Alone with Mr. Darcy: A Pride & Prejudice Variation (5 page)

Her warm body had felt so right in his
arms when he had awakened, at peace with himself for the first time in months
despite sleeping in his clothes on a flea-ridden pallet of old straw. It had
been a damned good thing he was fully clothed, or he might not have been able
to resist the temptation she presented. He knew perfectly well he should not
marry Elizabeth Bennet. It would be a mistake on so many fronts he could hardly
begin to count them. Yet he had been pleased to have the decision taken out of
his hands. She had saved his life, and he had repaid her kindness by
compromising her. Marrying her was his duty under those circumstances, and he
need not reproach himself for giving in to his attraction to her.

And she had refused to take him seriously!
Even if they were fortunate enough not to be discovered together, did she truly
believe no one would notice her absence? Ridiculous! The simplest solution
would be to go straight to Mr. Bennet with the facts of the matter. But what
was he thinking – he should be trying to avoid the marriage by any means
at his disposal! Perhaps that blow to his head truly had addled his wits.

If only it had addled his eyes instead!
Being so close to Elizabeth, he could not stop himself from admiring her. Her
beauty shone through despite her dishevelment, and it drew him to her, the moth
to the flame. And now he had as much as told her so. Would she try to use that
power against him? Where
was
that damned woodpile?

Why was he even trying to find it? Without
more wood, they would have to huddle together for warmth. He could feel his
passion flare even as he stood in the raging snowstorm. But he could not do
that to her. He would not take advantage of her vulnerability. And he would
keep repeating that to himself until his gentlemanly impulses returned from
wherever they were hiding. They were probably with that blasted non-existent
woodpile.

He had made almost a full circuit of the
cottage, but felt every bit as unsettled as when he had slammed out of the house
before he did something foolish like show Elizabeth just how attractive he
found her.  The woodpile must be farther from the cottage than he dared
go. In this driving snow, he could lose their way completely two dozen paces
from his destination. That would not solve any of his problems.

The woodpile tripped him when he was only
a few feet from the door. Blasted thing! He would have found it immediately,
had he only started in the opposite direction. Even inanimate firewood was
conspiring against his sanity today. He dusted the snow from his trousers and
rubbed his aching knee, then began filling his arms with firewood. It was a
good thing his servants could not see him now.

Elizabeth jumped up from the hearth when
Mr. Darcy entered in a blast of wind, his arms full of wood and his head
covered with snow. He took great care in setting the logs in a neat stack, then
returned outside. Just leaving the door open that long had lowered the
temperature inside the cottage substantially. If he had to make several trips,
perhaps she should open and close the door for him to preserve what little heat
they had.

He thanked her coldly for her assistance.
After adding a third armload of wood to the pile, he stumbled and had to catch
his balance on the mantel. Elizabeth started to hold out her hand to stop him
from taking another trip, but she drew it back, not daring to point out he
should not undertaking such exercise.

But this time when he went out, he did not
return immediately. Elizabeth waited by the  door, peeking out to see if
he was waiting for her to open it, but he was not, and the swirls of white
covered everything beyond the doorstep.


Had he fallen in the slippery snow?
Or lost consciousness? A sharp piece of ice seemed to pierce her deep inside.
Oh, why had she allowed him to go outside again? He had clearly been in no
condition for it!

Without giving herself a chance to
reconsider, she opened the door and stepped out into the fierce wind. But how
could she find him when she could not see even a few feet away? “Mr. Darcy!”
she called.

“Yes?” His muffled voice came from her
left.

Relief flowed through her as she made out
slightly darker shape. “Is anything the matter?”

“No. Yes.”

Her breath caught on something halfway
between a laugh and a sob. “Which is it?”

“If you could assist me here…” Strain
sounded in his voice.

If Mr. Darcy was actually asking for
assistance, it must be something terrible. Perhaps he was trapped by a falling
log. She pushed her way through the blinding snow till she found him on his
knees, digging with both hands in a snowdrift, pieces of wood scattered around
him. “What should I do?” she half-shouted over the wind.

“Could you remove the logs leaning on my
arm?” he grunted.

“Of course.” She hardly even noticed the
snow stinging her fingertips as she hurried to move them aside.  “Should I
take more?”

“No, that should be….” He bent down into
the hole he had made, tugging at something, then suddenly straightened with a
lump of snow in his hands.  “…enough. Thank you.”

“Are you injured?”

“Inside.”

