Page 10 of The Briar Bargain (The Rom Com Collection #3)

A cart ? It took a moment for Darcy to realise that a carriage, far more appropriate for conveying gentlewomen, would not have been able to make the journey through the mud.

No, a cart was sensible. But he could not like having Miss Elizabeth exposed to the chill of the air, even for the short ride back to Netherfield House.

Farrow turned at last, careful to keep his gaze averted from Miss Elizabeth as he carried his drowsy son through the door.

Darcy hesitated, unwilling to leave despite the clear impropriety of remaining .

Miss Bennet glanced up at him, her blue eyes widening before turning soft. "She will be well cared for, Mr. Darcy," she assured him gently. "I shall not leave her side."

"When you have finished," Darcy said stiffly, "I shall carry her out."

Miss Bennet nodded, a small smile touching her lips despite her worry. "Thank you.”

With a final glance at Miss Elizabeth's still form, Darcy followed Harrison and Farrow outside, closing the door behind him.

Outside, he stood with his back to the lodge, staring across the sodden fields between them and Netherfield. The sky had begun to clear, patches of blue appearing between the storm clouds. He shivered slightly as a breeze cut through his trousers.

"You are half-frozen.” Harrison appeared at his side with another blanket. He looked away as Darcy tied the first one about his neck and then pulled the second around his waist. "If I may say so, that was quite the rescue. Not many gentlemen would have plunged into a flooded river to save another."

Darcy met his valet's gaze briefly. "Fewer ladies would have done so."

A hint of a smile touched Harrison's lips. "True.”

"Harrison, can you ask one of the servants to fetch Mr. Jones back to Netherfield?"

"I will make the request, Mr. Darcy," his valet replied, "but even the north bridge is under water now. I doubt anyone can cross."

Darcy frowned. Miss Elizabeth needed proper medical attention.

The lodge door opened, and Mrs. Johnson emerged. "She's changed now, gentlemen. Her colour's improving a little now that she’s dry."

Darcy did not wait for further invitation, striding past the woman into the lodge. Miss Elizabeth lay on the pallet, with several wool blankets tucked around her. Her dark hair had been partially dried and braided, though tendrils still clung damply to her forehead and temples.

He knelt beside her, studying her face. There was indeed a bit more colour in her cheeks now, and her breathing seemed stronger, more regular. Relief coursed through him, so intense it was almost painful.

"She's just sleeping, sir," Mrs. Johnson said from behind him. "Exhausted, poor lamb, but her pulse is steady. No fever that I can tell, but we'll keep watch. Once we are back to the great house, we can clean those scratches." She eyed him shrewdly. “You’ll need to have yours looked at as well.”

Darcy nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The fear in his heart had eased somewhat, but now a ferocious sort of protectiveness nearly engulfed him.

Miss Bennet sat on the other side of the pallet, gently stroking her sister's hair. She looked up at Darcy with eyes shining with unshed tears. "Mr. Bingley told me what happened—how Lizzy saved little Peter, and how you saved her. I am so very grateful, Mr. Darcy."

Darcy inclined his head, uncomfortable with being thanked. "Your sister's actions were most courageous."

"And most characteristic," Miss Bennet replied with a watery smile. "I have always tried to speak sense to her, but she knows she is strong. She always rushes headlong into trouble when someone requires help. Usually she emerges unscathed, but she has overestimated her abilities a time or two."

That information did not surprise Darcy in the least. It aligned perfectly with what he knew of Miss Elizabeth's almost reckless disregard for her own comfort when someone else was in need.

The traits that had seemed so improper to him only a day past now appeared in a different light. Had he truly been so blinded by his own rigid notions of decorum that he had mistaken genuine goodness for impropriety?

Bingley entered the lodge, bringing with him the crisp air from outside. "The cart is prepared." His gaze fell on Miss Elizabeth's still form, and concern flickered across his features. "How is she?"

"Better," Miss Bennet answered. "But we must get her back to the house."

"Of course," Bingley agreed.

Darcy turned to Miss Bennet and she nodded, arranging the blankets more securely around her sister. "We are ready now, I believe. The sooner she is settled, the better."

Darcy moved to Miss Elizabeth's side once more, carefully slipping his arms beneath her slight form.

As he lifted her against his chest, she stirred slightly but did not wake.

She leaned her cheek against his shoulder and released a small sigh.

The gesture affected him more deeply than he cared to admit.

Outside, the farmers had gathered to see them off, their expressions solemn. Mrs. Johnson sat next to the driver, and Farrow stepped up with his son to sit beside her.

Harrison had already spread rugs and additional blankets across the wooden planks, creating a makeshift bed where Darcy could gently lay Miss Elizabeth.

Darcy pulled himself up onto the cart and reached for yet another dry blanket to cover his damp legs before kneeling beside Miss Elizabeth.

"I will hold her steady," he said quietly, carefully repositioning himself so that Miss Elizabeth's head rested against his thighs rather than the hard wooden bed. "The road will be rough."

"Oh, I am able to do that," Miss Bennet protested softly, settling beside them. "Surely you are also weary, sir. "

“I am already settled,” he told her. “Let us not delay.”

The truth, which he did not voice, was that he was loath to relinquish her. The memory of her disappearing beneath the churning waters was still too fresh, too terrifying. Holding Miss Elizbeth reassured him.

Harrison sat at the end of the wagon while Bingley moved to sit beside Miss Bennet. With a word to the driver, the cart lurched into motion.

