They made their way back to the main path, sticking to the edges of the trees. After an hour of slow, cautious travel, they stumbled upon a weather-beaten shepherd’s hut nestled in a low glen, half-hidden by brambles.
Johnathan pushed the door open cautiously.
It creaked, but the place was empty. Inside, a pile of firewood sat near a stone hearth, and a few broken chairs leaned drunkenly near a table. Dust coated everything, but it would do.
Frances exhaled slowly. “It is not the Clarendon, but it is shelter.”
Johnathan grinned. “A glowing review.”
She shrugged, wincing slightly. “I am in no state to be choosy.”
He went to work building a fire, and soon, warmth crept into the cabin.
Frances settled onto a blanket near the hearth, her back against the wall. The flickering flames lit her face in a soft amber glow, casting dancing shadows beneath her eyes. Her damp curls clung to her neck, and she looked… vulnerable. But not broken.
Johnathan sat beside her, close but not touching.
“You have indeed done this before,” she said, watching him stir the fire.
“Fled into the wilderness from well-dressed assassins? Once or twice.”
A ghost of a smile curved her lips. “You make light of it.”
He grinned. “Better that than fret over what I cannot control.”
She studied him. “And yet, you came for me.” Her voice was low, probing. “Because control was always someone else’s to wield?”
The question caught him off guard. He leaned back, his expression shifting from teasing to thoughtful. “Partly. My father controlled everything—how I spoke, how I stood, how I breathed. When he died, I could finally choose who to be. So I became someone no one could command.”
“And yet,” she said slowly, “you came for me. Risked everything.”
“I did not think. I just—knew I could not let you go through with it.”
Frances looked down at her hands resting in her lap. “It is strange. I spent so long planning how to escape Cranford. I had ideas, schemes. But not once did I imagine it would be you at the altar.”
“I am flattered.”
“You should be ashamed.”
“I am,” he said, and meant it.
A hush wrapped around them, intimate and heavy.
Then she asked, “What happens when we reach Gretna?”
“You already know the answer.”
“I want to hear it from you. I need to know it is what you want.”
He met her gaze. “We marry. But not because you must. Because you choose it.”
Frances inhaled slowly, then looked down at her hands. A dozen thoughts warred behind her eyes—the fear of binding herself to him—to any man. Her voice quiet but steady. “And if I do not?”
“Then I will make certain you are safe, and I will ride south alone.”
She swallowed hard, heart aching with a mixture of relief and fear. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It is not.” He grinned. “Nothing with you ever has been.”
