Not Quite Darcy (25 page)

His erection nudged her moist entrance. When she twitched her hips upward, the movement forced his tip just inside her channel and he was lost in her. Mindless to these exquisite sensations. He slid into her tight, warm sheath, burying himself to the hilt. She moaned his name, her fingers twining desperately in his hair.

He pulled himself from her intimate embrace, just a little, before driving back inside—his body knowing this dance instinctively. Upon burying himself inside her again, he looked down at where they were joined. Her damp blonde curls meeting his brown hair in a tangle. God, it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Then he looked at her face, desire and love written in her eyes as she met his gaze, and
beautiful
was redefined for him, yet again.

He slid back out and then into her again, his hips falling into an instinctual rhythm older than time itself. Plunging in and out of her as she met his thrusts. Both of them groaning and sighing and never taking their eyes off one another. His climax was building with stunning speed, despite his desperate attempts to hold off, to prolong this exquisite pleasure. His balls tightened in a kind of blissful torture and he came into her—an extended fall into euphoria.

And yet, she did not slow in the dance. Her hips continued their delicious bumping and twisting. He could feel his cock hardening again, almost before it had a chance to soften.

This time, the dance could be a bit slower. This time he had the ability to let her lead, following her thrusts as she slowed and then sped up the pace. When her frantic fingertips scratched his back, it was such sweet torment that his fingertips confidently flicked and teased her nipples in return, causing her to buck a little harder against him.

He continued to drive into her as her orgasm came, her walls fluttering around his cock and milking him in another dizzying climax. She called his name with a sigh as he poured into her with a moan of completion.

He lay against her, utterly spent, but he couldn't force himself to pull out of her. Not yet. Holding him safe in her core. When he tried to withdraw, she tightened her vaginal muscles, giving his cock a squeeze, then smiled at him wickedly.

“William,” was all she said.

He kissed the tip of her nose. “Eliza. You've said my name a few times, you know. And not once did you mention Uncle Thomas.”

She beamed at him.

He leaned down to kiss her thoroughly as his softening cock slid out of their more intimate embrace. Then he pulled the blanket over them and scooped her back up into his arms, their legs a tangle and their arms wrapped tightly around one another.

“All the delicious sex made me sleepy.” She nuzzled a trail of kisses against his throat, her warm breath comforting against his skin.

He leaned his head back far enough so that he could gaze at her. See her eyelids as they began to droop. Watch her contented smile fade as she fell into slumber.

And when she was fast asleep, he watched her still. Holding this miracle in his arms. Holding this being, as bright as the sun. In all his hopeless, romantic yearnings, he'd never imagined anything remotely close to this.

What would the others think, should they see him now? His mother, his uncle, the gentlemen at his club. They'd see him as an idiot or worse—as a crushing disappointment.

But they didn't know the wonder of the woman that he held in his arms. And they didn't know him. Not like she did. He hadn't even known himself until she'd come along.

He placed his hand on his chest. Sometimes when he thought of her, his heart grew so full that it felt it would break through his ribcage. He'd press his palm to his chest, just to help keep himself together. He knew she'd seen that gesture and he'd seen her puzzled expression when she caught him doing it. But he would not tell, not yet. He was entitled to a few overly sentimental secrets.

She wanted him and she'd said no when she had an opportunity to return to her other life. It was really within his grasp—a lifetime with her stretched out in his mind's eye.

Visions of their future together played out in his mind. He could see her in a white gown, turned slightly to the side a smile playing at her lips. And in another scene, she would be sitting in a window seat, the sun shining on her golden hair while she read to a young daughter—their child—seated contentedly in her lap. When he brushed his hand against a lock of hair at her temple, he imagined it gray with age. He traced his fingertips down her lovely face, imagining the delicate wrinkles that would one day crease these cheeks. She would still remain so beautiful.

If he told her these things, she would grin and roll her eyes at his romanticism. She would tell a little joke and shake her head. But she would smile her secret smile—the one she didn't think he knew about. She'd turn her head in that way she did—her lashes falling against her cheek as the corners of her lips lifted, just for an instant. Oh, he knew all about her hidden smiles. He knew her romantic secrets that she hid from herself.

