“Do you remember,” she said softly, “the summer we stayed at my aunt’s estate in Devon? You were sixteen. I was fourteen.”
He let out a quiet breath. “We were supposed to be watching the sheep.”
“You got stung by a bee.”
“And you hit it with your bonnet,” he said, a faint smile in his voice. “And then demanded I give you my cravat so you could bandage your own hand.”
“It was a noble sacrifice,” she said.
They both fell quiet.
The fire cracked softly behind them.
After a long while, he said, “I never thought we would be here.”
“Running from our families or in a bed together?”
“Both.” He rolled onto his back. “Well, perhaps not the bed.”
She rolled onto her back, staring up at the wooden rafters. “Do you regret it?”
“No,” he said. “I regret not doing it sooner.”
Frances closed her eyes.
She felt his presence beside her like heat. Like gravity. She did not need to look to know that he was lying awake just like she was, tense with restraint, his mind probably echoing the same silent what-ifs as hers.
She turned slowly, facing him in the dark.
His eyes were open.
She did not speak.
Did not dare move closer.
The moment pulsed between them—bare, unvarnished. There was no more pretending. No polite distance. No more running.
Only this.
And him.
And the unbearable tenderness of being seen.
She thought he would speak first.
He often did, with that sardonic edge to cover the emotion he could not yet name. But tonight, he was quiet. Still.
Frances watched his face in the dim firelight—the strong line of his jaw, the faint scar beneath his cheekbone, the small crease between his brows that deepened whenever he was thinking too hard or caring too much.
She wanted to reach out and smooth it with her fingers. But she did not.
“You are afraid,” she said softly.
Johnathan did not deny it.
“Of what?” she asked.
He swallowed. “Of you thinking I want something I do not deserve.”
