CHAPTER9
By late afternoon, the storm had passed, but the forest still wore the aftermath of rain like a shroud.
Water dripped from leaves in rhythmic drops, the earth damp and fragrant beneath their boots as they walked beside their mount. The trail had become too narrow and uneven to ride, and their horse was weary. But Frances and Johnathan pressed forward, driven by necessity, and the knowledge that they could not stop for long.
It was just before dusk when they stumbled upon the glade.
Tucked into a dip in the hillside, surrounded by towering beech trees and blooming foxgloves, sat a half-collapsed stone wall and the remnants of what once must have been a shepherd’s station—just enough shelter to keep off the wind and rain. A partial roof. A hearth, scorched and cracked. But dry.
They had been on the road for six days now—six days of shifting weather, narrow escapes, and stolen moments beneath the stars. Frances had lost count of the inns and barns they had hidden in, each one a blur of tension and fatigue.
She ran a hand along one of the old beams and turned toward Johnathan with a tired smile. “This might be the most beautiful ruin I have ever seen.”
Johnathan gave a short, soft laugh. “It will do.”
They worked together. He tethered the horses beneath a tree and unpacked supplies. Frances gathered kindling, her movements slower now, stiff with fatigue. Her shoulder still ached, but she ignored it.
Soon, a fire flickered in the hearth, casting long shadows that danced across the stone. Frances sat down with a soft sigh, drawing her knees up to her chest. Johnathan handed her a tin of food—some salted beef, a crust of bread.
They ate, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the quiet rustle of wind through damp trees.
It was Frances who broke the silence.
“When I was twelve,” she said softly, “I asked my father if I could study in Edinburgh.” He laughed, of course.
Johnathan glanced over at her, but said nothing. He waited.
“Father told me that books were fine for winter afternoons, but my duty was to prepare for a useful match. That it was foolish to think I needed anything more than grace, a husband, and a solid dowry.”
Her voice was calm, but her hands clenched around the tin.
“That night,” she continued, “I snuck into the library and read poetry until dawn. It was the only rebellion I could afford.”
Johnathan leaned back against the wall beside her. “You should have gone.”
“I know.”
They sat together in the hush that followed, broken only by the pop of a log settling in the fire.
“And you?” she asked after a long moment. “What of your father? Your dreams?”
Johnathan stared into the fire for so long she thought he would not answer.
But then he did.
“He said I was a disappointment from the moment I drew breath.” His words were clipped, as if he had rehearsed them a thousand times and still could not dull the sting.
Frances turned sharply toward him. “What?”
Johnathan’s voice was low. Steady. Not emotionless, but restrained.
“He wanted an heir molded in his image. Ruthless. Obedient. Perfect. But I asked questions. I challenged him. When I was ten, I refused to let a stable boy go because my father had accused him of stealing a watch he had never owned. That night, I got a beating and a lesson in obedience.”
Frances reached for his hand, but he did not seem to notice.
“He told me love made a man weak. That compassion was a mask for failure. When my mother died, he did not shed a tear. Just told me to stop ‘pining like a woman.’” He snorted. “I was fourteen.”
A shiver laced through her. “Johnathan…”