Slumber claimed him at last. As he slipped toward the most contented sleep he'd ever known, Eliza murmured in her sleep. “Go away, Lancaster. Leave me alone.”

He was too deeply asleep by then, however. And before his slumbering mind could process her words, he'd already forgotten them.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Eliza woke in William's arms just as the first rays of morning sun began to spill across their bed. Carefully stretching out, so that she wouldn't wake him, she tried to clear her mind from her night's dreams. They weren't dreams, precisely—but her head was crowded with images of being chased by a small black bird through a crowded antique shop. As simple as the dream had been, it was profoundly disturbing.

William lay lost in slumber. His eyes darted behind his eyelids and his fingers twitched against her arm. Though his hair was a tangled mess, his expression was tranquil, almost innocent, and his bottom lip pouted out just the slightest bit—looking oh-so-kissable.

By the angle of the sun, she knew that she only had moments before Mrs. MacLaughlin arrived. She couldn't dare compromise him. Reluctantly, she pulled back the covers to leave. His warm hand reached up to touch her arm.

“Mmliza,” he murmured, grinning at her shyly. He leaned up and kissed her tenderly.

“Good morning.” She sighed into his mouth. “I didn't want to sneak away but Mrs. MacLaughlin will be here any sec.”

“I understand, love. I'm just so terribly glad to see you. I was afraid that I'd wake to find the whole unbelievable evening had been nothing but a dream.”

She nibbled on his ear aggressively enough to elicit an, “Ow,” from him. “See William? No dream.”

He squeezed her tightly. “The fear is irrational, I know. It's just that, whenever a good thing happens, it often seems that life deals us some bad thing. Balance of the universe and all that. I suppose after the wonder of last night, I'm wary—wondering what sort of debt would be collected to balance the scales.”

“Maybe it'll be sunshine and roses? Maybe this time…” But before she could finish that thought, the sound of Mrs. MacLaughlin's arrival echoed up from downstairs, effectively shattering their idyll.

She reluctantly rolled away from him as he slipped out of bed and began searching for his clothes.

“I shall speak with her to give you a bit of time, darling.” He hurriedly slid into his trousers.

“William, you're going without underwear?”

“More of your evil influence.” He grinned at her, as he shrugged into his shirt. Just as he began to exit the room, he came back to her to deliver a gentle kiss to her forehead.

She pulled her nightgown over her head and wrapped her robe around her. She slipped out of his room and down the hall to get dressed for the day.

An hour later found Eliza in the kitchen, helping Mrs. MacLaughlin prepare muffins for the staff's breakfast. Dora had just left with a breakfast tray for William and his mother, so Eliza was surprised to see her return so quickly—looking shaken.

“Eliza, Mr. Brown wants you to bring Dover's Powder to the missus. And I'm to tell Davy to take the carriage and fetch Dr. Hill.”

Dora's words were disturbing enough, but it was the expression on her face—stony, emotionless—that left Eliza cold. She numbly prepared the medicine, willing her hands not to shake, commanding her stomach not to clench. She gripped the tray tightly as she carried the prepared medication up the stairs and down the hall to Mrs. Brown's room.

Beatrix Brown lay in bed looking bright and feverish. Her breath came in short, breathy pants. William stood beside her, his expression guarded and fearful, like a soldier just before battle.

“Eliza.” His voice sounded falsely bright. “Thank you for bringing the powder. Mother is a bit under the weather this morning.”

Eliza greeted the older woman with a tone that held the same false energy as William's. “Good morning, Mrs. Brown. I've brought some medicine to ease you.”

Mrs. Brown nodded and smiled weakly while Eliza administered the powder, following it with the required tea.

The way the woman's breath came in such short gasps reminded Eliza of a frightened rabbit—the shallow panting of a wounded or dying animal. The sound created a rising dread within her.

“Would you like me to read to you, ma'am?” Any kind of sound would be welcome. Anything to drown out the frightened animal sound.

The patient merely shook her head no and said simply, “Dear.” But faintly. So faintly.

How could she have gotten so much worse in one night? Yesterday she was ill, but it was nothing compared to this.

