She held tightened her grip on the weapon, twisting it away from her body, her heart thundering in her chest. Wickham was stronger, taller, but desperation lent her strength. They stumbled, elbowed, swayed—and then—
A deafening crack split the air.
There was a deafening explosion—a burst of smoke and heat—as the gun fired.
The sound rang through the room like a thunderclap.
Elizabeth flinched, ears ringing. For one stunned moment, she could not breathe. Then she realized the shot had gone wide—into the ceiling. Dust rained down in its wake, and Wickham let out a strangled gasp.
“You—foolish—” he growled, pressing her hard against the wall. His hand found her shoulder, shoved her back, and something tore—her sleeve? Her gown? She did not know. She could feel the cold of the barrel against her cheek.
“Do not,” he growled, “make me do this.”
Her lungs seized.
Her limbs locked.
This was the end.
She closed her eyes.
Darcy, forgive me—
A thunderous pounding at the door made them both flinch.
“Elizabeth!”
Darcy.
Wickham turned instinctively toward the voice.
She moved.
With every ounce of strength, she lashed out with her leg. She meant to injure his shin, but her foot struck higher—brutally higher.
He screamed and crumpled forward, clutching himself. The pistol slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor.
Without hesitation, she kicked it—hard. It skittered across the carpet and under a low table, out of sight.
Wickham was groaning, rocking back and forth in rage and pain.
Her eyes darted to the hearth. Her hands moved before her mind could catch up.
She grabbed the iron poker from its cradle.
He looked up.
And she swung.
The heavy metal struck his face with a sickening thud, sending him sprawling to the floor, blood already welling from a split across his cheek.
The door burst open behind her. “Elizabeth!”
She sagged, her knees buckling beneath her as Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam surged into the room.
∞∞∞
Darcy gaped in astonishment at the scene before him.
