To Put A Warrior At Her Ease Is A Potentially Painful Endeavour

Warnings: Explicit content. Fighting as foreplay. Spoilers if you haven't seen the film, though I won't insult your intelligence by assuming you can't guess the ending regardless.

Disclaimer: I do not own P&P, PPZ or any of its characters and associated trademarks. I'm just playing.

A/N: The fandom was lacking a PPZ wedding night fic, so here I am to oblige. Just disregard that mid-credits scene, it didn't happen, Wickham's still rotting on the other side of Hingham Bridge.

Elizabeth had once claimed that with every attempt at intimidation, her courage only rose in response. That assertion had been tested many times since then, and the veracity of her own statement was such that Elizabeth had no doubt of it. But she never faced any such trial before. Her…wedding night.

Her wedding day had been beyond anything she could have ever imagined, once when she and her beloved Jane spoke of it as giddy children, before their training and the fight for survival swamped such girlish concerns, and that she had wed alongside her Jane as well…it had only made her love her Mr Darcy more when he agreed with her that it would be most expedient and desirous for a double ceremony at Rosings, rather than wait for a grander, lone ceremony at Pemberley before all left in the kingdom. The marriage of a scion of the land's greatest and noblest house was no small thing, but they were still at war. London might be contained, for now, but their new peace could only last so long, Elizabeth knew. This was just the eye of the storm, and it would soon pass.

The warm water soothed her, as she lay back in the large copper tub. Bathing twice in one day was not her usual preference, unless she had trained earlier, but this was rather different. Tonight, she would not be sharing her bed with one of her sisters, usually Jane, but with her husband. Had that been the only issue at hand, Elizabeth would not have felt much trepidation. In their brief period of courtship after reuniting at Rosings, she'd felt the pleasure of her fiancé's strong arms holding her often enough to know that to sleep so would be no trial. It was what came first that worried her.

Her mother had been no help. She knew there was little love in her parents' union, and her mother's speech to both her and Jane had alarmed her. During her training with the Shaolin Monks in China, the act of lovemaking between husband and wife had been taboo and chastity highly prized, as Confucianism required of its adherents, but even there in their seclusion, Elizabeth and her sisters had heard whispers of the act of intimacy required by marriage. She'd thought little of it then, focussed as she was on her training, and she wished she'd listened more now. Surely, it couldn't be so barbaric as her mother made it sound! Her Fitzwilliam would never do anything to willingly hurt her, that she knew in her heart, with every fibre of her conviction. And then there was the feelings he always managed to elicit in her, from the very moment they'd formally met, over the headless corpse of an Undead Mrs Featherstone, that lick of heat and exhilaration that she had once mistaken for loathing after he wounded her pride at the assembly, but their sparring at the parsonage at Rosings had revealed as so much more, after his disastrous attempt at proposing to her.

As Elizabeth lay there in her bath, her new ladies' maid bustling around her, she couldn't help but smile. From the moment they'd met, their acquaintance had held a tinge of the absurd to it that she could appreciate now. Their own pride and prejudices had coloured their interactions so heavily, that only now could Elizabeth look back on them and laugh at the sheer lunacy of it all. If such things could exist in these dark times, their story could almost be the subject of a satire on society itself.

As the amused smile faded slightly, her eyes fell on the formless white silk ghost that lay draped over the dressing screen in one corner of the chamber. Just an hour ago, it had draped Elizabeth herself in the form of a bridal gown, simple and practical as she herself preferred, with cleverly hidden splits in the skirt to allow her leg ample movement in the case of combat. Despite that considerate addition, she hadn't felt like a warrior in that dress, but as a woman, truly, for the first time in her life. She'd always struggled with the niceties of proper behaviour and decorum, not in the imprudent and embarrassing manner of her mother and younger sisters, but more that something within her did not intrinsically fit with societal mores. Now, she was wed to a man who valued her for more than just her skill either with a blade or an embroidery needle, who had confessed his admiration for her quick mind and wit, her refusal to be intimidated or to bow those whom Society proclaimed superior. And for their wedding, she had bowed to Society in not wearing her sword, but the dress had been a mask, the warrior she truly was residing underneath like the knife strapped to her thigh. She'd been relieved to shed it, feeling her true self slip back into place once the mask of her wedding gown was gone. When all was said and done, her Fitzwilliam had made a warrior his bride, knowingly and with a full heart. And it was the warrior he would take to his bed tonight.

"Ma'am?" the ladies' maid, Shaw, bobbed a brief curtsey. "Shall you come out now? Or shall I call for more hot water?"

