“Young fool! Look what ye’ve done. Nearly overset us an’ lamed this poor mare an’ all. An’ fer what, eh? Juss to ride hell for leather down the road, like ye owned it?”
The growl faded into a muffled “Humph!” when the whippersnapper stepped aside and his head emerged from behind Nellie’s, to reveal that in fact he did own the road and pretty much everything else on an eight-mile radius.
The apology came out of necessity rather than conviction.
“Beg pardon, Mr Darcy, Sir. Di’n’know ‘twere ye.”
“Never mind that,” the gentleman replied curtly. “Come over and lend a hand to calm your mare, would you? I do not dare let her loose just yet.”
“Aye, Sir. Comin’. Not lost me legs, the Lord be praised,” Wilkins muttered as he scrambled off into the ditch, nearly losing his footing as he did so. He gripped hold of the gig to redress himself and looked back at his young passenger.
“How ‘bout ye, lass? Are ye aright?”
“I am well. Just fine,” Elizabeth assured him, her voice rather too shaky to lend much credence to the statement, whereupon, from his place at the end of the traces, Mr Darcy spoke up with some impatience.
“Wilkins, how are you getting on?”
“Dandy, Sir. Be right wit’ye,” the older man called back and, still muttering under his breath, he squelched his way to Nellie to pat her neck and gentle her, thus leaving Darcy at liberty to abandon his post and approach Elizabeth at last.
He was just in time to see her leaving her precarious seat to jump down, then lean against the muddy wheel for support. Instinctively, his hand shot out to steady her.
“You are not injured, I hope.”
She shook her head and drew back from his touch, making Darcy sigh as he consciously offered:
“You should take shelter from the rain.”
Her glance shot back at him in defiance and she retorted tersely:
“I was fairly well sheltered under the hood until just now.”
Darcy bit his lip.
“Of course. I–… That was unfortunate, and not what I intended.”
Her old anger in nowise abated, she glanced up again.
“Then what did you intend?”
Without the slightest hesitation the reply came, low and earnest.
“To find you. Beg you to return. Beg you to forgive me.”
She leaned further back to catch his eye and her brow arched in unappeased resentment.
“Indeed! Whatever for? You were simply stating the obvious.”
“No! I was unjust, bitter and resentful. I never should have– ”
He broke off with a frustrated huff and forcefully ran his gloved fingers through his hair, pushing it back and sending droplets flying. It was still soaked from the earlier ride, and even more so once his hat had fallen off and was now lying trampled under his horse’s hooves, somewhere in the road behind them. But the fate of his hat concerned him not one jot. How was he to say everything that must be said – there, in the pouring rain, and in Wilkins’s hearing?
Darcy inwardly damned the rain, his own unpardonable conduct, the poor skittish mare and, for good measure, blameless Wilkins too. He took a step closer and his hand found her elbow under the heavy cloak. But the right words were far more difficult to find.
“I never should have said and done a great many things, Miss Bennet,” he said at last, his voice heavy with contrition. “We must talk. I hope you would allow it.” His lips tightened and he added, dispiritedly gesturing around him. “Not here, naturally, and not now. We ought not linger. You must be taken somewhere dry and warm as soon as may be.”
She made no answer, and he anxiously searched her countenance. It was drawn and pale under the hood, filling him with an overwhelming admixture of fresh guilt and the deepest need to hold her. But for now all he could do was plead.
“I beg you would consent to return to Pemberley.”
To his acute dismay, he read the protest in her eyes even before she could draw breath to speak, so he earnestly entreated against his every wish, but knowing it had to be offered nonetheless:
“Just for tonight, if it must be so. If you must leave, then let it not be thus. A carriage can take you to Netherfield. But ‘tis getting late and you must be very cold and very tired. Come back with me. Just for tonight.”
His heart sank at her severely pursed lips and the deep shadow settling in her eyes, little knowing it was not so much in response to his entreaty as her own thoughts. That she reluctantly recognised he was in the right. She was wet, cold and – just five miles into a journey of over one hundred and sixty – already exhausted from the day’s tempest of emotions, the trek in the rain and the latest misadventure. After all, the entire purpose of a swift departure was to avoid him. And she had failed spectacularly in that.
But Darcy had no notion of her distraught reasoning, which perhaps was just as well. All he heard was the sigh and the resignedly spoken, “Very well.” But it was enough to bring a much-needed surge of hope.
“Thank you,” he whispered warmly, then spun around with renewed energy. “Let me help you turn about, Wilkins. We are going back.” He carelessly trod into the waterlogged ditch and called out to the older man, “I shall try to ease the wheel out, if you would coax your mare into tugging,” he instructed as he grabbed hold of the hub.
With some effort on his part and a great deal more on Nellie’s, the gig was brought back onto the road. Leaving Wilkins to look for signs of damage, Darcy removed his now muddy gloves and tucked them into his coat pocket as he made to return to the trim form huddled up by the side of the road. He did not get that far. Wilkins recaptured his attention with a dismayed mutter and Darcy turned to find him shaking his head despondently.
