William.Elizabeth savoured the name, the feel of it in her mind. It felt like an invitation to a more private self, a name that belonged to him alone, separate from the dynastic weight of his lineage and the heavy mantle of his responsibilities.
“William,” she tried, the word a whisper in the dark. A wonderful warmth spread through her chest. “Perhaps I shall use it sometime.”
His smile was a beautiful thing. “I find I like the way it sounds when you say it.” He paused, and a hint of his own humour came to his eyes. “Now you must allow me my turn.”
She knew what he would ask. “Very well.”
Darcy drew a breath, and then, with utmost seriousness, he said, “Lizzy.”
The name, spoken in his deep, solemn baritone, was so at odds with its light, affectionate nature that a peal of laughter broke from her. “Oh, that will hardly do,” she laughed, shaking her head as she settled back onto the pillow. “It is not meant to be said with the gravity of a judge passing sentence. Youmust say it with a little more lilt. Or perhaps with a trace more exasperation.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And how am I to know which is required?”
“Where would be the challenge in it, were I to provide you with a precise formula? I am far more interested to see what you will discern on your own.”
“My powers of discernment, I must warn you, can be woefully poor,” he observed drily.
“Then I fear you must apply yourself to diligent practice.”
A gradual smile spread across his face. Then, shifting his weight, he reached and rested his hand on her shoulder, a hesitant touch that was a silent entreaty. When her posture softened in reply, he rolled onto his back, bringing her with him in a smooth motion, and drew her firmly against him, settling her head upon his chest.
“Fitzwilliam?” she asked, a little breathless.
It was such a strangely pleasant feeling, being held in this way, secure in his arms.
“You called me William earlier,” he said, his lips grazing her temple, “I find I am partial to it.”
“And what are you about now, sir?” Elizabeth said, her pulse quickening with the thrill of his proximity.
But his embrace remained just that — a simple, steady presence. Darcy simply enfolded her, warm and comforting, offering a security she had not known she was missing. Instinctively, her hand found his chest, and she let her body sink against his, nestling into his embrace.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I am practising,” he said, the warm puff of his breath brushing against her skin, “discerning what the moment requires. I suspect we shall both sleep the sounder for it.”
Held securely in his arms, Elizabeth found the strength to release her fear for what the dawn would bring, choosing instead the solace of this precious night of peace.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Morning dawned, entirely too soon, especially for one who wished the night could have stretched on indefinitely. Elizabeth awoke to the softest of kisses, a welcome warmth against the chill of the room.
“Good morning,” Darcy whispered, brushing another kiss against her forehead.
They rose and dressed, before descending to the parlour. The atmosphere within was already that of a war council. Wickham and the colonel looked up as they entered, their faces etched with all the signs of a sleepless night.
“We have identified three nodes that we believe are most critical,” Darcy said, his finger tracing a final, decisive line on the map. “If we liberate these nodes, we believe we can weaken the Blight’s grip on three of the major ley lines that lie across this region.”
Elizabeth met his gaze without hesitation, pushing aside her anxieties. “We have a plan; we should not delay.”
“I agree,” said Darcy gravely.
A short while later, wrapped in her warmest cloak, Elizabethfound him in the stable yard. The air was biting with a tension that went beyond the cold. Darcy stood beside a sturdy bay, making a final check of the girth. He finished, his gloved hand resting for a moment on the horse’s neck, and then he turned.
His gaze found her where she stood by the mounting block. Leading the bay, he crossed the cobbled yard to her, and took her hands in his own. His dark eyes studied her before he said, “Your hands are like ice, Elizabeth.”
Her heart felt like a frantic bird beating its wings against her ribs, but her voice, when she answered, was light. “It is merely a touch of nerves.”
His expression softened. “Is it?” he asked. He then lifted one of her cold hands and pressed it against his chest, directly over his heart. Beneath her palm, she could feel his strong and undeniably rapid beat.
A shaky laugh escaped her. “It seems your own nerves are not entirely settled, sir.”
