The Journey

by Jan Hahn

“I can tell you right now,” Mr. Darcy said, his voice strong even though he struggled to stand after having the air punched out of him, “that if you harm her in any way, you will not receive a farthing from my uncle.” Each of the robbers stopped, Sneyd jerking around as he turned to face Mr. Darcy. “And why is that?” the ruffian holding me asked. “What possible difference would it make to his lordship what happens to this little country miss?” “Because she is not some little country miss. She . . . she is my wife.”

I took a sip and at last allowed my eyes to rise from my lap and meet his. We gazed at each other as though there was nowhere else to look. Was he as conscious as I of the gravity of what had just occurred? Surely I had not imagined the tenderness with which he had held me, the touch of his lips upon my head, and the unspoken strength of emotion manifest between us.

“I trust you understand, Miss Bennet, that I am not attempting liberties, but if you would turn a bit more toward me and, uh, allow me to place my arm . . . here behind your head — ” He gently slipped his arm around my shoulders, also turning toward me and drawing me into an embrace. “There. Now, rest your knees against my leg. Is that — is that too distressing?” “No.” For some reason, I was unable to manage more than a whisper. “And if you — well, if you care to — you might lay your head on my shoulder.” He slipped his other arm around my waist and pulled me even closer. “Now, are you warmer?” “Yes,” I whispered again. I wondered if anyone’s skin had ever literally caught fire from the heat of a man’s arm. If not, mine might be the first.

When I did open my eyes, I was amazed to discover that I lay across Mr. Darcy’s chest, my mouth against his face, his arms clasped tightly around my back and waist! I thought it was but a dream — that I could not possibly have slipped into that position. The last I remembered, we had been sitting up, and now it seemed we had slid down upon the floor of the cave. As I attempted to lift my head, my lips brushed against his cheek. Instinctively, he turned toward me, his eyes still closed. Before I knew what had happened, I found his mouth upon mine, his lips searching, pressing more and more until . . . my own lips parted. Deliciously, he began to kiss me with an increasing, intoxicating fervour. I felt helpless and could do nothing other than respond in kind. Still drugged in the early haze of sleep and drowning in this unexpected, pervasive passion, I felt my mouth go soft and slack, surrendering to his provocative exploration.

My lips still throbbed with the memory of his kiss, and surely I glowed from head to toe. How had such a thing happened? Why had he kissed me? And even more important, why had I kissed him back? Could I be in love with Mr. Darcy? Did that explain this tempest running amok within my heart?

No, I would not marry Mr. Darcy. No matter how I loved him, perhaps because I loved him, I would not permit him to make another mistake.

“I shall not marry a man who does not love me when I know that I have fallen desperately in love with him.”

I turned and stared at him. “Why do you persist in saying that? How do you know who Mr. Darcy cares for?” “Don’t, Miss, except even a blind man couldn’t mistake the way he feels for you. The way he looks at you. The way he speaks about you. The way he’d give up his life for you. No way could he make it plainer except perhaps to shout it in the street for all to hear!”

“Why do you persist in saying that? I know whom I love, and it is not Morgan! How can it be, when I love you?!”

“What? What did you say?” “I love you,” I whispered, “and I wish to God I did not.”

I watched his face incline toward mine, his lips coming ever nearer. His breath warm on my cheek, I saw his eyes move from my eyes to my mouth and then, oh so gently, his lips touched mine, and I began to tremble. With tender caresses, he kissed me not just once, but once more, and then again and again and again. A pervading pit of fire began far, far down within me, so deep I could not fathom its source, a sensation I recalled from the single time before when his lips had touched mine. I felt myself lean into him, my hands spread wide open upon his strong chest, mindlessly moving back and forth and then upward, until I reached the warmth of his neck and those enticing curls edging his collar. By then his kiss had grown harder as he forced my lips apart, taking my mouth with a fierceness that cannot be described, until I surrendered and allowed him to do what he willed. I was lost, utterly and completely lost in him, and I wished never to be found.

I love you with all that is within me, all that I am, all that I ever will be — all that I ever hope to be.”

I reached up and touched his cheek, turning his face to meet mine. “It is over, dearest. From this day forward, only your hands shall touch me, and I shall lean upon no one but you. I shall nestle safely in your arms.

He smiled and raised my hand to his lips. “Have it your way. I will not trouble you further. Will you admit, however, that you did have a choice? You could have picked Morgan instead of Father?” I shook my head. “No, my son, there was never any choice.” I looked up and watched Fitzwilliam lead our daughter around on the new chestnut mare, his curls still falling over his forehead in that same enchanting manner they had all those years before. “Your father won my heart a long time ago. No other man ever had a chance.”