Was he waiting for her to go first?
Suddenly aware of the ridiculousness of trying to converse when every word had
to be shouted, she trudged back to the door. Her shaking hands struggled with
the latch for a moment before it lifted.

She had to lean on the door to close it
behind Mr. Darcy. It was blessedly still inside despite the constant sound of
wind whistling over the chimney. She could not have been out there for more
than three minutes, but it had seemed like an eternity. She shook off 
snow from her dress and shivered.

Mr. Darcy knelt in front of the hearth,
examining his odd discovery. “Would you be so kind as to place another log on
the fire, Miss Elizabeth?”

His formality reminded her of how angry he
had been when he first went in search of wood, so after doing as he asked, she
retreated to the far side of the hearth. The fire burned higher with the new
wood, revealing more of the lump of snow Mr. Darcy was busily rubbing.
Elizabeth blinked. Was it
moving
?

Forgetting her attempt to keep her
distance, she leaned toward him and peered at it. Yes, it was alive! “What is
it?”

“A cat. She was hiding in the woodpile.”
He lifted the animal and held it against his chest, murmuring something
inaudible to it.

Now she could make out the tail and the
ears. “Trying to find a warm spot, I suppose. It is a miracle he made it
through the night.”

“It may be too late already, if he has frostbite
on his paws.”

“I hope not. I would rather have a
miracle.” Elizabeth realized the animal was not so much covered with snow as
mostly white. A few buff-colored patches dotted his head. “Actually, two
miracles. Only you, Mr. Darcy, could find a white cat in a blizzard! I thought
he was a snowball.”

He raised his head. “Snowballs rarely meow
and bite people.”

Elizabeth could not stop herself from
dissolving into laughter. “Did he really bite you?”

“Not badly. I was disturbing his hiding
place, after all.”

Another new side of Mr. Darcy! That he
would go to the trouble of rescuing a stray cat in the storm was surprising
enough for a gentleman, but to do so after he had been bitten, and then to warm
it himself? “You are covered in snow. Should I hold him so you can remove it
before it melts?”

He looked down at his arms in surprise. “I
suppose so.” He detached the cat, who apparently was clinging to his shirt with
his claws, and gingerly held it out to her.

The cat made no effort to escape, curling
immediately into Elizabeth’s arms. “Why, you are barely half grown! I can feel
your ribs.” Scooting closer to the fire, she turned so as much heat as possible
would reach the shivering animal. Would its fur be soft if it were not so wet
and cold?

She fluffed up the fur to help it dry,
then felt along the cat’s body to see if it might be injured. No, it was only
the cold, and most likely hunger. There could have been no hunting in this
storm. “You poor thing,” she crooned. “You will be warm soon.” There was little
they could do for the cat’s hunger unless it had a taste for raw onions. The
last of the venison had been eaten that morning.

Mr. Darcy crouched down beside her. “How
is he?”

“She.”

“Oh. How is
she
, then?” He reached
out to stroke the cat’s head.

It felt oddly intimate for him to be so
close, both of them touching the cat. “Still alive.”

The cat picked her head up and sniffed at
Mr. Darcy’s fingers, then stood up in Elizabeth’s lap and stretched. Delicately
picking her way across to his legs, she curled up against his body and began to
purr.

Elizabeth smiled at his surprised
expression, feeling warmer than she had in some time. “You seem to have made a
friend. She knows who saved her.”

Awkwardly he reached down to pet the cat.
“Are you certain she is female?”

“I believe so. I take it you do not have
much experience with cats?”

He suddenly seemed to withdraw inside
himself. “Very little.”

His taciturnity reminded her of his
earlier comments. Her concern first for his well-being and that of the cat had
distracted her, but it still made her nervous. She hardly knew which
interpretation of them she preferred – that he was mocking her or that he
truly admired her. Either one was excessively embarrassing, especially after
waking in his arms. Her skin prickled at the memory of his body pressed against
hers.

How could she be so drawn to him when she
had such a dislike for him before? She dropped her eyes and discovered the
sleeves of his coat were peppered with splinters. Without thinking, she tugged
one of the larger ones free. “I hope your valet is not the disapproving sort.
Your attire may never be the same.”

He looked down and began picking at the
splinters. “Showing disapproval would be beneath Crewe’s dignity. He will not
say a word, simply spirit it away and I will never see it again.”

“Why am I not surprised you would have a
silent and dignified valet?”

Darcy tossed a handful of splinters into
the fire where they sizzled and popped. “Dignified, yes. But sometimes he is
anything but silent.”

