Page 42 of Tempted (Heart to Heart Collection #2)

Chapter 42

Matlock April 1901

H azy dreams fogged red and furious in his mind. Shouts, exploding earth, and the smell of gunpowder ripped through every nerve ending. He cried out to his men to rally, to crawl forward, to survive.

Giles, his batman, fell dead at his feet, and something in his expression was scorchingly familiar. This had happened a hundred times before, and to his horror, each time was the same. All around him, khaki uniforms dropped with cries of terror and death. He turned around, already dreading what was to come. He tried to lift his hand, to shield his face, but it anchored uselessly at his side.

And then, the fatal sting, the explosion in his head that turned the world black. He screamed— was that his voice? He clawed at the empty agony and tried to run, to see, and when that did not work, he struck out before him in a blind panic.

Something touched his shoulder—a voice called, made some demand of him, and his only instinct was to thrash and yell and try to make himself such a nuisance to kill that either his attacker would seek an easier target or would fall with him in the attempt.

He remembered leaping—that much, he was sure of. His right eye was clear once more, but if he knew anything, it was that he could not trust in it. He lunged, and his attacker fell soft and helpless beneath him. And he heard her scream.

... Her?

His body went stiff, and he hesitated. A moment later, someone tackled him, hauling him to his feet and throwing him back before he could defend himself.

Richard sat up, rubbing the back of his head and spitting curses. He was in a bed—his own bed, in his own room, and that wrathful presence looming over him... that was Darcy, with his left fist knotted in Richard’s nightshirt and his right cocked back, ready to strike.

“Darcy? What in blazes are you doing?” he sputtered.

His cousin’s fist lowered. “Are you in your right mind?”

Richard pushed Darcy’s hand from his throat. “Whatever are you talking about?”

Darcy did not answer. He merely pulled back, his expression bleached white with a sickly fury, and bent to help someone from the floor. A woman—the same woman from before, with the snapping eyes and achingly familiar look about her.

“Are you unhurt?” he heard Darcy ask.

She nodded, allowing Darcy to curl her hand into his, but never taking her gaze from Richard. “Y-yes. Just... just startled.”

Richard fought to steady his pulse, slowly realising what he had done. Again. “I’m dreadfully sorry about that, ma’am,” he muttered weakly. “I hope I’ve done no harm.”

Darcy shot him a look cold as a glacier. “No harm done,” he retorted between clenched teeth. “And I mean to see it will not happen again.”

To the woman, Darcy turned next, in a manner so gentle and full of care, Richard might have thought it to be Georgiana. “Come, Elizabeth. Please.”

She hesitated, then permitted Darcy to lead her away, even leaning on him as she went. Darcy looked back once, something darkly broken in that countenance he knew so well. Then he closed the door.

Richard dropped back on the blankets. He was sweating. The cursed fever was not yet gone, the spotty delirium of his sickness still flitting about, as if waiting for a moment of vulnerability to render him mad once more.

It was not the first time he had attacked someone in his sleep, nor was it likely to be the last. The bother of now , though, was this blasted disorientation. Morphine magnified the usual stupor until he hardly knew which way he was facing. Was this really Matlock? Home? A place he had not dared enter ever again? Good Lord, he was a dead man.

He cast an arm over the intact side of his face, struggling to think. Darcy—he had to call him back, beg his cousin to smuggle him to the coast before it was too late. But Darcy was out in the hall. He could hear them still—his cousin’s low, urgent tones and then the scattered sobs of the woman.

Elizabeth. He should know that face, that voice. His mind pinched and twisted. Something was off—the wrong place.

The truth seared his being an instant later, and he gulped a long, stricken breath. He bolted once more from the bed and then stumbled when his fever-weakened limbs refused to carry him. He lay there on his stomach, looking up at the door.

Elizabeth!

“O ut of the question!” William was quaking, his hands framing the air, and his features pale. “You cannot sit alone with him. What if I had not been just outside, Elizabeth? How long would he have choked you before he came to his senses?”

Elizabeth put a quivering hand on his chest, knowing even then that she ought not, but craving some sense of calm in all this. The only centre, the only peace she could feel, was him.

“But he is awake now,” she protested. “You saw how he settled when he remembered where he was, who we were.”

“Who I am. I am not confident that he will remember you with ease, and that is what worries me.” He caught her hand and twined his fingers impatiently with his own. “Elizabeth, I am not willing to risk it. Not even for Richard.“

“But—”

He touched his fingers to her lips, his eyes lingering softly there. “I know I cannot hold you. I know it. But neither can I surrender you to a man who could do you harm. What would it take? A single nightmare like that, and he...”

He broke off abruptly, dropping her hand and blinking up at the ceiling. “Great heavens, I cannot do this!” he whispered fiercely. “I told myself I could. From the beginning, I have always known it would be for me to step away if need be, but how, for mercy’s sake, am I to do it?”

