Darcy briefly explained their mishap, and commissioned him to find a footman to retrieve and deliver the herbs to Nate.
Elizabeth added an order for water and necessary bandaging supplies, and turned Darcy towards the stairs and his chambers. Once inside, she helped him remove his coat. She knew the action gave him some pain, but he uttered not a sound.
The blood pooled thicker on his white shirt, creating a large and gruesome stain about his shoulder. Elizabeth's stomach lurched at the sight. She lifted her eyes to his face, flicking her tongue over suddenly dry lips. Summoning her strongest voice, she said, "William, do you realize—"
"That if I hadn't turned to you in that precise second, I'd be dead? Yes, Elizabeth, I do." His fingers caressed the soft skin under her chin. "Thank God for your herbs."
His gaze held her spellbound for what seemed endless moments. Elizabeth lost herself in the timeless magic of the moment. A sharp rapping at the door shattered the sweet rapport.
She dragged her gaze from his, and Darcy uttered an impatient exclamation. "Come!"
A turning of the knob met his brusque summons. The door opened, revealing a timid Alice bearing a tray of water and bandaging materials. She took one look at Darcy's countenance and set the tray on a small table. Bobbing a hasty curtsy, she fled.
Darcy looked at Elizabeth, giving a half shrug with his good shoulder. "I daresay we should tend this arm."
He fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. Elizabeth came out of her spell and moved to help him, brushing his fingers aside and using both her hands to make quick work of the buttons. Her fingers inadvertently trailed against the warm skin of his chest and taut midriff. She kept her head lowered for fear her awareness of him might show on her face.
Darcy extricated his good arm from the sleeve, and Elizabeth carefully pulled the shirt away from his wound and off the other. The wound was ugly, true, but it wasn't that which made her catch her breath. She'd never seen a man's bare chest, and the sight of Darcy, naked to his lean, slender waist aroused a response in her she hadn't expected.
He resembled a splendid work of art. Muscled arms and wide shoulders gave way to a broad expanse of chest, beautifully formed. A sprinkling of hairs created a star in the center, tapering all the way down his torso to disappear beneath the waistline of his breeches.
A trembling seized her, more powerful than any she'd experienced on their wild ride home.
Gather yourself, Elizabeth!
She tore her gaze from the sight and turned quickly towards the bandage tray, clutching the folds of her gown to steady her shaking hands.
A potent urge to run her fingers over his warm flesh gripped her. Heavens, what was happening to her? She loved Wickham, didn't she? Then why, oh why, did this man have the power to rob her of all reason? It was sheer madness, she admonished herself, sheer, lustful madness.
She made a pretense of arranging the supplies, giving herself several more seconds to find composure. Moving the small table near a chair, she bade Darcy sit. She kept her eyes averted from his, and groped for words to break the awkwardness.
"The poachers, William. Surely they wouldn't have mistaken you for an animal? Why, that is absurd! There were two shots! I doubt I would be far off to say it was done on purpose."
Darcy coughed, then groaned as the spasm rocked his shoulder. After several long moments, he ventured, "I daresay that could be possible, Elizabeth, but there are likely any number of explanations. A shot gone awry, perhaps, or a lad just learning the use of a firearm. Perhaps they didn't see us. Nevertheless, I think it prudent to limit our wanderings to the gardens, at least until the mystery is solved. You will stay close, won't you?"
"Oh, yes." Elizabeth readily agreed, having no desire to leave the confines of the gardens. It had all left her shaken enough to want nothing more than the safe security of her home. It was probably as Darcy said, some lad testi
ng his mettle with a weapon, but still, she didn't wish to take chances.
As gently as she might, she washed the blood from his shoulder and fixed her attention upon the wound itself. Darcy bore her ministrations with stoicism. Once the wound was cleaned to her satisfaction, she lifted the portion of brandy included on the tray.
"This is going to sting," she warned, dribbling the brandy thoroughly over his wound. Darcy hissed through his teeth, bearing up against the pain. Elizabeth grimaced. "I'm sorry. Are you alright? I'm almost finished," she said at his tight nod. "I only need to bandage it."
She made quick work with the strips of linen, wrapping them around Darcy's shoulder so they'd remain secure even whilst he slept. With a final pat to her handiwork, she stepped back, at last looking him in the face. "Any better?"
"That cursed brandy is foul stuff," was Darcy's reply. "But yes, and thank you for your ministrations."
