Frances exhaled slowly, her posture tightening. “I thought they were your brothers in arms.”
“They were,” he said bitterly. “Or I was stupid enough to believe so.”
She only nodded once, her jaw set.
“Come now,” he said. “We will ride to the western road. It leads into the hills—rough country, but we will lose any pursuit faster than we would on the main road.”
Frances did not hesitate. “Quickly.”
They returned to the inn at a near-run, and Johnathan instructed the innkeeper to have their horses saddled within minutes. He packed quickly, efficiently. Frances moved just as swiftly, retrieving their things and donning her cloak.
Neither spoke until they were alone in the stable yard.
Before he could lift her into the saddle, Frances stepped in front of him. “Why did he do it?” she asked. “Your friend.”
Johnathan hesitated, blew out a breath. “I think part of him thought he was saving me,” he admitted. “But I also think part of him did not believe I was capable of change.”
Frances’s brow furrowed, her hand tightening slightly at her side, the movement small but charged with feeling. Beneath her calm, her heart roiled with disbelief and hurt—not just for the betrayal, but for what it meant to the man she stood beside. This was not merely an affront to their safety. It was personal. And it made her all the more certain of where she stood. “I am sorry.”
“No,” Johnathan said. “Put it from your mind. The fault is not yours.”
She touched his cheek, her hand light but grounding. Her fingers brushed the side of his face, tracing the lines that spoke of both pain and resilience. “You are not the man they remember,” she said softly.
His throat tightened. “You are the reason for that.”
They departed just after noon, the sun at their backs, the breeze carrying with it the scent of danger not yet visible—but rapidly approaching.
They took the smaller trail west, and within the hour, the road became too narrow for carts, the hills rising on either side in steep green swells. Heather and bramble choked the path in places. Birds scattered from low branches as they passed, and a distant eagle wheeled high overhead.
By late afternoon, they reached a rocky overhang that offered both shelter and elevation. Johnathan led them up, dismounting at the crest and scanning the horizon.
Below, in the distance, a cloud of dust rose on the main road.
Riders.
“They are close,” he muttered.
Frances stood beside him, her eyes scanning the same stretch. “Do we have time to rest?”
“An hour,” he said. “Maybe.”
They hobbled the horses under the trees and made camp on a mossy shelf above the trail, concealed by brush and stone. Johnathan worked without a word, laying out what little they had. Frances sat cross-legged beside the fire pit, her hands wrapped around a canteen.
Finally, she spoke. “What will you do? If he catches us?”
Johnathan did not look at her. “He will not.”
“That is not an answer.”
He stared into the trees. “I will fight. Whatever it takes.”
Frances’s voice dropped. “What if you are forced to kill him?”
His jaw clenched. “Then I will live with it.”
She was quiet for a long time.
“And if he takes me?” She averted her gaze.
