Page 11 of The Briar Bargain (The Rom Com Collection #3)

E lizabeth drifted on the edge of sleep, caught in a strange half world where her body felt both heavy and insubstantial. The soft crackle of a fire tickled her ears, and her fingers flexed weakly, encountering the roughness of wool.

She tried to turn her head, but even that small effort sent a dull ache rippling through her neck and shoulders. A sound reached her, the faint swish of skirts, the creak of a chair, followed by a familiar voice.

"Lizzy?"

Relief, sweet and unrelenting, washed through Elizabeth at the sound of her sister’s voice. She tried to respond, but her throat felt raw, her voice reluctant.

"Jane," she managed, the syllables more breath than sound.

"Oh, Lizzy." Jane's hand clasped hers with surprising firmness. Elizabeth could feel the slight tremor in her sister's fingers. "You are awake at last."

Elizabeth swallowed, testing her voice again. "I believe I am. Though I cannot be entirely certain." She struggled to sit up, but her sister’s hands restrained her .

"Do not even think of it. You are to stay abed, and I will hear no argument."

Elizabeth leaned back and closed her eyes briefly. The temptation to sink back into oblivion was strong, but questions prickled at the edge of her consciousness.

Memory returned in scattered fragments: a small form clinging desperately to her, the surge of the current as the log shifted, water closing over her head.

"Peter?"

"He is well," Jane assured her quickly. "Thanks to you."

Elizabeth hummed, still remembering. Strong arms lifting her from the river, a deep voice murmuring reassurance.

Other memories flickered at the edges of her consciousness, hazy and uncertain.

Had there been . . . fabric? White linen, perhaps?

She had a most peculiar recollection of clutching something soft, something that had smelled of bergamot and leather and river water.

The memory seemed remarkably vivid for something that surely must have been delirium.

But why would she dream of such a thing?

Unless . . .

A horrifying possibility seized her heart. What if it had not been delirium at all? What if she truly had been clinging to someone's shirt? The very idea made her stomach lurch in the most mortifying way. Surely not. Surely she had conjured such an inappropriate scenario.

And yet, the memory felt disturbingly real. There had been a shirt . . . and then there had not.

No . She absolutely refused to pursue that thought any further.

"Mr. Darcy," she whispered before she could stop herself, her cheeks warming at the name .

Jane nodded, her expression softening. "Yes. He went into the water after you. I am told he reached you just as the rushing water had pulled you under." She stopped, her lips pressing together as if holding back a sob. "You were very nearly lost, Lizzy."

Heat flooded Elizabeth's face as she imagined the scene. Of course it would be Mr. Darcy who had seen her sputtering and bedraggled, likely clutching at him like . . . She tried to think of something horrible, and it came to her.

Like Miss Bingley.

Jane was still speaking in her soothing voice, apparently unaware of the humiliation Elizabeth was enduring. “He would not allow anyone else to carry you here. He was very solicitous of your welfare.”

Worse and worse. Elizabeth could only imagine what the servants were saying.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet, the headstrong daughter of Longbourn, being carried from the river and into Netherfield like some ridiculous Gothic heroine in one of Lydia's novels.

The next market day would be a severe trial indeed.

But what truly gnawed at her was the persistent, treacherous memory of white fabric and the terrible suspicion that she might have seen . . . that Mr. Darcy might have been . . .

Her face grew impossibly warm.

She tried to summon her usual wit, but it came out weary and thin. "He must be thoroughly regretting his gallantry by now."

"Do not speak so, Lizzy." Jane squeezed her hand. "You owe him your life. I shall never be able to thank him enough."

Elizabeth sighed, turning her head slightly to stare at the canopy overhead. "I suppose I must begin a list of the things I owe Mr. Darcy, beginning with ‘eternal gratitude.’” She closed her eyes. “How tiresome. "

Jane shook her head with gentle reproach. "He asked after you more than once while you slept."

Elizabeth's eyes flew open before she could school her expression. "Did he?"

"Yes. He has been very concerned."

Another flash of memory surfaced. Or had it been a dream?

It was so frustrating not to know for certain.

She thought she recalled warmth against her back, the steady rhythm of breathing that was not her own, and the distinct sensation of being sheltered.

