Chapter 3
SHELTER
Though the fire had chased the worst of the cold from the cottage, Elizabeth could not stop shivering.
She leaned closer to the hearth, close enough that steam rose from her sodden pelisse in thin, ghostly wisps.
Her teeth chattered. She clenched her jaw to stop them and felt the ache of it all the way to her temples.
Take stock, she told herself. Do not think. Just look.
The main room was small but not cramped, furnished with the sparse practicality of a place meant for temporary shelter.
A scarred wooden table occupied the center of the space, its surface marked with the pale rings of countless cups and the scratches of countless knives.
She counted the marks. Four rings. Seven scratches.
It was easier than thinking about the man behind her, moving quietly through the shadows.
Two chairs flanked the table, their rush seats worn smooth by use. Elizabeth gripped the back of the nearest one, steadying herself, and found the wood cold beneath her frozen fingers.
Everything was cold. She was cold to her bones, to her blood, and the fire's warmth seemed unable to penetrate deeper than her skin.
A narrow cot occupied the corner, covered with a rough woolen blanket. She crossed to it without quite deciding to, her wet boots leaving dark prints on the worn floorboards. The blanket looked scratchy. It also looked blessedly dry.
Behind her, she heard Mr. Darcy rummaging in the storeroom, the clink of tins and the scrape of jars across wooden shelves. She did not turn around. She was not ready to look at him yet, not ready to face whatever she might see in his expression, or whatever he might see in hers.
Instead, she looked toward the archway.
The conservatory drew her eye the way a candle draws a moth.
That strange glass-roofed addition she had glimpsed from outside.
She moved toward it now, her wet skirts dragging with each step.
Through the arch, snow piled against the angled panes, transforming the space into something otherworldly.
The light filtering through was soft, casting everything in a pale glow that made the cottage feel unreal.
Like a fairy tale, she thought. Like something out of a story her father might have read to her as a child.
She stopped at the threshold and pressed her fingertips to the cold glass. Outside, the storm raged white and formless. Inside, she stood dripping and shivering in a stranger's sanctuary, alone with a man who should have been the last person in the world she wanted to see.
And yet.
She was not sorry it was him.
The thought arrived before she could stop it, and she shoved it aside with something like panic.
“You should remove your wet things.”
Mr. Darcy's voice cut through her reverie, and Elizabeth turned to find him watching her with an expression she could not quite decipher.
He had shed his greatcoat and now stood in his shirtsleeves, the white linen clinging to his shoulders in ways that made her aware of the breadth of them.
His dark hair was still damp, curling at his temples, and firelight played across the strong planes of his face with an intimacy that felt almost indecent.
She realized she was staring and forced her gaze back to the fire, her cheeks burning with something that had nothing to do with the flames.
“I beg your pardon?” The words came out sharper than she intended, defensive in a way that betrayed her discomfort.
“Your pelisse, Miss Elizabeth. Your gown.” His voice was carefully neutral, but she caught the slight roughness beneath the control.
“You will take a chill if you remain in wet clothing. There are blankets in the storeroom, and I believe I saw some provisions. I will turn my back while you... make yourself more comfortable.”
The suggestion was reasonable, practical, and mortifying.
Elizabeth looked down at herself, at the way her dress clung to her body, revealing every line and curve beneath the sodden fabric.
Her stays were visible through the thin muslin, her nipples peaked against the cold, and she felt heat flood her face as she realized he must have seen all of this already, must have been seeing it since the moment they entered the cottage.
She wanted to snap at him, to deploy the wit that usually served as her armor, but her teeth were chattering too violently for dignity.
“Very well,” she managed. “If you would be so kind as to fetch those blankets.”
He moved past her toward the storeroom, and she caught his scent as he passed: wool and horse and something warm and masculine that made her stomach clench in ways she did not wish to examine.
She heard him rummaging through the shelves, heard the soft thud of items being set aside, and used the opportunity to fumble with the fastenings of her pelisse.
Her fingers were numb and clumsy, refusing to cooperate, and she was still struggling with the third button when Mr. Darcy returned with an armful of blankets and what appeared to be a tin of biscuits.
He stopped short when he saw her difficulty, something flickering across his features before he schooled his expression back to neutrality.
“Allow me,” he said, and before she could protest, he had set down his burden and crossed to stand before her, his hands reaching for the clasps she could not manage.
Elizabeth's breath caught in her throat.
His fingers brushed against the wet wool, working the fastenings free with an efficiency that spoke of practice, and she found herself frozen in place, unable to move or speak or do anything but watch his face as he concentrated on his task.
This close, she could see the lashes framing his dark eyes, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows that she had always taken for disapproval but now suspected might be something else.
He was not looking at her face. He was looking at his hands, at anything but her eyes, and his careful avoidance told her more than any words could have.
The pelisse fell open, and Mr. Darcy stepped back as if burned, turning away with an abruptness that would have been insulting if she had not seen the way his hands were shaking.
“I will check the storeroom for additional supplies,” he said, his voice strangled.
“Please... take whatever time you need.”
He disappeared through the storeroom door, pulling it nearly closed behind him, and Elizabeth stood alone by the fire with her heart pounding against her ribs like a caged bird.
The storeroom door was thin. She could hear everything—the shift of his weight on the old boards, the scrape of a crate being moved, the measured rhythm of his breathing as he gave her privacy he clearly needed as much as she did.
Ten feet of warped timber and a latch that did not quite catch. That was all that separated them.
She began the laborious process of stripping off her wet clothes.
The dress was the worst of it, clinging to her skin with a cold, intimate grip that made her feel as though the storm itself had followed her inside.
She had to peel it away inch by inch, and with every tug she was aware of the sounds she was making—the wet fabric pulling free, the sharp intake of her own breath, the soft thud of the garment hitting the floor.
She was aware, too, of the sudden stillness on the other side of that door.
He had stopped moving. He was listening, or trying very hard not to, and the knowledge of it sent heat crawling up her neck that had nothing to do with the fire.
She stood in nothing but her shift and stays.
The shift was as wet as the gown, transparent where it pressed against her body, and Elizabeth hesitated with her fingers on the hem.
She could not afford modesty. Not when the cold was working its way back into her bones with quiet malice, not when staying wet meant staying cold meant—
She stripped the shift over her head in one swift motion, then fumbled with the laces of her stays until they fell away.
For a long, terrible moment she stood bare, her skin prickling in the fire's warmth, conscious that she was naked and he was right there.
The door could open. He would not open it.
She knew that with a certainty that surprised her, but her body did not seem to understand what her mind knew, and every nerve sang with the awareness of his proximity.
She snatched up the blankets and wrapped them around herself with clumsy, frantic haste, cocooning her body in rough wool that scratched against her bare skin but held the fire's warmth close.
Only when she was covered from shoulders to ankles did her pulse slow.
Her hair hung in wet ropes down her back, pins scattered and lost somewhere in the storm, and she finger-combed it as best she could before draping it over one shoulder to dry.
When she was as decent as circumstances allowed, she called out, “You may return, Mr. Darcy.”
She heard him exhale. She had not realized he had been holding his breath.
He emerged from the storeroom carrying several tins and a dusty bottle of what appeared to be wine.
His gaze swept over her once before fixing on a point somewhere above her left shoulder.
“I found provisions,” he said, his voice almost normal.
“Biscuits, some preserved fruit, and this.” He held up the bottle.
“It appears the previous occupants believed in being prepared for emergencies.”
“How fortunate for us.” Elizabeth settled into one of the chairs, tucking the blankets more securely around her body. The fire had finally warmed her, and she found she could almost think again.
Almost.