His gaze caressed her face, the light in his eyes warm and beckoning. Elizabeth turned hastily to his wardrobe. "I'll find you a shirt."
Darcy watched her walk away, inhaling the last of her sweet perfume before it evaporated in the air. Damn! How much longer was he to live with her so close and yet be denied the pleasure of touching her? Allowing her to nurse him, her soft, cool hands brushing his burning flesh, her perfume teasing his nose, without so much as smoothing the tendrils back from her face, required more control than he'd known he possessed.
He wanted to get closer and take her lips in the most searing kiss he'd ever given a woman. The urge proved too strong. He rose from his chair and followed her with a deceptive lack of haste. She turned, gasped at his proximity and thrust his shirt forward. Darcy took it from her nerveless grasp, slung it over his shoulder and gathered her into his embrace.
Startled, she stiffened. An advantageous action, for her gaze flew to him, thus tilting her head for the onslaught of his lips. He buried his hand in her hair, slanted his mouth across hers and kissed her—long and hungrily. He didn't mind her lack of response. This time he was prepared.
He reached for her hand, capturing it, bringing it to his chest and trailing it down in a sensual exploration. His tongue flicked between her lips which were parted in shock, teasing the tip of hers before delving further. Her mouth softened against his, her body melted to him, and she grew limp in his arms.
Suddenly he returned to reality, feeling as if he'd been doused with a bucket of icy water. By all that's holy, he thought, she's swooned. He tore his mouth from hers, his eyes flying open.
You're a blithering idiot, Darcy, he cursed himself. So much for wooing her gently. And things had been going fairly well. He held his wife in his arms, preventing her from sliding to the floor at his feet. Rejection stabbed at him, hotter and sharper than he'd ever experienced. She didn't want him, or his kisses.
Her lashes rested against her flushed cheeks. Slowly they lifted, and she stared at him as if dazed. Seeming to recall herself, she immediately straightened up, her fingers rising to touch her swollen lips.
"Why did you do that?" she asked in a weak voice.
Darcy closed his eyes for one painful second. Had she indeed swooned, or had she responded? Had he been so shocked that he'd merely thought she'd swooned? He didn't dare to ask. "I lost my head," he muttered, his tones husky and apologetic. "I'm sorry."
Elizabeth wasn't. She'd never experienced a more soul-shattering interlude. Her legs were weak, and she gave thanks for his supporting arms. Her entire body had desired to meld into his. The room, and indeed, the world had spun away when his tongue entered her mouth. Her every sense had become blind and deaf to all but him— his kisses, the delightful feel of warm skin and muscle beneath her fingertips, the guidance and protection of his hand over hers.
She hadn't known a kiss could stir such fires as kindled inside her. Her surrender to his drugging embrace had been complete. And she hadn't wanted to know why he'd kissed her, but why he'd ceased to do so. She opened her mouth to ask him to continue, and realized she couldn't, did not dare. Not only that, but what had got into her head? Did she actually want to kiss him again?
Really, Elizabeth, she admonished herself. This is Darcy...your husband...your unwanted husband. Whatever was she thinking? But the sight of him, his features softened in the aftermath of their kiss, was the most appealing picture she'd ever seen. She straightened with a jerk, sternly quelling her wayward thoughts.
"Do...do you need help with your shirt?"
"Yes, I suppose so," he murmured, his quiet, well-modulated tones once more in evidence.
She took the garment, gently easing his wounded arm through the sleeve. His face was now a shuttered mask. She considered him silently, wishing he would catch her gaze, and wishing he would not. Her fingers touched his warm torso, and she trembled. Merciful heavens! How could one kiss so shatter a lady's composure? Even worse, she wanted to kiss him again, and that she couldn't deny. She hooked the final button and backed towards the door connecting her chamber with his.
"Excuse me," she murmured, and turned and fled, not caring if she made a fool of herself. He'd put her nerves all about with that unexpected, and devastating kiss.
* * *
Weeding the herb garden, Elizabeth gave vent to roiling emotions. It was a mindless task, leaving her thoughts free to flow in directions she wanted not to consider, but deemed necessary. What was wrong with her? Did she so lack pride that she would instantly melt in Darcy's arms? Why ever would she desire his kisses, indeed, crave them? Was she so fickle? She loved Wickham, didn't she? Then how could she surrender to Darcy's embrace? And why did it feel so right, so warm...so good? It was too vexing. Her emotions were too disorderly, too contrary. Oh, what she would give for the peaceful heart she'd had before their meeting. Things had seemed so simple then.
