“Because I am done being afraid,” he said. “Of my past. Of what I feel. Of you.”
A hush wrapped around them. Not uncomfortable—but charged.
Then she moved—just a fraction closer.
“Do you still love me?” she asked.
His hand trembled as he reached for hers. “Yes.”
Her breath shuddered. “I want to trust in that.”
“I vow to prove it.”
He lay down beside her, not pulling her close, not assuming, but simply being near. She turned into him, her head resting against his chest, and he wrapped his arm around her with aching care.
The rhythm of her breathing slowed.
And with her in his arms, Johnathan Seton, Duke of Hargate, felt at peace.
He awoke before dawn to the soft weight of Frances still curled against him, her head nestled beneath his chin, one arm resting lightly across his chest.
The fire had died down to embers, and the stone walls were cold again, but he did not feel the chill. Not with her there. Not with the warmth of her breath on his skin and the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against his side.
He let himself savor it for a moment.
This.
Not the flight. Not the danger. Just the stillness. The rare gift of being with the woman he had thought he had lost forever.
But dawn waited for no one.
They had miles to go still. Danger at their backs. The border drawing near—but so was Cranford.
Johnathan eased out from beneath Frances, careful not to wake her. He stoked the fire and stepped outside to check the horses. He had been able to obtain a fresh pair yesterday. Dew beaded on every leaf, and the morning sky had just begun to glow with the pale promise of sunrise.
When he returned, Frances was awake and sitting up, her cloak wrapped around her shoulders.
“You left,” she murmured.
“Only to check the horses,” he said. “I did not intend to disappear again. I gave you my word.”
Her eyes met his, tired but open. “I believed you.”
They broke their fast with what remained of their rations, and when the sun lifted above the trees, they resumed their journey—side by side once more.
The forest thinned around midday, and the rugged landscape opened into wide, sloping meadows. Sheep grazed in the distance, and a stone path curled over a ridge toward a narrow valley ahead.
“Is that—?” Frances shaded her eyes.
“Yes,” Johnathan said. “The border road.”
Relief washed across her face—but it did not last.
A sharp whistle pierced the air.
Johnathan yanked his horse around. Behind them, at the edge of the woods, figures emerged—three riders, dark-cloaked, moving fast.
“Ride!” he shouted, spurring forward.
