The window shattered in a volcano of breaking glass. Splinters and shards sprayed across the floor like a hail of razors. She gasped, too stunned to scream, as a second blast followed, closer this time—louder. Her heart stopped.
Darcy grunted—no, choked—and jerked violently in his chair.
His body collapsed sideways, slamming to the floorboards with a sickening thud. For one frozen second, he lay still.
And then the blood came.
It spread quickly across the white of his sleeve, soaking the fabric in a deep, vicious red.
“Fitzw—!” The rest of his name caught in her throat, lost to the terror clawing its way up her chest.
She flung the blanket aside and bolted from the cot. Her bare feet hit the floor hard—then hissed in pain as they struck something sharp. Shattered glass. She stumbled, barely catching herself as she skidded through the debris, the skin of her soles slicing open, warm blood meeting cold splinters.
She did not feel it.
Not truly. Not yet.
Her only thought washim.
She dropped to her knees beside him, heedless of the glass cutting into her skin, of the warm stickiness already streaking her legs. Her palms flew to his chest—searching, frantic—then to his throat, trembling fingers pressing into skin she could barely feel over the roar in her ears.
He was so still.
His eyes—closed. His jaw slack.
“Fitz—Fitzwilliam—please—”
Blood soaked through her fingers, seeping from the torn white of his sleeve. It felt endless. Hot. Terrifying.
She let out a strangled sob and bent low over him, her forehead brushing his cheek.
“Please,” she whispered again. “Please do not leave me!”
Another shot rang out, and a splinter of wood burst from the hearth above them.
She ducked instinctively, heart hammering against her ribs. There was no time. No time to think. Only survive.
“Darcy!” Her voice was a desperate whisper, her hands trembling as they hovered over his inert form. Another shot rang out, cracking the doorframe inches from her head. Panic surged, but she forced it down.Think, Elizabeth. Think.
Her gaze darted around the room, wild and searching. The shattered window gaped open, and more shots echoed—some careening off the stonework of the house outside, others ringing through the shattered window with sharp cracks that sent fresh glass raining down from the frame. She flinched instinctively as a bullet tore through the edge of the cot behind her.
The floorboards.
She remembered—there, to the left of the hearth, the two boards Darcy had told her were loose. An empty space below to hide. Shallow, but maybe enough for both of them—if she could get to it.
Another shot slammed into the wall, then flew across the room as it bounced against the stone. Elizabeth dropped low, throwing herself across Darcy’s body. Could she move him? His weight was ungainly, and dead weight at that—though she refused to think of it as such.
Not dead. He is not dead.
“Please—please forgive me,” she whispered, her voice cracking as she hooked her arms under his and began to drag. How many glass shards was she raking across his flesh? Her back burned. Her palms slipped against his blood-slick shirt. Her wounded feet left streaks behind her on the floor. But she moved him—inch by agonizing inch—toward the place where the boards were.
A bullet tore through the wood of the windowframe. Another buried itself in the mattress.
She gritted her teeth and reached for the floorboards. The gap was just wide enough for her fingertips. She clawed at them, shoved, wedged the toe of her foot beneath one and wrenched it up. The wood came loose with a groan. She caught it before it could fall with a clatter, her breath ragged. One board free. Then another. She laid them carefully beside her, ready to replace.
The crawlspace gaped below—narrow, shallow, nothing more than packed dirt and cobwebs—but it would have to do.
There was no time to think.