"No, no," Elizabeth sighed. Lady Catherine had been suspiciously hospitable to her family since their arrival there, and equally suspiciously accepting when Fitzwilliam and she announced their engagement. And even more suspiciously so when she offered to let them remain at Rosings for their wedding night, rather than starting the long, arduous journey to Pemberley that day. Elizabeth was as eager to see her new home as Fitzwilliam was to return to it, obliged to quit it as he had been by his duties for the Crown. Due to the danger, his sister had not made the journey, but had sent her best wishes and a long letter to Elizabeth that she'd refused to let Fitzwilliam see but had given her much amusement. She had a feeling she'd enjoy making her new sister's acquaintance immensely, even if she would dearly miss her father and Jane when they took their leave the next morning. At least she knew that Jane and Charles, as her dear brother-in-law begged her to address him now, planned soon to find and take an estate near to Derbyshire so they would see one another with some degree of regularity. Her father had confessed to her that her new fiancé had offered to move the rest of her family into Pemberley, for his future wife's peace of mind, but he had refused, not wanting to give up the estate he had worked to fortify so easily while he was still relatively hale. And he suspected that not even her husband's newfound patience with Mrs Bennet would be preserved for long in such close proximity. Elizabeth hadn't thought it possible to love him more, but after hearing of his offer to her father, she had felt it swell anew, as if her heart might explode. Privately, she rather agreed with her dear father, but that hadn't stopped her from finding her fiancé at his training and hauling him into her arms for a kiss, equal parts gratitude and growing desire. It had hardly been proper, with him wearing only his training attire and that damp with sweat from his exertions, but she had hardly cared and neither had he. Memories of that embrace still brought a flush to her cheeks. She prayed that Shaw couldn't see it as she stepped from the tub, enfolding herself in a soft robe.

As she went to a small table set aside, on which waited a brush and a small bottle of scent that she preferred, a private wedding gift from Jane, her thoughts turned to the man who awaited her on the other side of the wall. Thoughts of each kiss, each caress, that had been born from that first, in the parlour downstairs after he'd awoken, sent a lick of heat that warmed her more than the water of the bath she'd just left. They had always remained within the bounds of propriety, careful not to overstep their limits but even with those injunctions the desire had been unmistakeable. Elizabeth hadn't known to what end, at least not before her mother's explanation of a wife's duties, but now it took hold of her muscles with a fine tension, making every sensation seemed heightened. The feel of the brush as Shaw combed out her long curls, arranging them in shimmering waves around her shoulders, while Elizabeth dabbed a few drops of scent at her wrists and neck.

"That's a lovely scent, ma'am," the maid remarked. "So exotic. What is it?"

"Jasmine," Elizabeth replied. "I developed a liking for the scent when I trained in China."

"I'm sure the master will love it, ma'am," Shaw continued with a sly smile, one that made Elizabeth blush. Some ladies would take umbrage at their ladies' maid taking such a liberty, but despite her distressed physical state, it put her at her ease. She much preferred teasing candour to haughty distance. "There. You're glowing, ma'am, as a bride should on her wedding night. I've laid out your nightgown and robe on the screen. Is there anything else?"

"No, thank you Shaw," Elizabeth replied politely, eyes roving over her maid with more interest. She was direct and efficient, seemingly guessing Elizabeth's desire to dress herself in peace, and she was liking her more and more. She was young still, but not a girl; perhaps in her late twenties? Her age was not easily discernable from her face, and her hair showed no sign of grey in its soft blonde radiance, restrained into a demure, neat bun. Nevertheless, Elizabeth perceived a great hurt under her cheery, teasing façade, a shadow in her soft brown eyes that spoke of pain and horror. Not an unusual story in their times, but it pierced her heart anyway. "It's been a long day, and it will be an even longer one tomorrow. Please, get some rest. I will manage perfectly fine by myself for the remainder of the evening."

Shaw's smirk deepened, as Elizabeth realised the implication of her words, and felt more colour suffuse her cheeks. Shaw laughed lightly. "Don't worry, ma'am," she assured her. "It's quite alright. Goodnight ma'am, and good luck."

Elizabeth watched her leave, and swallowed as the door shut behind her. Her gaze drifted to the screen, the wedding gown now disappeared like the ghost it resembled, and in its place hung her nightgown and robe. She rose on unsteady legs and walked to them, rubbing the silk in-between her finger and thumb wondrously. She'd always possessed a hedonistic pleasure in the sensual, enjoying the rush of wind through her hair as she galloped across the fields, the cool fall of silk against her skin, the heavy rigidity of a sword in her hand.

The soft, worn feel of leather-clad shoulders under her hands, muscles rippling at her touch. The silky feel of hair that had always reminded her of crow's feathers, harbinger of death that his reputation had painted him as, curling around her fingers like liquid darkness as they kissed. Hard lips and even harder body pressing against hers, yearning to claim her for their own but not daring to, until the necessary proprieties had been observed. She knew well how strong her new husband's body was, had felt it pressed against her intimately before. Devoid now of pain, remembrances of that heated encounter in the parsonage sent fresh shivers down her spine. He had pinned her twice, in her righteous fury at his interference in their lives and his insufferable pride at doing so, and both times Elizabeth had let her anger lend her strength to keep their mutual desire at bay. How easily they both might have succumbed, if they hadn't let their pride stand between them, and had days of happiness instead of anguish and yearning.

Few could best Elizabeth on the field of battle. In hand-to-hand, she had few equals to her fury and strength, but he supplied that equality. He hadn't hesitated on account of her gender, and the way he had so overpowered her brought her pleasure now, when her every fibre felt alive and strumming with nervous energy, so much so that she feared she might burst with it when he finally touched her. She shivered at the thought that she would soon feel his body against hers like that once more.

She re-focussed on the garments that awaited her, portents of her final fate, her final step away from the warrior-maiden she had been, and towards the woman she had become. Still a warrior, since she knew Fitzwilliam would never demand that she forsake her sword for his ring and his name, but soon no longer to be a maiden. She would stand as his equal, his helpmate and lover, his other half in soul and in body.

