“If you will permit me,” she said. Her gloved fingers brushed his as she set to the task. She worked steadily, then helped ease the coat from his shoulder as he slowly drew his left arm from the sleeve.
“Will you move nearer to the window,” she said, “that I may see the arm more clearly?”
He shifted along the seat until his shoulder was beneath the small pane on her side of the carriage.
Elizabeth moved to the opposite bench, bringing her little store of supplies with her. Mrs. Hobart clutched her handkerchief tighter and turned her face away.
Mr. Darcy tried to roll his sleeve up past the wound, but the cloth had adhered to it. The first tug pulled at the torn skin and drew a line between his brows.
“Allow me,” Elizabeth said.
She dampened the sleeve with a little of the spirits, then slipped her fingers beneath the edge of the linen and carefully eased it up. Her fingers had to move along the curve of his arm, firm and solid under her hand. She felt the muscle shift as he tried not to flinch.
The wound, once uncovered, made any thought of impropriety absurd. It lay along the outer swell of his upper arm, an angry but shallow furrow where the ball had grazed rather than gone through. The skin was broken and reddened, the edges roughened and scorched, as if someone had drawn a line of fire and then stamped it out badly.
The ball had grazed him because he had shielded her.Her. The supposed fraud he had spent the past days attempting to expose. What Elizabeth felt for this impossible, infuriating man made no sense—he despised her, and she should be furious with him. Instead, she wanted to weep with reliefthat he was alive, wanted to touch him in ways that had nothing to do with tending his wound. These feelings were impossible, inappropriate, and entirely her own burden to bear. Mr. Darcy would be horrified by her feelings. He must never know.
“You are fortunate,” she said. “It is not too deep. Another inch, and I should have been obliged to admire your valour while you underwent the attentions of a surgeon.”
“I am delighted to have spared you that spectacle,” he said. “I am less sure that I have been fortunate. I find myself in a carriage, in January, with my arm exposed to the tender mercies of Mrs. Hobart’s . . .” He took a sniff. “Brandy.”
Mrs. Hobart gave a faint cry of outrage. “It is not brandy. It is a cherry cordial of the highest quality. It has been recommended to me for years by a most respectable physician. The very smell of it restores my spirits.”
Elizabeth caught Darcy’s eye and cast her own up to the ceiling. She knew the smell from her father’s decanter. The drink was brandy. It might not be ladylike, but it was far more useful than a cordial just now.
“We are about to test its effect upon Mr. Darcy’s arm,” Elizabeth said. She uncorked the bottle again, and the sharp scent of spirit leapt out at once, filling the little coach. “If it fails as a physic, it will at least have the merit of clearing the air.” She met Mr. Darcy’s gaze and waited for his permission to proceed.
He nodded, and she pressed the damp linen against the wound.
Every muscle in Mr. Darcy’s jaw, neck, and shoulders stood out in sudden relief, but he did not move his arm. Elizabeth could almost feel the sting herself.
“I am sorry,” she murmured. “If I am timid, it will be worse. We must have done with it as swiftly as we can.”
“Pray do not apologise,” he said after a pause in which he appeared to argue with his own lungs. His voice was strained and had dropped a little. “I have no desire to prolong this.”
She held the cloth steady while the spirit did its work. The dried blood thinned and spread across the linen, leaving the edges of the graze cleaner, the angry red more clearly defined. When she judged that she could do no more, she dropped the soiled handkerchief and drew a dry, clean one from her pocket.
Along with it came a few dried peas, which flew out and landed upon the seat. Elizabeth saw them go, small, ridiculous travellers, but her attention was all for Mr. Darcy.
He was watching her—he had seen the peas fly out of her pocket. Elizabeth would have been embarrassed, but there was no time for it.
She folded the cloth and gently laid the clean side over the wound. “Hold this,” she instructed. Mr. Darcy did as he was told.
Elizabeth took up the strip she had cut from her shawl and began to wind it round his arm, drawing it snug to secure the handkerchief. Not so tight as to hurt him, not so loose as to allow it to slip.
The coach chose that moment to run over something in the road, a stone, perhaps. Elizabeth was tossed up a few inches, lost her balance, pitched forward, and saved herself only by thrusting out her hand and catching at his good shoulder.
His right arm rose to steady her, and for an instant she found herself half against him, her palm spread over the hard plane of his chest through shirt and waistcoat. Her nose was full of the scent of spirit, wet wool, and sandalwood.
“I did not think this a ploy to throw yourself at my feet, Miss Bennet,” he said, in that same low, strained tone.
Was Mr. Darcy attempting a joke? Elizabeth pushed herself away at once as Mrs. Hobart spluttered.
“You are quite safe from any such display,” Elizabeth said, the words sardonic. “Hold still.”
He obeyed. She secured the ends and tucked them neatly out of sight.
“There,” she said, sitting back and surveying the result. “It will serve until we can find a better arrangement. Your coat will conceal it. Pray do not shoot anyone with that arm until you are healed.”