Chapter 3 #3
She did not move. He sat on the edge of the little bed. “We need to do something for her arm,” he said. “The bone feels intact, but there is certainly an injury.”
Fitz nodded. “Could be a fracture. We should splint it.”
“You are a surgeon now?” Darcy asked wryly.
“I am a soldier, cousin,” Fitz replied smugly. “There is no end to my talents. You have used my handkerchief already. Have you one of your sister’s monstrous cloths on your person?”
Darcy disapproved of his cousin’s flippant remark. “Georgiana requires a canvas for her embroidery, and she knows I will not laugh at her.”
“Why must she make them so large?”
At this even Darcy had to smile. He offered the explanation his sister had given to him.
“Because it offers more room for her attempts. Why ruin ten handkerchiefs when you can ruin one?” Georgiana was a wonderful musician and a gifted linguist. She even enjoyed painting.
But she had little patience for sewing and embroidery. He missed her gentle humor.
“She may as well call it a tablecloth and be done with it.” Fitz pointed at the old log leaning up against the hearth and Darcy held out his hand for Anders’s knife.
Fitz fished it out of his pocket and turned it over in his hand.
“I rather like this knife,” Fitz told him, as he passed it over.
“I think I will keep it. Give Anders a replacement.”
“It was provided as part of the position.” Darcy grumbled as he stripped four long, thin pieces from the log. “Anders will appreciate a new one.” He paused. “You have earned much more from me today.”
“One more,” Fitz said, waving at the log, and Darcy complied. “I will have earned far more than a knife by the time this is over, cousin. But I have never required payment from you, nor you from me.”
Darcy nodded, too overcome to speak. He whittled the wood down so there were no sharp edges and then cut the handkerchief into strips.
He gently raised Elizabeth to remove her pelisse, and then, with Fitz’s direction and aid, arranged the splint over the sleeve of her dress so the wood would not rub against her skin.
She moaned softly as he tied off the final knot.
His heart leapt. “Miss Elizabeth?” he asked hopefully.
Nothing.
Fitz cleared his throat. “It will take time, Darcy. Waking from laudanum is a bit like being underwater and pushing up towards the surface—and remember we do not know how much she was given.”
There were no more handkerchiefs, so Darcy removed his cravat, folding it into a rectangle, dipping it in the cold water, and applying it to the worst injury on Elizabeth’s face. “So now we wait,” he said glumly, sitting uncomfortably on the floor beside the bed.
There was a scuffling sound as Fitz sat down near the doorway and leaned back against the wall. “Now we wait.”
Elizabeth heard the voices in her dreams. Deep voices, speaking in a cadence that washed over her like a soft rain.
Her fingertips grazed a soft mattress and scratchy wool blankets.
It was warm. She sighed and straightened her legs, relieved that she could.
She opened her eyes briefly, staring up at .
. . the world was dark colors all run together, so she closed them again.
Someone took her hand. “Miss Elizabeth?”
She forced her eyes open again and tried to focus on the voice. It was an effort, but she managed it. “Where . . .” she asked, but it was garbled.
“You are safe,” someone informed her.
Her left arm felt heavy. She tried to move it and gasped, a flash of pain waking her. Panicked, she attempted to sit, but there were hands pushing her down.
“No,” she said, determined, twisting her shoulders to break free. “Do not touch me.”
The hands fell away. “You are injured, Miss Elizabeth,” the voice said. It was deep and very formal. “You must remain still.”
She tucked her left arm to her stomach and used her right to push herself into a seated position. Her entire body ached, but her face and her arm were particularly painful. She took a deep breath and looked up when she heard a short but disapproving huff.
Mr. Darcy’s cool gaze stared back at her.
He had left Hertfordshire, had he not? What was he doing here? She glanced down at herself—she wore her walking dress, and the discomfort around her ribs alerted her that her stays were intact. Her gloves and boots were gone though, as was her pelisse.
