But this man—the one who had listened, who had waited, who had risked everything—this was the man she could fall in love with.
Had already fallen for him once.
Had already begun to again.
She rose quietly and crossed to the window. The sun crested over the hills, gilding the rooftops in soft amber. And in the distance, the road stretched on—uncertain, unknown, but no longer terrifying.
Not if they faced it together.
Frances closed her eyes.
Soon, they would talk of marriage again.
Of Gretna Green.
But not today.
Today, they would walk hand in hand to the market and barter for apples and bread. They would speak to strangers as if they were not fugitives but travelers. They would smile and pretend for just a little longer that the world was kind.
Today, they would choose joy.
And under the same stars where they had danced, Frances would allow herself to believe—not just in love, but in the kind of future that had once seemed impossible.
One forged not by expectation or duty…
…but by choice. Like dancing beneath stars. Like waking to sunlight and laughter. Like love, softly spoken.
For now, they had this moment, this space between them, where nothing else mattered but the quiet of the world, the warmth of his hand, and the promise of a life they could choose together.
