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"I am resting." She set the crutch in the earth and took hold of it with both hands. "I was about to go on."

"Elizabeth, do not..."

She hauled herself up. She got her good foot under her. She stood. The world swayed, and steadied. "There," she said. "You see."

She took one step. Two. She did not look at him. Three.

On the third step, the crutch snapped.

It broke just below the crosspiece, where the old ash had creaked at the stile. The crack was sharp and loud in the quiet lane. The crutch went out from under her arm. She pitched forward into nothing.

He caught her.

He dropped the lantern and caught her with his hands. His fingers closed hard on her arms through the cloak. It was the first time she had seen him grip anything since the fire. She heard his breath go out of him in a hiss. He did not let go. He held her up, and her face struck his chest. The lantern rolled away into the rut and lay on its side, still lit.

For a moment neither of them moved.

She could hear his heart. It was going very fast. His hands were locked on her arms. She could feel them shaking. "Your hands," she whispered.

"Be quiet."

"Mr. Darcy, your hands. Let go. Set me down on the bank, and go back, and send a cart." Her voice cracked. "I will not be a burden. Not to you."

"And I will not stand in a lane and send for someone else to carry you." His voice was very low. "I did that once today."

She lifted her head and looked at him.

His face was close and grim. There was mud on his coat and sweat at his temples. His hair was wild from running.

"You cannot carry me a mile," she said. "Not with your hands."

"I will not be a man who must be helped." His mouth set. "Not tonight."

He bent and got his left arm under her knees and his right behind her back. He straightened, and she was off the ground.

She heard the sound he made. It was not a word. It went through his teeth.

He could not carry her on his forearms alone. She would have slid out of his hold at the first rut. So his left hand closed round her knees, and his right spread wide across her ribs. Both palms had to grip. The new skin under the bandages had to take her weight with every step. She felt the jolt of it go through him, and felt him hold on anyway.

"The lantern," he said. "Can you reach it?"

She leaned down, and he bent with her. She caught the lantern by its ring. She held it up. The light swung across his face and the hedges, and down the long dark lane ahead.

I am still his hands, she thought. Even now.

He began to walk.

The lantern swung in her hand. His steps were steady and long. She had one arm round his neck because there was nowhere else to put it. Her face was very near his throat. She could feel his pulse there, hard and quick, and the heat of him through his shirt.

"I am heavier than I look," she said.

She said it to make him answer. She wanted the old reply. She wanted that grave voice. With it, she could pretend this was only another evening on the terrace.

He did not answer at all.

He only walked on, with his breath coming harder. His silence frightened her more than anything he could have said.

"How did you find me?" she asked. Her voice was smaller than she liked.