CHAPTER5
The rain had stopped an hour ago, leaving the narrow dirt road ahead slick with mud and the sharp scent of wet earth clinging to the air. Johnathan guided his horse with a grim determination, sparing only fleeting glances behind them as they departed the barn. The moon’s glow had not yet ceased to daybreak, and though the storm had passed, the tension in his chest had not.
Beside him, Frances rode quietly, her posture too rigid, her eyes fixed on the winding road ahead. She had not spoken since they’d resumed their journey, and he had not pressed her. Not yet. Not while they were still too close to danger, too exposed.
Johnathan’s grip on the reins tightened.
What the devil had he been thinking?
Whisking her out of the church had felt righteous in the moment—damn satisfying, even—but now, with mud spattering their clothing and danger stalking their heels, the consequences loomed large. He had crossed a line. A bold one. And he had brought her with him.
She had let him.
That alone twisted something in his chest.
He cast another glance her way. She was paler than normal. Paler than she had been even the night she had turned up on his doorstep, cloaked in desperation. A shadow of weariness clung to her expression, but still her spine held firm. Stubborn, proud. Frances Rowley had always been made of stronger stuff than most ladies.
A memory surfaced—her at fifteen, flushed with victory after besting him in an impromptu fencing match behind her family’s stables. She had cheated, of course. Distracted him with some scandalous tale and jabbed him clean in the ribs. He had laughed until he could not breathe. She had grinned like the devil.
But that girl was long gone, replaced by the woman now at his side, fleeing a life she had never chosen.
And he had not been there for her.
He clenched his jaw and looked away.
They reached a crossroads near midday, the moorland stretching ahead, broken only by the silhouette of a weathered inn nestled in a cluster of trees. The sign creaked in the breeze. The Crooked Stag. It looked half-abandoned, but they needed rest.
Johnathan dismounted and crossed to her side. “We will stop here,” he said, reaching for her reins. “The horses need rest. And so do we.”
Frances hesitated, then nodded once. He caught the flicker of hesitation in her eyes, the way she gripped the saddle before slipping down, her boots hitting the earth with a soft thud. She winced—just barely—and he moved to steady her, but she stepped away before he could offer support.
He let her have the distance, but his gaze did not waver. What the devil was wrong with her?
Inside, the inn was dim and smelled of damp wood and stale beer. A tired innkeeper offered no more than a grunt as Johnathan requested a room and food for two. He paid in coin without haggling. Privacy mattered more than frugality.
Their room upstairs was modest, but clean. A fire crackled weakly in the hearth, and the bed—small—sat beneath a narrow window overlooking the road.
Frances walked to the window, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her jaw set. She had not removed her gloves or cloak. She had not looked at him since they entered. She had scarcely spoken all day.
But now, the silence between them shouted louder than hoofbeats ever could.
Johnathan shed his wet greatcoat, draping it over a chair. He turned to her. “We need to talk.”
She did not flinch, but her voice was cool. “Indeed.”
He waited, giving her space to speak. But she said nothing. Just stood there, staring out the window as though expecting Cranford or his men to burst from the trees at any moment.
When the silence stretched too long, he took a step forward. “I know you are angry, though I cannot imagine why.”
Her head snapped around. “Do you? Because I am not sure you are capable of understanding what you have done.”
“I stopped your wedding,” he said flatly. “Which, unless my memory is faulty, is what you wanted.”
She walked past him then, pacing the edge of the room, each step sharp with restrained fury. “What I wanted was help. Freedom. Not a spectacle. Not for another man to tell me what to do and when. You speak of Gretna Green, but have yet to ask what I want. You ruined me the moment you entered that church and gave me no warning.”
“You would rather be Lady Cranford?”
She turned, fire igniting in her expression. “I would rather not be ordered about, Johnathan! You gave me no warning, no chance to choose how it happened. You decided—again—without me. You have made every decision.”