If she could muster up the courage to don her nightgown and robe, and go to him in the bedchamber adjourning her dressing room. The robe was a light, sky-blue, almost resembling the morning gown she had worn that morning at the parsonage…

A slight smirk eased the tension in Elizabeth's features. She knew just the thing to ease her nerves and let herself simply forge ahead into her new future. If Fitzwilliam would agree…

But he had confessed, that beneath the indignation and hurt he'd felt at her rejection, he too had been as stimulated and aroused by their mutual display of disapprobation with the other as she. Their relationship had started with conflict; what better way to consummate it and see it come full circle than to do so again?

Her courage was not quite renewed, but the thought bolstered her resolve as she dropped her robe and reached for the nightgown…

Darcy found himself pacing his…their bedchamber as he waited for Elizabeth. After so many months longing and yearning for her, even though he had long persuaded himself that there was no chance to win her love for himself, she was finally his. His wife, his Elizabeth, the woman who wore his ring and had deigned to take his name. Who had risked life and limb to save his life, so many times, even after he insulted her. Who stood by his side, his staunchest and fiercest defender, and made his chest swell with pride and adoration as he watched her take down hordes of the Undead.

Reminding himself of that fact did little to ease the irrational anxiety that currently constricted his chest. He reassured himself that he could still hear movement in the next room, and then chided himself that he was reduced to eavesdropping at the door like an overly curious child, and walked away to the tantalus that held his preferred brandy. He poured himself a measure, taking a large swig to burn away the anxiety, the sheer chilling fear that even after they had exchanged vows of devotion and love, that she might still disappear. That he might awaken tomorrow, to find her gone, as dissipated as a ghost on the morning mists. An irrational fear, as he'd realised, but he could not always control his fear. Usually, he would retire to train away his fears, or meditate as his sensei would require of him when his emotions became unsteady, but that could not be an option here. So he resorted to a purely English alternative, one his sensei would not have approved of.

He poured himself another measure, and relished the burn as the amber liquid seared his throat. Behind him, the fire crackled, lending the walls a soothing golden tone as outside, a summer storm roiled in. The sky flashed, bathing the gardens and grounds of Pemberley in a cold, lifeless light; a sharp contrast to the flickering firelight within their bedchamber. Staring outside at the storm as it swept over the countryside, Darcy's thoughts roved aimlessly back over the past few weeks, since awakening after the explosion at Hingham Bridge. Elizabeth's soft, devastated accents piercing the fog of agony that had clouded his perceptions.

"Since the moment I first beheld you, my heart was irrevocably gone…"

Her diffident, uncertain face when they were reunited, that had made him ache to reach out and take her in his arms. The intoxicating moment that he finally did so, only moments later, when she gave her assent to his offering of himself as her husband. The first feel of her lips against his, untried and innocent, yet still beguiling and tempting. The way she had so quickly learned the game, had learned to kiss him back and forgo any maidenly hesitance over being held so intimately. She had made his head spin with one kiss, and every time since. He had no doubt she would continue to do so until the day one of them departed this earth.

With a shudder of desire, he recalled the incident in the training yard, a week before their wedding…

He was just finishing his customary forms, practising his slashes on a training dummy, when he heard the hurried footsteps behind him. It was a warm afternoon, and the courtyard his aunt had converted into a training yard drenched in sunlight, so sweat ran in rivulets down his back beneath the fine lawn of his shirt. Assuming it to be Charles, probably only just realised he was late for their daily bout and forcing himself away from mooning over his fiancée, Darcy paid them little mind. He heard them falter, then come to a stop as he decapitated the training dummy in one fluid slash of his blade. "You're late, Charles," he stated tersely.

"That's because Mr Bingley is still engaged, staring lovingly at my sister," another voice replied teasingly, a wholly different voice to the one he'd been expecting. But still one he was well acquainted with. With a subconscious shiver he hoped dearly she hadn't noticed, he turned to face his own fiancée, sheathing his katana.

"Miss Elizabeth," he breathed, bowing slightly at the waist. She was stood only a few feet away, clad in a light morning gown of sprigged muslin, her curls unbound and flowing against her neck. Desire rushed through him, as it always did, hoarsening his voice and eliciting a most torturous tension in his muscles. "Forgive me for my state of undress, I was awaiting Charles for our morning bout."

"Oh, I'm not much offended," she assured him with a teasing smile that made him want to…- "But I did not come out here to be offended. Mr Darcy, whatever shall you do now?"

He frowned, mystified. "Do? Elizabeth, what are you talking about-?"

"Well sir, with every day your reputation for surly superiority diminishes," she replied, with a wide grin, as she slowly paced towards him "And by your own doing, nonetheless." In the sunlight, the pale fabric of her dress appeared nearly translucent and he could see the line of her toned legs beneath them. He remembered their force, their strength when she had caught him in a throat lock, that day at the parsonage. He blinked, realised what she was alluding to, and forced himself to look away from her hips as they swayed provocatively as she walked towards him. The teasing smile had left his Elizabeth's face, and there was nothing but a tender affection left there, in her smile and her eyes as she stopped in front of him. "I doubt not that your offer was genuine, and I thank you for it, even though I imagine after a few months with my mother, even you, dearest, would consider reneging on it."

"Not even your mother could drive me to hurt you so, my love," he breathed, moving closer as she did so, drawn as ever to her side. "I would endure far greater privations than permanent residence with your mother for you."

