The Unforgettable Mr. Darcy

by Victoria Kincaid

  However, her return to health created other problems. Darcy found it more and more difficult to ignore that she was a very beautiful woman. The doctor had expected Darcy to sleep next to Elizabeth; the bed certainly had ample room. Darcy had said he did not wish to disturb her sleep, but how long would that excuse seem plausible?

  Every day she grew stronger, and Darcy’s resolve grew weaker.

  Now that her cheeks were rosy with color and her eyes shone with animation again, Darcy’s ardor did not wish to be contained. He found himself mesmerized by the musical sound of her voice or fascinated by the sight of a lock of hair blown by a breeze. An unforeseen consequence of his impulsive falsehood was that it removed any barriers to intimacy between them. Nobody—including Elizabeth—objected if he touched her hair, her shoulders, her cheek. Nobody had second thoughts if he would spend the night in her room—or even her bed.

  However, those barriers must remain in place if he could continue to call himself a gentleman, if he did not wish her to hate him once her memory returned. He had come perilously close to kissing her that afternoon as he leaned over her bed. Every shred of willpower had been needed simply to walk out of the room.

  He had wanted to kiss her so many times: at the ball at Netherfield, in the drawing room at Rosings Park, in the fields near Hunsford—before she had rejected his proposal. Although now that he thought on it, he probably would have kissed her afterward as well. He could not remember a time when he had not wanted to kiss Elizabeth Bennet.

  The evil in this situation was that there was nothing to stop him. She would not object. The Martins would not object. Only his conscience stood in the way, and it was…weakening.

  He dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand, continuing to stare at the ceiling as he resisted a ridiculous impulse to stand and savor the sight of her peaceful slumber. Even such a small step could be the precursor to taking her in his arms and kissing her until she could not breathe. Elizabeth deserved better.

  That was why he must remain on a pallet on the floor.

  Elizabeth’s bed creaked. She moaned, and her covers rustled. Agitated limbs thrashed against the sheets. She panted as if in distress. Darcy’s heart stuttered. She had not completely recovered from her illness. Could this be the beginning of a relapse?

  Quietly extracting himself from his pallet, Darcy covered the two steps to her bedside. Bathed in the cool moonlight, Elizabeth’s face was anything but tranquil in sleep. Her mouth was frozen in a horrified grimace while her head made small, quick jerks on the pillows.

  A distressed noise emerged from her mouth, and she tossed and turned. Was she trying to escape some danger in her dreams? Darcy’s hand stretched out to wake her but stopped in midair. Was it safe to waken her?

  A fine sheen of sweat had broken out on her face. Her movements growing more agitated, Elizabeth moaned again—and every sound sent ripples of anxiety through Darcy’s heart.

  Darcy flinched as she suddenly shot into an upright position. “You are a monster!” she cried. He hoped never to hear such anguish in a human voice again. For a heart-stopping moment, he feared the accusation was aimed at him—that she had recognized his deception. But, though her eyes were open, she was not focused on him or at anything in the room. He was certain she dreamed still.

  This must stop. The nightmare was tormenting her. Darcy grasped her shoulder. “Elizabeth.” He kept his voice low and soothing.

  “No…no…” Her voice was breathy with horror.

  “Elizabeth,” he said more forcefully, giving her shoulder a shake.

  Her head turned toward him, the first sign she was aware of his presence. “Elizabeth, it is just a nightmare.”

  Abruptly, her body lost all its tension; her shoulder slid from his grip as she fell back against the pillows. When her eyes opened again, they focused on his face. “William…”

  “Was it a nightmare?”

  “Yes…” She rubbed her forehead with one hand. “My God!” She shuddered violently.

  He rubbed her back soothingly. “You are safe here, safe with me.” She nodded, grasping his nightshirt and burying her face in it, a sensation that was not unpleasing to him. “It was only a dream.”

