“That was no chance ambush,” she said.
“No,” Johnathan agreed, voice grim. “He sent hunters.”
“Then we are prey.”
He met her gaze. “Not for long.”
They moved swiftly through the underbrush, abandoning the main trail entirely. Frances walked beside him now, her horse having fled into the woods. Johnathan’s remained with them, but he did not mount. Not yet. The narrow paths were better suited for stealth, and mounted travel would be too noisy.
Every nerve in his body was taut.
The cutthroats were skilled. That meant, if he had been the one to send them, Cranford had shifted tactics. No longer content to chase them through social avenues or public disgrace, he had sent men who knew how to hunt. Men who did not care about the law.
Johnathan clenched his jaw, a deep, simmering rage unfurling inside him. Frances was not a woman merely chased by the whispers of scandal—she was prey, hunted by men who had no honor. And he would not allow it.
They reached a shallow creek and paused. Johnathan helped her cross by hand, guiding her onto the moss-covered stones, noting the way she winced as she stepped.
“You are hurt,” he said.
“I will live.”
He did not doubt her strength—she had proven that—but her limp worried him. That shoulder still had not fully healed, and now she carried new bruises.
“I should have seen them sooner,” he muttered, more to himself than her.
“Johnathan,” she said softly, squeezing his hand as they reached the other bank. “You saved me. Again.”
His eyes met hers, something sharp and unspoken tightening in his chest.
“I swore I would,” he said.
She did not let go of his hand immediately, as though clinging to the one person she had left who could keep the world at bay. She needed him, needed that touch, more than she was willing to admit.
They moved on.
By mid-afternoon, the terrain had changed. Rocky highlands gave way to low, rolling glades, where wildflowers pushed up from damp soil. Trees thinned. The wind returned.
Johnathan glanced skyward. The clouds were beginning to part. They would have a clear night—and be visible to anyone following.
They had to find shelter before sundown.
A half mile ahead, nestled in the trees, stood an abandoned hunting lodge. Weather-beaten, roof sagging, but intact.
He knew the place. Years ago, his father had owned the land and leased it to a family of minor gentry. They had fled abroad after a scandal, and the lodge had fallen into disrepair.
Johnathan led Frances inside, his pistol drawn.
Empty.
No signs of recent habitation. Dust coated the floor. A few tattered pelts still hung from the beams, and a hearth stood cold at the far end of the room. Frances exhaled in relief and crossed to the wall, leaning there with a hand pressed to her side.
“Are you sure this is safe?”
“No place is safe anymore,” he said. “But this will do.”
He gathered wood from the small shed behind the lodge, returning to build a fire. Frances had slumped into a chair near the hearth, pulling off her boots and stretching her legs with a wince.
Neither spoke—not at first.