As disturbing as it was for Eliza and William, it had to be terrifying for Mrs. Brown. William leaned over to hold his mother's hand. She merely said a very faint “dear” again and closed her eyes. After a few very long and agonizing minutes, her breathing evened out—whether it was genuine sleep or the effect of the morphine in the medicine, it was impossible to know.

Eliza looked at William helplessly and he returned her gaze, clearly as lost as she was.

“William, when I had difficulty breathing, we used a steaming device. Do you have anything remotely like this?”

He shook his head briefly, as if to clear his thoughts. “We do have something similar which Mother has used on occasion. Thank you. If you think it will help. Mrs. McLaughlin will know where it is.”

“I'll be up with it as soon as I'm able.” And she flew down the hall to the kitchen.

Mrs. MacLaughlin and Dora hovered near the door. They reminded Eliza of infantrymen awaiting orders. After she explained the need for the steaming device, the two women set to the task of gathering up the sections of the contraption. It was very compact—designed to be used in an open fireplace. Once they'd assembled it, Eliza filled the pot with water and began to make her way up the stairs. She stopped at the sound of voices, speaking in hushed, urgent tones at the top of the stairs.

“…remedies other than bleeding her?” William's voice was carefully controlled.

“You can continue with the plasters and certainly the steam treatment will ease her breathing, but I don't wish to give you false hope.” Dr. Hill's voice sounded so compassionate it took her a moment to recognize who was speaking.

“False hope?” William echoed numbly.

“Mr. Brown, as you know, it's a miracle she's lasted this long. When she was first diagnosed, my prognosis was that she had no longer than three years left. She's lasted nearly five now. Her consumption is quite advanced and now it has been compounded by pneumonia. The outcome of this is most certain.”

There was a long pause before William spoke again. His voice sounded heartbreakingly hoarse. “How much longer?”

“A day or two.” There was another pause before the doctor continued. “Ease her distress with laudanum. It will work to slow her breathing and to allow her sleep. There is simply nothing else to be done for it.”

When William remained mute, Dr. Hill concluded with, “You have my sympathies, Mr. Brown.” Footsteps began clumping down the stairs, so Eliza ducked back into the kitchen until she heard the sound of the front door closing.

She leaned against the kitchen counter and stared numbly at the floor, while Mrs. MacLaughlin and Dora, in turn, stared at her. How was it that life had the brass balls to come at you like this? From bliss to misery in a heartbeat. And she couldn't help but recall William's eerie prediction of disaster just as they were slipping out of Eden that morning.

Had William's mother lived in Eliza's time, they'd have dozens of ways to care for her, no doubt. Had Mrs. Brown lived in 2015, she'd have never caught tuberculosis in the first place. For all the charms of this age, its dark counterpoint didn't just translate to a lack of modern medicine. It meant an early grave. At least for William's mom.

Now wasn't the time for philosophizing, however. He needed her. His mother needed her. She collected the bits of the steaming device, then collected the scattered bits of herself. With the steamer under one arm, she forced her feet back up the stairs. But her head and heart already felt buffeted by the rapidly descending storm.

Before walking down the hall, however, she paused before her bedroom door. The Repairmen might have sent her here on a mission, but they weren't the only ones who were allowed such things and right now Eliza had a mission of her own.

She placed the steamer in the hallway and slipped into her bedroom with a purpose.

The dreaded mirror waited for her, still dominating her small bedroom, propped up against the bed. Last night she'd torn off the “congratulations” and tossed it into the corner. The object seemed a malevolent presence, casting back her reflection as an accusation. As if to ask, “What are you still doing here?”

The Repairmen might have given her the means to return to her time, but she'd be damned if they'd decide on the when.

Time is short. Make it count. Form no lasting attachments. Tell no one where you're from. And, by the way, fuck you.

She lifted both hands to the ceiling and extended her middle fingers. York and Lancaster might not see the gesture, but damn if it didn't make her feel better, if only just a sliver. Careful to avoid touching any part of her hand to the surface of the mirror, she grasped it by the frame, balanced it on one hip and steered her way out of the bedroom, toward the attic stairs. With a tight grip on the edge of the mirror, she navigated up the narrow stairway.

