A/N Another fic that I wrote maybe three years ago and it has taken me this long to put it up. Although I love Darcy normally he is not portrayed favourably here. You have been warned. This is 100% Wickham and Amanda. Enjoy.

'They will all pry your fingers from the raft and wait to watch you drown. It is the way of the world. Except me.' ~ Wickham

The Art of Raft Sinking

He was the one who found her. She was curled up in the tightest ball possible, trying to conserve heat against the bitter wind that ripped across the moorland. Even in her unconscious state she shivered.

"Oh Miss Price," he muttered sadly and moved to lift her gently into his arms. Amanda murmured feverishly and turned into his body heat. Wickham held the small figure tight and carefully set off back across the bracken.

She had been drowning. Now he may not be a naval officer but at least he knew how to swim.

"Miss Price, if it were in my power I would sink their raft for you," he told her as he trudged on, "but as it is," he added in a more jovial voice, "I have no such means to do so. So until I do, you will just have to be content with not drowning."

Wickham did not have much on him but that did not stop him procuring a room for the night at the nearest inn he could find. He was grateful that Miss Price had not gone far from the main track before curling up for the night. He was even more grateful for little boys in want of a shiny penny pointing out precisely where she had left said track.

A doctor was procured immediately for Miss Price as soon as Wickham laid her upon a bed, though he was sure there was very little wrong with her for she had not been missing above two days, since Darcy had cast her out. The doctor confirmed it. She had some fever but was merely exhausted, and he prescribed rest.

Wickham spun a fantastic story, pulling important sounding, fabricated names out of thin air, watching the simple folk marvel at his connections and making sure the word sister was mentioned a lavish number of times.

George smiled charmingly and thanked God for the Wickham art of deception.

Amanda woke up with the disorienting sensation that one always gets when waking up in a strange bed. She had felt it many times over the last few weeks; first in Elizabeth's bed, and then in Mrs Collin's house and then Pemberley. This felt much stranger though because she hadn't actually gone to sleep in this bed.

Amanda remembered the walking and the sharp wind and the ache in her feet, and the stifled misery as she kept trudging wearily onwards because it was the only thing she could do. She remembered the prickly grass and the hard ground and the disbelief that she was homeless and destitute. She had £27,000 a year for crying out loud.

At any rate she couldn't remember getting here, wherever 'here' was. There was a vague memory of being carried – she must have been really out of it, probably dying of hypothermia or something – and a voice talking to her…about drowning? It was a familiar voice…she could hear the same tone striking chords in her memory…accompanied by her own exasperated and irked response.

The door to the room clicked open as her memory clicked the image into place.

"Wickham!"

The mischievous grin from the doorway was infuriating.

"Your first thought as you awake Miss Price, how interesting. Did you dream of me?"

"Something like that," she muttered warily, looking him over.

"All inappropriate for polite company I hope?"

She glared at him. "Pity we're not in polite company then isn't it?" she sniped back.

He raised his eyebrows, eyes twinkling. "So you'll tell me your dream then?"

Amanda couldn't help the smile that twitched momentarily on her lips.

"Wickham, where am I?"

He sighed, as if disappointed at the end of their game, and strolled casually up to her bed.

"It's George, not Wickham," he informed her flippantly, "since you must refer to me as the dearest darling brother that I am." He leaned closer to her conspiratorially. "You are in a bad way beloved sister due to a series of circumstances so horrifying that the mere mention of them in your presence could send you into decline."

"Decline? Do I look like I'm in bloody decline?"

"No, which is mores the pity since it is your weakened state of health that is procuring these rather nice rooms momentarily free of charge." He raised his eyebrows at her and she wanted to slap him so hard that they would fall off.

She was also feeling decidedly uncharitable towards him because she had just noticed that he was looking rather delectably gorgeous this morning, while she on the other hand probably had horrendous bed hair and morning breathe. Lovely. Not that she cared of course. Why would she?

"Lord and Lady Belvoclair will be most overjoyed to hear that you have improved," Wickham added with a curve of his lips. "They were most concerned for your well-being."