“Thought she’d be lamed, Sir, an’ so she is. She’s hurt hersel’. The left hind leg, see? She’s limpin’. I’d as soon not tax her wi’ more weight, if ‘tis all the same to ye. Miss Bennet makes no difference, she’s light as a feather, but I’d much better walk wi’ my Nellie rather than have her carry me.”
“The poor thing,” Darcy heard Elizabeth quietly commiserate from much closer than expected. She had approached them without notice, fearful as she might have been around horses – and, as of that day, with further reason. But that had not stemmed her natural compassion, and he also heard her offer promptly, “Mr Wilkins, I do not wish to tax her either. I will walk with you.”
Darcy frowned.
“You cannot! It would take forever.”
Elizabeth frowned back.
“No longer than if Wilkins walks and I do not. I can go as fast as he. At least it would keep me warm.” Her voice grew distant as she added, “You need not wait around to ensure I will keep my word. With Nellie injured I am not likely to dash the other way as soon as your back is turned. I will see you at Pemberley.”
Darcy’s frown twisted into fresh contrition at her implied reproach.
“I was not thinking of myself. I should not wish you to endure this weather for another hour.”
Barely mollified, she shrugged.
“There is nothing to be done.”
“There is, in fact.”
“And what is that?”
“You could ride my horse.”
Her eyes widened.
“I thought you were speaking of possibilities, Sir.”
“And so did I.”
The volley of brief retorts was replaced by warm persuasiveness as he entreated:
“You need not be concerned. I will not walk him very fast. But it would still be faster than with Wilkins’s Nellie.”
She shook her head.
“It is not sound.”
“Would you at least try?”
Elizabeth pursed her lips again, and Darcy hastened to take her grudging silence for consent. He turned to the older man.
“You would do well to start on your way back. If my scheme is unsuccessful we will catch up with you.”
“Very well, Sir. I s’pose ye w
on’t be needin’ this now,” Wilkins said with a grin, bending down to retrieve and offer the flattened remains of the fashionable hat and, for the first time in many hours, Darcy’s lips twitched.
“I should imagine not. Pray dispose of it if you would be so kind.”
Wilkins tossed it carelessly onto the seat, then added:
“But ye might wish to take Miss Bennet’s bag wit’ye.”
Darcy nodded and Wilkins fetched it from the gig, making his heart twist at the sight of the pitiful and bedraggled receptacle for the few belongings she had left his home with – she, who should have everything! Without a word, he strapped it to the saddle and turned to her.
“I shall lift you up, if you allow me. You need not fear. Hold on and all will be well.”
Her sceptical grimace was simply adorable, and also rather welcome – it distracted him from her bewitching closeness. Yet, despite her wet and cumbersome woollen cloak, there was precious little that could distract him from the feel of her slim waist between his hands when he raised her into the saddle. Or from the clasp of her gloved fingers on his shoulders. From the dark eyes intent on his. The damp cheek – no longer pale, but growing rosy. So very close, barely above him. Stoking the insane temptation to let her slide back down into his arms and claim her lips with all the longing and the passion he had unreasonably fought against for such a length of time. Until she understood there was no way under heaven that he could ever let her vanish from his life.
She nervously bit her lip in the selfsame endearing fashion he unconditionally adored, until he had to forcefully remind himself in no uncertain terms that if she was so incensed at him as to leave Pemberley as she did, kissing her in the middle of the lane to Kympton and under Wilkins’s scrutiny was not likely to appease her.
She pushed against his shoulders to straighten up and, all things considered, he encouraged it.
“Aye, sit up and hold on.”
“Oh, believe me, I would,” she retorted promptly as she fumbled for a grip on the back of the saddle, “but there is precious little to hold on to.”
“His mane would serve you better,” Darcy advised, and her wary eyes shot to the jet-black mass before turning to him, a picture of incredulous disapproval.
“Your horse would rightly object to having his hair pulled, and I am in too precarious a position to provoke him.”
“You need not be concerned in that regard. The mane is a great deal thicker and coarser than it looks, and he would not feel the pull as you or I would. I can vouch for that. Many a time I have seen horses submitting without protest to having strands upon strands pulled out when they were groomed. So you should have no fear about getting a firm hold.”
She followed his advice. With obvious reluctance and much hesitation but followed it regardless, Darcy noted, and he was glad to see her very rigid pose loosening by a fraction.
“Let me fit the stirrup for you,” he offered.
The small booted foot was soon found under the wet and muddy hem of her cloak, dress and petticoat. The intimacy of the quest sent his pulse racing, but he schooled himself into at least some semblance of decorum as he guided it without haste into the re-adjusted stirrup. Then he looked up and forced a smile.
“How are you faring up there?”
“Not as well as on the ground, I have to say. Besides, I cannot see how this is helping matters. Mr Wilkins is well ahead already.”
“We shall overtake him in no time.”
“Aye. I was afraid you would say that.”
The encouraging glance he cast her way as he took hold of the bridle had little effect, and even the faint glimmer of confidence it had inspired was instantly undone by his horse shaking his large head with a snort, as his bunched muscles rippled over his shoulder blades. Darcy tightened his grip on the leather straps and patted his strong neck before the noble beast, disconcerted by the unknown rider, could begin to think of bridling or stomping.
