CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE #3
“The shawl, Elizabeth,” he said, with a tired smile, “Your design was plain enough to see, madam.”
“I have no idea what you mean, sir,” she replied, daring a playful note, “I merely saw that your sister was chilled.”
“Such impertinence,” he said, his voice taking on an affectionate quality, the word no longer an insult but a term of endearment.
“Such allure. A dangerous combination.” Then he drew her to him again, his hands finding the curve of her waist, as he murmured in her ear, “I do not appreciate being so thoroughly outplayed.”
“I am quite curious to learn what a man like you considers a fitting apology,” she said, with her tone tempered by a soft concession, “Name your price, for my debt is considerable.”
He considered this with every appearance of gravity. “If I am to name my price, then my terms must begin with the favour of a kiss.”
“Only one? Your demands are surprisingly modest, Mr Darcy.”
“And,” he said, the word emerging on a quieter and more bashful note, “I should like to remain with you until the morning.”
The unexpected request, layered with such a different tenor than the first, left her momentarily speechless.
Seeing the surprise in her eyes, a look of almost anxious haste crossed his features.
A faint flush rose on his neck as he quickly added, “To…to simply share the quiet hours. Nothing more. I find the prospect of a lonely room and my own thoughts rather bleak company on a night like this.”
Any sense of amusement faded. His mention of the lonely hours until dawn was a sombre reminder of what awaited them at dawn. The lightness of the moment evaporated, replaced by the cold, shared reality of the battle to come.
Tomorrow, they would go into the most terrifying battle they had ever faced. They would stand before a corrupted node, a place of unrelenting darkness, and set their power against an all-consuming evil.
Tomorrow, they might fail. Tomorrow, they might die.
And how cruel it seemed, she thought. To have come all this way, to have finally dismantled the walls between their hearts, only to have it all now at risk.
So tonight, in the small circle of warmth cast by a single candle, they would hold the darkness at bay. Tonight, they had each other.
“A kiss and my company until the dawn,” she said, with a brave smile, “I find these terms entirely agreeable.”
They lay side-by-side, the rough wool of the inn’s blankets pulled up to their chins.
The silence was not uncomfortable, but it was awake.
She turned her head on the pillow to face him and could just barely discern the tension in the line of his shoulder and the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. Neither of them was sleeping.
Finally, the rustle of the bed linens broke the quiet as he turned to face her. In the dim light, his gaze seemed to gather the shadows of the room.
“You cannot sleep either?” he asked.
Elizabeth shook her head. The fear for the morrow was an leaden feeling coiling in her stomach, a thing her brave words had held at bay but could not entirely vanquish.
“I suspect our thoughts are too restless for sleep; perhaps a conversation might quiet them,” she said.
The mattress shook with the vibration of his laugh. “That is a sound philosophy, though I will not pretend it has ever been my preference.”
His laugh seemed to loosen the coil inside her. The familiar impulse to parry in kind was too strong to ignore.
“Your inclinations on that matter have never been a great mystery,” Elizabeth teased back.
He paused, and she waited, sensing he was searching for a topic that was safe and neutral, a memory that could offer some small measure of warmth against the coming chill.
“I find I am not accustomed to stillness,” Elizabeth offered, “Longbourn is a place of constant noise. Even at this hour, one is likely to hear Lydia giggling or Mary practising her scales.”
“And I find I am not accustomed to sharing my quiet with anyone.” He paused, his gaze thoughtful as he studied her. “Does everyone in your family call you Lizzy?”
The question was so unexpected, so personal, it caught her by surprise. “Yes,” she said. “Nearly always.” An amused light entered her eyes. “However, I confess I cannot imagine you calling me ‘Lizzy.’ You are far too formal.”
“Am I, indeed. Does it seem so impossible that I, too, might have a familiar name?”
“It seems entirely impossible,” she declared with a laugh, rolling onto her side to face him fully. “But you have roused my curiosity. Pray, indulge me. Is it Fitz?”
“It is not,” he smiled.
“Fitzy?”
He shuddered a little. “No. Heaven forbid.”
“You had best tell me at once, for my remaining guesses are likely to be far less dignified than the truth,” she coaxed.
His gaze softened, giving way to a fond reminiscence.
“My mother called me William,” he said, “She felt a great pride in the name Fitzwilliam, for its heritage and for the honour of seeing her name joined to the Darcy legacy. And yet, she often said she found it a strange thing to address me by her own surname, save for those occasions when my conduct had sorely displeased her.”
William. Elizabeth savoured the name, the feel of it in her mind. It felt like an invitation to a more private self, a name that belonged to him alone, separate from the dynastic weight of his lineage and the heavy mantle of his responsibilities.
“William,” she tried, the word a whisper in the dark. A wonderful warmth spread through her chest. “Perhaps I shall use it sometime.”
His smile was a beautiful thing. “I find I like the way it sounds when you say it.” He paused, and a hint of his own humour came to his eyes. “Now you must allow me my turn.”
She knew what he would ask. “Very well.”
Darcy drew a breath, and then, with utmost seriousness, he said, “Lizzy.”
The name, spoken in his deep, solemn baritone, was so at odds with its light, affectionate nature that a peal of laughter broke from her.
“Oh, that will hardly do,” she laughed, shaking her head as she settled back onto the pillow.
“It is not meant to be said with the gravity of a judge passing sentence. You must say it with a little more lilt. Or perhaps with a trace more exasperation.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And how am I to know which is required?”
“Where would be the challenge in it, were I to provide you with a precise formula? I am far more interested to see what you will discern on your own.”
“My powers of discernment, I must warn you, can be woefully poor,” he observed drily.
“Then I fear you must apply yourself to diligent practice.”
A gradual smile spread across his face. Then, shifting his weight, he reached and rested his hand on her shoulder, a hesitant touch that was a silent entreaty.
When her posture softened in reply, he rolled onto his back, bringing her with him in a smooth motion, and drew her firmly against him, settling her head upon his chest.
“Fitzwilliam?” she asked, a little breathless.
It was such a strangely pleasant feeling, being held in this way, secure in his arms.
“You called me William earlier,” he said, his lips grazing her temple, “I find I am partial to it.”
“And what are you about now, sir?” Elizabeth said, her pulse quickening with the thrill of his proximity.
But his embrace remained just that — a simple, steady presence. Darcy simply enfolded her, warm and comforting, offering a security she had not known she was missing. Instinctively, her hand found his chest, and she let her body sink against his, nestling into his embrace.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I am practising,” he said, the warm puff of his breath brushing against her skin, “discerning what the moment requires. I suspect we shall both sleep the sounder for it.”
Held securely in his arms, Elizabeth found the strength to release her fear for what the dawn would bring, choosing instead the solace of this precious night of peace.