He took a breath, reining in his temper. “Because there was no time. Because you would have gone through with it out of duty or despair. And I?—”
He cut himself off, turning away from her, fists clenched.
Say it, you bloody coward.
But the words stuck.
He heard her exhale sharply. “You do not get to make decisions for me anymore.”
Johnathan turned back slowly. “I did not come to that church for the spectacle. I came because the thought of you walking down that aisle—of him touching you, owning you—it made me want to tear the whole place apart.”
Her lips parted slightly, breath caught. A flicker of something passed through her expression—surprise, vulnerability.
“That does not mean I think you belong to me,” he added more quietly. “But I will be damned if you will belong to him.”
Frances blinked once, then turned away, moving to warm her hands by the fire.
Johnathan let the silence sit between them for a moment. He dropped into the chair by the hearth, then leaned forward, elbows on knees.
“I know you do not trust me,” he said, watching the flames. “Not anymore. Maybe not ever again. But I swear to you, Frances, I will not force your hand. Not now. Not ever.”
She did not respond immediately. Then, slowly, she pulled off her gloves and sat on the edge of the bed.
“I do not want to go back,” she said softly.
“You will not.”
She looked up, and their eyes met.
“And if we reach Gretna Green?”
Johnathan drew a breath. “Then we marry. But only if you want it.”
She sighed.
“I am not sure what I want,” she murmured.
“I know.”
A hush settled over the room, the fire popping in the hearth. Then, without looking at him, Frances added, “You snore.”
A reluctant chuckle escaped his lips. “Only when I am content.”
“Thank you for saving me.” She smiled faintly. And the tension between them began to thaw. “I do not mean to be a trial.”
They ate what the innkeeper brought them—a poor meal of boiled potatoes and stew that tasted mostly of salt—but they were too hungry to care. Frances said little, and Johnathan did not press her, though his gaze often lingered on her face, noting the shadows under her eyes, the fatigue she tried so hard to hide.
When the sun slipped beneath the trees and the room dimmed to dusk, he rose and threw another log on the fire. The warmth spread slowly, coaxing a measure of comfort from the chilled room.
Frances stood slowly and unpinned her cloak, folding it neatly and laying it over the back of a chair. She still wore her wedding dress, wrinkled and dirty, yet still elegant. Her hair had come mostly undone in the wind and rain, and loose tendrils curled around her cheekbones.
Johnathan cleared his throat. “I will sleep on the floor.”
Frances looked at him. “Do not be ridiculous. It is freezing, and you are injured.”
“I am fine.”
“You are limping.”
