Chapter Six
ONE MORE NIGHT, Darcy had determined, but they’d put them to bed without charming either of them, without giving them a mental directive to wake in the morning and leave, without arranging for a carriage to take them back home.
It wouldn’t do, and he knew it.
He must make the decision now, whilst he was still flush with having had his fill of her blood, whilst he was not craving her the way he would be tomorrow evening.
He was already in her room when he realized this was foolish, because he could not actually charm her himself. What did he think to do, convince her to leave by argument? Furthermore, going into her bedchamber alone, it was a recipe for disaster.
He would have walked right back out, except…
She was not alone.
The other figure on her bed scrambled up and he saw her fangs glinting in the light from his candle and he let out a cry as he sprang forward and caught her.
She struggled. “Cor meum, please—”
“Don’t you dare call me that,” he snarled. He slammed her body into the wall. “What have you done, Caroline?”
She fought free of him and fled, leaving him there with Elizabeth’s very still form.
He sprang onto the bed, gently pulling her body into his arms. She was not as warm as she should be. Her heart was barely beating. Her breath was shallow. Her cinnamon scent was muted and barely detectable.
Damn him to the blazes of hell itself, she was very nearly dead!
He let out a mangled noise, and he wasn’t sure why it hurt him so badly to think of the death of this woman.
Humans died all the time, after all. They were fragile.
Their lives were brief. He was saddened when humans that he had loved died, but he had become rather accustomed to it, for it was a frequent occurrence.
Elizabeth’s impending death made him feel frantic, however, and he let out his fangs.
He tore at his own wrist and placed it against her mouth, letting his blood drizzle into her mouth.
She didn’t swallow, not at first, and he began to feel panic that it was too late, but then, she did, and her mouth closed over the wound he’d made there and she began to suck.
He let out an affected breath. “Good, then, just like that, take what you need,” he whispered to her.
He must be careful, however. Giving a human vampire blood was always a dangerous gambit.
She would not turn, not unless she died with the blood in her system, but it was always fraught because the vampire blood healed a human, so humans felt as if they were sturdier than they actually were, and they might do things that they wouldn’t have done if they hadn’t been healed prematurely.
She must be careful with herself for the next day or so, until the blood had cleared her system, because she might otherwise turn.
And also, giving her his blood…
Well, vampires did not go around healing humans with their blood as a general rule, mostly because of the various side effects of such a thing.
With a sirensong, it could be even more intense, a bonding that would mean he might feel her and she might feel him as well for years on end before it faded out.
But he could not have let her die.
And he liked this, her in his arms, her little mouth attached to his wrist, drawing the blood from him, drawing strength and healing from him.
He may have let her take more than was strictly necessary.
Finally, however, he gently urged her to detach.
Upon doing so, her eyes opened, and she sat up in the bed, scrambling away from him. “Mr. Darcy, sir!”
He got up. “You’re all right.”
“You… what…” She looked about. “Where is Miss Bingley? She was here, I thought.”
“Go back to sleep, Miss Bennet,” he told her, formal as he eased out of her room. “I shall see to Miss Bingley.”
“You should not be in my room, sir,” said Elizabeth in a shaking voice. “You should not be in my bed.”
“I am leaving,” he said. “Sleep, I charge you. Sleep.”
Also, having given her his blood? Well, she could not be charmed now, not by any vampire.
Blazes! Everything was going badly now, and it had not been going well to begin with.
He stalked out of her room and went looking for Caroline, who was not in her bedchamber, but had scurried in to hide with Bingley.
“Protect me, frater meus,” she gasped when Darcy flung the door open.
Bingley sat up in bed, Caroline’s face buried on his bare chest. He ran his hand over her hair. “There, there, ma belle, it is all right. I shall keep him off you.”
Darcy stood in the doorway, arms folded over his chest. “It was you, all those years ago in Ireland with Maeve.”
Caroline did not lift her face from Bingley’s chest.
“Who is Maeve?” said Bingley, arching an eyebrow.
“My sirensong,” said Darcy. “The one that was killed. Caroline did it.”
Bingley nodded slowly, stroking Caroline’s hair. “Ma belle, what have you done to Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”
Caroline writhed against him, letting out only a noise of protest.
“I see,” said Bingley. “Well, that was foolish. He is going to be very angry.”
“She’s not dead,” said Darcy. “Not for lack of trying on Caroline’s part.”
“Why?” said Bingley into Caroline’s hair. “Why, my love? Why is it always him? Simply because he doesn’t want you?”
Caroline lifted her face. “I did not do it out of jealousy, Charles.”
Bingley scoffed.
Darcy scoffed.
Caroline buried her face again. “The sunrise is close,” she said, her voice muffled. “May we not do this when we wake tonight?”
“I had to give her my blood,” said Darcy.
“To heal her. We cannot charm her now, but I think I must insist that she and her sister are no longer under this roof. It’s a fine mess, that’s what it is.
And I cannot but think you did it on purpose.
You were the one who wanted to play with other’s playthings, Caroline. ”
Caroline made another noise of protest into Bingley’s chest.
“I shall speak to her,” said Bingley to Darcy.