“Do be careful,” Mr. Darcy said in the grave manner she had learned to expect from him. “You will aggravate your injuries.”
Fear flared inside her, and an overpowering impulse to flee.
She pulled her legs up to her chest and kicked.
She felt the heels of her feet connect with Mr. Darcy’s hip, and she rolled to a crouched position on the floor.
She knew her strike was poorly aimed and could not have hurt him, but Mr. Darcy was surprised enough by the contact to fall from the bed.
He sat where he had landed, watching her.
Elizabeth felt the wall at her back, and she leaned against it as she stood.
Her breath came too quickly, and she attempted to regulate it.
“What did you do to me?” she hissed. “Who were those men?”
Elizabeth slid away from Mr. Darcy, but there was nowhere to go. In the candlelight she spied a tray, the remainders of a meal still upon it.
Mr. Darcy stood and approached her cautiously. “I do not know who those men were. I was hoping you might tell me.” He held out a hand, palm up. “Please, I will not harm you.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to quell the dizziness that washed over her. For the moment, her fear overrode her pain. “Stay away,” she warned him, her good arm outstretched.
But Mr. Darcy, no doubt more used to giving orders than following them, took another step in her direction.
Elizabeth lunged for the tray and grabbed the first thing her hand landed upon—a plate.
She hurled it at Mr. Darcy, who ducked to the left as it flew past. Bits of food showered him as the dish crashed to the floor.
She grasped at the silverware and darted away from him, holding her prize out before her as she searched for the door.
Where was it? A sob built in her throat as she passed the fireplace.
Was there no door here at all? Was she a prisoner?
She glanced down at her hand. She was brandishing a fork.
She stepped back, her eyes on Mr. Darcy, who observed her progress but had not moved to stop her. Had he always been so tall? She wondered why he was not moving to stop her, but not soon enough. She lifted her foot to take another step and ran into something hard.
In an instant, the fork was gone and there was a hand over her mouth. She thrashed wildly and tried to scream. She freed herself enough to sink her teeth into a finger.
“Hell and damnation!” she heard from behind her, and the hand clamped over her mouth again.
Her heart sped up in a kind of desperate terror.
Then Mr. Darcy was there, crouching before her.
He gently placed his hands on either side of her face and peered intently into her eyes.
She continued to struggle, but as his steady gaze continued, Elizabeth felt both her fright and her strength ebbing away.
His hands were large, but they were gentle.
A thin stream of brown gravy was dripping off the end of his nose, which made him less threatening.
She calmed, slowly recalling the events in the Netherfield library.
He had not been to blame. He was not the man she had believed him.
She sniffled.
“Please,” Mr. Darcy said urgently, “you must not alert anyone to your presence. We are trying to keep you safe while we determine what is best to be done.”
Had Mr. Darcy said as much before the ball, she would not have trusted him. Now she did. Though she remained anxious, she stopped struggling. Mr. Darcy’s eyes bored into her, but they were calming, somehow.
“All right, Fitz,” Mr. Darcy said, and the hand lifted away. Elizabeth twisted away until both men released her. She scurried out of their reach, back towards the bed.
“This is my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Mr. Darcy explained, waving a hand at a lanky figure she could not see well. Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably.
“I apologize for hurting you, Colonel,” she said, annoyed at how shaky her words sounded.
The colonel scowled at Mr. Darcy. “You said she did not bite.”
“I stand corrected,” Mr. Darcy said drolly. Were they laughing at her?
“I might have stabbed you with the fork,” Elizabeth retorted. “Surely that would have been worse.”
The colonel grunted. “The fork would have been less sharp than your teeth, Miss Bennet.”
Both her ire and her apprehension rose. “Then perhaps you ought not to have detained me.” She turned her attention to Mr. Darcy. “Let me go,” she begged. “Please, l want to go home.”
Mr. Darcy’s expression softened into something like tenderness and regret, and her stomach lurched. “Miss Elizabeth,” he replied somberly, shaking his head. “I am afraid that at the current moment, that is impossible.”