Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
The argument was about the roof.
“Flat stones,” Elizabeth said. She was already on the hillside, assessing the slope above the tower. “They will not rot.”
“The beams will not hold them,” Darcy said.
“The beams have held stone for two centuries.”
“Which is precisely why they cannot hold more of it.” He picked up the sailcloth.
She turned. Her expression indicated she found this logic unpersuasive. “You have already decided.”
“The sailcloth is the correct solution.”
“The sailcloth leaked for an entire afternoon.” She followed him towards the stairs. “I would not call that correct.”
He carried it up regardless. By the time they were standing in the lower room with the fire between them, the argument had left the roof far behind.
“You do this,” she said. Her voice was not raised, but its precision was devastating. “You assess a situation and you act upon your assessment. You do not consult the other person living in the building whose roof you are repairing.”
“I consulted you.”
“You informed me. Consulting implies the possibility of disagreement, and that such disagreement might change the outcome. You merely informed me of a decision you had already made.”
“That is not what happened.”
“That is exactly what happened. It is what happened with the signal fire, the water collection, the fishing arrangement, and now the roof. You dictate, Mr Darcy. You dictate beautifully. You behave as though it is a gift you were born with, and the rest of us were born to be governed. It does not occur to you that others might have opinions as sound as your own.”
She was standing close. The argument had drawn them towards each other. She stood two feet from him, her chin up. Her eyes were bright with the particular fire of a woman who knew she was right, and who was not going to permit him to retreat gracefully.
“I am trying to keep us alive,” he said.
“We are alive. We have been alive for two weeks. Our survival has been a mutual effort, and I would appreciate it if you stopped treating it as your exclusive responsibility.”
“I do not treat it as my exclusive responsibility.”
“You treat everything as such. You dictated to Bingley, and to Georgiana. You govern Pemberley, your tenants, your cousin, and every person in your life. You exert control when you are afraid. And you are afraid, Mr Darcy—you have been afraid since we washed ashore. This unrelenting authority is how you disguise the fear. I understand it, for I do the same thing. I am telling you that on this island, with me, you do not have to bear it alone.”
The words landed heavily. She had not planned them. He could see the surprise on her face—the recognition that she had said more than she intended, and that it was true.
He was close to her. Two feet had become one. He did not remember moving, and she did not step back.
“You are right,” he said.
“I am aware.”
“About my authority.”
“I know.”
“About the fear.”
She was quiet. Her eyes, which had been bright with argument, shifted. The anger left, and what remained was open in a way she had not allowed him to see before.
“Yes,” she said. “About the fear.”
He kissed her.
The kiss was hard and sudden. Two weeks of proximity, three days of watching, one rainstorm, and an argument about a roof. Her insight had broken his composure, and he had closed the distance before he intended to.
She made a sound against his lips — a short, hard exhale. Her hands found the front of his shirt. The ruined linen bunched in her fists, and she held on.
His hands framed her face, her jaw in his palms, his fingers tangling in the salt-stiffened mass of her hair. He kissed her with desperate intensity — the taste of her mouth, the heat of her breath, the pressure of her body against his.
She kissed him back with the same urgent ferocity.
They broke apart, breathing heavily. Her forehead rested against his; her hands were still in his shirt, and his hands were still on her face. He could feel her pulse in her jaw, fast and hard under his fingers, answering the frantic rhythm of his own.
“Well,” she said.
“Well,” he said.
“That was not about the roof.”
“No.”
Her mouth curved into the smile he had observed since their time on the ship—the one that began at the corners and worked inward. She smiled against his mouth. The kiss that followed was entirely different from the first.
It was slower. His hands slid from her face into her hair, cradling her head. Her hands released his shirt and moved to his shoulders, then to his neck. Her fingers found the nape of his neck, and the light touch sent a line of heat down his spine, making his hands tighten in her hair.
She made another sound, quieter and deeper in her throat. His self-control was irreversibly shattered.
He kissed the corner of her mouth, her jaw, and the line below her ear where she smelled of salt and rosemary. His lips moved against her pulse, fast under his mouth, and her hands were in his hair.
She pulled back just far enough to look at him. Her face was flushed, her eyes dark, and her hands remained on his shoulders. Her breathing was unsteady.
“Hertfordshire,” she said.
He blinked. The word arrived from a different conversation, one he had not been having, and his mind, still several steps behind his body, took a moment to locate it.
“You will ask me when I knew,” she said.
“I did not know in Hertfordshire. I did not know at Hunsford. I did not know on the ship. I knew when you laughed on the beach after the shipwreck. Your face changed, and I saw a man I had not met before. I wanted to know that man, and the wanting has not stopped. I do not think it ever will.”
He looked at her face in the firelight.
“Hertfordshire,” he said.
“What?”
“You will ask when I knew. I am telling you now. Hertfordshire. At an assembly, on an evening when I had too much pride and not enough sense. A woman I did not deserve stood across a room. I could not look away from her, and I have not been able to look away since.”
“You told Mr Bingley I was merely tolerable.”
“I was lying.”
“You were lying at an assembly in Hertfordshire.”
“I was lying to myself at an assembly in Hertfordshire, and I continued lying to myself for months. The deception required more effort than any truth I have ever told, and I am finished lying.”
She looked at him. Her eyes were bright, and her face was serious. The fire crackled behind them as she said, “Good.”
She kissed him. She rose on her toes and kissed him with the deliberate intention of a woman who had decided what she wanted. The deliberate act of choosing him undid his remaining composure.
They sat by the fire, shoulders touching.
The argument about the roof remained unresolved, but neither cared to mention it.
The fire was low, casting moving shadows on the stone walls.
It felt like a place outside the ordinary rules—a place where she could kiss the man she had refused four months ago, and both the refusal and the kiss could be true.
“We should repair the roof,” he said.
“Yes.”
“With stones.”
She smiled faintly. “With stones.”
“You were right.”
“I was right about several things this evening, Mr Darcy. You will need to be more specific.”
He turned his head, and she turned hers. Their firelit faces were close. The intimacy was different now, charged with the certainty of what had just occurred, and what would occur again.
“Elizabeth,” he said.
Her breath caught. He saw the held moment, then the release. It was the first time he had used her given name.
“Fitzwilliam,” she said softly. The fire crackled. Neither of them moved; the spoken names were enough. The night was long, and the roof still leaked, but the island was no longer a trap.
It was starting to feel like a choice.