Protected. There had been murmured words too, though she could not make out their meaning.

And then that peculiar business with the white linen.

She shifted uncomfortably under the blankets.

Surely her addled mind had conjured such mortifying nonsense.

After all, why would she have such vivid recollections of masculine shoulders and the texture of skin and the scent of bergamot?

The very idea was beyond improper. And yet, the memory felt disturbingly real, as though her traitorous mind had recorded every scandalous detail even whilst insensible.

"How long have I been abed?" she asked, desperately needing to think of anything other than the disturbing possibilities her imagination was suggesting.

"It has been nearly a full day. You were deeply chilled, Lizzy. Mrs. Johnson and I changed your clothes, tended your scratches, and kept you wrapped in blankets. Mrs. Nicholls replenished the stillroom when the house was let, and she knows a good deal about healing."

Elizabeth glanced down, noticing for the first time the faint stinging across her arms. Beneath the blankets, her skin felt tender and tight in places. "I must look a fright."

"You look alive, dearest. That is all that matters. "

"And I am grateful, but I suspect I appear to have lost an argument with a particularly determined badger."

Her attempt at humour was rewarded by Jane's gentle laugh.

"Perhaps a little," her sister admitted with a smile. "But it is nothing that proper rest will not remedy."

Elizabeth's lips curved in response, but unease lingered beneath her relief.

She had acted without thought, as she always did when others were in danger, and had very nearly paid a steep price for it.

Worse, she had dragged Mr. Darcy into the fray, and by all accounts, he had risked his own safety for hers.

The memory of being held against him, real or imagined, made her stomach flutter in the most peculiar way.

Jane leaned forward suddenly, pressing the back of her hand to Elizabeth's forehead. "You look flushed, and you feel rather warm. Do you feel well?"

"I am perfectly well," Elizabeth protested, pushing her sister's hand away while praying that Jane would not enquire further into the cause of her heightened colour. "I am merely adjusting to being awake."

"I will send for Mr. Jones when the roads clear."

"That is entirely unnecessary," Elizabeth said quickly.

The last thing she needed was the apothecary examining her for physical ailments when she was not ill.

"I am well, just rather tired. But Jane, I should like to speak with Mr. Darcy as soon as I am able.

He deserves my thanks, and an apology for my behaviour. "

"For saving a child? Surely not."

"For whatever unseemly conduct I may have exhibited whilst delirious. For forcing him to rescue me in the first place. For subjecting him to what must have been a deeply uncomfortable experience." Elizabeth sighed. "For existing, at this point. "

Jane shook her head with fond exasperation. "I am sure he would be glad to hear from you. Though I suspect he thinks little of his own actions."

Elizabeth doubted that. Mr. Darcy was a man of great pride and greater propriety.

Surely he viewed her reckless behaviour as confirmation of all his worst assumptions about her character.

Yet as she searched her vague, cloudy memories, she did not believe there had been any censure in his voice when he had called her name, only urgency and something that had sounded almost like apprehension. Fear, even?

"Perhaps I might sit up for a moment," she said, attempting to change the subject. She lifted her head to try and immediately regretted it. Even that small movement sent a sharp pain across her back just below her shoulder blades and her vision wavering in a most alarming fashion.

"Absolutely not," Jane said firmly.

Elizabeth recognized the tone. Jane would not be moved. Although her body vehemently agreed with Jane's command, Elizabeth made a show of protesting. If she acquiesced too easily, her sister would worry.

The afternoon passed in a haze of dozing and brief awakenings.

Elizabeth passed in and out of sleep, half-aware of the quiet movements in the room.

Once, she thought she heard Mr. Bingley's cheerful tones in the hall, followed by the deep murmur of another voice that made her heart stop, then beat harder.

She found herself straining to listen, then felt foolish for doing so.

She must have slept again, for when next she woke, candlelight filled the chamber and Jane was gently adjusting the blankets.

"I thought I heard voices earlier," Elizabeth murmured, her throat less raw now.

"Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy came to enquire after you. I assured them you were improving. "

Elizabeth's stomach performed an odd little flip. "Did they say anything particular?"

Jane hesitated, then gazed curiously at her. "Only that they were relieved to hear you were recovering. And that you had been very courageous."