The floorboards above her shifted.
Light flooded in as the boards were yanked away, blinding her momentarily. Elizabeth instinctively positioned herself over Darcy, her eyes squinting against the harsh glow. As her vision adjusted, she found herself staring up into the cold, merciless eyes of a man whose face was twisted into a morbid grin. He leveled a pistol at her—Darcy’s pistol, the one that he had meant for her protection. Now it would be her death.
“Well, well,” he drawled, his voice dripping with cruel amusement. “The little lady has some fight in her.”
Panic screamed in her ears, drowning out rational thought. The man loomed above her, his sneer a grotesque mask in the dim light. She could think of nothing else—it was sheer instinct when she surged upward, seizing the barrel of his pistol with both hands. The metal was cold and unyielding beneath her fingers. With a desperate wrench, she shoved it aside just as it discharged, the deafening blast ringing in her ears. The acrid scent of gunpowder filled the air as the shot embedded harmlessly into the wall.
Capitalizing on his momentary surprise, Elizabeth lashed out, her fingernails raking across his unshaven cheek. He bellowed in pain, recoiling as blood welled from the fresh wounds. The feral satisfaction was short-lived; another assailant lunged at her from the shadows. She twisted away, narrowly avoiding his grasp, and kicked out, her foot connecting with his shin. He grunted, stumbling back.
The confined space erupted into chaos. They had no more loaded pistols, but they had their fists and their strength. Elizabeth fought with the desperation of the damned, her movements wild and unrefined. She clawed, kicked, and bit, her survival instincts overriding any semblance of decorum.
But the men were hardened and far stronger. One managed to snare her wrist, twisting it cruelly behind her back. She cried out as pain lanced up her arm. Another grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back to expose her throat.
“Feisty little wench,” the first man growled, his breath hot and rancid against her ear. “You’ll pay for that.”
Elizabeth struggled, but their combined strength was overwhelming. The man she had scratched pressed a calloused hand against his bleeding cheek, his eyes narrowing with fury. He reached into his coat and produced a gleaming knife, the blade catching the dim light. Her heart seized as she recognized him—Maddox. The man who had stared up at her from her own sketch and haunted her nightmares.
“Remember me, My Lady?” He advanced toward her. “Yes, I can see that you do, and that is rather a problem. Time to finish what we started.”
Terror coiled in her stomach, but she lifted her chin, refusing to let him see her fear. “Go hang yourself,” she spat.
Maddox’s eyes darkened. He raised the knife, the blade poised to strike. Elizabeth braced herself, every muscle tensed for the inevitable.
That was when the door exploded inward.
Not with ceremony or clarity—but with the raw, splintering force of men who had run too far, too fast, too long to wait another second. Boots thundered across the threshold, voices barked orders she could not understand, and light from a dozen lanterns struck her eyes like musket fire.
For a moment, Elizabeth could not breathe.
Colonel Fitzwilliam stood in the center of it all—weapon raised, eyes like stone.
“Stand down!” he growled, the sound so low and lethal that the world seemed to halt.
Maddox turned just slightly. That was all. But it was enough. A rifle cracked. One of Fitzwilliam’s men charged. The chaos moved away from her.
And Elizabeth ran.
She did not remember standing. She did not remember crossing the room. But suddenly she was at Colonel Fitzwilliam’s side, her fingers twisted in his sleeve.
“Darcy,” she rasped. “They shot him. Please—he is under the floor—”
He caught her by the shoulders, steadying her. “Darcy is where? What the devil?”
His gaze dropped, following the blood trail she had feared, and a flicker of rage passed across his face. “Secure the room,” he barked to his men. Then to her, more gently, he urged, “Show me.”
She tugged him toward the gaping hole in the floor. Her throat would not work.
Two soldiers moved to loosen more boards, prying them back with haste to make a larger hole. Fitzwilliam knelt beside the opening before they had even cleared the way, his pistol discarded, his hands already reaching.
Elizabeth hovered, her whole body vibrating with held breath. And when Fitzwilliam reached inside—when he grunted under Darcy’s weight and pulled him up like a broken doll from the earth—it was too much. She sank to the floor where she stood, knees hitting hard, hands trembling in her lap.
“Is he—?” Her voice cracked. “Please. Tell me he’s—”
Fitzwilliam pressed two fingers to Darcy’s throat. His jaw clenched. Then—after one long, unbearable moment—he nodded.
“He’s alive.”
She sagged, caught up from the floor only because a quick-thinking soldier was standing near at hand.
