Chapter 23 #2
“Close enough to make out details through a spyglass,” Darcy replied, rolling up his shirtsleeves with sharp, efficient movements.
His forearms felt exposed and strange in the cool morning air.
The coarse linen clung to his shoulders, damp with perspiration that had nothing to do with the Mediterranean climate.
“The captain believes they are moving to intercept. This appears to be more than a simple patrol.”
He descended to the deck where the ladies were located. “Elizabeth, Mrs. Bell,” he called through the cabin door, his voice rougher than he intended despite his efforts to remain calm. “I need to give you additional instructions.”
The door opened immediately, revealing Elizabeth’s face, pale as moonlight but with steel in her dark eyes that he admired, despite his terror for her safety. Behind her, Mrs. Bell moved with the efficient economy of someone who was familiar with crises at sea.
“If the French board us, you cannot be English passengers,” Darcy said, his words coming faster as urgency pressed against his ribs. “Your accent, your mannerisms, everything about you proclaims your nationality. You must become French colonial returnees.”
Elizabeth pressed her fingers to her throat. “What sort of story would be believable?”
“Your father recommends that you become French-born sisters who spent years in the American colonies. Your parents were merchants or minor colonial officials. You are returning to Europe to settle family affairs. You boarded the Mary Catherine in Gibraltar to travel to Rome, where your brother is serving as a Catholic priest. You are awaiting his direction to see whether you will remain with him or attempt to find distant relatives in France.” Darcy’s mind raced through possibilities.
“The colonial experience would explain any irregularities in your pronunciation or customs.”
“And our names?” Elizabeth asked, her words calmer than Darcy expected.
“French versions of your own. élisabeth…” He looked toward Mrs. Bell questioningly, wiping sweat from his palms to his trousers.
“Marie,” she supplied with determined courage. “My middle name is Marie.”
“Those are close enough to your actual names to respond naturally, if needed, but French enough to pass casual inspection. Use the surname…Lemieux.” He wordlessly pleaded with Elizabeth to realize that she would be safer if she had no apparent connection to him or her father.
“Practice your stories with each other. Make them consistent and simple. The fewer details you volunteer, the safer you will be.”
“Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth said, reaching for him as he prepared to leave. Her fingers stopped short of touching his exposed forearm. The space between them crackled against his skin. “Be safe.”
His breathing hitched. “I will. Keep the door locked until either Richard or I come for you.”
He turned to go, but the way Elizabeth was looking at him stopped him.
Her gaze lingered on his altered appearance, her lips parting at the unfamiliar sight of him without coat or cravat.
Her eyes traced the line of his throat down to where his shirt clung to his shoulders.
The awareness was inappropriate. The circumstances were dire. Neither fact helped.
“I love you, Elizabeth,” he whispered for her ears alone. “Now, close the door.”
Gratefully, she did.
Elizabeth pressed herself against the cabin door.
The sight of Darcy had been primitively compelling.
His shoulders looked impossibly broad beneath that thin linen shirt.
The way his forearms moved, corded with muscle she never suspected existed beneath his usual perfectly tailored sleeves, made her mouth go dry. And his neck made her fingers itch.
“Mon Dieu,” she said under her breath, her hand rising to her own throat… She caught herself. If they were to become French sisters, she needed to think in French as much as possible.
“Elizabeth?” Prudence studied her knowingly. “Are you well?”
An inferno spread across her cheeks as she forced herself to focus on their immediate crisis rather than the memory of Darcy’s shirt pulled taut across his chest. Her breathing was shallow. Unsteady.
“I am well,” she managed, though her voice sounded unconvincing even to her own ears. She pressed her back against the door, using the solid wood to ground herself. “We must concentrate on our French identities. Tell me, what shall be our parents’ names?”
Prudence looked up from braiding her hair into a simpler style, her movements swift and economical. Though she remained calm, Elizabeth saw the tension in the set of her shoulders. “Jean-Baptiste Lemieux and Marguerite? Common enough names that would not attract attention.”
“And why did they take us to America?” Elizabeth asked.
“Our father was a minor colonial administrator. We lived in New Orleans long enough to explain our speech. We are returning to meet more of our family after the deaths of our parents from disease.”
“How sad for the Lemieux sisters,” Elizabeth said. “And what is our beloved brother’s name?”
Prudence grinned. “Oh, he is not beloved since he used to pull my braids when I was younger, and he ignored you completely. He is much older, and we do not know his character anymore.”
“Beno?t, I think.” Elizabeth had recently reread Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing and thought about the mischievous main characters. “I believe Beno?t is French for Benedick. If not, it is close enough.”
The ladies listened to the sounds above.
Footsteps, moving with precision, made the deck boards creak.
The sharp whistle of wind blew through the rigging as their course changed.
And voices called orders in tones too low to distinguish individual words but urgent enough to make their stomachs clench with anxiety.
She thought of something else―of Darcy’s form enhanced by the rough garments. Interestingly, she had never paid such attention to any of the sailors, though they were similarly clothed.
She acknowledged a truth she could no longer deny.
Whatever careful boundaries she had set around her feelings during this brief courtship with Darcy had disappeared when she saw him preparing to risk his life to protect them.
To protect her. His strength and determination called to a primal, feminine instinct within her.
If they survived, she needed more of Darcy than the safe realm of courtship could offer.
“élisabeth,” Prudence said firmly, using the French pronunciation. “Are you sure you are not unwell?”
“Non, Marie, je vais bien,” Elizabeth replied, and she realized how easily the French came to her tongue despite her distraction. Her accent sounded more natural than she expected.
“We should practice,” Prudence suggested, her own French flowing smoothly as she secured her simpler hairstyle. “Let us speak only French until this crisis passes.”
“D’accord,” Elizabeth agreed, grateful for the distraction from her inappropriate preoccupation with Mr. Darcy. She tried to banish the memory.
“élisabeth, tu penses à M. Darcy, n'est-ce pas?”
Yes, she certainly was thinking about him. Even in French, her thoughts were apparently transparent. “C’est ridicule,” she protested, though her voice lacked conviction. “Nous avons des problèmes plus importants.” They did have bigger problems.
“Peut-être,” Prudence said diplomatically, though her expression held understanding sympathy, “mais le c?ur ne comprend pas toujours la logique.”
Elizabeth silently translated. Maybe, but the heart does not always understand logic. Before she could respond to this uncomfortably accurate assessment, the sound of running footsteps made them freeze.
Tommy tapped on the casing and said loud enough to be heard through the door, “The French are comin’. Cap’n sez t’ keep yer voices down.” His message delivered, he ran back up the stairs.
Elizabeth pressed her ear to the door, straining to hear Darcy’s voice among the others. When she caught the familiar cadence of his speech, the relief was so sudden that she had to grip the doorframe to remain upright.
“Il va bien,” she whispered. “He is safe.”
“Pour le moment,” Prudence agreed, shaken but determined. “If they board us…”
“Then we become the Lemieux sisters and pray that our performance is convincing enough,” Elizabeth said in French, straightening her spine despite the fear.
Outside the locked door, the Mary Catherine sailed on as the threat approached from the shadows. The stage was set for a confrontation that would determine whether the travelers’ quest would continue to Rome or end in captivity.