Page 50 of His Dark Heart
He cupped her face for a moment, brushing another kiss over the tip of her nose. They stared at each other for a few silent, precious moments; he delivered one last kiss and left her to try to figure out her heart on her own.
* * *
It had been decided that the party for Pemberley would have a safer return in a caravan. Foster had insisted they be taken back to the seat of the North Country in his finest carriage with his most fierce guards. Darcy would not have accepted, but he was worried for Elizabeth and did not dare put her further into harm's way. After dinner, which she had foregone by saying she felt ill, he was quietly informed that the two traitorous survivors had been hanged and were both dead. He could not tell Elizabeth.
They retired early, agreeing it was best to start out right after dawn next morning. Foster's wife, who had a similar figure to Elizabeth but was far less beautiful in Darcy's eyes, gave the princess a gown to wear for the journey and Elizabeth was staring at it when Darcy returned from his bath.
“What is it?” He asked.
“I wanted to make ye proud. I thought if I rode and dressed like a man, showed courage like a man, and was stubborn like a man that ye would be proud of me. Instead, I offended thy subjects and made a mockery of the throne. That is hardly behaviour to make note of.”
“Oh, lord, Elizabeth, do you not realize you make me proud just by waking beside me in the morning?”
Her eyes were glued to the dress. “What?”
“You might not have chosen to be there, but you are, and it makes me proud to know that my wife is a thousand times more honourable than I. You are kind and fair and I take great pride in that.
“The events of the last days were not a test, my lady.”
She stood, her fingers falling across the lovely copper velvet. “Then why do I feel as though I failed?”
“Because you hoped things might go another way? You wanted to see all parties get what they wanted and make sure all involved played fair. That is the nature of the beast, my sweet. Politics boils down to one thing: hope for the best, prepare for the worst, and never assume anything.”
“I have so much to learn.”
“I shall teach you,” he said. “I promise.” He lifted her still mussed plait and kissed the back of her neck. “I shall teach you about your place in my realm, in my court, at my side. Have you any questions, I shall answer them. Have you any fears, I shall calm them. Have you any desires, I shall quench them.”
He turned her around, pressed his mouth to hers, and lifted her from the floor. When he set her down near the bed, he offered no pretence to his need and simply ripped her ruined garb away then disposed of his own.
“This, Elizabeth, this is what it is. You and I together, bare and in need of each other. You need me to guide you through what it means to be a leader. I need you to show me how to be worthy of you. We must learn or we shall fail, and I have never failed at anything. I suspect I might not like it.”
* * *
She touched the dressing on his arm, her hand running up the cloth to his bare shoulder then around the back of his neck, pulling him into a searing kiss unlike anything they had shared previously. It ignited both of them, the urgency of their need apparent to both from the onset. Elizabeth had to make sure he was real, that he had not met the end of a blade, and she was not dreaming of his pretty words.
They tumbled to the bed, clawing and panting and licking and groaning; their ferocity gaining as quickly as their desire. When he pushed into her, Elizabeth no longer had pain, instead she could cherish the joy and happiness that proved he was still with her.
* * *
He poured into her all his love and wonder, trying at that moment to confess himself to her, to tell her he loved her.
As he wrapped his arms around her, his hands fell upon her belly, unconsciously stroking her soft skin. While she drifted into a heavy sleep, Darcy was caught up in the future, and not for the first time. What would it be like to be the Papa to a child in Elizabeth's womb? That moment when she would tell him she was enceinte, and the joy that would fill his heart—to his delight, his mind formed a picture of her with a swollen belly. Ever mindful of the pregnancy and subsequent birth that had killed his mother, he maintained a healthy dose of fear, yet he let his fantasy progress until he was holding a sweet-smelling, gurgling girl-child in his arms. She was the very picture of her mother, and Darcy had never loved anything more.
She stirred in his arms, her fingers twisting a lock of his hair, a habit she had already formed, and he smiled.
“Not only would I spill blood for both of you,” he said to his wife and unborn child. “I would die for you.”
The twisting paused then she snuggled closer to him. Before he fell asleep, Darcy fancied he had discerned a tiny kick beneath his heavy thumb.
* * *
The journey back was uneventful, and both were glad for the calm of the everyday trip. When they reached Pemberley proper, Jane met them at the gate and demanded to know what had happened. Patient and careful, Darcy revealed the gruesome events and tried his best to calm his friend. Unable to pacify her, he called on her husband, promising to provide a briefing later.
“How is Jane?” Elizabeth asked when Darcy entered the atrium.
“Upset. I left her with Finn. It was no use in pointing out that both of us are still alive. She tends to react badly to violence such as this. What are you doing?”
“I am starting another painting. I am waiting for thy portrait to dry completely before having it framed and thought I would paint Nanningbrook for Mr. and Mrs. Foster.”
