Chapter Eleven #2
It was the most extraordinary thing. He could not remember the last time someone had thought to bring him a meal simply because they feared he had neglected himself.
Mrs Reynolds had long made it her business to ensure that he ate at sensible hours, but that belonged to the orderly routines of Pemberley and was carried out with the firm affection of someone who had known him since infancy.
This had been altogether different. Elizabeth had taken care of him.
She had cared for him–was that too great of a leap?
The extraordinary thing was not merely that she had done it, but that she no longer seemed to regard him with that wary hostility he had come to expect.
Only a week before she had declared him the most vexing man in the world.
Now she had quietly climbed down to a deserted kitchen in the middle of the night because she could not bear the thought of him going hungry.
He was in very serious trouble. And he was no longer sure he cared.
When the last of the stew had been eaten and the fire had burned lower, Darcy rose and carried the tray to a table beside the door before crossing to the armchair.
His hands began folding the blankets to create a makeshift bed.
Elizabeth would have the comfort of the bed, he would remain near enough should she become unwell again and no further embarrassment need arise between them.
He had almost finished laying the blankets across the seat when her voice broke the silence.
"You cannot truly intend to spend another night there." She looked meaningfully at the bed.
He went completely still but kept his attention fixed upon the chair.
"I shall be perfectly comfortable," he said in what he hoped was a steady voice.
"No, you shall not. You have worked since breakfast, forgotten to eat until nearly midnight and look as though another night in that chair might finish you altogether."
He rested one hand upon the back of the chair and let out a slow breath.
The truth was that the chair would be uncomfortable.
His shoulders already ached from the day's labour and there was scarcely a part of him untouched by stiffness or bruising.
Yet discomfort seemed a small price to pay compared with the alternative.
"It would not be proper." The words sounded feeble even to his own ears.
For a few moments she said nothing. When he finally turned, he found her watching him with a thoughtful expression.
"I rather think propriety abandoned us somewhere between the broken bridge and Mrs Goose deciding we were husband and wife."
He laughed despite himself, though he still shook his head. "I could not," he said, but his heart screamed that he could—that he should. He squeezed his nails into his palm in an attempt to restore his equilibrium.
She lowered her eyes for a moment before raising them to his again. There was no teasing in her expression now, only a softness that made his pulse quicken.
"Mr Darcy..." she said softly. "If I did not trust you, I should never have asked."
He had imagined many things during the long, sleepless hours he had spent thinking of Elizabeth Bennet. He had imagined earning her good opinion one day, perhaps even her friendship if fortune proved remarkably kind. He had never imagined hearing those words spoken in her own voice.
She trusted him. The knowledge settled over him with frightening force. It felt infinitely more precious than admiration, more difficult to deserve than affection. He knew, with sudden clarity, that he would rather endure a lifetime of longing than ever become the man who betrayed it.
Without another word he inclined his head in silent acceptance, his heart hammering against his ribs. Elizabeth's answering smile was small but sincere. She set her book aside and disappeared for a few minutes behind the dressing screen, leaving him alone with the wild pounding of his own heart.
The soft rustle of fabric came from the other side of the screen and, after a minute or two, she emerged again carrying her folded gown over one arm.
Her hair had been released from its pins and fell in loose curls about her shoulders, still a little untidy from the day.
She wore a white night gown, fastened to the throat.
She looked like a renaissance painting. Darcy licked his painfully dry lips as Elizabeth laid her gown carefully over a chest and slipped beneath the covers and drew them neatly to her chin before looking across at him with the smallest of smiles.
"Well?" she said.
Darcy realised, with some embarrassment, that he had been standing in exactly the same place for several minutes.
He cleared his throat, extinguished two of the candles and, after removing his boots, crossed to the opposite side of the bed.
He lay cautiously upon the outer edge of the mattress, keeping every inch of respectable distance he could manage between them.
The bed was certainly large enough to accommodate them both without the slightest risk of accidental contact, yet he was painfully conscious of her nearness.
He could hear the gentle rhythm of her breathing, smell the faint lavender scent that would forever remind him of her and feel the warmth of her only a short distance away.
For a little while neither spoke. The silence settled around them, broken only by the occasional crackle from the fire and the distant murmur of voices somewhere below stairs.
"I used to think you disliked me," he said at last, so quietly that it was almost a breath.
He turned his head and saw her illuminated by the firelight, her features soft and otherworldly—she was every inch the fairy princess now.
"I did dislike you," she admitted with a smile. "At least, I was perfectly convinced that I did."
"And now?"
"Now I think I never really understood you at all. You are a man of many layers, Mr Darcy."
Slowly, almost absent-mindedly, she drew one hand from beneath the blankets until it rested upon the coverlet between them. It remained there for several moments before inching, almost imperceptibly, across the small stretch of linen that separated them.
Darcy looked at it, then at her. His own hand moved as though entirely independent of its owner, meeting hers halfway. Their fingers touched first, then slowly intertwined, fitting together easily, comfortable—as if they were designed to fit.
Elizabeth smiled without taking her eyes from his. "I believe," she whispered, "we are becoming rather reckless."
"My heart," he answered just as quietly, "we passed that point some time ago."
Encouraged beyond all reason, he lifted their joined hands and brushed the lightest kiss across her knuckles before looking back at her face. She had not looked away. If anything, she had moved a little nearer.
Very carefully, giving her every opportunity to retreat, he reached up with his free hand and tucked one escaping curl behind her ear.
"Elizabeth."
He said it like a prayer. It was the first time he had spoken her name aloud and she closed her eyes for the briefest moment.
"Yes."
He leaned towards her slowly enough that she could have stopped him with the smallest movement.
She did not. Their first kiss was almost impossibly gentle.
His lips rested against hers only for a heartbeat before he drew back again, searching her face with such uncertainty that she could not help smiling.
"You are overthinking it," she whispered.
She closed the remaining distance herself, lifting her face to his with a smile before brushing her lips feather soft over his.
There was still nothing hurried about it.
They lingered over each other, easing into and exploring each other with gentle movements.
She tasted so sweet, he felt he could drown in her.
He ran his fingers through her curls and when she moaned—a very small noise but so intimate he wanted to weep—he knew that he was lost forever.
When at last they parted, neither moved very far, their foreheads resting lightly together as though both were reluctant to break whatever fragile spell had settled over the room.
After a long moment Elizabeth shifted closer still and, with complete ease, rested her head against his shoulder.
Darcy hesitated only long enough to be certain she truly wished it before his arm settled gently around her.
She came willingly into the shelter of it, her head resting against his shoulder as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
He could feel the steady rhythm of her breathing against him and the curve of her smile against his shoulder.
He knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was where they were meant to be.
They were formed for each other and he wanted to share this intimacy every night for the rest of his life.
The fire burned lower, while beyond the shutters the storm that had first brought them together gave way at last to perfect stillness.
Neither felt any urgency to disturb it. Their hands remained entwined beneath the blankets, his thumb occasionally brushing unconsciously across her fingers until even that small movement slowed and stilled.
Held close in one another's arms, with the world beyond the inn forgotten for a few precious hours, they surrendered at last to sleep.