She plucked a weed, realized it wasn't a weed and sighed. What was it about Darcy that made chaos of her thoughts? True, he was handsome and virile, and yes, kind and sensitive. And he'd protected her back today on their wild flight home. He'd also had a care for her reputation—as Wickham hadn't.
She'd escaped unscathed from both situations, thanks to Darcy. He might have died today. Her heart lurched unpleasantly at the thought. Had Tom found the poachers? Were they only lads, as Darcy suggested? Her hand stopped as it reached for another weed. Her husband's unwillingness to part with any information crowded her mind...were they all tied together? Did someone want her husband dead?
Darcy, restless and bored, and more than a trifle vexed at his confinement, strolled outdoors, making for the herb garden where he knew Elizabeth worked. Some paces away, he stopped and regarded his wife. She lifted a finger to scratch her nose, leaving a smear of dirt on her flawless white skin. He smiled. She looked so...at home...so comfortable, like his mother when she'd tended her beloved garden. She would have approved of Elizabeth.
Elizabeth, so different from what he'd first imagined. She wasn't at all like Josephine. Where Josephine had reveled in the attention she received, Elizabeth had stood back, graciously, but modestly, accepting any courtesies she attracted. Elizabeth wasn't brassy.
Josephine would have hated Pemberley. Even the thought of life with her—staying overlong in London, the routs, the balls, the musicales which gave Josephine endless pleasure—made him shudder. Elizabeth, on the other hand, seemed more than content to be in the country.
Never would Josephine have considered soiling her hands with a herb garden. Nor would she have chosen wool over silk, thinking first of others before herself. Whatever had he seen in her? Her beauty...her charm, be it ever so superficial.
Elizabeth had no need for such deceptions. She was honestly refreshing, her company truly pleasurable. Undemanding, plainspoken, generous, caring. He rather thought his sister was right: he doubted he could have done any better for himself.
And Elizabeth was proving to be a good wife: he'd enjoyed his favorite meals; his bedclothes were unmistakably fresher. The servants liked her, and already his tenants accorded he
r with genuine respect. She was indeed remarkable, and he was proud to have her as his wife. He'd chosen with good sense.
Only one thing more might he have wished from her: a willingness to accept the intimate aspects of their marriage. Kissing her today had only intensified his longing to know all of her. He was as hot-blooded as any man, and living in such proximity to a beautiful woman nearly sapped his control.
And damn, he needed that heir. The throbbing shoulder wound gave blatant testimony that his life stood in ever-increasing danger. He almost felt vulnerable standing in his own yard, even knowing his men patrolled the area.
He'd received a missive from Colonel Forster this morning, inquiring whether he'd had any news of Wickham. They needed to find his cousin, with all haste; the traitors to the Crown must be found. Not only was the enemy closing in on Darcy, but matters were becoming unstable in the War Office. Information wasn't getting through.
A silent sigh escaped Darcy's lips. Wickham still hadn't returned. Was he alive? What would he do if he failed? And how long might they remain safe? The threat to his life loomed like an impending storm, and he had yet to accomplish his primary goal for taking a wife.
He studied Elizabeth contemplatively. Her old gray frock only emphasized her beauty. He couldn't deny he wanted her as badly as he wanted an heir. A part of him urged that he have his way with her, regardless of her wishes. But another, stronger voice demanded he respect her feelings. How could he force his will upon her when she'd taken such pains to be a perfect wife in all other ways?
He couldn't. Her feelings in the matter must be considered. But how on earth was he to beget an heir? Had he sabotaged all his efforts of the past weeks by kissing her today? Or had she responded? And if she had, then why did she rush from him as if the demons of hell were at her heels? What could he do? What else could he possibly try to bring her about, to wrest her heart from George Wickham?
He'd tried to woo her. He'd given his time, his money. All he had was hers. He'd have to double his efforts, but how? He searched his mind, and hit on the one thing he'd forgotten: the family jewels. How remiss of him! Elizabeth was bound to find delight in the glittering mass of gems, perhaps even enough to melt through her icy reserve. It was worth a try—anything was. Darcy retraced his steps, making his way towards the safe where his last hope of thawing Elizabeth awaited him.
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