“There are older rites,” Harrowe continued, more carefully now. “Pre-Christian. Buried on purpose, I think. The monks would not copy what they could not sanctify.” He paused. Shuffled a few papers and shuffled his feet.
“In those, the bond is not merely witnessed. It is… ah… claimed. Publicly. The heir answers for the breach with his blood, then validates it by… ahem… well, byjoininghimself to the Lady in sight of land and people alike.”
Joining?Darcy mouthed the word. Harrowe could not mean…
Harrowe cleared his throat. “Aye… Fertility was not metaphor to them. It was proof.”
Darcy’s hand came down hard against his thigh. “Enough.”
Harrowe gave a short, uneasy breath. “I do not say it lightly. But the land was bound through bodies as much as words. Blood alone marked obligation; union marked continuation. Without it—”
“Leave off!” Darcy thundered, his voice cutting through him at last, stripped of restraint. “I will bleed for any vow that is mine to bear. I will not dishonour her and call it duty. You will not reduce her to an instrument for your theories, nor dress violation as tradition, and expect me to listen.”
Harrowe’s jaw set. “I only speak of what was done.”
“You speak of what was endured by those who had no better language,” Darcy replied. “And you would have me repeat it because you lack the imagination to conceive of anything else.”
“Well…” Harrowe sniffed and closed his book. “You did ask me to tell you what I found.”
“Keep looking,” Darcy said shortly.
Harrowe tapped his toe, scowled, then glanced about the room as though noticing it for the first time. “It’s very quiet. Have I missed supper? I had thought—well. I’ve never eaten at a squire’s table. Thought there might be a nicely turned haunch, at least. A hall.”
“I am no squire, and there is no formal meal laid. The house is empty.”
Harrowe frowned. “Empty?”
“The other guests have gone.”
Harrowe’s voice shifted, the scholar’s cadence slipping, the Cockney edges coming through with sudden force. “Gone? All of ’em?”
Darcy did not look away. “Miss Bennet has left.”
Harrowe stared. “Left?”
“Her father came for her. He thought it best. I did not disagree.”
The colour drained from Harrowe’s face. “You let her go?”
“I did.”
“You let the Lady go when the land has been roused, and the line is open?” Harrowe’s composure fractured. “That is dereliction! That is the very thing—”
Darcy jerked to his feet then, crossing the space between them with a controlled fury that made the room seem smaller. “You will not accuse me of cowardice in my own house! I did not chain her here to satisfy your appetite for precedent.”
“You have chosen comfort over charge,” Harrowe shot back. “You have chosen the body over the bond.”
“I have chosenher,” Darcy said. “Which is more than your pages ever managed.”
“You have chosencomfortand mistaken it for mercy. The land does not care for your tenderness. It remembers only what was left undone.”
“Do not speak to me of mercy! You would have me bleed for a word and call it fidelity.”
“It was never only a word!Bloodmarks obligation—but blood alone is not the keeping. The heir must claim what the vow was sworn to protect. And he must blend that blood with hers!”
Darcy’s temper flared. “You truly expect me to claim her body? Publicly? You cannot even be sure that is the real intent of the passages!”
“I told you!” Harrowe said, unflinching. “The older rites were buried because they could not be sanctified. The monks copied what they liked and left the rest to rot.”
