Page 28 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

H e had fled the room.

Not in haste. Not in disgrace. But in that deliberate, careful manner he used whenever he was afraid he might do something reckless.

She had not moved from the chair by the window since.

The fire was low. The shutters still drawn, though she peeked through them every few minutes. And somewhere beyond the walls of this stone-wrapped sanctuary, Darcy was pacing the cold earth, trying to forget how it felt to touch her.

She curled her knees beneath her, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders, though she was not cold.

Half in love with her before they had even spoken.

Darcy’s confession echoed again and again in her mind, recalling every stolen glance, every silent hesitation, every moment of misjudged reserve he had offered her since they met.

He had known her name long before she learned his. Had watched her dance, smile, tease some simpering peer in a golden ballroom, and had thought her beyond reach. And then, somehow, she had landed—quite literally—in his care. Bruised and hunted and more herself than she had ever been in satin and jewels.

She closed her eyes and sighed.

She should have been furious. He had let her believe he found her bothersome, a burden he would rather do without. Had spoken to her with ice in his tone and steel in his posture. But now, looking back, she could see the cracks in that armor, for they had been there from the start. Every flinch. Every hard-won word.

He had wanted her. Even then. Perhaps most especially then.

And now… now he was out there breathing cold air because he did not trust himself to breathe near her.

She rose slowly, smoothing the blanket and folding it with meticulous care, though her hands trembled just a little. She found the bucket and rinsed off the tin plates they had used earlier. Put the room to rights and then, when that was done, she went about tidying even what had not been disturbed.

And still he did not return.

When the door finally creaked open, she turned without haste.

Darcy stood in the frame, a satchel over his shoulder, a pail of water clutched in one hand. He did not speak. Merely entered, eyes down, jaw set. She watched him set things down with the same exaggerated calm he always used when he was trying not to feel.

“You were gone a long while. I was starting to worry you had been discovered.”

“I apologize.” He set the satchel down first, then the pail, careful not to spill. “The well is farther than I recalled. Selwyn left a note tucked in the door. There was another parcel out back—more provisions.”

He did not look at her as he said it, only crouched by the hearth and began building the fire from the embers he had banked before. His hands were practiced and efficient, striking flint, nursing the flame, shielding it from the draught.

Elizabeth crouched beside the satchel and began pulling out what he had brought: more smoked sausage, dried apples, a larger round of hard cheese, a cloth-wrapped loaf of oat bread. Far more than she expected.

“I suppose we can breathe easier. At least we will not starve.”

“No,” he said, glancing at her. “Selwyn is cautious. He always prepares for three times what is needed.”

She retrieved the little pen knife and began to slice the bread. Not because she was hungry, but because her hands needed something to do. It felt strangely like being in a play—her cutting food, him coaxing flame to life like a couple acting out a well-rehearsed routine. A play about a couple who knew each other inside and out, who did not require words to understand their parts.

The thought made her throat close. Because if there was one man she could ever imagine herself living the simple life with… building a home with, rather than just commanding the one given to her…

It was this man.

As the water warmed, he fetched two cracked mugs and poured what little tea they had left into one. He passed it to her without comment, and she accepted it without thanks, both of them too aware, now, of all that remained unsaid.

When the fire had caught, and the water simmered, he straightened.

“I will go back out. Surely you would like a chance to refresh yourself now that the water is hot.” And then he left, closing the door behind him.

T he night was thick with silence—the kind that hummed in the ears and made even the settling of timbers sound like thunder. Elizabeth lay stiff on the narrow cot, her arms folded across her stomach, staring up at the uneven ceiling.

Her mind refused to still. Darcy’s voice still echoed in her memory, low and rough with all he had tried to bury. She could not stop thinking of the way he had looked at her… the way he had held her, kissed her as if she were his only link to life… and then left the room in a rush because staying another moment might break him.

He now sat near the window, angled just enough away that she could not read his face. His outline was sharp against the soft gray spill of moonlight—broad shoulders drawn tight beneath his coat, one hand resting lightly on the table beside him. The other was close to the pistol he had placed within easy reach.

