“Darcy… I understand, more than you know.” She wiped his brow, but his eyes were closed, and the moans tearing from histhroat made her heart seize with fear. “You must live, Mr. Darcy. You can’t leave. You can’t.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
TO BLEED OR NOT
By mid-morning,the surgeon had not yet arrived. Elizabeth bathed Mr. Darcy’s chest and arms with water, desperate to bring down his fever. His skin burned beneath her touch, and his breathing came in shallow, rapid pants.
But it was the moans that ripped her heart in two.
He tried to open his eyes, tracking her movements as if she might vanish. “I dreamed you had gone. That they took you away.”
“I won’t leave you again,” she promised, the words slipping out before she could stop them. “No one will take me.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Always so resolute, my Elizabeth. Even in the face of death.”
My Elizabeth.The possessive endearment sent an unexpected flutter through her chest. This was delirium speaking, nothing more. Yet something treacherous in her heart responded to the intimate claim.
“You are not dying, Mr. Darcy. It is only a fever, and it will break soon.”
“Fitzwilliam,” he corrected, his gaze wandering. “You called me Fitzwilliam. With the red roses.”
There had been no red roses, and she’d never used his given name. She took the purple hyacinth from her pocket and placed it in his palm. “No rose, Mr. Darcy. A rose has thorns. The hyacinth is softer.”
“You forgive me?” His question held such childlike innocence that her heart squeezed in on itself.
She had spent months treasuring up every single one of Darcy’s slights, every proud word, and every dismissal. How could it all be swept away by fluffy purple petals?
“Lizzy…” The pleading in his voice undid her completely.
“Yes,” she whispered, stroking the stubble on his face before she realized the impropriety of the gesture. “Yes, I forgive you.”
“You call me dear Fitzwilliam.”
“Of course,” she said softly, deciding it was kinder to play along with his fever dream than to confuse him with reality. “Forgive me, dear Fitzwilliam.”
His name felt strange on her tongue—intimate in a way that made her cheeks warm despite the gravity of the situation. She had never spoken it aloud before, had never thought she would have cause to.
“The roses at Pemberley,” he continued, his voice drifting as if lost in memory, “my mother planted them. She told me they’re for you. Red roses.”
Elizabeth doubted his mother even knew she existed, but she nodded. “Your mother was a gracious woman.”
“And she said you’ll like the lake… at sunset, the way the light catches… You must come with me.”
The wistful longing in his voice caught her off guard. She dipped a cloth in cool water, wiping his brow with gentle strokes. “Yes, I would like it.”
“The swans … I want you to see them. So peaceful.”
“They are beautiful, gliding on the water.”
“One named Lizzy.” His good hand reached for her face, fingertips tracing her cheek as if she were already his wife.
Elizabeth felt herself melting, telling herself she was playing along, giving him a reason to live. But she couldn’t help but close her eyes and let him caress her. This was so unseemly, but…
“The male is named Fitzy,” Darcy said, his voice stronger in its delusion. “They swim together from dawn to dusk.”
Despite everything, a smile tugged at her lips. Even in fever, he was creating a world where they belonged together.
His fingers tightened around hers suddenly, his gaze sharpening with an intensity that belied his fevered state. “You will come back to Pemberley, won’t you? After all this is over?”
