She turned to Jane. “I shall return in a moment.”
Jane’s brows drew together. “Elizabeth—”
Elizabeth laid a hand over hers, briefly, firmly. “I will not be long.”
Jane’s protest died unspoken. She had seen the exchange. She had seen their father’s resolve. And she saw now, too, that this was not a request Elizabeth could refuse without consequence.
Elizabeth stepped into the corridor. She knew where he would be. The library door stood ajar, light spilling across the threshold. Elizabeth crossed it without hesitation.
Darcy had turned at the sound of her footsteps. He stood near the hearth, one hand braced against its edge as though he had reached it only seconds before necessity intervened. The lamplight caught the strain in his face, the careful stillness of a man measuring every movement for its cost.
“You wished to speak with me?”
He nodded once and came to close the door behind her. The click of the latch sounded louder than it should have, final in a way that tightened her throat. He approached her slowly, though the distance between them was no more than a few steps. He only looked at her, and the look held so much unsaid that she felt it settle along her skin like pressure.
“What can be done?” she asked. There was no preface to it now, no restraint left for politeness. “What has he told you?”
“Harrowe?” A faint, humourless curve touched his mouth. “He has not left the study since he arrived. I expect we shall find him fossilised among his papers by evening.” He drew a breath and let his eyes flick over her face before glancing down. “He speaks of ancient oaths and the manner in which they were kept. Of acts witnessed and costs borne in the body. Of rituals named and misremembered until nothing remains but endurance.”
“And the answer?” she said. “How isthisoath kept?”
“He has not found that. I am not certain he will.”
The words struck harder for their simplicity. She took a step toward him without meaning to, then stopped herself, her hands tucking behind her skirts to keep her from reaching.
Darcy moved then. He closed the distance between them in two strides and reached for her as though restraint had at last failed him. His fingers slid down her arms and closed around her wrist, not tightly, but with unmistakable intent, and the contact sent a jolt through her that was equal parts relief and alarm.
“Darcy—” She let him drag her hand up to his mouth and then caught herself, her breath already altered by the nearness of him. “You must not.”
“I know,” he said, and yet he drew her closer all the same, his other hand coming to rest at her waist. The heat of him pressed against her, familiar and unbearable. He bent his head, and for an instant she thought he would kiss her outright, claim the moment without hesitation.
Her hand rose of its own accord, brushing his cheek, then the line of his jaw. The skin beneath her fingers was warm—no, feverish—and she felt the change in him almost at once. His breath shortened. The muscles in his chest sprang taut beneath her palm.
She pulled back sharply. “No. Please. You must stop.”
His face had gone pale beneath the lamplight, a faint sheen gathering at his brow. “I need you, Elizabeth.”
“You are worse,” she said, the words tumbling over one another now. “You are always worse.”
He did not deny it. He only looked at her with an intensity that made her heart ache. “And what of you?”
She looked purposely away. “What do you mean?”
“What becomes of you when you leave?” His hand had not fallen from her waist. “You speak of protecting me. But what does the distance cost you?”
Elizabeth bit her lip. She had not meant to answer that. She had not meant to think of it at all. The truth rose anyway, unwelcome and insistent. “I shall falter,” she said, and the admission left her fighting tears. “The moment I am gone, I know it. Hertfordshire has never released me easily. The land—” She stopped, swallowing. “It will not cease simply because I travel.”
He drew her against him then, not in passion but in something closer to refuge. Her cheek rested against his chest, and for one precious instant, she allowed herself the comfortof it, the solid familiarity of his presence. She heard it then—the faint, uneven stutter beneath her ear as his heart lost its careful rhythm.
She pulled away at once.
The colour had drained from his face. His breathing was laboured now, measured with conscious effort, and the sight of it made her own heart squeeze painfully. She could not help herself—she kissed the tip of his chin tenderly, then drew back slightly with a shuddering sigh.
“My father believes,” she said, forcing the words into something that resembled reason, “that time and space may yet answer where nothing else has. That I may recover from this—this need for you, if I am not also pressed by the land that seems determined to draw upon my strength. And that you, freed of me, may be well again.”
His expression did not change, but something in his eyes did, darkening with a quiet, unspoken refusal.
She reached up before he could speak and pressed two fingers to his lips. “Do not,” she said softly. “I cannot bear it if you do.”