He had not spoken since his last return. Not a word. Not a glance. Perhaps because he would have had to see her hair drying or see her soiled dress laid out to be scrubbed.

Elizabeth turned her head slightly, watching him through the flickering light of the embers. He looked composed. Almost peaceful. But she saw the way his jaw flexed now and then. The way one boot tapped softly against the floor. He was trying to be still. Trying to seem distant. But she knew better.

That was no peace at all.

Elizabeth curled onto her side, the threadbare blanket drawn up to her chin, listening to the slow crackle of the fire dying in the grate. Its flickering warmth did little to chase the cold that had seeped into her bones—not from the night air, but from everything that had passed between them. The silence between her and Darcy was not hostile. It was reverent. Fragile. Weighted with too much.

She blinked slowly, trying to will her body into rest.

And then—

A crack like cannon fire tore through the room.

The window shattered in a volcano of breaking glass. Splinters and shards sprayed across the floor like a hail of razors. She gasped, too stunned to scream, as a second blast followed, closer this time—louder. Her heart stopped.

Darcy grunted—no, choked—and jerked violently in his chair.

His body collapsed sideways, slamming to the floorboards with a sickening thud. For one frozen second, he lay still.

And then the blood came.

It spread quickly across the white of his sleeve, soaking the fabric in a deep, vicious red.

“Fitzw—!” The rest of his name caught in her throat, lost to the terror clawing its way up her chest.

She flung the blanket aside and bolted from the cot. Her bare feet hit the floor hard—then hissed in pain as they struck something sharp. Shattered glass. She stumbled, barely catching herself as she skidded through the debris, the skin of her soles slicing open, warm blood meeting cold splinters.

She did not feel it.

Not truly. Not yet.

Her only thought was him .

She dropped to her knees beside him, heedless of the glass cutting into her skin, of the warm stickiness already streaking her legs. Her palms flew to his chest—searching, frantic—then to his throat, trembling fingers pressing into skin she could barely feel over the roar in her ears.

He was so still.

His eyes—closed. His jaw slack.

“Fitz—Fitzwilliam—please—”

Blood soaked through her fingers, seeping from the torn white of his sleeve. It felt endless. Hot. Terrifying.

She let out a strangled sob and bent low over him, her forehead brushing his cheek.

“Please,” she whispered again. “Please do not leave me!”

Another shot rang out, and a splinter of wood burst from the hearth above them.

She ducked instinctively, heart hammering against her ribs. There was no time. No time to think. Only survive.

“Darcy!” Her voice was a desperate whisper, her hands trembling as they hovered over his inert form. Another shot rang out, cracking the doorframe inches from her head. Panic surged, but she forced it down. Think, Elizabeth. Think.

Her gaze darted around the room, wild and searching. The shattered window gaped open, and more shots echoed—some careening off the stonework of the house outside, others ringing through the shattered window with sharp cracks that sent fresh glass raining down from the frame. She flinched instinctively as a bullet tore through the edge of the cot behind her.

The floorboards.

She remembered—there, to the left of the hearth, the two boards Darcy had told her were loose. An empty space below to hide. Shallow, but maybe enough for both of them—if she could get to it.

Another shot slammed into the wall, then flew across the room as it bounced against the stone. Elizabeth dropped low, throwing herself across Darcy’s body. Could she move him? His weight was ungainly, and dead weight at that—though she refused to think of it as such.

Not dead. He is not dead.

“Please—please forgive me,” she whispered, her voice cracking as she hooked her arms under his and began to drag. How many glass shards was she raking across his flesh? Her back burned. Her palms slipped against his blood-slick shirt. Her wounded feet left streaks behind her on the floor. But she moved him—inch by agonizing inch—toward the place where the boards were.

A bullet tore through the wood of the windowframe. Another buried itself in the mattress.

