CHAPTER8
Dawn broke, shrouded in thick fog that clung to the earth.
Johnathan crouched near the fire, the cold biting at his bones as he broke a piece of dry bread. The horses stood tethered under a thicket of trees, steam rising from their flanks as they dozed. Beside him, Frances slept soundly, her breathing even beneath the shelter of his coat. He could not bear to wake her, not yet. Her peaceful face, unmarred by the struggles of their flight, felt like the last thing to hold onto in this madness.
He leaned back on his heels, watching the embers glow low. The fire mirrored something inside him—once dangerous, now banked and smoldering. A quiet heat that refused to go out.
The feel of her hand in his last night lingered like a ghost. He could still recall the exact pressure, the way her fingers had slipped between his as though they had always belonged there. She had not kissed him again. Had not whispered promises. But something had passed between them in that silence—something stronger than any vow.
And it terrified him.
Johnathan stood, brushing crumbs from his fingers. He walked the perimeter of their makeshift camp, scanning the trees. Something was wrong. He felt it in the stillness. No wind. No birdsong. No rustling of deer.
Only breath and fog.
He returned to the fire, his pulse quickening as he crouched beside Frances. He touched her shoulder gently, but there was an edge to his voice when he said, “Frances. Wake.”
She stirred at once, blinking up at him, bleary but alert. “What is it?”
“Trouble.”
He offered no further explanation as he helped her sit up and gather her things. Within moments, she was on her feet, tightening the straps on her pack.
They traveled for nearly an hour without speaking, sticking to narrow deer paths and dry riverbeds. He led the way, Frances riding close behind. Every now and then, she would glance over her shoulder. She felt it, too.
By midmorning, the sun had burned off most of the mist—but the feeling only deepened.
Then he saw it.
Just ahead, where the trail curved around a rise, a movement in the trees.
Too fast. Too still.
He yanked on the reins. “Down!”
Frances obeyed without question, throwing herself from the saddle just as the crack of a musket echoed through the woods. Her horse reared and bolted. Johnathan dismounted hard, drawing his pistol.
Two men emerged from the underbrush, masked and armed.
Highwaymen.
Not Cranford’s footmen—they could be hired cutthroats. Paid by Cranford.
They fired again, the sharp crack of the shot piercing the stillness, a bullet whistling past his ear with a sound that made his blood run cold. He dove behind a fallen tree, scanning for Frances. She was on the ground, crawling toward cover, her cloak catching on thorns.
“Frances!” he shouted, motioning to her. “Circle right!”
She nodded, staying low.
Johnathan fired a shot, hitting one of the attackers in the shoulder. The man dropped with a grunt, gun falling from his hands.
The other took off running—up the ridge and out of sight.
Johnathan did not pursue. Not yet.
He glanced over at Frances, seeing her face set with determination, eyes wide with the realization that this was no longer a life of evasion—it was a fight for survival.
He ran to Frances, pulling her behind a cluster of rocks. Her breathing was ragged, her cheeks streaked with dirt, but her eyes burned with fury.
