“You always were infuriating,” she whispered, the words catching in her throat. A hint of a smile touched her lips, but her eyes shimmered with unspoken emotion—fondness laced with fear, and the quiet ache of letting someone in again.
Johnathan chuckled, his breath warm against her skin. “I will take that as praise.”
She drew back slightly, eyes searching his face. “This changes everything.”
“I am counting on it.”
A hush stretched between them, the kind not meant to be filled with words.
They pulled apart gradually, both aware of the fragile line they walked. Outside, the storm softened to a whisper of rain, tapping gently against the windowpanes as if even nature had exhausted itself.
Johnathan stirred the fire, adding the last of their kindling. Frances moved to the bench near the hearth, wrapping her arms around her knees.
“How far do you think we are from the border?” she asked.
He glanced up. “Maybe two days’ hard ride. Less if we push the horses.”
She frowned. “And if Cranford catches us before then?”
Johnathan’s jaw tensed. “He will not.”
“You cannot promise that.”
“I can promise I will fight to keep him from you.”
Frances did not respond. She stared into the fire.
“I wish I could forget what I saw in his eyes the day in the church,” she murmured. “It was not mere anger. It was worse. Possession.”
Johnathan crossed to her, crouching down, taking her hands. “You are not his to possess. And you never will be.”
Frances looked down at their joined hands, the way her fingers fit into the spaces between his. She swallowed against the rising tide in her throat and let her thumb brush lightly across his knuckles. A breath escaped her—not quite a sob, but not relief either.
“Never,” she echoed at last, the word trembling with conviction.
A flicker of wind stirred the ashes in the hearth, and the scent of rain and ash curled around them like a promise yet to be fulfilled.
Frances looked at his hand. It was rough, callused—hands that had fought, built, broken, and rebuilt. She found strength there.
“You are not what I expected,” she said.
He smiled faintly. “Neither are you.”
The storm passed fully by late afternoon. They packed their things in companionable silence, pausing only when the hush between them grew too heavy.
As they prepared to leave, Frances pulled Johnathan’s coat tighter around her shoulders. She turned to him at the threshold of the cabin.
“If we make it to Gretna…”
“When we make it,” he corrected.
She nodded. “When we make it—do not expect me to be a meek duchess.”
He grinned. “Perish the thought.”
by some stroke of sorely needed luck, Johnathan found their horses grazing nearby.
Frances checked his side again before they left, her hand brushing lightly over the bruised skin. He winced, but said nothing, and she did not press. The wound was there—but it would not stop them.
