Elizabeth clung to her husband's arm as they climbed the stairs to the room he had rented on the second floor of the posting inn. Her husband ordered a bath, and he led her to the bed, shorter and narrower than their palatial four-poster at Pemberley.
Elizabeth considered the events of the past few hours and trembled. The carriage, the running, and the pain of Mr. Grimes’ grip as he dragged her from beneath the table, her struggles, and her husband’s arrival, almost too late.
Fitzwilliam knelt at Elizabeth's feet and untied her boots. He pulled them off one at a time and set them beneath the bed. He pulled down her stocking and kissed her bare calf. The warmth of his lips comforted her. He did the same to the inside of her opposite knee. Elizabeth's legs parted. He pulled her skirts up further, nuzzling her inner thigh, his rough whiskers tickling the skin. His actions inspired her desire, but there was something soft about them. As though her husband acted not only to comfort her but also himself.
Elizabeth ran her fingers through his hair. "I love you," she said.
A maid entered, carrying a pitcher of water and a basin. A linen cloth rested on her shoulder. She placed the basin and pitcher on the night table and, with a curtsy, said, "We thought Mrs. Darcy might appreciate a little freshening up."
Elizabeth smiled and thanked her.
The maid left, softly shutting the door.
Elizabeth stood.
"Sit," Fitzwilliam said. He walked to the table and took the basin, cloth, and pitcher.
Elizabeth scooted to the head of the bed. She reached for cloth, and he pushed her hand away. "Let me," he said. He poured steaming water into the basin and dipped the cloth inside, wetting it. He ran the warm, damp linen over Elizabeth's forehead and down her temple, sweeping it across her cheek and along her jaw to her chin.
Their gazes locked. Fitzwilliam dipped the cloth again in the water—the water like spring rain—in the basin and wiped it over Elizabeth's opposite cheek. He washed her face, her ears, her neck, and shoulders.
Then he loosened her stays. When they were untied, Fitzwilliam said, “Stand up a moment."
Elizabeth did as he bade, and Fitzwilliam tugged on the frock. Elizabeth allowed it to fall, leaving the damp, muddy fabric in a pile on the floor. She stood before him in only her chemise, the chill of the room and the heat of her husband's desire pebbling her skin and bringing her nipples to hard points.
"When we return to Pemberley, we shall bathe together,” Fitzwilliam said, voice low. “And all of this…ugliness... we shall wash it away. But for now, let me, at the least, take away the worst of it."
Elizabeth's eyes burned. Her throat was thick with emotion, and for a moment, she could not breathe. She said, "You already have, Fitzwilliam. You saved me."
“I should never have had to. I am to honor and cherish you, and to keep you safe."
“You have."
Fitzwilliam averted his gaze, dipping the cloth once more into the now gray water and squeezing it, the water fell like rain into the basin.
Elizabeth said, "Look at me, Fitzwilliam."
Her husband flinched. "If I had been minutes later; if —"
"Mr. Darcy!"
He looked up, eyes wide.
Elizabeth knelt and put her arms around his chest. His cravat and coat were still damp. Fitzwilliam tried to pull away, but Elizabeth would not let him. She held him tighter, her chin on his shoulder. "I forgive you,” she said, a mirror of their games where she would beg his forgiveness and he would take it from her in pleasure.
"Forgiveness cannot be so easy."
"If you will not accept it from me, then take it. You have already had me today as a wife. Now, I will have you as a mistress."
"But—"
Elizabeth rubbed her cheek across his stubbled jaw, her breasts pressing into him. "Those vile men will not come between us.” She ran her fingertips down the line of his back. “I want you. I shall have you."
"Yes," her husband, Mr. Darcy, said. His breath hitched as Elizabeth slipped her hands beneath his shirt and ran her palms over the muscular planes of his belly.
Her husband kissed her cheek, her jaw, and teased his tongue along the crest of her ear, nibbling at the lobe, which shot pleasure through Elizabeth. "Mmmm."
Elizabeth lifted his shirt, and obligingly, he shed his coat. His palms went down her sides, cupping her rear. The hard line of his manhood pressed against her belly.
"You want me, Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth said. It was a statement of fact, and Mr. Darcy, acknowledged it with a kiss. The thin fabric of her chemise only stirred Elizabeth's desire to have him against her, skin to skin. She kissed his neck, grazing her teeth along it as she knew he liked. There were great benefits to having one’s husband as a secret lover.
