“We are staying the night, then?” Elizabeth asked.
“We must,” he said simply. “It is nearly two hours back to the main road, and the night is growing ever colder. We will retrieve my carriage in the morning and return you to your family.”
Elizabeth tried to smile and gave up halfway. The thought of morning, of explanations, of returning to the world—it all felt impossibly distant.
Elizabeth listened to Mrs. Hobart’s muffled complaints wafting through the walls for a moment and then she drifted away while Mr. Darcy kept watch over her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Darcy awoke, sore from sleeping upright with another person using him as a pillow.
Miss Bennet—Elizabeth—was pressed against him, blanket clutched under her chin, hair curling out of its pins in wild, dark tendrils, her hands disappearing inside the sleeves of his greatcoat. She had borrowed his warmth all night, and he had given it willingly.
The fire had sunk to a bed of red embers. Late morning light seeped into the room, making the rough plaster and low beams look even meaner than they had yesterday evening.
He remained still for one moment longer, listening.
No shriek from Mrs. Hobart. No complaint from Sir Reginald. No noise at all, in fact. There was only the faint crackle of cooling ash and the slow, steady rise and fall of Elizabeth’s breath against his chest.
Carefully, he began the work of disentanglement.
Elizabeth made a small sound of protest in her sleep and turned her face into his coat. Darcy swallowed a fond laugh as he eased her down along the settee. He picked up the blanket from where it had fallen and tucked it over her shoulders.
His back ached, his neck was stiff, and his good arm, the one Elizabeth had used to cushion her head, was now coming back to life with a hundred sharp pinpricks. But it had been worth it.
He went to the hearth and coaxed the embers back to life, adding wood a bit at a time until the flames flickered cheerfully. He wondered whether he ought to return to his abandoned carriage on the chance Mr. Bennet and his party had ridden out early. He suspected they would, given that he had not met them at the inn last night as planned.
A sound from the back drew his attention. Darcy walked as quietly as possible to the other room.
Anders sat slumped in a chair, long legs outstretched, eyes open. Johnson lay on the floor, snoring.
“All quiet?” Darcy asked. He was about to tell Anders he intended to saddle a horse, but the front door shook under a sudden, violent pounding. Darcy was at it at once, hauling the door open.
But the face that met his was not one he expected. He blinked.
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, Darcy’s cousin, stood on the threshold, sword in hand, snow powdering his shoulders.
“Fitzwilliam?” Darcy inquired, shocked.
“Darcy!” Fitzwilliam cried, delighted.
Darcy shook his head a little. “What areyoudoing here?”
“You sent a letter, of course. Once I was certain Adrian was safe, I thought to seek you out along your typical route.” He tipped his head to the men behind him. “And early this morning I ran into these men, who were seeking you as well.”
“May we enter?” Mr. Bennet asked, shifting so that he stood at Fitzwilliam’s shoulder. “You did not return to the inn last night, Mr. Darcy.”
“I did not,” Darcy replied, but before he could go on, Mr. Bennet had interrupted.
“We saw your carriage, no horses, no sign of you. Have you found my daughter?”
Darcy opened his mouth but Elizabeth spoke first.
“Papa,” she called as she rose from the settee.
Darcy was privately grateful to find her stockings restored. Elizabeth had not only thought quickly, but acted, which made their impropriety a bit less incriminating.
Upon seeing her father, her composure—that astonishing composure she had maintained through everything—finally crumbled.