Page 4 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

"No. I do not think so. No."

He pushed himself up. His eyes went down her body and stopped. She understood, then, what he was seeing. Elizabeth lay on the grass in her shift, stays and one scorched petticoat. She lay there in front of Mr. Darcy of Pemberley and half of Meryton. The fire had eaten through her pelisse and her gown, and never reached her skin. He had torn them away first.

He stripped off his coat and wrapped it around her. He gathered her up against his chest. His breath hissed through his teeth. He held her there anyway.

"Lizzy! Oh, Lizzy!" Jane reached them first, white to the lips, with Mr. Bingley at her heels.

Mr. Bingley bent to take Elizabeth from his friend's arms. "Give her to me, Darcy. You are hurt."

"No." Mr. Darcy did not loosen his hold. "I have her."

She looked up at him. His face was gray under the soot, and his jaw was clenched tight.

Not handsome enough to tempt him, she thought. He has said so. And still he will not let anyone else carry me.

Whatever else Mr. Darcy was, he was an honorable man.

Her mother was screaming. Mr. Bingley ran for the house, shouting for a bucket chain. The officers ran for the pump, and Sir William ran nowhere in particular.

Elizabeth turned her head and saw the house.

Jane's window glowed orange. The curtains inside were burning, and flames were already climbing the frame. Smoke poured from the eaves above it into the night.

"Longbourn," she whispered.

"They will put it out." His arms tightened around her. "Your ankle."

"It is nothing."

"You are lying."

"Yes."

She was shaking now, and she could not seem to stop. She reached for his hand to steady herself. He flinched.

She took his wrist instead and turned his hand over, into the light of the burning house.

His palm was red and weeping. White blisters had risen across it. Scraps of burned muslin clung to the raw skin. Her muslin.

"Your hands," she whispered.

He did not look at them. He looked at her.

2

Mr. Jones peeled the muslin from Darcy's palm one thread at a time.

It took a long while. They were in Longbourn's kitchen, in the old wing at the back of the house. It stood as far from the smoldering east end as it was possible to be. Mr. Jones had ridden over from Meryton at a gallop and refused to wait for anyone to be moved.

Through the scullery door, Darcy could hear the bucket chain still at work. Men shouted in the yard. Water hissed on hot timber somewhere overhead.

The apothecary worked by candlelight at the kitchen table. A basin of water stood at his elbow, and his spectacles sat on the end of his nose. Every thread took a little skin with it. Darcy kept his eyes on the far wall and his breathing even.

"You are very quiet, sir," said Mr. Jones.

"There is nothing to say."

"Most men say a great deal at this stage. Some of it is not fit for a kitchen." Mr. Jones laid another blackened thread in the dish. "There. That is the last of it."