Elizabeth's eyes sparked at the tease, but she laughed. He loved her laugh. "I hope, sir, that you will permit me to show my gratitude?" she asked, cocking her head to the side questioningly.

"Gladly," he returned, inclining his head as she stepped closer, into him as his arms came up and gently and lightly encircled her waist. He was drenched in sweat from his exertions, and did not doubt that he needed a bath. Nevertheless, she pressed closer eagerly, the thin muslin of her gown letting him feel the warmth of her own flesh so close, and so tempting. In the days since their first kiss, his Elizabeth had grown ever more at ease with physical affection, but Darcy had been careful not to push her too far, not wanting either to offend propriety or to frighten her, unused and ignorant as she was to the demands of a man's body. She was strong and passionate, both qualities he had no doubt would help ease her into conjugal relations once they married, but until then he would not do anything to hurt or frighten her.

No matter the temptations she presented, and they were manifold. His Elizabeth was beautiful, her mind as entrancing as her warrior's form, and he yearned to immerse himself in her. So spake his heart and body, but he held them both in a grip of iron.

Elizabeth's kiss was gently confident, a tender question he could not deny her. He gently nudged at her lips, coaxing them open as she coyly teased him, her tongue darting out to meet his before withdrawing as quickly as a snake. He groaned, and pulled her closer, his mind subsumed momentarily beneath the soft onslaught of her kiss, her touch as it burned through the fine lawn of his shirt, and the feel of her body sinking against his. He'd felt her pressed against him before, at the parsonage, during their fight, and his body burned at the memory. He groaned, and felt her answering moan against his mouth. Without conscious thought, he turned and pressed her against the now headless training dummy, holding her against his body tightly.

For her part, Elizabeth showed no desire to escape his embrace, just pressed herself deeper into his arms, one hand tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, the other splayed across his heart, screened only by flimsy linen. He could feel her breasts swelling against his chest with each ragged breath she took, the beat of her heart thundering against his. Desiring to taste that intoxicating rhythm, he released her lips and ducked his head to her neck, nuzzling down the lazy line of her pulse, before pressing a kiss beneath her ear. She gasped and arched into him, her hand tightening in his hair-

Just then, there came the sound of a throat being cleared in embarrassed amusement. With reflexes born of years of war, Darcy released Elizabeth and spun around, shielding her from the eyes of their onlooker, body and soul enraged by the interruption. His darkling gaze fell on Charles, watching them from the doorway with a smugly entertained glint in his eye. "Well, Darce," he began, with a laugh. "I'd thought to catch you for our bout. But if you're otherwise engaged-"

"No, no," Elizabeth called from behind him, her tone one of embarrassment and disappointment at being interrupted. "I was just…that is, we were-"

"Just discussing a point about the wedding," Darcy interjected as Elizabeth stepped around him. Ignoring the part of him that wanted to pull her back, he inclined his head and snared her hand, bringing it to his lips. "We'll continue our discussion later, my dear."

"Of course," she breathed, her cheeks delightfully flushed by their activities, her eyes sparkling. "Perhaps one day, you and I should spar again."

And with that provoking suggestion, she curtsied to them both and disappeared through the door before either of them could comment. Darcy watched her go, mouth slightly agape as Charles chuckled to himself.

"So tell me Darce," he inquired, smirking. "Was it more a discussion about the wedding, or the wedding night?"

He had only growled in reply and unsheathed his katana. He was in no mood for teasing, not even from his closest friend.

Darcy was pulled from pleasurable recollection by the rustle of silk and linen, and turned to see Elizabeth stood at the doorway of their bedchamber. In the warm firelight, her skin glowed and her eyes were radiant, making him catch his breath. Her slender form was enrobed in sheer white lawn, peeking from between the folds of a light blue silk robe, one that looked oddly familiar…

The allusion hit him, and he chuckled. She'd arranged her hair the same way, riotous curls draping her shoulders, bar a few that were tucked back to keep her face clear. Her smile was impish and somewhat nervous as she hovered in the doorway.

"My love," he called gently, before gesturing with his glass. "Would you like one?"

"Yes, thank you," she replied, moving deeper into the room on bare feet, as he moved back to the tantalus and poured her a measure, as well as himself. Desire had begun to rise at the sight of her, dressed to evoke memories of their sparring at the parsonage, the scent of her perfume rising with the heat of the fire. Jasmine, if he wasn't mistaken. A sensual, wild scent, so like his Elizabeth.

He proffered the glass to her, and knocked his own back quickly. To his amusement, she did the same and tried to hide her splutter at the burn, her eyes wide. "That is single-handedly the most foul thing I have ever tasted," she pronounced imperiously, in such a manner as to do Lady Catherine proud. "Why you gentlemen enjoy it so, I cannot fathom."

"It is not the taste so much as the burn that makes it pleasurable," he told her, eyes roving her form now she was closer. And he noted the fine tension holding her muscles, the way she seemed all-too alert, as if awaiting the onslaught of a battle. As she turned away to place her glass down, he saw her glance towards the impressive four-poster bed that awaited them, swathed in dark green satin. Her battle-ready tension was only driven up a notch. And that would not do. "My darling?" he asked questioningly. He reached out to her, pulling her a step back into his arms, sighing with mingled relief and longing at the weight of her there. He'd held her many times thus since she accepted his suit, and he loved the way she instinctively yielded to his embrace, although that telltale tension remained. She all but shook with it. "You're trembling. There's nothing to fear, I promise you," he told her, doing his best to comfort her. Nevertheless, her tension did not leave her. "Please, Elizabeth. Tell me what I can do to put you at your ease?"