“Oh?” Surely speaking of his valet was
safer than talking about his past.

“The only time Crewe speaks more than a
few words is when he thinks I am about to make a serious mistake. Then he quite
carefully explains to me precisely what I am doing wrong and how I should
correct it.” He furrowed his brow. “Is something the matter?”

“No, I am simply astonished you would
choose a servant who criticizes you.”

“I know I am not perfect. Crewe is a
special case, though. He served my father before me, and on his deathbed my
father told me to keep Crewe with me and always listen to him. So he is
permitted liberties other servants would be dismissed for.”

“And
do
you always listen to him?”

His eyes looked hooded. “Yes,” he said
shortly. “I have little choice.”

“To honor your father’s wishes?”

“No. Because he is always right.” His
lower lip jutted in an expression which was almost a pout.

Elizabeth laughed. “What a very annoying
trait! I should not like at all having someone who pointed out my mistakes and
was always right.”

“And it is always when I least expect it.”
Somehow his aggrieved look was oddly appealing.

“And now you will have to explain why you
have white cat hair on your trousers as well.”

“Do not remind me!”

As if on cue, the cat jumped off his lap
and sat on the hearth, carefully washing herself. Darcy took advantage of his
new freedom to poke at the fire, sending the flames higher. But when he placed
a new log on top, it sizzled and sparked, damping down the flames until he
fanned them with his hat.  

How odd he knew so much about building
fires! Would it not have been beneath him to learn the work of servants?
Perhaps that could be a safe topic of conversation. “I am all amazement at your
knowledge of fire building, sir.”

He spared her the briefest of glances. “I
learned it as a child. My cousin and I liked to play in a cave on his father’s
estate, and we built a fire pit to keep off the chill. The fire went out quite
frequently until we worked out the knack of keeping it burning. It took us
months to figure it out. It looked much easier when the servants did it.”

“Months? You must have been a frequent
visitor there, then.”

“I lived with his family for over two
years.”

Had he been fostered out, then? Some noble
families did that, to be sure, but she would not have guessed it of him. “You
must have been glad to have a cousin near your age, then.” Surely that was
neutral enough.

“That was the pretext for my presence. My
uncle claimed Richard needed a companion since he could not go off to school at
that time, and he would benefit from having a fellow student to share his
tutoring.”

If that had been the pretext, what had the
true reason been? And why had he said that? It would be rude to ask him
directly about it. “That seems a good reason. I hope it was not ill health that
kept your cousin from school.”

“Richard?” Darcy snorted. “He was as hale
as a horse. It was all an excuse. My uncle did not trust my stepmother to care
for me adequately, and felt I would be safer with him. He wanted to make
certain that the next owner of Pemberley would have Fitzwilliam blood. Of
course, I did not learn that until much later.”

“Surely there must have been servants at
Pemberley to care for you, even if your stepmother had no interest in doing
so.”

“Of course there were. However, it would
have been very much in her best interest were one of her own children to
inherit, and I stood in the way of that.”

He sounded indifferent, but Elizabeth was
horrified. “That sounds like something that would only happen in a fairy tale.”

He turned to look at her then, his eyes
opaque. “Even fairy tales must have some basis in fact and human nature. Of
course, it might have been complete supposition on my uncle’s part.”

Something in his expression told Elizabeth
he was not as unmoved on the subject as he sounded. What a horrible thing for a
child -- to know his stepmother wished him dead! Some of his remote, proud
behavior seemed more understandable now. “But what of your father? Surely he
would not have tolerated any danger to you.” It was a far more personal question
than she would have dared ask in normal circumstances, but somehow it seemed
natural now.

“He would not have, but he was away much
of the time. That was my uncle’s opinion, in any case, and he was not one to be
gainsaid. He disapproved of the marriage from the start, saying she was too
young and hardly respectable. But my father must have agreed eventually, for
after my sister was born, he sent her back to her family.”

She struggled for some appropriate
response. “Your stepmother sounds hateful.”

“Not at all. I liked her very much.”

He
liked
her? This made no sense.
It must be more confusion from his injury. He likely had no idea what he was
saying. “You liked her?”

“She was my friend before my father ever
noticed her. We were visiting her parents, and when I played with her brothers,
she often joined us at our games, as she was not yet out.”

“So she was quite young?”

He considered this. “I suppose so, though
from the advanced age of seven, she seemed quite grown-up. She must have been
sixteen when they married.”