Darcy froze, unable to do anything but stare.
Briefly he catalogued what he could see of the woman. Her hair was a jumble of dark brown curls, and her skin was slightly tanned under the pallor. The nose…the sprinkling of freckles on her cheeks…was achingly familiar. If she opened her eyes, he knew they would be a bright forest green.
Elizabeth was lying in the bed.
Chapter Four
Darcy blinked, trying to clear his vision. Was this a dream? A hallucination? Had he finally lost his grip on reality? His eyes scrutinized her features, looking for subtle differences that would declare him to be in error. Over the past months, his wishful mind had perceived “Elizabeths” in any number of places.
No, even after a second and third glance, the woman in the bed was still unmistakably Elizabeth.
He gasped and lurched forward, his body moving of its own accord. “Elizabeth!”
Her face was slack, her lips parted slightly, and sweat beaded on her forehead, but Darcy had never seen a more beautiful sight. He had to touch her, ensure for himself that she was real. His arms encircled her slight frame—she had lost weight—and he clutched her to his body, cradling her against his chest. She stirred but did not awaken, a warm and frail weight in his arms. Under his hands, her chest moved with shallow inhalations and exhalations. Nothing had ever felt so good. “Oh, thank God, Elizabeth!”
Tears welled up in his eyes and trickled down his cheeks, but he did not care. He held Elizabeth, and she was alive. It was a miracle. Divine providence must have brought him to this place; no other explanation would suit.
After a long silence, Mr. Martin cleared his throat. “I take it you know this woman?”
Darcy froze, recalled to himself. He was clutching a woman, naked save for her nightrail, in her bed. Gently, he released Elizabeth, laying her ever so carefully back on the pillows. He considered and discarded many possible explanations for such inappropriate behavior.
“Mr. D’Arcy?” the doctor prompted.
He could not help stroking a wayward lock of hair lying on the pillow. “I thought she was dead,” he whispered. “In a shipwreck.”
“And what is she to you?” Martin’s question was tinged with disapproval at Darcy’s untoward behavior.
“She is my wife.” The words sprang from his lips without conscious thought. “My Elizabeth.”
“Your wife?” The suspicion in the doctor’s voice was no surprise. The coincidence was nearly too great to be believed. “Can you identify her in some way?”
Damnation! Darcy did not know her body as a husband would, but he had viewed her in a ball gown that revealed more than the nightrail. The image was branded on his mind. “She has a birthmark…here.” He touched a place on his left shoulder.
The expression on the doctor’s face suggested that he had noticed the birthmark, but he remained suspicious. Darcy wracked his brain for other things that might identify her. “She usually wears a little amber cross on a chain. Did she have it upon her?”
The suspicious lines on Martin’s face smoothed. “Marguerite removed it for safekeeping.” He opened the drawer in the table beside the bed and removed the necklace. A piece of jewelry had never before had such a profound effect on Darcy’s heart.
“Why, this is marvelous!” the doctor exclaimed. “You believed her to be dead?”
“For…these past weeks. The ship exploded; everyone perished.” Darcy brushed loose strands of hair from her face, desperate to touch her and prove that she was warm and breathing—wondrously alive.
Yet…her face was as pale as the sheet, and none of the activity in the room had disturbed her. “Why does she not awaken?”
The doctor’s face turned grave. “She has contracted a lung fever, no doubt from the sea water she swallowed.”
Darcy’s heart beat a ragged, frantic rhythm. “Will—” His voice faltered. “Will she survive?”
The doctor’s sharp eyes regarded her clinically. “Her fever has abated in the past few days, and she has awakened more frequently. She has a strong constitution. I am…hopeful.”
Martin had not really answered the question. “I will do anything, pay anything,” Darcy entreated the doctor.
The other man waved this offer away. “I would care for this woman for nothing. We have grown quite fond of her over the past weeks. I am pleased to have a name for her.” He smiled down at the unconscious woman. “Elizabeth.”
The doctor grasped her wrist to take her pulse, provoking irrational jealousy in Darcy. He has saved her life, Darcy reminded himself. Martin nodded and carefully placed Elizabeth’s arm under the covers. “Her pulse is stronger.”