The journey to Netherfield passed largely in silence, broken only by occasional concerned inquiries from Miss Bennet and Bingley's quiet reassurances.

Darcy kept his gaze fixed on Miss Elizabeth's face, watching for any sign of distress.

She slept on, her expression peaceful now, despite the ordeal she had endured.

The cart rolled to a stop before Netherfield's imposing facade. Servants stood ready at the entrance, alerted to the emergency by Bingley's earlier arrival. Among them was Mrs. Nicholls, the housekeeper, her usually composed features drawn with concern.

Bingley descended first, offering his hand to Miss Bennet. Darcy carefully handed Miss Elizabeth down to Harrison and Bingley before jumping down and relieving them. He had carried Miss Elizabeth for so long now that she felt natural in his arms, as if she belonged there.

"This way, sir," Mrs. Nicholls directed, leading them into the house and up the grand staircase.

Darcy climbed steadily, conscious of the eyes upon him but focused solely on the woman in his arms. Had circumstances been different, he might have found humour in the situation.

He, Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, was ascending the stairs of Netherfield looking like a half-drowned rat, trailing river water across Bingley's fine carpets while he carried an unconscious woman to her chamber.

As it was, he could find no amusement in it, only a profound relief that she was here, alive, breathing, her heart beating steadily near his own .

They reached the blue guest room, where a fire blazed cheerfully in the grate and the bed had been turned down in readiness. The chamber was warm and inviting, with a pot of hot water steaming gently beside the washbasin.

Darcy stepped into the room, then hesitated, suddenly very aware of the risk he was taking as a gentleman entering a lady's bedchamber. But Miss Bennet solved his dilemma by gesturing to the bed.

"If you would be so kind as to place her there, Mr. Darcy," she said. "I shall attend to her from here."

With great care, Darcy laid Miss Elizabeth upon the blanket that was spread over the bed, allowing Miss Bennet to arrange the pillows beneath Miss Elizabeth’s head. Even as he straightened, he found himself reluctant to move away.

"I believe we must leave the ladies now," Bingley said softly from the doorway.

"Yes, of course." Darcy stepped back, his gaze still fixed on Miss Elizabeth's sleeping form. "Miss Bennet, you will send word if there is any change in your sister's condition."

It was not a question, but Miss Bennet kindly treated it as such. "I shall, Mr. Darcy."

He turned to Bingley. "And if Mr. Jones arrives, he is to be brought to her immediately, regardless of the hour."

"Of course."

Darcy nodded firmly, then forced himself to turn and leave.

In the hall, Bingley placed a hand on his arm. "You should change into dry clothing yourself, Darcy. You shall catch your death otherwise."

Darcy glanced down at his attire, which was even worse than he had thought.

His boots had left small puddles on the polished floor, and his trousers stuck to his legs, leaving very little to the imagination.

His coat and waistcoat, hastily donned without a shirt beneath, had soaked through in places where the fabric pressed against his still-wet skin. He grimaced.

"Harrison will have prepared fresh garments," he said, though his thoughts remained with the sleeping beauty behind the closed door.

As they walked together to Darcy's chamber, Bingley cleared his throat. "That was quite something you did today, Darcy."

"It was what any gentleman would have done."

Bingley gave him a sideways look. "Yes, I am certain that is true." After a pause, he added more quietly, "I teased you about Miss Elizabeth last evening, but I have never seen you look at anyone the way you looked at her just now."

Darcy shook his head, though he knew Bingley was correct. "She put herself at risk to rescue that boy. I admire that, and I respect her."

"It was merely an observation." Bingley’s words hinted at capitulation, but his tone did not.

They reached Darcy's chamber, where Harrison awaited him. Bingley took his leave with a promise to reconvene for dinner, though Darcy suspected his own appetite would be lacking.

A hip bath awaited him, the water already poured. The servants had plainly foreseen that he and Bingley would return to the house in a state of some disarray.

Darcy carefully cleaned all the scratches he had sustained in his plunge, then scrubbed the river from his hair and body.

As Harrison slipped a fresh shirt over his head, Darcy's mind returned repeatedly to the events of the day.

To Miss Elizabeth, fighting to stay afloat.

To the moment when he had found her under the water.

To her small hand, clutching at the remains of his ruined shirt as if it were a lifeline .

He straightened, and Harrison reached for the trousers, his expression professionally neutral despite the unusual circumstances. "If I may say so, sir, you would have made a half-decent soldier."

Darcy met his valet's gaze. "Thank you?"

Harrison's lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "You ought to thank me. It is the highest compliment I can offer. And you are welcome."

After Harrison departed, Darcy stood before the glass, hardly recognizing the man who gazed back at him.

Thin, angry scratches from the briars marked his cheeks and trailed dangerously close to his eyes, and he knew his arms bore similar shallow wounds beneath his sleeves.

They stung faintly, a tangible reminder of his headlong rush through the undergrowth.

He had not cared for the thorns that clawed at him. He had cared only for reaching her.

The man in the glass seemed changed, stripped of certainty, his edges roughened like the storm-battered world outside. In the span of a few hours, something fundamental had changed. He had changed.

A profound sense of relief washed over him, knowing Miss Elizabeth was now safely ensconced in the blue chamber, attended by her devoted sister and the capable Mrs. Johnson. Though she had not yet awakened, she was warm and dry.

Whatever came tomorrow he would face. For tonight, she was safe.