CHAPTER7
The storm returned by morning.
Johnathan awoke to the low rumble of thunder, his senses slowly registering the steady patter of rain against the thatched roof. His back ached against the uneven wooden floor, and the sharp scent of damp earth and lingering smoke clung to the air. The chill in the room crept beneath the hem of his coat, and instinctively, he reached for the pistol at his side. Only then did he remember where he was—and who was beside him.
She was still asleep, curled on her side just inches away, her face soft in slumber. One hand rested near his, palm open, as if reaching for something. Or someone.
He had not meant to sleep. He had meant to keep watch. But after the days of near-constant flight, of blood and fear and aching limbs, sleep had claimed him. It was only the sound of her gentle breath and the certainty of the storm outside that allowed his body to give in.
Now, in the hush of morning, he allowed himself the luxury of watching her. Not with lust, though he would not deny her beauty. No, this was something more dangerous.
Frances stirred. Her lashes fluttered, and slowly, she blinked into wakefulness. Her gaze landed on his, sleepy and startled.
“You are staring,” she said, her voice hoarse with sleep.
“You are in my line of sight,” he replied, voice dry.
She sat up, brushing hair from her cheek. “Convenient.”
Johnathan chuckled, but the amusement did not reach his eyes. He pushed himself upright, wincing as pain shot through his side. The riding, the sleepless night, the lack of food, it had all taken a toll.
Frances noticed immediately. “You are hurt.”
“It is nothing.”
“You are a poor liar.”
He gave her a crooked smile. “And yet I still manage to fool most of London.”
She shifted beside him and reached out, her fingers brushing his sleeve. “Let me see.”
He stilled, but did not stop her. She peeled back the fabric, revealing a long, bruised scrape along his ribs. Frances inhaled sharply, her heart tightening at the sight. The wound, raw and darkening at the edges, seemed far worse than he let on. A sudden chill ran through her—what if she lost him? What if one careless moment cost her this man who had just begun to matter again? Her fingers hesitated above the angry mark before she gently laid her hand against his skin, as if the act could soothe not only the wound but the gnawing dread curling in her chest.
Frances inhaled sharply. “You did not say anything.”
“It was not worth mentioning.”
Her fingers were gentle as she examined the wound, the pads of them cool against his skin. Johnathan watched her, the air between them thick.
“What kind of man throws himself into danger without a second thought?” she murmured.
“The kind who would do anything,” he replied. “If it meant keeping you safe.”
She looked up, their faces inches apart. Her breath caught, the intimacy of the moment tightening in her chest. For a heartbeat, she considered all that had changed—how far they had come, what still hung unspoken between them. This close, she could see the flecks of silver in his eyes, the line of strain etched at the corner of his mouth. Her voice, when it came, trembled with the weight of hope and hesitation. “Do not say things like that.”
“Why not?” His gaze held hers.
“Because I might start believing them.”
The tension between them crackled like lightning, sudden and electric.
Frances sat back, creating space, though her hands lingered on her lap as if reluctant to fully withdraw. “You should rest.”
“So should you,” he said.
But neither of them moved.
Later that morning, the storm grew worse.