Kissing down his chest, Elizabeth paid special attention to the hard nubs of his nipples before lowering herself to press hot kisses on the length of his manhood, still constrained by his breaches and small clothes. The sensation would tickle, enough to try his discipline, which Elizabeth enjoyed. She stroked him through the fabric and then, with her other hand, ran the heel of her palm beneath.
Elizabeth hooked her fingers in the waist of her husband's breaches and pulled them down, freeing him. His manhood was tall and flushed at the tip, hot and glistening. Elizabeth took it in her mouth. He was too large for her to take him to the root, erect as he was, but knowing how well he enjoyed this, Elizabeth had practiced taking him a little more each time.
Her husband plunged his fingers into her tangled hair and moaned. Elizabeth continued this intimate kiss, rising and falling on his length, using her fingers to tease him beneath. Elizabeth relaxed her throat and took her husband deeper.
"Oh! Lizzie!"
Elizabeth held it a moment longer and then rose, taking a breath.
Hand still in her hair, her husband pulled her up. Elizabeth, obliging, stood. He had her lift her arms, and she did, allowing him to remove her chemise. She stood before him nude. His breeches gathered at his ankles, catching on the lip of his muddy boots.
They kissed. The smell and taste of him brought about a pulsing of desire through her core, and Elizabeth, for the pleasure of it, rubbed herself against her husband's hip.
"You—" Fitzwilliam kissed her again. Elizabeth knew it was Fitzwilliam. Fitzwilliam's kisses began gently and then deepened. They were sweeter than Mr. Darcy's, whose kisses were deeper and more possessive. Elizabeth loved them both. Her husband and her lover.
Elizabeth said, "Shall we forgive each other?"
Fitzwilliam Darcy, his eyes wide with lust, said, "Lie down."
Elizabeth smiled and pulled him with her to the bed. She lay back on the pillows, uninjured arm over her head, the other at her side. The bed was narrow and overstuffed. Elizabeth's legs parted. Her husband crawled up towards her, kissing her inner thighs, his tongue tickling closer and closer to her womanhood.
His tongue dipped into her folds, finding the hard knot at the crest which made her shake with pleasure. His manhood had brought quick and glorious release in the carriage, and Elizabeth wanted more. Her husband's tongue, first a sweet tickle, soon inspired a maddening ache. Her breasts were heavy and tingling, her skin hot and flushed, and her womanhood wet and quivering with desire.
"Want you," Elizabeth gasped, wanting him inside her.
Her husband slipped a finger inside, the pad of it pressing into a second something Elizabeth could not name but knew as a deepening of her desire. Elizabeth hitched her hips, lips parted, panting with need.
The pleasure overwhelmed her, and she struggled, her legs wanting to shut, her body tightening as she came closer and closer.
Her husband pulled away, and Elizabeth groaned as the pleasure, so close, eased. He kissed her belly, his tongue tracing a path between her breasts. He gave each his attention, teasing her nipples again to hard nubs before he kissed her. His manhood was an almost painful purplish red. As he kissed her, it brushed against her belly as he lowered himself to kiss her.
The taste of their desire mingled, and all Elizabeth wished was to have him inside.
He pulled away, thumb caressing her hairline as he stared into her eyes. Elizabeth’s love mixed with her passion, carrying her along the like a runaway carriage, except she wished this ride. More than anything.
"I want you with me," Elizabeth said. "Always." Elizabeth widened her legs, inviting him in, and Fitzwilliam took the invitation, the head of him hesitating a moment at her entrance.
"Please," Elizabeth said. "Or have you not forgiven me?"
"There is nothing to forgive." He pushed inside.
He pulled out and pushed in again, and the movement called back the pleasure which had receded in the absence of friction. They rocked together, finding their rhythm. The pleasure built slowly until it overwhelmed her, and Elizabeth cried out, shuddering around her husband who groaned, spilling inside of her.
He lay, sweaty, atop her, and Elizabeth linked her feet behind him, keeping him close. He was heavy, and the weight of him grounded her. Her fear was washed away by pleasure and the evidence of his love.
They drifted in each other's arms, slept, woke, and made love again in the darkness. Elizabeth's shoulder ached, and she could not care.
In the morning, when she opened her eyes, her husband leaned up on his elbow, watching her as he brushed his finger over her cheek.
Elizabeth said, "Should we arrange to meet again by chance, let us travel together, shall we?"
Fitzwilliam laughed and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Yes."