Darcy had never knownsuch terror as the moment when the first shot was fired from Rose Cottage. The sound cracked through the night air, followed by shouts and confusion as the rescue party rushed forward. Just when his heart squeezed to his throat, he caught a flash of white—a pale figure slipping away from the cottage’s rear entrance, fleeing not toward the assembled rescuers but into the darkness beyond.
Even at this distance, even in the uncertain light of the harvest moon, he knew that graceful movement as surely as he knew his own heartbeat.
Elizabeth.
She was alive. She was running. She was free.
“Charles!” he shouted to Bingley, who was directing several officers toward the front door. “Take command. I see her—she’s escaped through the back.”
Without waiting for acknowledgment, Darcy wheeled Maximus around, spurring him toward the fleeing figure. The harvest moon hung low and heavy in the sky, casting the grounds in silvery illumination that transformed the familiar landscape into somethingotherworldly. Elizabeth’s white gown glowed, a beacon drawing him forward.
“Elizabeth!” he called, though the wind likely carried his voice away from her. She did not turn, did not falter in her desperate flight.
His heart pounded painfully against his ribs. Was she injured? Had they harmed her? The thought sent a fresh surge of urgency through him, and he urged Maximus faster, the powerful animal responding instantly to his command.
She was heading toward the lake—toward the gazebo where he had first declared himself. That she would instinctively flee to the place where they had shared their first moment of emotional honesty was both fitting and poignant.
When she reached the gazebo’s steps and swayed dangerously, Darcy could bear the separation no longer. He dismounted Maximus in a single fluid motion, leaving the horse to graze as he covered the remaining distance on foot.
“Elizabeth,” he called softly, not wanting to startle her.
She turned at the sound of his voice, and even in the moonlight, he could see the moment recognition dawned. Her careful composure—the same steel-spined courage that had no doubt saved her life—cracked like ice in spring.
“Fitzwilliam,” she whispered, and the sound of his name on her lips contained such relief, such desperate gladness, that his throat closed with emotion.
She took a step toward him, then another, but her legs buckled as delayed shock claimed her. Darcy surged forward, catching her against his chest as she collapsed, her fingers clutching at his coat.
She weighed almost nothing, her slight form trembling violently. Without thought for propriety or restraint, he gathered her close, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other arm supported her waist.
“I knew you would come,” she said, voice breaking as she pressed her face against his shoulder. “I knew youwould find me. That certainty was the only thing that gave me the courage to keep fighting.”
The simple faith in her words humbled him completely. After all the suspicion and doubt, after the revelations and accusations that had threatened to tear them apart, she still believed he would come for her.
“I have you,” he murmured against her hair. “You’re safe now. I have you.”
He was shaking as badly as she was—fear and relief and love combining in a way that made it difficult to stand. Gently, he carried her to the gazebo.
The small structure stood as it had the morning of their conversation, though now it was bathed in moonlight rather than rain. The memory of that moment—the hesitant declarations, the careful distance maintained between them—belonged to another lifetime entirely.
Once beneath its shelter, Darcy removed his cloak and wrapped it around Elizabeth’s shoulders. Her skin was cold to the touch, whether from the night air or from shock, he could not tell. She leaned into him, seeking warmth and reassurance, and he drew her closer without hesitation.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his eyes scanning her face for signs of injury. “Did they harm you?”
Elizabeth shook her head, though a humorless laugh escaped her. “Only my pride. I allowed myself to be lured away by a fortune teller.” Her voice steadied as she continued, “Martha Wickham confessed to killing my parents. She poisoned their tea with foxglove, then set the fire to conceal the evidence.”
“That’s horrible.” Darcy’s throat closed at the truth—that the Darcys had harbored a snake. “What was her motive? Didn’t they pay her well for your care?”
Elizabeth lifted her head to look at him, and he saw tears streaming down her cheeks despite her brave attempt at composure. “The Bingleys. She didn’t exactly admit it, but she killed my parentson Benjamin Bingley’s orders to protect their smuggling operation, then saved me as insurance for George’s future. They wanted to force me into marriage the moment I turned one-and-twenty.”
“But you escaped,” Darcy said, his hands framing her face with infinite gentleness. “Whatever they planned, whatever they threatened, you fought free of them and escaped.”
“I delayed them,” Elizabeth said with a shaky laugh that held little humor. “I convinced them I needed spiritual preparation. Poor Mr. Collins—they had kidnapped him to perform the ceremony, though he proved steadfast in his refusal. It seems Lady Catherine’s standards for proper marriage ceremonies have their uses after all.”
Despite everything, Darcy found himself smiling at this typical display of her irrepressible spirit. Even now, after all she had endured, Elizabeth remained essentially herself—brave, witty, and indomitable.
“When I realized you were gone,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “when I understood the danger… nothing else mattered. Not inheritance, not scandal, not propriety. Only you.”
She looked up at him then, her dark eyes reflecting the moonlight filtering through the gazebo’s roof. Something in her expression shifted, a vulnerability he had never before witnessed.