  “I am not so sure of that.” Her words were muffled. “It might be a memory.” She pulled away from his body; he felt instantly cold. “I think it was some sort of memory.” Darcy grew even colder. Had she remembered some of his ill-chosen words from the past? Her voice was hoarse. “I…I was on a boat. And there was a man with a pistol.”

  Darcy went completely still. Was it a memory of the events that had led to her near drowning? “What sort of ship?”

  “It was not a ship. A boat…a small rowing boat.”

  Elizabeth might have taken such a small boat to board the cutter for Jersey. “Was the man a sailor?” Many of the navy men would be armed.

  “No. He was dressed as a tradesman.” Her eyes had a faraway look as she remembered. “He was so angry; he aimed the pistol at me.” She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. Without thinking, Darcy pulled her against his body, sharing his warmth.

  “He was an awful man…” She was so very frail in his arms; he wanted to stand between her and the rest of the world. “A monster…”

  She had uttered that word before. “Why was he a monster?”

  Her brows drew together. “I…I cannot remember. He did something…monstrous. Something horrible. I could not believe…” She stiffened in his arms. “I wish I could remember.”

  An invisible hand clenched Darcy’s heart. No doubt it was some incident from the ship’s demise. Had she encountered the Black Cobra?

  Perhaps by the time they returned home, Elizabeth would recall enough to give information to the War Office. Darcy had no desire to pursue the blackguard now; Elizabeth’s safety was far more important.

  Darcy laid her gently onto the pillows. “You should sleep.” He pulled up the counterpane and tucked it around Elizabeth’s shoulders. “Think no more upon it. Dreams rarely make sense.”

  “That is so,” Elizabeth said sleepily, her eyes drifting closed. Darcy stood, pleased the dream had not disturbed her further, but before he could move, her eyes opened again. “William, what happened to the other people on the ship?”

  “You should sleep,” he murmured.

  Instead she struggled into a seated position. “Please tell me. You said the ship had an accident. Was it an explosion? I think there was an explosion in my dream.”

  Not trusting himself to speak, Darcy simply nodded.

  “What happened to everyone else on the ship?”

  He owed her the truth. Darcy closed his eyes. “The War Office believed there were no other survivors.”

  She gasped. “All those people!” Her voice throbbed with grief.

  “Yes.” His hand stroked her hair gently. The moonlight shone in her curls.

  Leaning toward him, Elizabeth relaxed against his chest. After a few minutes, he thought she had fallen asleep again, but then she stirred in his arms. “How did you know I was alive?”

  Darcy’s mouth opened, but he could think of no plausible response. After a moment Elizabeth’s head jerked up at him. “You believed I was dead!”

  Darcy closed his eyes; he would have preferred she remain ignorant of how close she came to perishing. But when he opened them again, Elizabeth was regarding him with a calm, steady gaze. “You came to France hoping to find my body.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes,” he admitted miserably.

  Tears glistened in her eyes. “I am sorry to be the source of such anguish.”

  He grabbed both her hands in his. “Do not apologize. You live. I could ask for no greater gift.”

  They embraced for many minutes, but soon the weariness in her body returned. “You should sleep,” he whispered.

  Elizabeth allowed him to lay her down on the pillows and pull the counterpane around her again, but her eyes were wide open, anxiety evident. “I cannot help but
think about those poor people. I do not know if I shall be able to sleep.”

  Darcy cursed himself for having no immediate remedies for the horrors she must be imagining. “I will not leave you alone, my darling.” He brushed hair from her face and placed a kiss on her forehead.

  When he stood, Elizabeth clutched his hand. “I pray you, do not leave me.” She gestured to the bed. “There is space. Please lie here with me.”

  Darcy’s body was instantly on fire with the possibilities. He froze, fighting to control his reaction. “I do not want to jeopardize your recovery,” he said with very sincere regret.

  “You will be helping me to heal,” she insisted. “Tonight I cannot be alone.”

  It was so tempting, but… “Elizabeth, I should not—”

  “Please!” Tears glittered in the moonlight, unshed in the corners of her eyes. “I will sleep more peacefully if you are with me.”