She looked down, tears spilling once again as she tried to make words come from her throat. “William, please. I can bear up, but I cannot watch you suffer.”

He stepped into her and cupped both palms around her face. “Do you want me to go? I just told the earl I would, but I changed my mind two minutes ago when I saw you at Richard’s senseless mercy. Knowing what I know, having seen what I saw, would you still ask me to go?”

She closed her eyes, trying not to look at him. “I would have you act with honour, as I must.”

His teeth gleamed in a flare of anger. “Honour. Or is it fear of what we are casting away? Very well, then promise me you will never put yourself in harm’s way, never be alone with him. I will leave, if it makes it easier for you.”

She shook her head against his hands. “Will... it is my place, my duty,” she mouthed, almost soundlessly.

His body swelled in a restrained outburst, and his mouth hardened. Electric blue eyes sparked, but he dropped his hands and stepped back—none too soon, for two doors away a figure moved into the hall.

The dowager countess approached, her features settled into stately pleasure, and her strides measured and majestic. Her maid shadowed her, and Elizabeth made a conscious effort to not look as if she had been just about to fling herself into William’s arms.

“My dear girl. Nephew—” the dowager extended a weathered hand and greeted them both. “How is my son?”

“He is... just awakened, my lady,” Elizabeth answered. “A little shaken today, I am afraid.”

“Aunt,” William put in, “forgive me, but I cannot advise you to visit him alone. Richard has endured an impressive deal of trauma and occasionally does not know where he is. I would not wish to endanger either his conscience or your safety.”

The dowager drew a lengthy breath and turned to William. “If he does not know his own mother, then I have no hope for either of us. You are very good, Darcy, but I shall see him.”

William stiffened in preparation for his objection, but the dowager puckered her old lips and stepped closer. “I am sorry, Darcy. I was always terribly fond of you, my lad.” She patted his shoulder briefly—an odd mannerism for her—and passed by. “Open the door please, Sarah.”

The former countess and her maid disappeared into the chamber, closing the door behind themselves, and leaving Elizabeth and William with a monstrous silence between them.

She swallowed a final shivering sob and squared to face him. “I should attend her.”

He dropped his head into a reluctant nod and began to step away. Was that it, then? They were finished... just that swiftly.

Her chest constricted and shattered, but she let him turn away from her. It was what she had asked him to do, after all. One of them, at least, must remain rational.

If only she did not die a little more with every step she took from him.

“Elizabeth, wait.”

He caught her hand and spun her back—his eyes haunted and brimming. His look was ominous, his intent clear—he would cast reason and sense aside if she but gave him a sliver of encouragement.

“Please, William,” she whispered. “I beg you not to ask me.”

“How can I not?” he hissed. The door to the room beyond opened, and he dropped her hand; both composing themselves before the dowager’s departing maid could see anything amiss.

“I intend to sit with him an hour,” she informed him, in a voice that was strange and flat, even to her own ears. “I presume you will wish to take your turn later?”

He tightened his lips and waited until Sarah was gone, then pulled her close again. “I wish you would not. He is not himself. What are you hoping to prove?”

“Prove?” She shook her head. “No, William, it is not that.”

“Then what is it? You cannot deny the truth, Elizabeth. It is before you every moment.”

“I know. That is why I must go to him.” She placed her palm on his cheek, felt how his emotions simmered and foamed just below the thin surface of his self-control. “What is here— this —it must be laid to rest.”

He hungrily captured her hand and pressed his lips against it. “You speak of duty, of honour, but my soul groans for life. I could no sooner walk away from you than—-”

“Than what?” she interrupted. Angry tears spilt down her cheeks, and she clenched her teeth in a fearful grimace. “Than cut out your own heart? Dash every wish and dream you ever had and resign yourself to a shadow of what you once hoped? Do you think I feel less?”

“No—” he released her hand. “But how is it you seem to suffer less for your feelings?”

“Oh, William! If only you could know how my very soul is crumbling—but you do! I have never needed to tell you. You always knew me.”

“Then, you admit it! Everything in you recoils, does it not? This is a violence upon us all, and we can either endure half a life in silence or we can—”

“Do what? Wreck everyone else for our own selfishness? Will, it is not fair—you must not look at me so! I cannot bear it.”

“Mustn’t I?” He reached for her hand once more and gently caressed each slim finger as he leaned low, his breath urgent against her ear. “It is all I have left. Please, Elizabeth. I cannot—I will not lose you!”

A great shudder racked her. She closed her eyes, trembling as it passed. When she looked up again, defeat had darkened that spark; had cast a pall over them both.

“It seems, Mr Darcy, that I was never yours to lose.”