Her hands slid over the backs of his at her waist, and she shuddered as he pressed a kiss to her neck. The heat of his body, now bereft of coat or cravat, impinged on her senses, as his body became tangibly harder against hers. "Tell me," he murmured insistently in her ear.

"Fight me!" she gasped out, her heart racing at his touch. From the moment she'd entered the room, it had begun to race but now it sprinted in a most unladylike fashion. His grip went slack, as she twisted around to face him, her gaze insistent upon his. "Spar with me. Now."

His dark eyes searched hers, and a sly look passed over his face. "Do you wish to taste defeat again so soon, madam?" he asked, stepping back and away. His teasing comment surprised a laugh from Elizabeth even as it riled her.

"Defeat, dear husband?" she asked with a raised brow. "I wouldn't discount me from the contest so easily."

"Perhaps this time, we might avoid the usage of any household accoutrements, hm?" Darcy inquired, as if merely discussing a point with Charles during one of their training sessions. "Or unnecessary damage to the furniture?"

"Oh, indeed!" Elizabeth laughed, her eyes afire with the prospect of a fight. "I would so hate to tax your most exalted aunt's generosity a second time."

Darcy had become so engrossed in watching Elizabeth's eyes as they sparkled and shone in the firelight, that he almost missed her lowering herself into her preferred battle stance. He barely had time to note it before she launched herself at him, with all the speed and ferocity of a tigress.

Decades of training and experience snapped into action, however, and he blocked her impulsive jab to his throat with his wrist. She disengaged and struck again, this time slapping the flat of her palm against his midsection. Winded, he was driven back a few steps but recovered and caught her leg as she spun to deliver a kick to his head. He pulled it upwards, landing Elizabeth on her back beside him, panting heavily.

He felt the sharp pain of her foot kicking his own out from under him and went down hard, gasping for breath. She recovered her own wind quickly, jack-knifing to her feet while he pivoted on his knees and spun himself away from her blows. From opposite sides of the room, they eyed the other intently, a kind of steely consideration in his Elizabeth's eyes that sent quite unintended shivers down his spine. His desire was an almost all-consuming entity now, bidding him march across the short divide between them, take her in his arms and end this pointless, torturing contest of wills between them. But no, not yet. She had to make the first move.

He could see the reciprocal desire rising in her eyes, but she seemed determined to play their little game out to the last. She always had delighted in tormenting him, impish minx that she was. With a wicked smile, she lunged for him once more.

He deflected her blows, dropping his guard and surprising her. He took the initiative, using her momentum against her to spin her into his arms, her back to his chest. She stilled, her tension softening just a little, enough that she leaned back into him. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, letting loose a shuddering breath as she brushed against his rapidly hardening body.

Elizabeth could feel the heated length of his well-muscled body against her back, burning through her flimsy robe and gown. Their fight had fired her blood, and her breasts rose and fell raggedly. Impulsively, she tilted her head back and pressed her lips to his, kissing him with all the urgency within her that had begun to build the moment she'd stepped into the room. He moaned against her lips, drinking her in as she gasped against his lips. She released his arm to anchor herself in their suddenly whirling world, spearing her fingers through the feathered hair at the nape of his neck, accidentally raking her nails against the expanse of bare skin above his shirt collar. He growled, need replacing desire, as his heart pounded, evoking the most curious sensation in Elizabeth. A throbbing ache in her lower abdomen, one she'd felt before in his presence but one she'd mistaken for loathing, racing in time with the beat of her heart.

Darcy broke from their kiss, panting heavily. "Tell me, Elizabeth," he gasped. "Tell me what you're feeling." Please tell me my anguish is nearing its end and I can have you…

Elizabeth sensed his need, and it only fed her own. Gone was any fear, any reticence. Her Darcy would never seek to knowingly hurt her, and somehow she doubted something that felt so right, so natural could lead to such pain. With a shudder, she sought to end their game.

Darcy felt her surrender, but was aghast when she elbowed him away, before dropping into an exquisite reverse-ankle sweep that landed him on his back for the second time that night. Instinct had him lashing out with his boot, taking her legs out from under her and pulling her forward atop him. Sprawled against his length, she gazed down at him with shocked, yearning eyes. He immediately rolled to bring her under him, determined to finish it but she used his momentum against him, instantly rolling him back underneath her and pinning his wrists as he'd once done to her.

He gazed up at her, both awed and disgruntled at her triumphant expression, framed by tiny ringlets that had come loose. "I win," she laughed breathlessly, before leaning down and setting her lips to his. He felt her questing tongue against his lips, and readily opened his mouth to hers, feeling her body shift uncertainly atop his. She was unskilled and clumsy but the weight and feel of her heat, burning through her nightgown, was driving him demented.

His gasped "Elizabeth!" coincided with a gentle nip to her full lower lip, making her shudder and rock her hips into his. Her hands released his wrists, and he buried one hand in her hair while the other sought out her flesh.