  Darcy was tired of fighting his need to touch her. Surely he could indulge the longing and give her comfort without surrendering to his more carnal desires. Of course, she likely would hate him when she recovered her memories, but…

  “Very well.” He lifted a corner of the sheets and slid between them. When Elizabeth rolled to her side, Darcy’s body molded itself to the back of hers. His arm encircled her waist. Legs tangled together. It was sheer bliss.

  And complete agony.

  ***

  The next morning, Elizabeth watched Darcy pensively as he arranged her breakfast tray. “I thank you for all your care and attention,” she said in a soft, low voice.

  Darcy shrugged. To his mind, he had only done what was necessary in caring for the woman he loved. I should thank her for the privilege of caring for her.

  “I have had occasion to imagine awakening in the Martins’ house alone,” she said gravely. “Coming to my senses among strangers, unaware of my identity, and unable to speak French well.”

  Fortunately, she does not know that her “husband” is something of a stranger to her as well.

  “It would have been quite a trial,” Elizabeth continued. “I am very grateful for your presence. You have been my anchor in this storm.”

  If only she knew how little he deserved the praise!

  Elizabeth fell silent as she consumed her toast and eggs, but after a few minutes she announced, “I would like to walk outside. I am tired of being confined to this room.”

  Darcy smiled and shook his head. Even without her memory, she was still Elizabeth: chafing at being confined indoors. “Darling, you have ventured no further than the top of the stairs.”

  Her chin rose. “I walked nearly a half hour together yesterday and did not fall.” She was not wrong, but Darcy had died a thousand deaths envisioning the disasters that could have occurred. Her expression softened. “I know you worry…”

  Worry was such a paltry word to describe his nearly constant agitation. He could so easily lose her again—to illness or injury, war or treachery. The world was full of perils that could rob him of her once more.

  “But,” she continued with some asperity, “I must get stronger so we may return to England. France is not safe.”

  “I would not have you compromise your health.”

  Her hand slapped the mattress in frustration. “My health is compromised because I stare at the same four walls every day! A bit of sunshine will do me a world of good.”

  “You are feeling improved.”

  A chagrined smile crept over her lips. “Is impatience a natural part of my character?”

  “You have been known to be stubborn upon one or two occasions.”

  She folded her arms over her chest, a playful gleam in her eyes. “Then I would imagine we often are at odds.”

  He shook his head in mock innocence. “Never. I always yield to your inclination.”

  She burst into laughter, and after a moment he joined her. His delight could not be contained; she was teasing him! As the laughter died down, they stared at each other like besotted lovers, basking in the glow of their shared mirth. Finally, Elizabeth averted her eyes and cleared her throat. “I thought perhaps a walk out of doors…”

  Darcy stood, eager to encourage her happiness however he could. “The Martins’ garden is enclosed by a high wall. Nobody would see us there. But I must consult the doctor about the advisability of such a plan.”

  Her grateful smile was like a gift.

  ***

  William was exceedingly talented at making things happen. When he decided something would be so, everyone hurried to accomplish the task. Within half an hour, Elizabeth was seated in a wrought iron chair and viewing the Martins’ small garden. Carefully manicured in the French tradition, the garden was a profusion of roses, peonies, delphiniums, and lupines—all arranged in orderly beds. A few fruit trees and larger pines edged the perimeter, and the whole was surrounded by tall, red brick walls to provide privacy.

  The trip down the stairs and through the kitchen to the garden had been slow but uneventful. Her legs had threatened to buckle once, but William had braced her arm and prevented a fall. It was so pleasant to feel the sun warm her skin that Elizabeth would not for the world admit to experiencing moments of lightheadedness.

  In the chair beside hers, William watched her like a mother bird who feared her fledgling would fall from the nest. “Would you like your bonnet? Or perhaps your shawl?” He leaned closer to her.

  Elizabeth flicked open her fan and fanned herself briskly; they enjoyed the shade of a cherry tree, but it did not shield them from all the sun’s rays. “I am not at all chilled, I assure you.”

