The Journey (16 page)

“Look, Mr. Darcy! He will bleed to death!”

“He will,” he said in the most matter-of-fact voice, “unless we get a fire started.”

“A fire? That will help keep him warm, but how can that save his life?”

He set to work as he talked, measuring and sprinkling gunpowder over the mound of dried leaves, grasses, and twigs. He then took Morgan’s flintlock pistol and struck it against a sharp rock.

“If I can heat that knife blade, I can sear the wound. Do you think you can hold his hands still?”

“Of course,” I said quickly.

He struck the rock again and a faint wisp of smoke appeared. “Even though he is ill,” he cautioned, “he is much stronger than you.”

With another strike the smoke increased. He lowered it to the powdered litter, blew gently, and the requisite flame ignited.

“Now, let us turn him again and remove the bandage.”

I pulled Morgan’s cape aside as Mr. Darcy leaned over his injured shoulder. A quizzical expression flickered across his face when he took off the makeshift tourniquet.

“What in blazes did he use for a binding?”

He held the bloodied muslin out and then a shock of recognition passed over his eyes, as a long strip of lace slipped through his fingers.

“Is this — does this garment belong to you?”

I attempted the haughtiest expression I could muster. “Desperation calls for unusual measures. Let us not haggle about my petticoat but apply immediate haste in tending this wound.”

His look was unreadable, seemingly a combination of disapproval and grudging admiration. Shaking his head slightly, he turned back to the task at hand.

“Morgan!” he called. “Wake up, man! Can you hear me? Wake up!”

“Must we awaken him?”

“He needs to prepare himself for what is to come. The cauterisation will most likely make him pass out, so do not be alarmed when it happens. Morgan! I say, Morgan! Wake up.” He shook him again and again. Finally, the man opened his eyes, but it was obvious that he could barely see us through the haze of pain.

“I am going to sear the wound, man. Mrs. Darcy shall grip your hands. You must allow her to do so and not interfere. It will hurt like the devil, but it has to be accomplished.” Mr. Darcy knelt beside the highwayman, looked directly into his eyes, and spoke slowly and distinctively, as though to a child.

“Don’t — don’t take too great a pleasure in it, Darcy,” Morgan managed to say. I then took his hands in mine, and Mr. Darcy plunged the knife blade into the fire.

“Do not watch, Mr. Morgan,” I said. “Keep your eyes on me.”

“Much rather do that anyways, Miss.”

With one swift, deft movement, Mr. Darcy pulled the blade from the fire and placed it against Morgan’s shoulder. The man jerked and screamed aloud — a terrifying cry that reverberated around the cave — and then, mercifully, he fainted. Even unconscious, though, his grip on my hands did not lessen.

Mr. Darcy continued to hold the knife on the wound for what seemed like forever, but could not have been more than a few seconds. Then, laying it aside, he untied his neckcloth, took it, along with his handkerchief, to the entrance of the cave and washed them in the rainfall without. He used them to cleanse blood from around the wound, rinsing out the cloths again and again. At last, he seemed satisfied and covered the seared flesh with the re-washed wet material.

Only then did he turn his gaze upon me. “Are you ill?”

I shook my head, conscious only of the way Morgan still clutched my hands. Gently, Mr. Darcy loosened his fingers and released me from the highwayman’s hold.

“You have gone quite pale. Are you certain you are well?” He helped me up and moved me closer to the small fire. “Sit here and drink some water.”

While I sipped from the pitcher, Mr. Darcy covered Morgan with the cape and made further attempts to make him as comfortable as one could be, lying on a stone floor.

As I watched him, my senses slowly returned. Sick to my stomach, I now wished I had not eaten the berries earlier. I raised my hand to brush a strand of hair from my face and was surprised to find it wet, not with rain, but tears. Unbidden, I had silently joined Morgan when he cried aloud.

At last, seemingly content that he had done what he could for the man, Mr. Darcy returned to the cave opening and washed his hands anew in the rainfall.

I marvelled with what skill he had cared for him, how he had taken command of the situation and done what was best. With mortification I thought of how unreasonable my idea had been. It would have been foolish, indeed, to send him off in the storm searching for a way out of that forest in the dark. My emotions had caused me to demand the impossible while his calm, rational manner had provided the best solution.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked, as he sat down beside me, and stretched his hands out to the warmth of the fire.

“Yes,” I murmured.

“Good. ’Twill not do to have two patients on my hands.”

I looked up to see a friendlier manner about his eyes.

“Mr. Darcy, I must ask you to forgive me. I fear that my alarm caused me to make foolish requests. I defer to your better judgment, and I am grateful for what you have done. If Morgan lives through the night, it will be due to your skill and wisdom.”

“You must prepare yourself, Elizabeth, for the eventuality that he may not live.”

I nodded.

“Will your heart survive if he does not?”

My heart!
“I . . . I do not understand what you mean, sir.”

He averted his face and stared into the fire. “I sensed . . . an attraction between you and Morgan. Am I correct?”

“You are incorrect! I am in no danger of a broken heart, whatever his outcome. I do feel for him — one could hardly refrain from doing so — but it is nothing more than pity. I cannot help but sympathize with the injury he has suffered. That does not mean that I condone the unwise choices he has made. No, Mr. Darcy, you are mistaken as to any attraction between us.”

“Partly, perhaps.”

“Do you not believe me? Would you accuse me of dishonesty?”

“I believe you are as truthful as you can be. You, however, may not know the true depth of your feelings. As for Morgan, I know he is enamoured.”

My face began to burn and not from the heat of the diminishing fire.

“You say that you do not return such feelings,” he said, “but then why in blazes, may I ask, did I arrive to find you singing to him while his head rested in your lap?”

