The Unforgettable Mr. Darcy

ou. I simply ask that you return—”

A loud boom reverberated across the water, causing Elizabeth to start. A moment passed before she could make sense of what she saw. A fire now raged on the horizon—just where the ship had been. With growing horror, she realized the ship had exploded. The Majestic was no more. She covered her mouth as tears sprang to her eyes. All those sailors… “Was this your doing?” she asked the man.

“I could not leave any witnesses.” He shrugged. “The ship was carrying great stores of gunpowder; it would be a shame to let them go to waste.”

A shudder of revulsion ran through her body. “You are a monster!” Her muscles tensed with the need to flee. His malicious smile, his hard eyes, his very presence…everything about him made her skin crawl. But jumping from the boat would mean certain death; she was trapped.

Her horror seemed to amuse him as he stowed his pistol and resumed rowing. So, this is how evil looks, she thought.

Elizabeth turned away from the sight of the burning wreck that had once been a ship full of sailors. Clasping her hands in her lap, she said a desperate prayer. Now there are no witnesses…nobody knows that this man has abducted me.

On the heels of the prayer came another revelation: she was the only person remaining who could identify the man. He cannot allow me to live.

Chapter Seven

Darcy stared at the ceiling from his pallet on the floor. The lace curtains did not completely conceal the moon—nearly full—a blur of silvery light outside the window. Movement caught his eye, but it was only the curtains fluttering in the breeze, for which Darcy was thankful. The room had been quite warm when they retired for the night, but now it was cooler. Perhaps he should cover Elizabeth with another blanket.

She sighed and turned in her sleep. Today, the third day since she had awakened, she had ventured from her bed for the first time. They had started small, just a few steps from the bed to the window and back, but they had met with more success than Darcy dared to hope. After she rested from her exertions, she had insisted on another journey, a slow stroll around the upstairs corridors. Her steps had been hesitant, but she had been less fatigued than either of them had expected. It gave Darcy hope that she would be recovered enough to travel within a week’s time.

However, her return to health created other problems. Darcy found it more and more difficult to ignore that she was a very beautiful woman. The doctor had expected Darcy to sleep next to Elizabeth; the bed certainly had ample room. Darcy had said he did not wish to disturb her sleep, but how long would that excuse seem plausible?

Every day she grew stronger, and Darcy’s resolve grew weaker.

Now that her cheeks were rosy with color and her eyes shone with animation again, Darcy’s ardor did not wish to be contained. He found himself mesmerized by the musical sound of her voice or fascinated by the sight of a lock of hair blown by a breeze. An unforeseen consequence of his impulsive falsehood was that it removed any barriers to intimacy between them. Nobody—including Elizabeth—objected if he touched her hair, her shoulders, her cheek. Nobody had second thoughts if he would spend the night in her room—or even her bed.

However, those barriers must remain in place if he could continue to call himself a gentleman, if he did not wish her to hate him once her memory returned. He had come perilously close to kissing her that afternoon as he leaned over her bed. Every shred of willpower had been needed simply to walk out of the room.

He had wanted to kiss her so many times: at the ball at Netherfield, in the drawing room at Rosings Park, in the fields near Hunsford—before she had rejected his proposal. Although now that he thought on it, he probably would have kissed her afterward as well. He could not remember a time when he had not wanted to kiss Elizabeth Bennet.

The evil in this situation was that there was nothing to stop him. She would not object. The Martins would not object. Only his conscience stood in the way, and it was…weakening.

He dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand, continuing to stare at the ceiling as he resisted a ridiculous impulse to stand and savor the sight of her peaceful slumber. Even such a small step could be the precursor to taking her in his arms and kissing her until she could not breathe. Elizabeth deserved better.

That was why he must remain on a pallet on the floor.

Elizabeth’s bed creaked. She moaned, and her covers rustled. Agitated limbs thrashed against the sheets. She panted as if in distress. Darcy’s heart stuttered. She had not completely recovered from her illness. Could this be the beginning of a relapse?

Quietly extracting himself from his pallet, Darcy covered the two steps to her bedside. Bathed in the cool moonlight, Elizabeth’s face was anything but tranquil in sleep. Her mouth was frozen in a horrified grimace while her head made small, quick jerks on the pillows.

A distressed noise emerged from her mouth, and she tossed and turned. Was she trying to escape some danger in her dreams? Darcy’s hand stretched out to wake her but stopped in midair. Was it safe to waken her?

A fine sheen of sweat had broken out on her face. Her movements growing more agitated, Elizabeth moaned again—and every sound sent ripples of anxiety through Darcy’s heart.

Darcy flinched as she suddenly shot into an upright position. “You are a monster!” she cried. He hoped never to hear such anguish in a human voice again. For a heart-stopping moment, he feared the accusation was aimed at him—that she had recognized his deception. But, though her eyes were open, she was not focused on him or at anything in the room. He was certain she dreamed still.

This must stop. The nightmare was tormenting her. Darcy grasped her shoulder. “Elizabeth.” He kept his voice low and soothing.

“No…no…” Her voice was breathy with horror.

“Elizabeth,” he said more forcefully, giving her shoulder a shake.

Her head turned toward him, the first sign she was aware of his presence. “Elizabeth, it is just a nightmare.”

Abruptly, her body lost all its tension; her shoulder slid from his grip as she fell back against the pillows. When her eyes opened again, they focused on his face. “William…”

“Was it a nightmare?”

“Yes…” She rubbed her forehead with one hand. “My God!” She shuddered violently.