She opened the attic door and looked around. There were a few doors—for servants rooms, she assumed, and a large storage area at the far end. She shifted the mirror to her other hip—heavy thing—and wove through old furniture to an especially disused looking corner of the room. She hoisted the mirror over some battered trunks, then propped it against a wall, beside an old feather bed. For good measure, she whipped an old quilt from the bed and covered the frame with it.

Collecting herself as best she could, she put on her “Competent Eliza” face and forced her feet back down the stairs. But her head and heart could only bend and sway under the weight of what was about to happen and to be crushed with fear that she'd be forced to leave him now—when he needed her most.

The rest of the long, miserable day, Eliza hovered uselessly. She appeared to be doing things, like carrying uneaten food to and from the bedroom and refreshing the water in the steaming device, but she knew her actions were essentially futile. All her efforts counted for nothing where it really mattered.

And throughout the day, William remained by his mother's side—clasping her hand, cooling her forehead with a damp cloth, administering medications with uncanny timeliness. But every time she looked at him, really looked at him, it tore off a small bit of her heart—his mouth a tight line, his eyes swimming with tears. He simply looked so lost.

The rest of the household quickly caught on to the gravity of the situation. Mrs. MacLaughlin's usual brusque tone softened, and she spent a great deal of time “sorting items” in the pantry, returning with red-rimmed eyes. Davy, surprisingly, became more vocal, getting under everyone's feet to ask if there was anything he could do. And Dora. Constantly chattering Dora became almost mute, no longer sneaking out to the carriage house for stolen moments with Davy. Instead, she concentrated on busy work, cleaning silver and washing floors with a furious level of energy.

By nightfall, the rest of the staff had reluctantly returned to their homes at William's insistence. Eliza made her way back up to the small servant's room, which Dora had occupied earlier that week. She rolled the thin mattress into a coil. After collecting fresh linens from the cupboard, she returned to Mrs. Brown's room.

As soon as she entered, William rushed to her side. He looked terrible. His eyes were puffy and red and filled with sorrow. It was the first time they'd been really alone since his mother had taken this turn for the horrible. Eliza dropped the mattress onto the floor. He gathered her in his arms and crushed her to him. He trembled as he held her tightly against him and leaned his head on her shoulder.

They stood like that for the longest time. His breathing was ragged and her neck was wet with his tears. She could only hold onto him tightly, whispering, “It's okay. It'll be all right.” Even though they both knew she was lying. But sometimes, love made you lie in the kindest ways.

After a long while, he finally broke the embrace, looking over his shoulder to cast a weary gaze to check on his sleeping mother before glancing down to look at the bundle Eliza had dropped onto the floor.

“I knew I wouldn't be able to talk you into going to your bedroom, William. I thought we could make up a bed for you on the floor.”

“That was very thoughtful of you. Thank you.” He positioned the mattress between his mother's bed and the window. By the time he'd placed sheets on his bed, Eliza had returned with a quilt and pillow and they finished making up his bed together.

“Perhaps you could get a little sleep now. You look exhausted. I'll keep watch over your mom for a few hours.”

“I've just given her a dose of laudanum. She had a bad…very bad…coughing spell about half an hour ago. She should remain in a deep sleep for hours, I hope.”

“All the more reason for you to catch some rest now, while you can. Please?”

William rubbed his forehead. “Perhaps, you know best, darling. 'Twould be a great relief to lie down for a time, even if sleep eludes me. Thank you.”

After sliding off his shoes, he crawled into bed. His eyelids fell shut almost immediately. Eliza watched him for a moment before she sat down in the chair at Beatrix Brown's bedside and prepared herself for the long night ahead.

The next morning dawned and Eliza was pulled downstairs for her usual duties. She'd only managed the thinnest of sleep. Everything around her seemed to be happening in a fog. William remained a solid presence by his mother's side, while Eliza came and went as needs demanded. Mrs. Brown, on the other hand, was primarily only present in a physical sense. She had moments of lucidity, but was far too weak to talk in those brief instances. On the rare occasion when she'd try to speak, she dissolved into another heartbreaking round of coughing and panting for breath, which immediately sent William for another dose of laudanum and the opiate cloud of relief it brought her.