Chapter Nine #3
“Oh, lord, Elizabeth, do you not realize you make me proud just by waking beside me in the morning?”
Her eyes were glued to the dress. “What?”
“You might not have chosen to be there, but you are, and it makes me proud to know that my wife is a thousand times more honourable than I. You are kind and fair and I take great pride in that.
“The events of the last days were not a test, my lady.”
She stood, her fingers falling across the lovely copper velvet. “Then why do I feel as though I failed?”
“Because you hoped things might go another way? You wanted to see all parties get what they wanted and make sure all involved played fair. That is the nature of the beast, my sweet. Politics boils down to one thing: hope for the best, prepare for the worst, and never assume anything.”
“I have so much to learn.”
“I shall teach you,” he said. “I promise.” He lifted her still mussed plait and kissed the back of her neck.
“I shall teach you about your place in my realm, in my court, at my side. Have you any questions, I shall answer them. Have you any fears, I shall calm them. Have you any desires, I shall quench them.”
He turned her around, pressed his mouth to hers, and lifted her from the floor. When he set her down near the bed, he offered no pretence to his need and simply ripped her ruined garb away then disposed of his own.
“This, Elizabeth, this is what it is. You and I together, bare and in need of each other. You need me to guide you through what it means to be a leader. I need you to show me how to be worthy of you. We must learn or we shall fail, and I have never failed at anything. I suspect I might not like it.”
* * *
She touched the dressing on his arm, her hand running up the cloth to his bare shoulder then around the back of his neck, pulling him into a searing kiss unlike anything they had shared previously.
It ignited both of them, the urgency of their need apparent to both from the onset.
Elizabeth had to make sure he was real, that he had not met the end of a blade, and she was not dreaming of his pretty words.
They tumbled to the bed, clawing and panting and licking and groaning; their ferocity gaining as quickly as their desire. When he pushed into her, Elizabeth no longer had pain, instead she could cherish the joy and happiness that proved he was still with her.
* * *
He poured into her all his love and wonder, trying at that moment to confess himself to her, to tell her he loved her.
As he wrapped his arms around her, his hands fell upon her belly, unconsciously stroking her soft skin.
While she drifted into a heavy sleep, Darcy was caught up in the future, and not for the first time.
What would it be like to be the Papa to a child in Elizabeth's womb?
That moment when she would tell him she was enceinte, and the joy that would fill his heart—to his delight, his mind formed a picture of her with a swollen belly.
Ever mindful of the pregnancy and subsequent birth that had killed his mother, he maintained a healthy dose of fear, yet he let his fantasy progress until he was holding a sweet-smelling, gurgling girl-child in his arms. She was the very picture of her mother, and Darcy had never loved anything more.
She stirred in his arms, her fingers twisting a lock of his hair, a habit she had already formed, and he smiled.
“Not only would I spill blood for both of you,” he said to his wife and unborn child. “I would die for you.”
The twisting paused then she snuggled closer to him. Before he fell asleep, Darcy fancied he had discerned a tiny kick beneath his heavy thumb.
* * *
The journey back was uneventful, and both were glad for the calm of the everyday trip.
When they reached Pemberley proper, Jane met them at the gate and demanded to know what had happened.
Patient and careful, Darcy revealed the gruesome events and tried his best to calm his friend.
Unable to pacify her, he called on her husband, promising to provide a briefing later.
“How is Jane?” Elizabeth asked when Darcy entered the atrium.
“Upset. I left her with Finn. It was no use in pointing out that both of us are still alive. She tends to react badly to violence such as this. What are you doing?”
“I am starting another painting. I am waiting for thy portrait to dry completely before having it framed and thought I would paint Nanningbrook for Mr. and Mrs. Foster.”
“That is very sweet.”
“I suppose. It seemed a good way to thank them for their help and hospitality. We were rather rude if ye think about it.”
“For using their home as a house of ill repute?”
“If ye want to put it that way then I would be owed quite a few gold pieces, do ye not think?”
“Gold pieces? Do you know what a man pays a whore? She would have to be of divine coital origin to rate a single gold piece let alone several.”
Her eyebrow arched.
“But, you! You, my dear, are worth ten times more than that.”
“Well played, my lord.”
“Thank you.”
“How do you feel today?” He asked, suddenly turning serious. His hand was at the small of her back, rubbing gently with his thumb.
“Better. Not so frightened. I think it is good to be home. That should help.”
He nodded. “I think so also.”
“Are we to greet guests tomorrow still?”
“No, I left word that any wedding guests should go ahead and take their leave. Richard and Jude departed while we were away, and Finn has already dispatched a messenger to inform him of what occurred. We shall hold a regular business discussion in the morning, if you wish to sit in.”
“Thank ye.” She prepared her brush.
“Do you want me to leave?”
“Ye may stay if ye want, but I assume it might be rather tedious for ye. I cannot imagine anything duller than watching me coax this canvas to life.”
Darcy settled in a chair behind her and well out of her way.
The form on the canvas slowly began to take shape, a soft, pastel look made fuzzy by the watercolour paint she used.
The house was set far back in the landscape.
It took him some time to conclude she was painting her first visual of Nanningbrook.
The stream that cut the property seemed to pulse and bubble in the foreground, and once again, Darcy was astounded by her talent.
Proud and not a little envious of her gift to create, he quietly slipped out of the atrium, leaving her to her craft. As he made his way, he offered up a prayer in hope that the plaguing terror that he might still lose her would eventually disappear.
* * *
Elizabeth’s head was jumbled, so she made the decision to avoid Darcy and Jane and the court in favour of some much-needed solitude.
Due to Darcy’s nervous anxiety about her being alone, he had given her a guard, but Elizabeth had tasked Heather to flirt with Samuel, her keeper, and slipped away while the guard was distracted.
She would likely need to step in to keep her hapless guard from being thrown in the stocks for her deception, but hopefully, her husband would understand.
Her boots made hollow sounds as she trekked over the frozen ground, the hem of her thick woollen skirts already damp.
The evergreens were burdened with the fresh snow that had fallen the day before, and her breath created clouds of fog that dissipated with each step she took.
Impenetrable, milky clouds still hung low, insulating the world around her, and the cold, biting air was exactly what she required to clear her head.
Her muddled up, silly brain.
Her confused, stupid heart.
How was she to reconcile the man she was coming to know with the man he had been and the awful way she had found herself tied to him?
He had frightened and annoyed her the first few times they had met, but now she was having trouble remembering why she had disliked him so.
He had been arrogant and smug, but now he had risked his life for her and was so protective.
He was tender and kind to her now. And now, he held her so tightly when they slept at night.
She was so safe in his arms, and he was so sweet and cautious.
She could not help but find his ways endearing.
It was almost as if he was two separate men.
Neither of whom were George.
George.
Of course, she had not forgotten about George.
She did love him but was aware that her youthful esteem for him was nothing compared to the possibilities with her husband.
The feelings she had for George were sweet and innocent, and she could never imagine lying with George the same way she had with her husband.