Darcy let out a laugh. “Oh. Well, then.” He threw up both of his hands and quit the room. “I hate you both, you know,” he said darkly, and he shut the door on them.
Louisa came out of her bedchamber wrapped only in a sheet. The door was open, and Darcy could see her husband sitting up in bed, his neck red with wet blood. “Don’t leave, Darcy, if you please. It’s ever so much nicer when you’re here. She is less awful, you know.”
Darcy let out a noise of disbelief. “This is her being less awful?”
“You don’t know everything that has befallen her,” said Louisa. “She is pitiful in her way. We all feel sorry for her.”
“I do not,” said Darcy.
“Well, that is likely why she is in love with you,” said Louisa. “Better scorn than pity?”
Darcy rubbed his forehead. “I need your help with the Bennet girls.”
“What help?”
“We must charm the eldest, of course, and give orders to the servants to see them gone—”
“Orders now?” said Louisa. “All the servants are abed.”
Darcy shifted on his feet.
“We’ll see to it all tonight,” said Louisa.
“You want them gone?” came Mr. Hurst’s voice.
“I do,” said Darcy.
“I shall see to it,” said Hurst. “I shall put them in the carriage myself.”
“Thank you,” said Darcy. “I appreciate it.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Hurst. “May I have my wife back?”
Louisa smirked, looking over her shoulder at him. “Yes, by and by, I come, sir.”
“Good night,” Darcy told them both.
But when he lay down in the bed, he could feel her through the bond that had been forged as she suckled his blood. He could feel her, feel an echo of each of her emotions, feel a shadow of whatever sensations she felt in her body. She was just there.
He’d never had a bond with a human before, only the temporary ones with other vampires (for if vampires drank each other’s blood, it created something similar, but it only lasted for a day or two).
This one would fade too. It would not stay quite this strong.
Perhaps it might fade and fade and dwindle to nothing.
He’d heard that sometimes happened with these sorts of bonds.
But sometimes, they didn’t fade, just settled in at a certain level that lasted and lasted until the human died.
Damnation.
ELIZABETH DREAMED OF Mr. Darcy.
She dreamed of being inside his body, in his skin, of being tall and dark and cold and controlled. Of the ache that welled up inside him at the sight of her, of the way her blood tasted in his mouth, of the way her body felt in his arms, of the pain of desiring her, the sheer agony of it.
She woke late that day again, but she felt quite strong and quite well. Her senses seemed sharp. The sun seemed brighter, the birds were chirping louder, the food in the breakfast parlor seemed better.
Mr. Hurst said they were leaving today, which proved awkward, because the entire Bennet family had come to visit, sans her father.
All of her sisters and her mother were there, looking all over, and everyone was commenting on how strange it was that everyone was still abed in the midst of the afternoon.
Jane kept protesting that she was ill and that she was meant to stay for at least a few more days, but it was very obvious that Jane was not ill.
Together, between herself and Mr. Hurst, Elizabeth was able to convince her mother that they must all leave, and Mrs. Bennet took her brood home, commenting all along on how very strange it was that everyone was asleep.
“Have you all been staying up until the sunrise each day?” she said.
“About that time, yes,” said Jane dreamily, gazing out the carriage window. “I do think they wished me to stay longer. I truly do.”
Elizabeth could still feel Mr. Darcy.
He was this strange new presence, always there, just on the periphery, and she found she could slip into him, like sliding into another skin, or she could push him to the side, and then they were separate, and she did not feel his sensations as if they were her own. But he was always just there.
It was maddening.
She hated it.
She also would have thought she were going mad if she did not know that it must be some kind of vampire magic.
She was quite confused about what had happened, but she thought that Miss Bingley had attempted to kill her.
Despite everything Mr. Darcy had said about how she wouldn’t be harmed or how vampires didn’t need to kill anybody, Elizabeth was almost entirely sure that was what happened. She had been gone, out in a dark place, a peaceful place, a done place.
And then…
Mr. Darcy.
She had slowly come back, the presence of Mr. Darcy tugging on her, pulling her back to herself, and she had settled into herself to find herself drinking Mr. Darcy’s blood!
And she had liked it. It had tasted… oh, she didn’t know.
It had sort of tasted like blood, truly, that metallic and salty taste, not exactly something she would have liked to taste, but sustaining just the same.
However, there had been some other taste to it, not a real taste but sort of a taste that she could sense, like an idea of a taste.
It sounded so strange and odd. Mr. Darcy tasted like safety and strength and pleasure and excitement and adventure.
But that was perhaps only because Mr. Hurst had told her it was an adventure?
She wanted the taste of it back, though. She wanted to drink from him again.
That was horrendous!
She could not wish such a thing. She would not.
Surely, this was part of this awful monstrousness of Mr. Darcy and the others, surely it was simply evil.
One thing she did not do, of course, was to tell anyone that they were vampires.
As for why this was, she could not entirely say.
Mr. Hurst had told her that they were all charmed against believing it, which may have been the reason.
Even if they had not been, it sounded mad.
No one believed in vampires, not truly. That may have been the reason.
Or it may only have been because she knew Mr. Darcy didn’t wish her to tell, and she liked the idea of pleasing him.