M r. Darcy had eventually wandered away, still believing himself in a dream. Last night Elizabeth had called this a nightmare, and so it was.
Mildread appeared in the room near dusk to check on her work. “You are making good progress, Elizabeth. You should have the shirt completed within the week.”
Elizabeth could only gaze balefully at the fairy, who chuckled. “It was your choice, you know. He might simply have remained a swan. Easier for us both.”
No. That was impossible. No one, not even Mr. Darcy, who dared to question Jane’s suitability, would suffer such a fate could she prevent it. If for no other reason, Mr. Darcy had a younger sister in his charge! She opened her mouth, but of course she could not give voice to her indignation.
“I know this is difficult, Elizabeth,” Mildread said quietly. “But it will be for the best. You will see.”
For the best of what? Elizabeth sighed. She had made the deal with Mildread.
If she did not wish Mr. Darcy’s transformation to be permanent, she need only spend a week creating this shirt with wild roses before slipping the finished garment over Mr. Darcy’s handsome swan head.
Mildread wanted it to fit his human form, and for the first time, she wished Mr. Darcy was not quite so tall.
A week. She hoped Priscilla would explain so that Jane was not anxious for her.
“No one will realise you are gone,” Mildread assured her.
“Please,” she said dismissively in response to Elizabeth’s raised brow, “you are not so difficult to read as you believe. Mr. Bingley and his family will forget he invited Mr. Darcy to visit Netherfield, and everyone will forget you ever arrived to tend your sister. When you return, if you return, they will believe you have been there all along.”
If? Surely Mildread did not mean to keep them under this spell forever. Elizabeth shook her head slowly. She did not understand why all of this was necessary.
“Soon Jane will be well enough to leave her room, and then Priscilla will see to her courtship with Mr. Bingley. Without his friend’s interference, I do not believe it will be long.”
Elizabeth smiled a little. This was why. It was for Jane’s happiness. There was nothing she would not do for Jane. Well, she would not leave Mr. Darcy a swan forever, not even for Jane. Her sister would not like it.
Mildread peeked outside. “It is nearly dark, so I must tell you one last thing. Each day, in the final quarter of an hour before Mr. Darcy becomes a swan for the night, you two will be able to converse. It begins now.”
Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open. “A quarter of an hour?”
“A little less, now,” Mildread warned.
Elizabeth sprang to her feet. “Where is he?”
The fairy shrugged. “I am sure I do not know.”
Something close to a growl erupted from Elizabeth’s throat, but she did not have time to dawdle. “Mr. Darcy!” she called, springing for the door but stumbling on stiff legs. She righted herself and dashed into the hall.
She checked his room first, where she found him sitting up from a deep sleep. At first, she was upset with him. How could he sleep the day away when all night he would be a swan? But then it occurred to her—he did not remember being a swan.
“Elizabeth,” he said happily. “You have come.”
“I have only a few minutes to speak with you, sir.”
His smile became a pout, and she was momentarily distracted by the boyish expression. “Will you not call me Fitzwilliam?” he asked.
“No, I will not. Eventually, you are going to realise that this is not a dream and that you ought to call me Miss Elizabeth.”
He smiled. “It is my dream,” he teased. “I might do anything I wish.” He stood and stepped quite close to her.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, not only scandalised but very aware of the time.
“Even this . . .” he continued, pulling her into his arms.
Oh. Elizabeth was also now very aware of him .
His shirt was thin enough that she could feel the warmth of his broad chest under the smarting palms of her hands.
Strong arms wrapped around her back and held her close.
She took a breath and closed her eyes. Even after being a swan, he smelled good.
Citrus and . . . she tipped her face up in expectation.
His lips pressed hard against her own, his long fingers tangled themselves in her hair. It was awkward and shocking, and it felt so good . Her arms rose as if to entwine themselves around his neck . . . but time was running out. She shoved him away instead.
He frowned.
“I must speak to you, Mr. Darcy. I do not have much time.”
“I will hear anything you wish to say, my dear.” He reached for her hand, but she stepped away.
Elizabeth growled. “I am not your dear. My fairy godmother has put us under a spell. I must complete a shirt made of wild roses to transform you back, or you will remain a swan forever.”
“Wild roses?”