Her nightgown had ridden up from their position and her movements, and with a shiver of burning pleasure, he felt the softness of her skin for the first time, as he cupped the long, strong muscle of her thigh and drew his hand upwards, his thumb brushing the sensitive inner face. Atop him Elizabeth moaned and arched, her instincts destroying any maidenly hesitation. Her battle-ready tension was gone, replaced by one far finer and more insidious. Darcy knew it well, especially when in his new wife's presence.

He felt her hands on the buttons of his waistcoat, eagerly pulling it apart before yanking aside the fine lawn beneath to spread her hands over hair-dusted muscle, hot and hard. Their mouths were joined, barely taking time to suck in desperately need air before initiating the next kiss, satisfying but never quite enough, as Elizabeth's hips unknowingly mimicked the movement of their lips and rocked into Darcy's. He groaned against her, arching his hips against her as she shuddered and cried out.

Her cry caught him back from becoming lost in his own passion, focussed every one of his considerable warrior's senses on her. The heat from the fire close at hand only intensified the flames writhing beneath their skins, as Darcy found and held Elizabeth's gaze. "My love, do you trust me?" he asked, his voice transmuted to a husky growl. She nodded breathlessly, there was no question of that. He cupped her cheek lovingly, before he drew his hand down her neck, relishing the feel of silken skin over taut muscle. "Then tell me what you're feeling."

"I…ache," she gasped hesitantly, brows furrowed slightly in concentration.

"Show me where," he swallowed hard, wondering if he possessed the strength for what would follow his gentle command. Her gaze met his, before her jaw firmed and she cupped his hand at her neck, drawing it down over the swollen mound of her breast. Her eyes fluttered shut as he gently spread his fingers over the soft flesh, moulding it to his palm and gently caressing, hungrily learning what made her gasp and shudder with pleasure. "Where else does it ache, Elizabeth?" he asked knowingly, his other hand gripping her hip, anchoring her on his body. Wordlessly, she reached up to undo her robe, letting it fall open to frame her body. In the firelight, at such proximity, her nightgown was no barrier to his sight, and he shuddered at the body displayed within. Toned and lithe, his every dream and desire contained within one feminine body. Soft where he was hard, but his equal in every way.

He could see her puckered nipple, warm and needy from his attentions, and noted it for later. For now, however, Elizabeth was drawing his hand down from her breast, down her strong stomach to her abdomen. "Here," she breathed, shyly as if awaiting censure. "I ache here."

She would find no censure from him, just a desire to see and feel her come apart in his arms. To introduce her to a world of pleasure and sensation that their all-too repressive society dictated had no place in the marriage bed. In Japan, there had been similar attitudes to conjugal relations, but there existed places, houses where the arts of pleasure were still practiced and enjoyed. There, Darcy had first learned the truth of a woman's body, and realised he enjoyed their pleasure just as much as his own. Once back in English society, there had been neither time nor desire for a dalliance, and he had channelled his leashed passions into the war. Now, he could show them without fear to a wife he knew was his equal in passion, both in combat and in love.

Without a word, he slid his hand underneath the rucked up hem of her nightgown, finding her damp curls and pleased to find her wet and heated beneath. She inhaled sharply at the first touch of his fingers, gentle and sure, then exhaled with a shudder as she arched. Ruthlessly ignoring his own need, Darcy set about learning his wife's body, blind though he was but guided by her gasps and moans, the way she arched and rocked her hips into his hand, desperate for each new caress, each new sensation he gifted her. As the passion built beneath her skin, she began to use her purchase on the carpet beneath her knees to ride his hand harder, panting with each burst of sensation. Unable to resist, Darcy sat up and wrapped his arm around her, his hand unceasingly attentive between her thighs, as he set his lips to the dewed skin of her exposed décolletage, laving the heated flesh with his tongue. She gripped his hair tightly, rocking her hips ever more needily into his, testing his control. She gasped his name in his ear, as he delved through her slick folds to find her most sensitive place, as she arched into him, her muslin draped breast brushing his hair-dusted chest. He felt the tension in her suddenly coalesce and then melt away, as she cried out in fulfilment, then collapsed bonelessly against him.

In the aftermath, he held her panting form tenderly as she recovered from the exquisite flight of his attentions, her passion still simmering beneath her skin but sated for now. His, on the other hand, was far from it but he could die happy having seen, and felt, Elizabeth's passion for the first time. The wonder of discovery, the joy of relief when she realised he held no censure for her enjoyment of it.

But there was much more to teach her before the night was through.

"I had…no idea…it could be so…" she panted, with a wide grin. He found himself smiling back at her, as he held her tightly.

"There is much more, my love," he breathed, a vow to share it with her if she desired. Her natural curiosity and impetuosity was awakened, and he saw it shining in her eyes, now darker than ever with arousal. So deeply immersed in them was he, he saw the exact moment she realised he was still hard beneath her, his own arousal hard against the curve of her bottom. Determination now joined her natural attributes of curiosity and impetuous bravery, as she leaned down and kissed him deeply.

When she broke away, it was with a devilish, tempting smile. "I want you inside me, my Fitzwilliam," she whispered against his lips. "Now."