Darcy was pleased at this news, but at the same time, he worried that perhaps he should be doing more. Surely he could provide some help.
In the next minute, a fit of coughing convulsed her body; her chest heaved as she wheezed and gasped for breath. Darcy clung to her hand, utterly incapable of rendering any assistance. Once the coughing eased, the doctor smoothed the covers over Elizabeth’s shoulders once more, saying, “The coughing has improved.” If that is better, thank God I did not witness the worst, Darcy mused.
The gaunt appearance of her face was rather alarming. “She is so thin. Cannot you persuade her to eat?”
“We coax her to drink water whenever she awakens.” The man gestured to a glass and pitcher by the bed. “And occasionally she eats some soup.”
Darcy could not draw his eyes from her face. “I cannot lose her. I cannot lose her…again.”
“I will do my best.” The doctor’s voice was gentle. “I hope you will remain here as our guest. The room adjacent to this one is unoccupied.”
The thought of putting a wall between him and Elizabeth provoked a cold shiver. “I will stay here.” The words burst from him with no forethought. Oh, Good Lord, what am I saying?
“That is not necessary. We will take good care of your wife.”
Darcy had forgotten for a moment that he was “married” to Elizabeth; that gave him the right to stay in her room. “It is necessary.”
Martin chuckled. “You have not been married long, have you?”
“No.” That was a true statement. “Why?”
“You act like a newly married man,” the doctor said with a smile.
Darcy saw no humor in the situation. “How would you behave if you believed your wife to be dead?” he asked with a growl.
Martin sobered. “Of course. It would be pain beyond imagining.”
Darcy returned his attention to Elizabeth’s still form, aware that the doctor’s eyes were upon him. After a long moment the other man spoke. “You are not a laborer searching for work.” It was a statement, not a question.
Darcy stiffened. “No?”
“Your hands are too soft, with callouses only from a horse’s reins.” The doctor’s voice was matter-of-fact, not accusatory. “A farm laborer’s hands are calloused everywhere.”
Darcy cursed himself silently for not having anticipated that detail.
“And you have an English wife.” No doubt myriad explanations occurred to the doctor: spies, expatriate nobles, smugglers.
Darcy readied himself to fight. Were he alone he could simply flee, but he could not leave Elizabeth behind—and traveling might kill her.
But Martin spread his hands, giving Darcy a gentle smile. “I am not your enemy. To me, you and your wife are simply patients in need of care, and I have taken an oath to care for all who need it.” Darcy regarded the doctor steadily. Did he dare take the other man’s word? Did he dare put his life—and Elizabeth’s—into this man’s trust?
Darcy sighed, and his shoulders slumped. In truth, he had no choice.
“I swear I will not give you up to the authorities. I have no love for them. I would not give a rabid dog into their keeping.” For a moment Martin’s expression was quite fierce.
Darcy nodded, somewhat reassured.
Martin looked at him sidelong. “But will you tell me how an Engli
sh gentleman and his wife came to be in Saint-Malo in the midst of a war?”
An English gentleman. Darcy rubbed his face with both hands. Despite his clothing, Darcy apparently might as well be wearing a sign proclaiming his name and rank. Very well. The doctor had guessed enough of the truth; Darcy might as well tell more. “Elizabeth was on a ship that exploded near the Channel Islands. It was reported that everyone on the ship was lost. I am seeking the man responsible for the explosion, but I did not expect to find...” He gestured to Elizabeth’s still form.
“Yes, I remember hearing word of that. An explosion would explain the blow to the head, but her survival is wonderful indeed. I know of no other survivors.”
The rise and fall of Elizabeth’s chest fascinated Darcy, and he allowed himself to revel in the simple fact of her breathing. Although he did not like the soft rattle in her exhales or the convulsive coughs. “It is a miracle. I had no hope.”
Martin clasped Darcy’s shoulder. “If someone killed Marguerite, I would hunt him down as well. I wish I knew this man so I could help you seek revenge.”