“Would you prefer stinging nettles? I know I would not.”
Mr. Darcy shook his head but did not respond.
“You must not fly off,” Elizabeth continued, “or someone might find you and take you away. We have only a week to break this spell.”
“A swan?” He blinked. “A spell?” He shook his head, bemused. “I finally have you alone, and all I can do is invent more obstacles.”
“You kissed me,” Elizabeth answered him accusingly.
“Yes, but then we stopped,” he said incredulously. “To discuss your fairy godmother and a spell. What sort of a cruel dream is this?”
“Just listen,” she begged, placing a finger against his lips. He grasped it lightly and gave it another kiss.
“Stop that,” she said, attempting to ignore the frisson of heat his touch generated. “I must make this shirt, Mr. Darcy, or you will remain a swan forever. Or a hundred years.” She stopped to think. “Mildread was not very clear on that, but in any case, you must promise me not to leave.”
“Elizabeth,” Mr. Darcy said in a low voice as he closed the space between them. She could feel his breath in her hair. “I will not leave. I adore you.” He trailed a finger lightly down her neck.
She gasped. He could not mean it. Oh, he was so .
. . and he made her feel so . . . She dragged herself back to reality.
It did not matter now. He must listen! She stepped back, raised her hand, and slapped him as hard as she could.
Her palm burned. “Oh!” she cried, holding her hand to her chest. “That hurt!”
“Yes,” Mr. Darcy said carefully, raising a hand to his cheek. “It did.” He stared at her. “Miss Elizabeth . . .” he began to say.
His sentence stopped abruptly. All Elizabeth could see were white feathers.
Her time was up.
When next he woke, Darcy was not only cold but wet.
He felt dirt beneath the palms of his hands and the scent of damp loam tickled his nose.
He forced his eyelids open and found himself staring at a tuft of brown grass.
He pushed himself up into a seated position, the grass shrinking in size as he did.
He had been lying under a tree on the bank of a small lake, its water murky in the new light of the day.
“Why am I sleeping out of doors?” he asked aloud.
Moreover, why did he feel he had done this before? He was the master of Pemberley. He had not slept out of doors since he was a boy, and never at this time of year. “Is anyone there?” he called.
When Miss Elizabeth Bennet emerged from behind the trees holding scissors in one hand and a pile of wild roses tied together with a rag in the other, he ought to have been surprised. Strangely, he was not.
“Miss Elizabeth?” he asked quietly, his teeth beginning to chatter. It must be a dream. Still, he knew, somehow, that he must call her by her correct name.
An owl hooted from a branch behind her before flying silently but hastily upwards and away.
Miss Elizabeth said nothing but did set down her scissors and the bundle to walk behind a tree and produce a blanket which she shook out and draped around him.
The blanket carried a faint scent of jasmine.
He buried his nose in it and took a deep breath while she motioned to the structure behind her.
It was a castle. He had not carried her away to Scotland, had he? He felt so strange; anything might be possible. A memory started to drift back to him. A bedchamber. A fire. His cheeks warmed. A kiss.
“Yes,” he said, though she had not spoken. “I would prefer to go inside.” He reached for her bundle of flowers. “May I carry that for you?”
She smiled a little and shook her head, but he had already grasped the ends of the rag. He held it up to identify the flowers. “Wild roses?” he asked, pulling his thumb away from where he had nearly impaled it on a thorn. A pile of roses.
She did not speak, but one gloved hand touched her throat. Again, something played at the edge of his memory.
“Have you contracted my illness, Miss Elizabeth?” he asked quietly.
“I could not speak for nearly a week after you saw me at Lucas Lodge. If I have inflicted it upon you, I must heartily beg your forgiveness. I would never knowingly cause you harm.” He reached for the abandoned scissors.
“If you require more roses, I will cut them for you.”
He felt a shiver run down his spine when her fine eyes met his own. She had never gazed at him in this way before, with gratitude, yes, but also tenderness. He had felt a longing for her for some time. Did she feel the same?
When she bent to take the bundle, Darcy tucked the blanket around himself more tightly and took it from her, pleased when she willingly relinquished it. They set off for the castle, which shimmered a little in the light. It almost . . . wavered, like a reflection in a lake.