Mr. Darcy's Refuge by Abigail Reynolds Read Free Book Online Page B

discovering that little Jenny was sitting on the floor beside her bed, her broken leg extended in front of her and her face scrunched with pain, Elizabeth dropped the clothes heedlessly and hurried to the girl’s side.
     
    “What happened? Did you fall out of bed?” She brushed back a lock of the girl’s hair, exposing a tear-stained cheek.
     
    “No, miss,” Jenny whispered. “I needed the chamberpot, and I didn’t know it would hurt so much.”
     
    “There was supposed to be someone here with you.”
     
    “She had to leave. There’s so much work to do now, and she couldn’t just sit with me all day.”
     
    Elizabeth decided she would be having words with the woman who had left Jenny alone and helpless. Better yet, she would let Mr. Darcy do it. “Come, let me help you into bed.”
     
    It took the better part of an hour before Jenny was settled in a clean shift with some degree of comfort. Elizabeth felt exhausted by the day’s exertions, but the girl was restless, though each movement caused her pain.
     
    Elizabeth said, “You must be bored after sitting there in bed all day. Would you like me to draw a picture of you?”
     
    Jenny’s eyes brightened. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Darcy! No one has ever drawn me.”
     
    Wincing at the appellation, Elizabeth said, “Then this shall be the first.” Fetching the box of drawing supplies she had seen in Charlotte’s room, she laid out a piece of paper. She had no great talent for drawing, one more of the many ways in which she would never meet Mr. Darcy’s definition of a truly accomplished lady, but could usually manage a recognizable likeness. If it kept Jenny entertained, that was all she could ask.
     
    ***
     
    Darcy struggled with the straps of the saddlebags. Rain dripped from the brim of his hat, and his wet gloves made little headway on the tight buckles. With an angry hiss, he pulled off his right glove and stuffed it in his pocket, then returned to the slippery straps.
     
    His horse whinnied impatiently. Darcy said through his teeth, “I am in total agreement with you.” He would rather have been almost anywhere else, but the only refuge that beckoned was more dangerous to him that floods or thunderstorms. If he went into the parsonage now, he would not be answerable for his actions, not after holding Elizabeth’s sweet shape so intimately against his body for the last half hour. He gave a furious yank at the strap, and the buckle gave at last, pinching his forefinger hard enough to make him grit his teeth.
     
    At least she seemed to believe him about Wickham, and he had manfully pretended to be unaware of her silent shaking that betokened muffled sobs. He had not taken the least advantage of his position, even when she had finally rested back against him. And still, when they arrived, she would not meet his eyes and could not leave his company quickly enough. What more did she want from him?
     
    Thank God he had insisted on purchasing that cloak for her. It had not kept her dry, but from the quick glimpse of her wet dress when she removed the cloak, it was probably all that had preserved his sanity. If he had held her across his saddle in nothing but a clinging, near transparent dress that hid little of what was beneath it, he doubted he could have been held accountable for his actions. Even imagining it made his blood run hot.
     
    Fortunately for his throbbing finger, the second strap did not prove as stubborn as the first. With an effort, he hefted the heavy set of saddlebags over his shoulder. Had the shopkeeper put lead bricks in with the barley? His boots sank deep in the mud as he carried it to the parsonage, shoving the kitchen door open with his free shoulder. His muddy boots squelched on the stone floor.
     
    The cook, a stout woman of middle years with a permanent frown etched on her face, turned on him. “Track mud into my kitchen, will you, then?”
     
    Darcy ignored her and dropped the dripping saddlebags on the broad work table