“…No, no, I tell you, she was not home…”
Elizabeth’s breath hitched.
“…Fire brigade came right quick—his lordship said she was quite safe.”
“…Off with the Queen’s ladies, I heard. Nothing harmed. Lord Ashwick said it himself.”
Her vision blurred.
Nothing harmed.
Nothing harmed.
She almost laughed. If she had been home, asleep in her own bed, as she was meant to be—
Her hands trembled.
She would have never woken up.
A hand clamped around her wrist, firm and unyielding.
Elizabeth gasped, twisting instinctively, but the grip did not loosen.No, no, no!She could fight them off this time, could kick and scream…
The crowd blurred around her, voices fading into the rush of blood pounding in her ears. Oh,wherewas her father? She swung around, preparing to claw the face of her attacker, but pulled up short at that familiar stern glare.
Darcy.
He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling with controlled effort, his entire frame tense as though restraining something more volatile than anger alone. His grip was strong, but not cruel. His expression—harsh, furious—shifted ever so slightly as he took in the wreckage before them.
For a fleeting second, his gaze lingered on the smoldering remains of her bedroom, tracking the soot-streaked stone, the shattered glass, the beams blackened by flame.
His fingers loosened against her skin.
She felt it—a fraction of hesitation, a flicker of something she had never seen from him before. Not impatience. Not frustration.
Understanding.
His mouth pressed into a narrow thread, his jaw locking tight, but the crack in his composure was already exposed. He saw what she saw. He knew what this meant.
The moment did not last. It was gone as swiftly as it came.
His fingers tightened once more around her wrist, this time with clear intent. “What,” he demanded, voice low and dangerous, “do you think you are doing?”
Elizabeth opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
She had argued against him at every turn. She had dismissed his warnings, refused to believe that she was truly in danger. But now, staring at the wreckage of her home, with soot still clinging to the broken window frame, she could no longer deny the truth.
If she had been here last night—if she had gone home as planned—she would have been dead.
Her throat was too tight to speak.
Darcy’s expression darkened further when she failed to respond, but instead of snapping at her, he exhaled sharply and pulled her toward the waiting carriage.
“Inside,” he said, his voice clipped, brooking no argument.
She dug in her heels, turning sharply. “My father—”
“Is not here,” he bit out, hauling her forward as her skirts tangled against her feet. “And neither should you be.”