It was his countenance that burned now, aflame with anger and — could it be jealousy? Had Mr. Darcy play-acted the role of husband so long that he now believed he had that right?

“I tried to soothe him. He was feverish and restless, out of his head for the most part, and I sang simply to ease him somewhat.”

“That tune sounded oddly familiar. It seems that I recall hearing the faintest snatches of it last evening when I listened at the door while you had dinner with Morgan. You then returned in tears and refused to tell me what had transpired. What is it you are hiding? Did the man make advances toward you?”

I closed my eyes in regret and resignation. He insisted on hearing the story, and eventually I gave in, telling him how Morgan had demanded that I sing and dance with him. He was angry that I suffered such humiliation, but he continued to probe, asking leading questions until he asked the one query I hated to answer.

“Did Morgan make love to you?”

When I told Mr. Darcy that the highwayman tried but that I rebuffed him, he rose and began to pace the short circumference of the cave.

At long last, he stilled and stood peering out into the rain. Almost at that very moment, the small fire consumed the final twig, flaring up for a moment only to vanish, plunging our shelter into darkness. A strong gust of wind blew in, and I shivered, pulling my coat closer.

“Well, that is the end of our fire,” he said, turning back to face me. “The night is growing colder quickly. Should you not replace your shoes?”

I agreed if he would grant me privacy. While he turned his back, I scrambled to pull on my stockings and shoes. Although my feet still hurt, I was glad to see that the brief absence of wearing boots had allowed the swelling to subside somewhat.

We discussed the best place for me to sleep, agreeing that the back of the cave would be most protected from the elements. He then checked on our patient once again, felt his forehead, and placed his ear upon his chest to make sure he breathed.

“He is still feverish but, fortunately for him, in a deep sleep.”

Mr. Darcy then announced that he would remain near Morgan in case he grew restless during the night. I wondered how he would face the cold with his greatcoat lost in the briar patch.

“Sir, how shall you stay warm? You have nothing with which to cover yourself.”

He rubbed his hands together. “I fear it will be a long night.”

For some reason I could not bear the thought of Mr. Darcy shivering through the night, cold and wet while I wore a warm coat. All through this ordeal, he had done much for me. Why, a lesser man might have abandoned me to the highwaymen while Mr. Darcy went out of his way to protect me. What could I do to help him keep warm?

Of a sudden, a shocking thought crossed my mind! Did I dare give voice to it?

I swallowed twice before speaking. “You must — well, that is — why not allow me to share my coat with you tonight, for you could grow ill with the mere protection of a redingote?”

He immediately refused, protesting that my pelisse was much too small for the two of us.

“But your clothing is quite damp from your walk through the rain,” I replied, “making you easily susceptible to a dangerous chill. I insist that you be sensible, for I cannot care for two patients either!”

“I am only a bit damp, not wet through. I reached the cave before the rain descended in earnest. I shall be well.”

I knew that was not true, that once again he was putting my interests before his own. “I cannot rest unless you agree to share my coat.”

He looked at me in amazement. “Elizabeth, it simply will not do. We . . . well, we would be forced to lie — that is, to be exceedingly close together in order to share such a narrow little coat, for your figure is light and pleas — ” He cleared his throat. “I could not impose upon you.”

I sighed deeply. “Have we not shared a blanket three nights, sir? I believe I know you well enough to be assured you are not a man who takes advantage of a woman. It is not an imposition. I insist. I do not need to lie down. Can we not sleep sitting up?” I motioned toward an area in the rear of the enclosure. “Why not over here with our backs against the cave wall.”

In the dim light, I could just make out the sceptical look in his eyes and the way his chest heaved as he sighed. “Very well, but I suggest we sit nearer Morgan. If he becomes restless or worsens during the night, one of us will awaken.”

And so it came about that, somewhat awkwardly, we sat down, Mr. Darcy placing himself on the side closest to Morgan. I had unbuttoned my coat, removed it, and now opened it up to spread over the two of us. I quickly felt the lack of my petticoat, for the cold penetrated my muslin gown and undergarments. I shivered and drew up my knees so that they might benefit from the wrap.

Mr. Darcy was right, however, about the insufficiency of the garment. It covered neither of us. No matter how we turned it about, the wool pelisse was simply too small.

He pressed his lips together, looked around, and then once more cleared his throat.

“I trust you understand, Miss Bennet, that I am not attempting liberties, but if you would turn a bit more toward me and, uh, allow me to place my arm . . . here behind your head — ” He gently slipped his arm around my shoulders, also turning toward me and drawing me into an embrace. “There. Now, rest your knees against my leg. Is that — is that too distressing?”

“No.” For some reason, I was unable to manage more than a whisper.

“And if you — well, if you care to — you might lay your head on my shoulder.” He slipped his other arm around my waist and pulled me even closer. “Now, are you warmer?”

“Yes,” I whispered again. I wondered if anyone’s skin had ever literally caught fire from the heat of a man’s arm. If not, mine might be the first.

“And your coat now covers more of both of us. That is much better, so let us try to sleep. Good night, Elizabeth.”

I could not answer. Every part of my body felt as though it were aflame! Never had I felt this way before — not when any young man had held my hand or briefly touched my waist when dancing, certainly not when Sneyd had clasped me to him in that vile, repulsive way, and not even when Morgan had held me against his wildly beating heart.

It was a familiar feeling, akin to the sensation I had experienced when Mr. Darcy held me last night, but now magnified a thousand times. This embrace was all encompassing, for I very nearly sat in his lap.

Not only could I feel the taut strength of his body, but the smooth power of his shoulder on which I lay, and the hypnotic rhythm beating in his strong chest beneath my cheek. My forehead nestled into his neck now exposed by his open shirt and the earthy, heady scent of his skin pervaded my senses. How could I find it pleasing when he had not washed in days?