“And you think prison frightens me?” Malcolm hissed. His lips peeled back from his teeth in something like a grin—but there was nothing of humor in it, only madness.
In that instant, Bingley moved.
He rose from behind an old chest, something heavy and dark raised high above his head—a piece of wood, perhaps part of a broken bedframe. Without a word, he stepped forward on silent feet. Darcy held his breath, every muscle locked, praying Elizabeth would remain still.
Bingley brought the improvised club down hard.
The sound was a sickening, solid crack. Malcolm’s eyes went wide, the knife slipping from his grasp. His hold on Elizabeth vanished as his knees buckled, and he crumpled to the ground in a heap, his head striking the floorboards.
Darcy was already moving, catching Elizabeth as she fell forward, his hands firm around her arms. She was trembling, her breath coming in quick, shallowbursts. He tore the gag from her mouth, searching her face for any sign of injury.
“Elizabeth,” he said softly, his voice rough with relief.
Her hands were still bound, and he drew his knife—small but sharp—and cut through the fabric bonds, his fingers brushing her skin. The instant she was free, she clung to him, her forehead pressing briefly to his shoulder.
Behind them, Bingley stood over the unconscious Malcolm, his chest heaving, the broken timber still in his hand.
Darcy tightened his arm around Elizabeth and murmured, “It is over. You are safe now.”
But as his eyes lifted to the shadowed corners of the room, taking in the piles of stolen items, the extinguished candles, and the narrow doorways leading deeper into the old passages, he knew it was not truly over. Not yet.
Darcy kept his arm firmly about Elizabeth as the others closed in.
“Is she hurt?” Mr. Bennet asked sharply, striding forward. His usually mild countenance was sharpened to ablade’s edge, his eyes raking over his daughter with barely contained fury.
“No,” Elizabeth said, her voice unsteady. “Only frightened—and grateful.”
Darcy felt her fingers tighten on his sleeve. She was pale, but her chin was high, her gaze steady now that the immediate danger had passed. He wanted nothing more than to spirit her away from this wretched place and put her somewhere warm and safe.
Bingley crouched beside the prone Malcolm, checking his breathing. “Alive,” he reported, straightening. “He will have a headache that could fell an ox, but he is breathing.”
“Bind him,” Mr. Bennet ordered, his voice brisk, leaving no room for argument. “We cannot have him waking and causing more mischief.”
One of the footmen—summoned in haste when they had entered the servants’ passages—finally appeared and hurried forward with a length of rope. Darcy guided Elizabeth to a seat against the wall, then rose and assisted in rolling Malcolm onto his stomach so the man’s hands could be tied behind his back. His hair fell forward in greasy tangles, hiding his face, but the rise and fall of his shoulders was steady.
Mr. Bennet’s mouth tightened. “I want him watched until Sir William arrives. No one—and Imeanno one—is to be alone with him. He is dangerous, and half-mad besides.”
The footman nodded and dragged Malcolm towards the door, another servant following with a lantern.
Darcy returned to Elizabeth, offering his hand to help her rise. “Let us be out of here,” he murmured.
They left the narrow room and retraced their steps through the twisting servant’s passage. The lantern light played over crumbling plaster, soot-stained beams, and warped floorboards that groaned underfoot. Somewhere behind them, the sound of the rope scraping as Malcolm was hauled along echoed through the confined space.
Elizabeth glanced up at him as they walked, her voice low. “You found me quickly.”
“I would have torn down the entire house brick by brick if I had to,” Darcy said simply, his voice rough with the truth of it.
She did not reply, but her eyes glistened in the lantern light, and she pressed closer to his side as the corridor narrowed.
When they reached the kitchen passage, Mrs. Hill and a cluster of maids stood waiting, their faces pale. Mrs. Hill’s hands fluttered at her apron. “Oh, MissLizzy—thank heavens! We’d feared—”
“I am quite safe,” Elizabeth interrupted gently, though her voice trembled at the edges. “Thanks to Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley.”
“See to her comfort, Mrs. Hill,” Mr. Bennet said from behind them. “And call two footmen to act as guards. I will not have her without protection until this business is concluded.”
Elizabeth hesitated, glancing at Darcy as if reluctant to part from him. He inclined his head towards the stairs. “Go. Rest. I shall see that this man is dealt with.”
When she nodded and allowed herself to be led away, Darcy felt a peculiar emptiness settle in her absence. He turned back to Mr. Bennet, who was already speaking in low tones to Bingley.
