He frowned. Damn her sharp eyes. “I have had worse.”
She crossed her arms. “We are both exhausted. We can share the bed without incident. We are adults.”
Johnathan arched a brow. “Have you not heard the rumors?”
She laughed, soft and unguarded. It stirred something deep in his chest, something he had long buried beneath whisky, women, and the defiant swagger of a wayward duke.
They settled under the covers with a cautious space between them. The silence stretched again, but this time it was not as brittle. It held something warmer—tentative, uncertain.
“Johnathan,” she said.
He turned his head. “Yes?”
“Why did you leave that summer? The one after my brother died.”
The question landed like a blow to the gut, knocking the breath from his lungs.
He exhaled slowly. “Because I was grieving, too. And because I was a coward.”
She did not reply right away. Her fingers twisted in the blanket, and her gaze drifted to the flickering hearth as if searching for courage in the embers. Then, very softly, her voice barely above a breath, she whispered, “I missed you.”
He turned toward her, his voice quiet. “I missed you, too. Every damn day.”
Outside, wind whispered against the panes. Inside, warmth settled between them—not passion, but something like trust, carefully rebuilt.
Johnathan closed his eyes, listening to the quiet rhythm of her breathing beside him, and in that moment, he let himself believe that redemption might not be out of reach.
Frances awoke to the soft crackling of embers and the distant cry of a bird greeting the morning. For a moment, disoriented and warm beneath the coarse wool blanket, she forgot where she was. But the ache in her limbs returned quickly, a cruel reminder of the miles behind them and the uncertainty ahead.
Johnathan had already risen.
He stood near the window, shirt sleeves rolled up, shoulders tense as he peered through the warped glass at the empty lane below. The rising light caught in his hair, casting it in hues of gold and chestnut. For a man who claimed to be a rogue with no conscience, he carried himself like a soldier guarding a citadel. Always alert. Always bearing the weight of something unsaid.
Frances pushed herself upright, drawing the blanket closer. “Did you sleep at all?”
“Not much.” He nodded toward a small table where a valise sat. “I spoke with the innkeeper’s wife. She fetched what she could from the local seamstress. Not much. A brush, stockings… a riding habit.”
She rose and crossed the room quietly. Outside, the mist was lifting, the wet earth steaming in the pale sun. Somewhere beyond the edge of the village, a horse whinnied.
“They will follow the northern road,” he said. “We need to move east. Take the back roads toward Penrith.”
She nodded, then paused. “You sound as though you have done this before.”
His mouth curled, not quite a smile. “Running from my mistakes? Yes.”
Frances looked at him, long and searching. “You do not have to protect me alone, Johnathan. I am capable of looking out for myself, too.”
That made him turn. His gaze locked on hers, unreadable for a moment, then softened. “But I want to.”
Frances lowered her gaze. “Then let me protect you too.”
He did not answer, but something shifted between them. A breath closer.
Downstairs, the innkeeper’s wife offered a plate of eggs and fresh bread, which they ate quickly, grateful for the nourishment. Frances tried not to linger on the tremble in her fingers as she lifted her cup. She had to be strong. For both of them.
After breaking their fast, they went to the stables. The horses were rested, fed, and saddled by the stable boy. Johnathan helped her mount, his hand lingering for the barest second at her waist.
The road ahead forked eastward through narrow woods, damp from the storm. A hawk circled overhead, its cry piercing the quiet.