He groaned, his control near breaking point, as she shifted away from his lap and stood. He scrambled to his feet as she shed her robe, letting it fall in a sky-hued heap to the floor. Now clothed only in fine muslin, she stepped close, her belly cradling his arousal. He swept her into his arms, kissing as deeply as they wished, their tongues immersed in a heated game of thrust and parry, as he fought for control. Without warning, he lifted her off her feet and into his arms, walking swiftly for the bed. Dangerously overheated and nearly uncontrolled as he had become under her attentions, he still had some veneer of civilisation left. And concern for her. She was too untested to make love to on the floor of their bedchamber, no matter how erotically tempting that prospect might be. That was for the future.

He laid her down on the bed, glad of its cushioning surface, as she lay there surrounded by forest-green satin. She resembled the most beguiling wood-nymph or fairy, and a part of Darcy still wondered if he would awaken tomorrow to find it all a dream and he was still imprisoned in the hell of the Siege of London.

But no. She was here and she was real. Their wedding had been no fever-dream brought on by the explosion at Hingham Bridge, or a desperate fantasy concocted in his darkest hours fighting in London. She was here and she was his wife.

Elizabeth was not content to merely lie there, quiescent and yielding beneath her husband's heated gaze. Her earlier hesitation gone, washed away by her first release, she was emboldened by her husband's guileless, unfeigned responses to her and she felt powerful, capable of bringing such a strong, arrogant warrior to his knees at her feet. She pulled herself up on her knees, ignoring the languid heaviness of her limbs, and reached for his shirt and waistcoat where it hung open. As delicious as her view was, she wanted all of him, bare to her gaze and her touch, now. "Elizabeth…?" he breathed, as she pushed those offending garments down his broad shoulders and down his arms.

"To the victor go the spoils," she whispered teasingly, sensing the iron will holding him in check, and finding herself desirous of that will's weakening. She wanted him as uncontrolled and desperate as he'd made her, only moments before. Before he could move to touch her, she summoned her courage and leaned in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his neck, nuzzling down the taut column, and down his chest. Dark hair on pale skin, led down in a narrow 'v' beneath his waistband, but Elizabeth curtailed her curiosity as to what lay beneath for the pleasure of feeling his husband arch into her kiss as she teased and taunted his hard nipples, piqued by the discovery that she could do to him what he had done to her. She played and teased to her heart's content, as he buried a hand in her hair and struggled to endure.

"Elizabeth…" he growled warningly. "Elizabeth, just wait…"

"No," came the soft reply. "Enough waiting, Fitzwilliam. We've waited long enough for this. I want you."

"Elizabeth, I don't know if I can con-" Darcy began again, trying to make her understand, but she would have none of it.

"I don't you to be controlled," she whispered. "I don't want the gentleman in this bed tonight. I want the warrior."

The warrior that was the match of hers. Wordlessly, she set to inciting him with all of her limited knowledge, tracing one hand down the flickering muscles of his abdomen to the placket of his breeches, unfastening it hastily. She raised her head from his chest when he groaned, her name a gasped plea, as she slid her hand inside and grasped him inexpertly, but firmly. And stroked, as he had done to her. It felt curious, like silk over heated steel, and she found herself curious to see him for herself.

His body was dotted with scars, long slashes and puckered puncture wounds from battles long past. Elizabeth knew her own body was not perfect, her training had left its own scars too, as well as a few small ones sustained from their most recent clash with the Undead at Hingham Bridge. But he made it impossible to feel shy, as he hauled her head up to kiss her fiercely, the iron will of his control growing ever weaker. She twined her arms around his neck, as he rucked up the skirts of her nightgown, then let him break their kiss to remove it entirely, shivering with sensual delight as her bare skin met his. He ran his hands down her back, over the curve of her bottom to press her into him tightly, imprinting her heat with his own, as Elizabeth lost her breath. He tipped her back, splaying her across the bedcovers as he stepped back to wrestle his boots and breeches off. Elizabeth watched him in breathless anticipation, as he turned back to the bed, his face set, driven by desire.

She held out her arms to him, and he came to her, covering her with his body as she arched and gasped. After a hungry, evocative kiss, he reached out to pull a pillow from the pile at the head of the bed, and jam it beneath her hips, raising them slightly. She pulled him back to her for another kiss, nipping at his lip as he'd done to her and relishing the growl it elicited, as he broke from her mouth to press hungry, open-mouthed caresses down her throat and torso, pausing only to take the hardened peak of one breast into his mouth, making her arch and cry out beneath him. He continued his torture, tracing a wet path down her dewed skin, across the taut muscle of her abdomen and pausing while he pressed a kiss to the inner facet of her knee.

"My Elizabeth. So strong, so soft," he gasped, his chest rising and falling as raggedly as hers now. She lay before him, unafraid, uninhibited, her body displayed for him to taste and pleasure at his whim. "I've dreamed of this, of you like this," he confessed, seeing the interest piqued at his admission. "Torturing minx."

"Only matched by yours-!" her tease was cut off abruptly as he lowered his head to her curls, gently pressing a kiss to their moist folds as she arched and bucked, his hands holding her hips to steady her. "Will!"

He found he didn't dislike the truncation of his name as she gasped it in abandon, as he set about preparing her for their joining. She was still wet and sensitive from her earlier release, so he was careful, drowning in the scent and the taste of her desire as she keened above him. He eased a finger inside her, as his tongue slipped easily between her folds. Working to ease the tightness of her muscles, he licked and lapped at her as she writhed beneath his tongue, while he added another finger to her heat. He could feel her shaking, ready to fly apart a second time, as he mentally begged her to do it.

