Ahead, the forest opened briefly into a clearing, a pale expanse of grass shimmering softly under the midday light. Johnathan motioned urgently, steering them across the open space. Frances hesitated momentarily, the vulnerability of the exposed ground sending a spike of fear through her. But Johnathan’s confident urging pushed her forward, his determined gaze unwavering.
Suddenly, from the far side of the clearing, shadows emerged rapidly, horses galloping toward them at terrifying speed. Frances’s heart nearly stopped as she recognized Cranford’s men, their faces grim and determined beneath wide-brimmed hats.
“Ride!” Johnathan’s command pierced the stillness, fierce and authoritative.
The chase resumed with even greater intensity, Frances and Johnathan’s horses weaving between tightly clustered trees, hooves slipping slightly on damp, uneven ground. Frances pressed low, branches whipping past her, the sound of pursuit never far behind.
“Stay close!” Johnathan shouted, expertly guiding them toward a steep incline, the terrain becoming increasingly difficult. Their horses scrambled up the slope, stones dislodging beneath their hooves. Frances fought to maintain control, leaning forward instinctively, her eyes watering from the cold wind and fear.
At the crest of the rise, Johnathan paused briefly, glancing backward with narrowed eyes, judging their lead. “They have fallen behind,” he said grimly. “But it will not last.”
Frances drew a shaky breath, the momentary respite allowing the full weight of exhaustion to press against her. She glanced at Johnathan, seeing clearly the fatigue etched into his face.
“We must push on,” he said gently, recognizing her weariness. “Just a little further.”
She straightened, nodded firmly, and urged her mount forward once more.
As they continued, the landscape gradually shifted again, the forest thinning and giving way to rolling fields dotted by grazing sheep, the sun casting a glow across their surroundings. Frances felt a small surge of hope.
Yet, even as hope blossomed, the distant rumble of pursuit returned, determined and relentless. Her heart sank, the brief moment of optimism overshadowed by renewed dread, and a lack of sleep.
“Do not give up,” Johnathan encouraged, sensing her tension. His voice was steady, calm in the face of danger, bolstering her courage.
Ahead, a small stone bridge loomed, crossing a narrow stream. Johnathan spurred forward, Frances close behind. As they reached the crest of the bridge, she dared a glance backward, heart seizing at the sight of Cranford’s men in the distance.
“Neck or nothing!” Johnathan urged fiercely, his voice cracking like a whip through her momentary paralysis.
They thundered across the bridge, hooves clattering against worn stone, and surged into the safety of the other side. The tree line blocking them from view and tight packed gravel masking the horses’ path. Frances felt the change instantly, not physical but profound, the weight of fear loosening ever so slightly.
Johnathan slowed their pace gradually, guiding them toward the shelter of a barn. They halted, breathing heavily, horses trembling beneath them. Frances glanced at Johnathan, relief and exhaustion mingling in her gaze.
“Are we safe now?” she asked softly, voice raw from the ordeal.
Johnathan checked his pistol as he positioned himself near the door. “Not until we are married. But safer,” he conceded cautiously, meeting her eyes with a quiet intensity. “I will keep watch—you are safe enough to dream. Get some sleep.”