She gritted her teeth and reached for the floorboards. The gap was just wide enough for her fingertips. She clawed at them, shoved, wedged the toe of her foot beneath one and wrenched it up. The wood came loose with a groan. She caught it before it could fall with a clatter, her breath ragged. One board free. Then another. She laid them carefully beside her, ready to replace.

The crawlspace gaped below—narrow, shallow, nothing more than packed dirt and cobwebs—but it would have to do.

There was no time to think.

She rolled Darcy onto his side, gritting out a sob as his head lolled against her shoulder. “I am so sorry,” she whispered, bracing herself. Her only idea—the only way to get them both inside without further hurting him—was terrible.

And it was all she had.

She laid her body atop his, curling herself around him, her arms cradling his head as best she could. Then, with one desperate motion, she rolled them both sideways—over the edge, down into the dark.

They landed hard. Great mercy, but he was heavy!

The air rushed out of her lungs. His weight pressed her flat into the cold earth, the jolt making her cry out softly. But he was in. They were in.

Her arm trembled as she reached up, feeling blindly for the planks she had left within reach. She groped until her fingers found the edge and pulled, dragging one board across. Then the next. Another gunshot cracked above, and a splinter tore from a rafter overhead. Dust and fragments fell onto her hair as she eased the final board into place.

Darkness sealed them in.

Total. Breathless. Terrifying.

Elizabeth lay there, arms wrapped around him, the side of her face pressed to his chest.

She waited.

Waited.

And then—yes. There . A faint thump beneath her ear. A heartbeat.

Still alive. Still hers.

Or was that only the thunderclap of her own pulse drumming in her ears?

Elizabeth froze beneath the floorboards, her body pressed against the cold, damp earth, cradling Darcy’s inert form. The confined space was suffocating, the air thick with the scent of soil and her own fear. Above them, the cabin bore the brutal assault of their assailants.

The relentless barrage of gunfire continued, each lead ball tearing through the cabin’s thin wooden walls with a sickening thud. Splinters rained down, and the stone hearth above them shuddered under the onslaught. Elizabeth flinched at every impact, her heart pounding so fiercely she feared it would betray their hiding place. She tightened her hold on Darcy, feeling the faint rise and fall of his chest against her own. The warmth of his blood seeped through her clothing.

Then, abruptly, the gunfire ceased.

The silence struck like a hammer. Not peace—no, never that—but something worse. Expectation. Elizabeth froze, blood galloping in her ears, listening to the world hold its breath.

They had stopped shooting. Not because they had fled or were satisfied. Because they were coming.

The thought slithered in before she could shove it away. Of course they would come now. To look. To finish. Her fingers dug into Darcy’s coat, sticky with blood, and her mind scrambled for a new plan— any plan—but there was nowhere else to run.

And then she realized… The trail. The blood. Her own frantic crawl across the floor, slicing her feet to ribbons on the glass and dragging Darcy’s bloodied body across it.

It was all there, pointing like an arrow. She had bought them minutes. Not safety. Minutes.

A shiver coursed through her as she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching the cabin. The door was kicked open with a force that rattled the walls, and heavy boots stomped inside. Through the narrow gaps between the floorboards, faint beams of lantern light pierced the darkness, casting eerie patterns on the ground beside her. She held her breath, every muscle taut with dread.

Voices, rough and laden with anger, exchanged terse words. “Where are they? They couldn’t have gone far.”

“The back window’s shattered. Maybe they escaped that way.”

A pause. Then another voice, sharper, more observant. “Wait. Look here—blood. Fresh. Leads this way.”

Elizabeth’s stomach clenched. They had found the trail. She felt nauseated with terror as she pressed closer to Darcy, her body the only shield she could offer for his. She willed herself to disappear, to become one with the earth. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them away, focusing solely on the faint rhythm of Darcy’s heartbeat beneath her.

The intruders moved methodically, their boots thudding ominously above. Furniture was overturned, belongings rifled through. Each sound was a dagger to her fraying nerves. Then, the dreaded moment arrived.

The footsteps halted directly above them.

A guttural curse.

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.

Darcy was alive.

And still—nothing in her body would stop shaking.