The Unforgettable Mr. Darcy

Darcy froze. Was it possible the doctor had found the Black Cobra? No, surely the spy would be a native French speaker—and male. “She could not even tell you her name?” Perhaps the woman was touched in some way.

“When one of the fishermen found her on the beach, she had suffered a blow to the head and nearly drowned. She wavered in and out of consciousness for many days; I feared for her life. Then, just as she seemed to improve, she cont

racted a lung fever. Her moments of consciousness have been brief, and she does not seem to understand where she is.”

“Understandable,” Darcy murmured. Poor woman. Now Darcy wanted to lend assistance for her sake as well as the doctor’s.

“Indeed,” the doctor said. “She is often feverish and incoherent. But perhaps she will say enough that you may ascertain her identity.”

Darcy stood. “Take me to her.” He would not allow his mission to stand in the way of assisting someone so unfortunate.

The doctor led Darcy up the polished staircase and down a corridor to a room at the back of the house. Mrs. Martin met them at the door.

“How does she fare?” the doctor asked.

His wife’s expression was grave. “Feverish again. Sleeping or unconscious, I do not know which.”

Darcy felt a pang of regret. If he could not speak with the woman, he could not be of much help to her. “Perhaps I should return another time,” he said.

Martin considered. “At least come into the room for a minute. Sometimes she speaks in her delirium.” He opened the door.

The room was dim, illuminated only by the sunshine peeking around the edges of the heavy curtains. Closed up as it was, the chamber was airless and quite warm.

On the bed, the woman lay very still, her hair a dark tangle over her face. Even from a distance Darcy could discern that her complexion was not good—pale and waxy. The covers were pulled up to her chin so that only her face was visible.

She moaned and shifted slightly as they entered, but her eyes remained closed. “Come closer.” The doctor gestured to the bedside. “Perhaps she will say something.”

Darcy joined the doctor reluctantly. It was the height of impropriety to be in any woman’s bedchamber, particularly that of a stranger. Of course, Darcy had no intention of taking advantage of the situation, and nobody need ever hear about it.

This close, Darcy could see that the woman was quite young; her skin was smooth and unmarked.

She moaned again, turning her head toward Darcy. A shaft of midday light struck her face, and he instinctively reached out to brush the hair from her cheek.

Darcy froze, unable to do anything but stare.

Briefly he catalogued what he could see of the woman. Her hair was a jumble of dark brown curls, and her skin was slightly tanned under the pallor. The nose…the sprinkling of freckles on her cheeks…was achingly familiar. If she opened her eyes, he knew they would be a bright forest green.

Elizabeth was lying in the bed.

Chapter Four

Darcy blinked, trying to clear his vision. Was this a dream? A hallucination? Had he finally lost his grip on reality? His eyes scrutinized her features, looking for subtle differences that would declare him to be in error. Over the past months, his wishful mind had perceived “Elizabeths” in any number of places.

No, even after a second and third glance, the woman in the bed was still unmistakably Elizabeth.

He gasped and lurched forward, his body moving of its own accord. “Elizabeth!”

Her face was slack, her lips parted slightly, and sweat beaded on her forehead, but Darcy had never seen a more beautiful sight. He had to touch her, ensure for himself that she was real. His arms encircled her slight frame—she had lost weight—and he clutched her to his body, cradling her against his chest. She stirred but did not awaken, a warm and frail weight in his arms. Under his hands, her chest moved with shallow inhalations and exhalations. Nothing had ever felt so good. “Oh, thank God, Elizabeth!”

Tears welled up in his eyes and trickled down his cheeks, but he did not care. He held Elizabeth, and she was alive. It was a miracle. Divine providence must have brought him to this place; no other explanation would suit.

After a long silence, Mr. Martin cleared his throat. “I take it you know this woman?”

Darcy froze, recalled to himself. He was clutching a woman, naked save for her nightrail, in her bed. Gently, he released Elizabeth, laying her ever so carefully back on the pillows. He considered and discarded many possible explanations for such inappropriate behavior.

“Mr. D’Arcy?” the doctor prompted.

He could not help stroking a wayward lock of hair lying on the pillow. “I thought she was dead,” he whispered. “In a shipwreck.”