"I would be too with you as my guardian," she retorted.

"Ah, Miss Price, your acid tongue brings joy to my heart." He put a hand to his chest and folded himself gracefully into the chair by her bed.

Amanda sat up slightly in bed, snatching up the covers close to her chest when Wickham's eyes dropped, and she realised with a horrid jolt that she was wearing some manner of nightgown.

"Where are my clothes?" she exclaimed with a raised voice. "Wickham! If you touched me I will…"

Something flickered in his eyes as his teasing expression dropped for a split second before slipping back into place. Amanda had the strangest sensation that she was being held securely in strong arms before it passed and she was back in bed staring at Wickham's grinning face.

"The landlord's wife helped you into some of her things. You were semi-conscious at the time. Most disappointingly I could not, for the sake of our cover, help."

Oh yes, she could vaguely remember some strange woman's voice.

"You should have said we were married George," she suggested with an ironic air. He feigned despondence.

"Alas Miss Price, were it not for the distinct lack of ring I would have done so in an instant."

She smiled at him with genuine affection, knowing that he could have thought of something if he were determined and not noble deep down.

"Although, I am also distinctly reluctant to saddle myself with even a fictional wife. Those sorts have a habit of coming back to haunt you, not to mention the great difficulty of a man like me having to act the misery and oppression of a married man. I am simply not that good."

All her charitable feelings towards him of a second ago vanished.

"And now dear sister I return downstairs so that you may rest. You are scowling again and I fear that cannot be good for your weakened health." He got to his feet swiftly and strode to the door.

"If I could throw something at you Wickham I would," she told him with a low growl. She was lamenting wearing something that would not permit her to leave the safety of the bed covers.

"I know you would," he replied affectionately and shut the door.

Wickham returned downstairs with that odd sensation sitting on his chest. He wished for a hundred things but doubted a single one of them would come true. So being a man used to hardship and making the best of any situation he strode back into the main inn with a charming smile and challenged the nearest victim to a game of cards.

Amanda too was feeling a little strange, for more reasons than one. Firstly she was recognising those signs of attraction in herself that were absolutely not acceptable for the current situation or target and so was doing her best to keep them subdued. Secondly she was equally trying to subdue the nasty little voice, which sounded an awful lot like Miss Bingley, gloating about how Amanda was poor and penniless and how she had been abandoned by them all, including Mr Darcy. That brought her to number three. If they had all abandoned her then what was Wickham doing here?

"Right bastard at the right time," she muttered to herself but it felt like there was more to it than that. She wished she could pinpoint the memories scattered in that vague darkness of how she got here.

Instead she just fell asleep.

"You recovered remarkably well for someone with such poor health," Wickham remarked dryly, appearing behind her in the mirror two days later.

"There was very little wrong with me," Amanda brushed through her hair and turned to him. "I only stayed in bed yesterday because you told me to and now I've just about had enough of it."

She met his eyes challengingly, determined not to notice how nice he looked this morning, how tight his clothes were and how soft his hair probably was.

"Besides, the longer we stay the worse the bill gets. How are we to pay?"

Wickham tilted his head and eyes her up unabashedly. "Fortunately dearest sister you are in the company of the best bluffer in England. The bill is paid by some other lodger. As the bill for your portmanteau of pretty dresses we have yet to purchase."

"Gambling?" she raised her eyebrows incredulously. "Aren't you supposed to be bad at that?"

Wickham took a step towards her and gently removed the hairbrush from her hand. Amanda's heart sped up as his fingers brushed and then closed over her own. She met his eyes that bored so deep into her it left her momentarily breathless. She released the brush but he did not move away.

"It's the best reputation to have at gambling," he continued regardless, smiling quietly, face close to her own, "because no one expects you to win."

He placed the brush on the table and took a step back.

"Are you ready to go?"

Amanda blinked at him.

"Go where?"

Wickham flourished his hand with a small bow. "And for my next trick I get us received as house guests with a very good friend of mine." He raised his head from the bow, eyes twinkling. "I haven't just sat around playing cards all day Miss Price." He straightened and offered his arm. "Our carriage awaits."