For Elizabeth's part, she was drowning in a heat unlike anything she'd ever experienced. It consumed every fibre of her being, obliterating thought and sense, driving her to the throbbing beat of her own heart, mercilessly pushed to new heights by her husband's loving mouth and hands.

Release came a second time, so much stronger than the first, as Elizabeth felt herself lost in a golden haze of pleasure, her world narrowed down to the sensations of her husband's sinful mouth between her legs, the hard, slender fingers inside her, thrusting gently in preparation for what was to come. She arched, uncaring for how utterly wanton and unladylike she must appear, rejoicing only in the sheer joy, the pleasure of it. Her hand had come to rest, sunk in her husband's hair. She exerted only a little force to pull him to her kiss, desperate to return the pleasure he had so lavished upon her. His hips rocked between her thighs, evoking new flashes of heat and sensation as he slid between her dampened curls. "Fitzwilliam, please," she pleaded, uncaring of her pride now.

With a groan, he kissed her, his body held in torturing suspense as he shifted his hips slightly, and lowered himself into her. Her body gave way readily, welcoming him in to her heat, as hot as a flame. She shuddered and trembled beneath him, the pillow cushioning her from the worst of his invasion, as he slipped inside until he was fully seated within her to the hilt. He raised his head, and met her eyes, wide and blown with arousal and wonder, as she reached up to caress his face lovingly, brushing his sweat-damp hair from his face.

Not dropping her gaze, he gently withdrew and then thrust in once more, relishing the look of surprise and pleasure as she received him. She was lost in the feeling of burgeoning heat and hardness inside of her, filling a void she hadn't been aware of before his arrival in her mundane, dry life. She'd yearned for him from the moment her eyes had met his across the assembly hall at Meryton, but that yearning had looked set never to be fulfilled. Her pride and his prejudice had almost destroyed any chance for them, but now they had won through and were here, united in body, heart and soul. No one, bar death itself, could tear them apart now.

And Elizabeth would fight tooth and nail before she let anyone take her Will from her.

As Darcy withdrew and returned, in an enticing game of thrust and retreat that enthralled Elizabeth's senses anew, she relished in all the sensations of their joining, wherever their bodies met, where her hands clasped his shoulders tightly, where the hair on his chest rasped against the overly sensitive peaks of her breasts, the long, powerful thighs clasped between hers as she learned to ride with him, rocking her hips into the rhythm he created for them, sending shockwaves through her nerves, and eliciting tortured groans from her husband. It seemed she had found yet another avenue with which to tease him in future.

But it was not the loss of control she craved from him, and she could see the will he still exerted on himself. Using her hold on his shoulders, she leaned up and brushed his ear with her lips. "Let go, Will," she breathed. "Just let go, I won't break. Let go and take me as we both desire."

He gazed at her with awed, lust-darkened eyes as they searched her own. Seeing nothing but trust and acceptance there, and a wildness answering his own primal need, he finally let the reins of his control loose, his body too close to the edge to do anything else. His hips snapped into hers with more force, surprising a cry from her as she reached out one hand to grasp the bedpost near her head, pressing back into his thrusts as they became more forceful and possessive. She arched her back, and he devoured her neck as she cried his name, coming apart for the third and final time, and he found himself powerless to resist joining her, as his muscles were wracked by tremors and he thrust one last time inside her, her name long, drawn-out moan on his lips.

The silence was broken only by the sounds of tired gasps and whispered endearments, the crackle of the fire and the gentle rumble of the summer storm outside, and the rustle of bedclothes as the two entangled figures on the bed disentangled themselves, one nestling into the bed as the other left their haven to fetch a cloth to carefully and tenderly wipe away the aftermath of their activities. Once the rag was dispensed with, the other pulled her husband back onto the bed with her and into her arms, as he pulled the coverlet over them both and settled her into his side, ensconced in his arms as deeply as she was in his heart.

Satisfied beyond measure, they slept.

The next morning, Darcy awoke early as was his wont. His wife slumbered on beside him, warm and soft and ever-so enticing a temptation. But she would still be sore from their joining the night before. So he had ruefully discarded any possibilities for awakening her in a most delightful way, to their mutual pleasure, and left her sleeping with a kiss.

He was famished.

As he dressed himself, he noted that he was himself somewhat sore from their sparring beforehand. With a wry smirk, he tugged his greatcoat on, and hoped he would not limp, and so reveal his weakness, too evidently. However, twinges of discomfort made it difficult for him to avoid doing otherwise, as he cautiously made his way downstairs to the dining room. He dearly hoped that Mrs Bennet and the Misses Bennet were still abed.

He was yet in luck. The dining room was ready and awaiting its occupants, but he was the first to arrive. Simpkins awaited him, and poured him tea while he made his selection from the board. As he sat down, he couldn't hold back a wince.

At that moment, Charles ventured into the dining room, with an even more pronounced limp than Darcy's own. He felt amusement rise as he eyed his closest friend, who in turn surveyed Darcy with an entertained glint in his eye. "You too, eh Darcy?" he asked jovially.

Darcy said nothing, just smiled wryly as he started his breakfast. After all, he had a wife to awaken in good time. As did Charles.

Both men reflected in their private reflections, that the Bennet girls looked set to wear them to the bone. And they couldn't have picked more felicitous partners.