  “Do you require a glass of water? Or lemonade? Perhaps we should return inside.”

  “I am enjoying the fresh air.”

  “Very well.”

  Elizabeth reached out to pat his hand where it rested on the arm of his chair. “I am not so fragile as all that,” she assured him. “I feel quite myself today. Well, I assume this is how I must feel—at least some of the time.”

  His lips twisted into a rueful smile. “Have you recalled anything?”

  “I sometimes remember things, but they are only disconnected images. They amount to nothing coherent.”

  He drew her hand into his. “I would imagine you will remember everything when we return to England. Familiar surroundings will help provoke your memories.”

  Unable to bear the hopefulness in his expression, Elizabeth turned her eyes to the neat rows of rose bushes. What would she do if she never remembered? Having had the good fortune to secure the affections of such a man, how could her mind have erased him from her recollections?

  Elizabeth had been cheated; something precious had been stolen from her. “I have forgotten everything of importance. Your offer of marriage…our first kiss…” Tears leaked from her eyes.

  William’s eyes were fixed on the ground; a slight blush tinged his cheeks. Did the mere mention of kissing discompose him? “We will make new memories,” he said.

  Hmph. Such sentiments were very well and good, but Elizabeth was growing impatient. “When?”

  “Hmm?” He gave her a sidelong glance.

  His lips were pale red—the ideal shape. How would they feel pressed to hers? It was especially unfair that she did not recall kissing when it seemed like quite a pleasurable activity. “When shall we make new memories?”

  He swallowed. “You would like to do so now?” Why did he appear so nervous? He was the one who remembered their previous kisses.

  “Since”—she cleared her throat— “Since I awakened, you have not kissed me.” Of their own accord, her eyes again drifted down to fix on his lips.

  He made a noise that sounded like a gasp. She had not thought her request so shocking. Was she too forward? “Elizabeth, I am a stranger to you.” His entire body seemed to be leaning away from hers.

  A pang of disappointment took her off guard. “But I am not a stranger to you,” she retorted. “This should be simple for you.”

  His shoulders tightened as he
hunched forward in his chair. “I would not make you uncomfortable.”

  She blew out a frustrated breath. “A kiss might help to stimulate my memories.”

  Still, he hesitated.

  “Is kissing me such a chore?” She smiled, trying to hide her apprehension. Perhaps he no longer desires me.

  His eyes rose to meet hers, and there was no disguising the desire in them. Thank God. “No, quite the opposite.”

  In the next instant, his lips were upon hers, as soft and warm as she had envisioned. He kissed her with such passion it stole her breath away.

  Her own reaction took her by surprise. Her entire body leaned into the kiss, wanting more—more sensation, more closeness, more tastes of William upon her lips. Her eager response encouraged him to deepen the kiss, exploring her lips with his questing tongue. She shivered at the unexpected pleasure.

  His hands plunged into her hair, drawing her head closer. Her hands likewise needed purchase. One grasped his shoulder while the other slid into his silky hair.

  Their lips parted for a moment. “Elizabeth,” William whispered. The desperate edge in his voice was impossible to resist. She pressed her body to his, her lips to his. This time he was less gentle, thrusting his tongue between her lips and stroking the inside of her mouth with vigor.

  She had not even known people did such things, but it made kissing infinitely more pleasurable. With such delights to experience, how had Elizabeth torn herself from William’s side long enough to board a ship?

  Without her awareness, he had drawn her into a standing position, allowing their bodies to merge even more closely together. One of his hands slid down her neck, skimming the top of her shoulder and trailing down her arm, leaving a tingling sensation behind. Her skin was so sensitized to his touch that she could feel the impression of each individual finger.

  With a sudden twist, William wrenched his lips away from hers.

  She made an inarticulate noise of protest, reaching for him. But he stepped away, staring at the high garden wall as his chest heaved. “Forgive me.” He swallowed hard. “I…should not have lost control…”