She opened her mouth to argue, and he watched the protest die on her lips as the cold seized her again, a violent shiver wracking her frame. Her frozen fingers found Atlas's mane and gripped tight. She slumped forward over the horse's neck, pressing hercheek against the coarse hair, her body curling toward the animal's warmth.
It was not a secure seat. She was too numb to grip, and her waterlogged pelisse dragged at her like an anchor. But Atlas was the best horse in Darcy's stable, patient and sure-footed even in foul weather.
He would have to be enough.
Darcy took the reins in one hand and placed his other against her back, steadying her against the sway of the horse's gait. Then he turned toward the cottage and began to walk.
The snow had risen to his ankles now, each step requiring deliberate effort. His boots broke through the frozen crust into softer snow beneath, and the cold soaked through his breeches with vicious speed. He ignored it. Ignored the burn in his calves, the sting of ice against his face, the growing numbness in his hands. He focused only on the path ahead and on the feel of Elizabeth's body beneath his palm, still shivering, still breathing, still alive.
Atlas plodded forward with the stolid patience of a horse who trusted his master. Darcy was grateful for that trust. He was grateful for the animal's steady warmth radiating upward into Elizabeth's frozen body. He could feel her trembling lessen as the horse's heat seeped through her wet clothes. It was not enough, not nearly enough, but better than the relentless assault of the wind.
Elizabeth swayed as a gust caught them. Darcy pressed his hand harder against her back, holding her steady.
“Not far now,” he told her, his voice rough against the wind. “Hold on.”
She did not answer. Her silence frightened him more than her shivering had.
He walked faster.
Then he saw a dark shape through the curtain of snow. Stone walls. The glint of glass.
“There,” he said, though he was uncertain she could hear him.
The cottage materialized like an answered prayer, its conservatory catching the last gray light of the dying afternoon. Darcy guided Atlas around the side of the building to a stone stable that jutted from the cottage wall. He looped the reins to a post and reached up for Elizabeth.
“Miss Elizabeth. We are here. Can you dismount?”
Her eyes found his, glassy and unfocused. She tried to move her leg and could not.
He reached up and lifted her down, settling her against him when her legs buckled. He half-carried her to the cottage door, fumbled the latch with numb fingers, and pushed it open against the drifted snow. The hinges screamed in protest. He did not care.
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 his ears like a bell. He 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 at him with eyes that held none of the mockery he expected from her. No sharp wit. No careful archness. She looked vulnerable in a way he had never seen before, stripped of her armor, and the sight did something to his heart that he was not prepared to examine.
He should not be here with her.
Every rule of propriety screamed this situation was impossible. He should somehow conjure a chaperone from thin air, or ride through the blizzard to fetch one. But propriety would not keep her warm. Conduct would not save her life. And Darcy found he did not care about either when measured against the alternative.
“Stay here,” he said. His voice came out rougher than he had intended. “I must see to my horse.”
He forced himself back out into the storm. Atlas stood inside the stable, steam rising from his flanks. Darcy stripped the saddle with hands that shook from cold and exertion, then rubbed the horse down with a rough cloth he found hanging from a nail. There was old hay stacked against the back wall, dusty but serviceable, and a stone trough beneath the eaves that had collected snowmelt. He forked a generous pile of hay within reach and checked that the trough held enough water . Atlas dipped his nose and drank, then turned to the hay with the calm pragmatism of an animal who knew his own needs.
His horse would be comfortable enough.
Darcy gave the gelding one last pat on the neck, a silent thanks for carrying them both through the worst of it, and returned to the cottage.
He knelt before the hearth, grateful for the task that gave his hands something to do besides reach for her.
The kindling caught, flames licking upward with eager hunger, and as the light grew and the warmth spread, Darcy allowed himself to breathe. They were alive. They were safe, at least for the moment.
And they were alone.
He rose and turned to face her, and in the flickering firelight, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Snow melted in her dark hair, sending rivulets of water down her pale cheeks like tears. Her dress clung to her body in ways that made his mouth go dry, the wet fabric revealing curves he had tried very hard not to imagine. She was looking at him with an expression he could not read, something complex and searching that made him feel exposed in ways that had nothing to do with the storm.
