“Miss Elizabeth.” His voice carried over the wind, clipped and commanding. “What in God's name are you doing out here?”
Pride warred with practicality, and practicality won by the narrowest of margins. “Walking,” she managed through chattering teeth. “Though I confess the weather has rather exceeded my expectations.”
His jaw tightened. “You will freeze if you remain out here. There is a cottage nearby, on the edge of the Netherfield grounds. We must reach it immediately.”
“I can find my own way back to Longbourn, thank you.” The words emerged with less conviction than she intended, undermined by the violent shivering that had overtaken her body.
“Can you?” He gestured at the impenetrable white surrounding them. “Which direction is Longbourn, Miss Elizabeth? Point to it, if you please.”
She opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. She had no idea which direction was which. The snow had erased all sense of orientation, and she could no more point to Longbourn than she could fly there on wings.
“That is what I thought.” He swung down from his horse with fluid grace, landing in the snow beside her. This close, she could see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid set of his jaw. He was not as composed as he appeared. “The cottage is less than a quarter mile from here. I know the way. Will you come, or will you stand here arguing until we both succumb to the cold?”
Elizabeth looked at him, at the snow accumulating on his shoulders, at the genuine concern beneath his imperious manner. She thought of Collins waiting at Longbourn, of her mother's schemes, of all the reasons she had fled into this stormin the first place. And she thought of the cold seeping deeper into her body with every moment she stood here being stubborn.
“Very well,” she said. “Lead the way, Mr. Darcy.”
Something shifted in his expression, relief perhaps, or something more complex that she could not name. Before she could offer further protest, he stepped toward her and placed his hands at her waist.
“What are you?—”
“You are half-frozen and the snow is deepening by the minute.” His voice left no room for argument. “You will ride. I will lead.”
He lifted her into the saddle before she could object, his strength startling as he settled her atop the great black horse. Elizabeth gasped at the sudden height, her frozen fingers scrabbling for purchase in the horse's coarse mane. The animal shifted beneath her, warm and solid, and she could feel the heat of it rising through her sodden skirts. After the relentless cold of the storm, that warmth was so welcome it nearly made her weep.
It was not a secure seat. Her legs were too numb to grip, and her waterlogged pelisse dragged at her like an anchor. She swayed before curling forward over the horse's neck, pressing her cheek against the coarse hair, her body instinctively seeking the animal's warmth.
“Hold on.” Mr. Darcy took the reins in hand, and the horse began a slow walk. “The cottage is not far.”
They moved forward through the storm, Mr. Darcy leading the horse on foot, his boots plunging through snow that had risen near to his ankles. Elizabeth could feel the effort in every step he took through the jerk of the reins as his feet found purchase.
She should have protested. Should have insisted on sharing the burden. But the very thought of dismounting into that freezing white was enough to silence her pride. She gripped the mane tighter with fingers that could barely close and focused on staying in the saddle.
After what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, a shape emerged from the white: a small stone cottage with a peculiar glass-roofed addition that caught the last gray light of the dying afternoon.
“There,” Mr. Darcy said, and Elizabeth sagged with relief.
He guided the horse around the side of the cottage, where a rough lean-to of timber and stone jutted from the wall. Elizabeth watched through half-frozen eyes as he looped the reins to a post and reached up for her.
“Can you dismount?”
She tried to swing her leg over and found her body would not obey. Her limbs had gone stiff and clumsy, her muscles locked with cold. She managed a small, humiliated shake of her head.
His hands found her waist again, and he lifted her down from the saddle as if she weighed nothing, setting her on her feet with a gentleness that belied the urgency of his manner. Her knees buckled the moment they took her weight, and his arm came around her.
“Lean on me,” he said roughly. “Just to the door.”
He half-carried her to the cottage entrance, fumbled the latch, and pushed the door open. The hinges screamed in protest. He drew her inside and forced the door shut behind them.
The silence was almost shocking. After the relentless shriek of the wind, the sudden stillness rang in her ears like a bell. She could hear their ragged breathing, the drip of melting snow from their clothes, the distant moan of the storm outside, muffled now, held at bay by stone and glass.
Elizabeth stood in the center of the room, dripping and shivering.
She looked up at him, and for once she had no sharp remark to offer. No wit, no archness, no careful defense. She was shivering too hard for any of that, and the cold had stripped away everything except the raw, humiliating fact that she needed help and he was offering it.
Something moved across his face. She could not name it. It was gone before she could study it, replaced by the rigid composure she expected from him.
“Stay here,” he said. His voice was rougher than she had heard it before. “I must see to the horse. Then I will get the fire started.”