Darcy continued to regard the other man warily.
Martin chuckled. “Our countries may be at war, but I have no quarrel with you, sir. Your secret is safe with me.”
Did Darcy even dare to trust the man? “I cannot ask you to take such risks…”
“The risk is not so great. Bretagne only grudgingly supported the revolution or the emperor. My sentiments are very common.”
Darcy was humbled by the man’s generosity and trust. “I thank you, sir. I will be forever in your debt.”
The man took the necklace from the table and poured it into Darcy’s hand. “You must keep this safe until your wife may wear it once more.” Darcy stared dumbly at the pendant in his hand. “I am afraid the chain broke when we removed it from her neck.”
Darcy threaded the chain of his watch fob through the loop at the top of the pendant. He had chosen his plainest, cheapest watch and fob for the journey, but the doctor’s sharp look suggested it was still out of place. Hopefully the future of Britain did not rest on Darcy’s abilities to pass as a common Frenchman.
Darcy heard a knock sounding on the front door. Martin looked toward the source of the noise. “Ah, I have a patient for a return visit.” With a nod to Darcy, the doctor slipped through the door and closed it behind him with a quiet click.
Darcy was alone in the room with Elizabeth—his sleeping miracle. His eyes sought out her face once more, savoring the features he had never thought to see again in this lifetime. His heart was so full that it felt ready to burst from his chest. Yes, Elizabeth was ill, and they were trapped in a country at war with an unknown enemy threatening them. But Elizabeth was alive, and for the moment that was more than enough.
***
Darcy spent the remainder of the day and the following night in Elizabeth’s room. An armchair beside the bed allowed him to gain a few hours of sleep. He only left the room to take dinner with the Martins—and only then with the proviso that their housekeeper would watch over his beloved.
The discovery of Darcy’s “wife” caused a sensation in the Martin household. At dinner, Mrs. Martin demanded details of their courtship and marriage. Uncomfortable with the deception, Darcy kept his account brief and stayed close to the truth, describing their meeting in Hertfordshire and encounter at Rosings Park. He explained that he had proposed to Elizabeth at Hunsford, without revealing the actual conclusion of the event, and gave no account of the “wedding.” Enchanted by the story, Mrs. Martin did not appear to notice his omission.
Only late into the night did Darcy recall his promise to return to Dreyfus’s house, but he had no regrets. The search for the Black Cobra was no longer of much consequence. There was no reason to believe the Cobra knew or cared that Elizabeth was alive. While Darcy would still like to bring the man to justice, nothing took precedence over Elizabeth’s convalescence and eventual return to England.
Darcy wanted to do everything possible to hasten her recovery. He could not look away lest he miss the slightest sign she was about to awaken or—God forbid—grow worse. He felt compelled to chronicle every twitch of an eyebrow or spasm in her hand. The coughing fits continued, but each was milder than the previous one, and the gasping in her breath improved.
Under other circumstances he might have been bored, but the simple sight of Elizabeth’s chest rising and falling was mesmerizing. Only days ago, his world had ended, but now he had been given a second opportunity. This time I will not waste it, he vowed. I will do whatever I can to win her love.
Elizabeth did not awaken to full consciousness, although twice Mrs. Martin was able to rouse her to drink some water. However, she did grow more active in her sleep, moving with greater animation, moaning, or muttering incoherently. Visiting to check her pulse before retiring for the night, Martin was greatly encouraged by her progress. “She will awaken soon,” he predicted.
These words provoked a fresh wave of agitation in Darcy. Naturally he longed for her recovery more than anything in the world, but he feared it as well. The Martins might be fooled, but Elizabeth knew they were not married. As they had not parted on amicable terms, she would not look kindly on his spousal claims.
Could he persuade her to continue the act? Or would she immediately denounce him as “the last man in the world whom she could ever be prevailed upon to marry?” Throughout the night, Darcy prayed she would awaken at a time when he might discuss the situation with her before she spoke to the Martins. If she denounced him immediately, it would complicate the situation considerably.
