Page 21 of Mr. Darcy's Folly
And yet here he was—bruised and bloodied—because he had risked his very life to save her.
“You saved me,” she said, the words quiet, yet laden with the weight of certainty. “You might have released me when it was clear you would fall too.”
He scoffed as he tugged at his cravat, though the sound was half-hearted. “If I had truly done anything praiseworthy, we would not be here.”
“I disagree,” she said softly. “And for my part, I thank you.”
Something flickered in his expression, a shadow of uncertainty, of something unreadable.
He exhaled slowly, his gaze slipping from hers. For a long moment, he said nothing, and she wondered if he would dismiss her gratitude, if he would deflect once more.
But when he spoke at last, his voice was quieter still.
“I could not have done otherwise, Miss Bennet. I could not—” He hesitated, drawing a breath as though to steady himself. “I would never have let you fall at all could I have prevented it.”
For the first time since they had met, Elizabeth saw him not as the proud and distant gentleman she had long supposed him to be. He was instead a man who had risked all for her sake.
She simply did not understand why.
Mr. Darcy turned his attention to his cravat, his fingers working with slow, deliberate movements to untie the knot at his throat. The linen was already streaked with dust, the once-crisp folds rumpled from their fall. He pulled it free, shaking out the fabric with a brief flick, before reaching towards his boot and withdrawing a small knife.
“You are fortunate not to have lost that in the fall,” she observed quietly, closing her eyes.
“The sheath has to be untied,” he replied. “It is meant to guard against tumbles.” His smiled faintly. “I rather doubt this was what the makers had in mind.”
The glint of steel caught in the dim light filtering through the ruined folly above, and with a few efficient strokes, he cut the cravat into several pieces, a few long, the others square.
Elizabeth watched him in silence, each motion revealing the strain upon his body. He favoured his left arm and though his expression remained composed, she could see the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes narrowed, the careful control he exerted over his breathing. His injuries pained him more than he wished to admit.
“Your arm,” he said, his voice low. “Hold it out to me.”
She hesitated only a moment before obeying, lifting her wounded limb despite the sharp protest of her muscles. He took it carefully, his touch firm yet gentle as he inspected the wound. Blood seeped sluggishly from the gash, staining her sleeve in irregular patterns.
Mr. Darcy said nothing as he worked, finding the cleanest part of the fabric and folding it over itself, securing it with the narrower strips, his fingers grazing her skin as he carefully bound the wound. The warmth of his touch sent a strange shiver through her, an unfamiliar awareness that disturbed her even more than their circumstances.
“Does that feel secure? Not too tight?” he asked once he had finished, his gaze flickering to hers.
She nodded. “It is well enough. Thank you.”
He inclined his head, though he made no reply.
Elizabeth glanced once more at the wound on the side of his head, and the blood still flowing freely from the cut above his eyebrow.
“May I?” she inquired, holding out her hand for his knife.
Blinking, he handed it to her.
She took it, then reached into the pocket of her gown, fingers brushing against the soft folds of linen tucked within. When she withdrew her handkerchief, she unfolded it, turning the clean side inward before pressing it gently against his brow. “Hold this here.”
Mr. Darcy tensed at the contact, his breath hitching ever so slightly, though he did not draw away. Instead, he stilled entirely, his eyes slipping closed as he lifted his hand to apply pressure.
“You ought not have waited to tend me,” she murmured. “You have lost more blood than I.”
“It is my privilege to see to your care,” he said softly.
Elizabeth huffed but said nothing further. She took the knife and turned away, lifting her skirt and cutting several inches up the seam of her petticoat.
“What are you doing?” he asked. “Do not feel you must . . .”
