“Sir! What in the world are you doing?” She dropped whatever had been in her arms and hastened to his side. “This is madness! Pray, get back into bed!”
Madnesswas Elizabeth Bennet clutching at his arms through naught but his shirt sleeves and demanding that he go anywhere near a bed, and Darcy had no intention of followingthat path. This delusion could go to hell and take all such lunacy with it. He hauled himself up.
“Upon my word, you cannot be seri—” She finished with a grunt as she took the entirety of his toppling weight and redirected it with a shove towards the bed, onto which Darcy collapsed just as blackness rose up to claim him.
He did not feel much rested when pain next roused him. Unsure how long he had slept, he awoke to an increasingly familiar succession of astonishment, delight, and horror upon realising that he was trapped in singularly close quarters with Elizabeth Bennet. He heard her before he saw her, speaking to herself as she walked about the room. Nay, not herself, him.
“…have torn up enough cloth to make do. ’Tis clean, at least.” She came into sight and busied herself unloading the items in her arms onto a nearby table. “Mr Timmins was good enough to give me some brandy, though I expect he will add it to our account.” She picked up the ewer and poured steaming water into a bowl. “I told him it was to cleanse the wound, but if you could manage to swallow some, it might dim the pain. Though, I daresay your pain would be infinitely less had you not determined to throw yourself about the room like that.”
Darcy’s neck spasmed as the memory of standing—and falling—resurfaced with a jolt. That he had forgotten in so short a space of time, despite his discomfort having been significantly worse upon waking, made him excessively uneasy. Never had he been so addled, so incapable of recalling what was happening to him from one moment to the next. His heart increased its pace until he could ignore it no longer, and though he would more commonly be able to reason away such feelings of anxiety, his mind would not comply. Every bit oflogic at which he grasped wafted away like smoke sucked from the air by an opening door. He reached instead for something more tangible, tapping Elizabeth’s arm to gain her attention, but he recoiled when she shrieked and spilled water all over the nightstand.
“I thought you were asleep, sir! You made no sound!”
He grimaced and mouthed, “I cannot speak.” The admission hastened his heartbeat further still.
Elizabeth set the ewer down and leant to peer more closely at him. “You cannot speak?”
Darcy shook his head and cursed himself for doing it when the skin upon his neck felt as though it tore afresh.
“At all?”
“No!” he said in exasperation—except he did not say it, he only gagged on the attempt and snarled in frustration.
“Perhaps you ought not to attempt to say anything for now,” Elizabeth said, frowning. “I daresay I shall scarcely notice the difference, and your voice will no doubt return more quickly if you allow your throat to heal first.”
“What has happened to my throat?” he mouthed urgently, wild to comprehend why he had no voice.
She pulled an apologetic face and shook her head. “Could you say the words more slowly? I cannot understand you.”
He held out both hands in as close an approximation to a shrug as he could manage without moving his shoulders and mouthed, “What happened?”
Elizabeth frowned at his lips, silently mimicking their movements with her own as she attempted to comprehend his meaning. When she did, she transferred her frown to his eyes. “You do not remember?”
Darcy forgot not to shake his head and winced at another wave of pain.
“Forgive me. No more yes or no questions. Mr Darcy, you have been kicked by a horse.”
God help him, he was still delusional! “What?” he mouthed, fierce despite his muteness, for his incomprehension terrified him. “How can that be?”
“You were attempting to cut it free.”
He continued to look at her, still none the wiser.
She took a deep breath, then exhaled and shook her head decisively. “It is not a brief explanation. Allow me to attend to your wound before this water cools, else I shall have to heat more. After that, I shall explain everything.”
Darcy would have groaned had he been able, for everything Elizabeth said confused him more. Why was she heating her own water? Where were they that there were no servants to even boil a kettle? Why, in God’s name, were either of them there?
“Attend to my wound?” he repeated stupidly.
“I need to change the bandages, or it will fester.”
“No!” Darcy was not sure to what he was objecting;anythingtouching the monstrous rawness at his neck, it being Elizabeth who would do so, or simply having been injured in the first place. His breathing had grown too fast; it was hurting his throat and making an unearthly sound.
“No?” Elizabeth repeated, not unkindly but with a hint of impatience. “Mr Darcy, I am aware that you are very unwell, but please try to understand me. Your wound is unstitched. It was in need of redressing even before your ill-advised attempt to get out of bed. Now, I should say it is essential.”
The thrum of alarm pulsed mercilessly in Darcy’s ears. A wound severe enough to require stitching, but which had not been—what manner of hellwasthis?
“Should you like some brandy before I begin?”