The next morning, he awoke early as beams of light crept around the edges of the curtains. He hastily checked on Elizabeth. Her color was better, and her breathing was less labored. He was not imagining it. Her complexion was closer to that of a woman enjoying a night’s rest than a patient on a sickbed. Progress prompted joy but also unease. It was still highly improper for him to be in her room.
Shortly after sunrise, the doctor arrived to examine his patient. He pronounced her greatly improved and predicted she would soon awaken—an eventuality that Darcy both yearned for and feared. How displeased would she be to hear the news that she had acquired a “husband?”
Could he forestall her revelation of the truth to the Martins? Could he prevent her from banishing him from her life once she discovered his falsehoods? Determined as she was, Elizabeth was quite capable of deciding to find her own way back to England without speaking another word to Darcy. This thought alone was enough to cause his stomach to roil unpleasantly.
The Martins prevailed upon him to join them for breakfast. Although loath to leave Elizabeth, Darcy experienced an obligation to the Martins, who took a great risk by providing shelter to someone who could easily be accused of being an English spy. The food was delicious and the conversation pleasant, but Darcy had difficulty relaxing, wondering at every moment how Elizabeth fared. Just as they were finishing, the housekeeper called down to notify the doctor that the patient was awakening.
Since Martin reached Elizabeth’s room first, Darcy lingered in the doorway, unsure how welcome he would be by her bed. Elizabeth’s eyes ranged about the room with a growing look of panic, and her hands clutched the counterpane in agitation. She recoiled when she saw Martin looming over her bed.
He gave her a friendly smile. “Do not be so…scared, madame,” he said to her in heavily accented English. “I am doctor. I am taking care for you.” He gestured to Darcy. “And here is your husband.”
Darcy held his breath, waiting for Elizabeth to reveal his falsehood, but she merely regarded him with a small frown. Knowing full well that Fitzwilliam Darcy was the last person she expected at her bedside, he attempted a reassuring smile and prayed she would not blurt out anything he could not explain away.
However, she looked away from him without any apparent recognition. Her eyes darted wildly about the room with an increasingly panicked rhythm, taking in the windows, the bed, the pictures on t
he walls, and the doctor, while her hands clutched the covers in a death grip. She made no sound.
“Elizabeth?” She returned his regard with blank incomprehension. Alarmed, Darcy crossed the floor in two long strides, daring to put his hand on her forearm. Perhaps she was simply too bewildered by the unfamiliar surroundings. “Elizabeth, you are safe. There is nothing to fear.”
She squinted at him. “Who—” Her voice emerged as a strangled gasp. She cleared her throat and started anew. “W-Who are you?”
Perhaps her eyesight is not good. Or she is still confused from the illness. “It is I, Fitzwilliam Darcy.” He kept his tone soft and unthreatening.
“Who are you?” she repeated with greater agitation.
Darcy staggered as if he were on the rolling, pitching deck of a ship in a violent storm and grabbed the bedpost for stability. “Elizabeth?”
Martin’s eyes darted from Elizabeth to Darcy, no doubt wondering anew if Darcy had lied about their relationship. Darcy bent over her so she could see his face more clearly. “It is I, William.”
Her brows knitted together. “Do I know you?” Her lost expression sent shivers down Darcy’s spine. That blank lack of recognition was so wrong. Such confusion had no place on her countenance.
He had been prepared for denial of their relationship, not denial of his identity. Nor did she seem to be pretending her confusion.
“Is this your…husband?” Martin asked in halting English, taking his self-appointed role of her guardian very seriously.
Her deep green eyes met Darcy’s searchingly. “I am married?”
Guilt stabbed him like a knife. His impulsive lie was confusing Elizabeth; perhaps the truth would be best. Darcy took her cold fingers in his, squeezing them reassuringly. “Elizabeth—”
“Is that my name?” With her free hand, she rubbed her forehead as if it pained her.
Darcy shot a wide-eyed look at Martin, who returned his expression of concern.
“Indeed. You are Elizabeth,” he murmured soothingly. “Sometimes your family calls you Lizzy.”
The Unforgettable Mr. Darcy Page 4
