Page 74 of Shipwrecked with Mr Darcy

She had been intimate with this man on the island, loving him wildly on the beach, in the tower, and in the shallows of the sea. Yet standing here now, an overwhelming sensation filled her chest: unyielding safety.

They were legally bound by the church and the law. She could stand in a room behind a locked door, remove her dress, and press her body against his without courting utter ruin. She was a wife. Her desire was fiercely, permanently sanctioned.

That sudden freedom hit her as a physical shock. It was as though a crushing stone had been lifted from her chest. The relief was so complete that her legs went unsteady, and her eyes rapidly filled with tears.

She had not felt guilty on the island. She had never been ashamed of loving him.

But she had carried a terrible, silent weight. Beneath her defiance, she had known that her actions on the island would wholly destroy her in England. It would have ruined her reputation, her family's standing, and her sisters' prospects.

She had carried that terrifying knowledge in secret. Now, standing in Valletta with a ring on her finger and a marriage certificate in the consul's files, the danger was gone. The relief was too large to contain.

She began to weep. Before he touched her, she stood in the middle of the room and cried with the sheer, overwhelming release of a woman who had willingly chosen ruin, and had been saved from it.

She was not ruined; she was Mrs Darcy. The marriage was a legal fortress protecting them both.

Darcy held her tightly without speaking or asking questions. He simply offered his strength as she wept against his chest.

Her tears eventually slowed. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, her breathing returning to a steady rhythm.

“I did not expect that,” she whispered.

“No.”

“I was terrified for my family. For Jane. For all of them.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But they are safe, and so are you.”

“Most bridegrooms would prefer their wives not to weep on their wedding night,” she managed a fragile smile.

“I am not most bridegrooms,” he replied, brushing a tear from her cheek. “I know exactly what those tears cost you.”

She looked up at him in the lamplight. His eyes were steady and warm. His hands, which had shaken so violently at the altar, were calm. He was waiting for her.

“I am done crying,” she declared.

“Take whatever time you need, Elizabeth.”

“I need you,” she said fiercely. “I am your wife, Fitzwilliam, and I have been looking forward to this night since we stood in the chapel.”

A slow, devastating smile spread across his face. “Have you?”

“I am a practical woman,” she breathed. “You knew this when you married me.”

She closed the distance between them and kissed him hungrily. She was done waiting. She wanted her husband, and that desire was clean, uncomplicated, and free from the terrifying shadow of ruin.

He kissed her back, his hands framing her face exactly as they had in the tower. His fingers tangled in her hair, his mouth claiming hers with focused attention.

She reached behind her back and unfastened her dress. The borrowed white cotton fell from her shoulders, and she stepped out of it. She stood in the thin shift Mrs Palmer had provided. Darcy's eyes moved over her body in the warm lamplight; he had seen her bare many times, but seeing her now, as his legal wife, felt new.

“Elizabeth,” he whispered. It was the first time he had spoken her name as his wife, and the heavy, reverent weight of it vibrated against her ribs.

She pulled the shift over her head, standing bare in the amber glow of the lamplight. She let him look at her. The intense heat of his gaze was as real as his touch, and the legitimacy of his desire thrilled her.

He undressed. She watched him with frank, unhesitating desire. He was still thin from the fever, the pale scar sharp against his brown skin. This body was hers now, permanently and legally.

She looked at him with the bold directness she had maintained since their first night, and his immediate, visible response to her gaze was deeply gratifying.

She went to the bed and lay down on the clean white sheets. They smelled of lavender and sunlight. The soft, cool fabric against her bare skin was a luxury after weeks of sand and stone.