“There now, Ares, do not fuss. All is well.”
“Ares?” Elizabeth picked up on the dark, warlike undertones. “I hope this is a reflection on his coat and not his temper.”
“He will be as gentle as a lamb, I assure you.”
“Not a name I would have chosen for a lamb, the colour notwithstanding,” she breathlessly chuckled, clearly seeking to make light of her own discomfort.
But that changed as soon as Darcy urged Ares to walk. A tall horse was enough of a challenge even when standing still. A mass of moving muscle swaying her to and fro was a different matter, particularly when ill-equipped for riding side-saddle. The shape was all wrong – the width, the depth, the tilt. Were it not for the precarious foothold in the stirrup, she felt she would have slid off already. She did not dare shuffle up and risk falling backwards, but sitting thus perched was no way to travel any distance. Least of all five miles. Walking was by far the better option, and Elizabeth lost no time in telling him so.
“This would not do, Sir. I would much rather walk.”
And with that she took her foot out of the stirrup and, releasing the mane, she dismounted before Darcy could even begin to argue the point or at least turn around to catch her.
“Very well,” he sighed and patted Ares’s neck again, before exchanging the bridle for the stirrup, which he proceeded to restore to its full length. “There is another way.”
But Elizabeth shook her head with a mutinous crease between her brows that might have made him smile in other circumstances.
“No inducement would see me back up there,” she stubbornly retorted but, equally unyielding, he tentatively clarified.
“We could ride together. If you do not object.”
Her reply came without a moment’s hesitation, and it was brief and to the point.
“I do object, Sir.”
“And why is that?” Darcy asked, his eyes still on his employment.
“For a variety of reasons, which must be as plain to you as they are to me.”
This time he did stop to look at her.
“Are any of those reasons worth risking a chest cold, or worse?”
“They are nonetheless valid. And I come from sturdy stock.”
“That is as may be. But I am not willing to expose you,” Darcy declared flatly and returned to his task, timely suppressing an oath when the wet and muddy strap would not oblige and kept slipping from his fingers.
Still, the stirrup was eventually re-adjusted and Darcy spun to face her with a set to his jaw that warned he would brook no opposition. Before she could step back or protest, he had already lifted her off the ground and placed her in front of the saddle, then effortlessly swung himself behind her – to be met at close quarters with a fiery glare. She instantly nudged sideways in a prompt endeavour to dismount and would have wholly lost her balance, had he not steadied her with a firm grip around the waist, at which point the glare turned positively incandescent.
“I would thank you to unhand me, Mr Darcy,” she hissed through barely moving lips.
“And I would beg you to see reason,” he pleaded, his senses swimming with the sharp thrill of the near-embrace and his voice raw with the urgent need to capture those taut lips until they grew soft and acquiescent under his. His breath caught, but he found just enough of a lungful to argue the case further, “You must see that we would get back a great deal sooner.”
Seemingly she did see the wisdom of it, at least in sufficient measure to stop trying to extricate herself. She stilled with a deep sigh of resignation which, among other things, made Darcy feel duty-bound to ask:
“Would I be allowed to hold you?”
She made a strange little sound at that, half-chuckle and half-snort.
“A trifle tardy, your question, is it not?” And then she sighed again. “I suppose if you are to persist in this insane notion, it rather becomes a matter of necessity.”
“Thank you,” Darcy replied quietly. “Let us be on our way. But first…” He trailed off as he released her to reach back for the ed
ge of his own cloak, only to freeze mid-motion when, finding herself unsupported without warning, her hands shot out instinctively, one to grasp at the mane and the other at his hip, sending another sharp thrill through him. Her eyes shot up to his as well, then she looked away as he began to haltingly supply an explanation.
“I thought another layer might be useful,” Darcy offered as he tugged at his cloak and tentatively draped it round her shoulders. “If you hold onto it, it might remain in place.”
She nodded, still without looking up, and she released the mane to do his bidding, while her other hand was disappointingly withdrawn and dropped into her lap. But he had already been granted permission to put his arm around her. Indeed, a matter of necessity, she had archly called it, then wordlessly confirmed it. So, with a wisp of a smile at the recollection, Darcy let his arm slide over her shoulders under the intimate shelter of his cloak covering them both, until it reached the right place – so achingly right – and wrapped around her waist, bringing her closer.
He felt her tense and heard her sharp intake of breath, which he took as an indication that he really should slacken his hold. Yet the decorous notion instantly crossed into the realm of impossibility when she glanced up at him again and the same breath was released, to wash over his face and send his senses reeling with its intoxicating sweetness.
He cleared his voice to fill the charged air with words, before he lost the last remaining vestiges of self-restraint.
“Are you at all comfortable?”
“I–… Yes… I am well,” came her choked half-whisper and she turned away, screened from him by the blasted hood.
Darcy knew full well that for the sake of his own enduring sanity he ought to be glad of it for now, yet he still sighed as he reached to gather the reins into his right hand. He urged Ares on with his heels, knees and a click of his tongue – only to find that, although she would not say a word, she gasped and tensed, awfully rigid with fresh panic.
Miss Darcy's Companion: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 23
