CHAPTER13
The air had shifted—crisp with an edge of unrest. Johnathan had said they were within a half day’s ride of Gretna Green. Twelve days of evasion, fatigue, and heartache had brought them here. Frances blinked hard against the sting of wind, her chest tightening as the mist rolled down the hills like a curtain lifting on the final act. Her fingers trembled around the reins, the truth of how far they’d come sinking in with every breath of crisp morning air.
Close enough to taste it—the blacksmith’s cottage, the rough-hewn table, the iron ring that might serve as her wedding band.
Johnathan had said that morning, his voice low with wonder. “We are almost there.”
Frances had smiled and laced her fingers with his.
But just as the finish line came into view, Cranford emerged like a storm cloud on a clear horizon.
It happened just before dusk.
The road they traveled twisted through a wooded glen, shaded and narrow. The trees rose tall and close on either side, casting long shadows that darkened the path and muffled sound.
Frances had turned in the saddle to say something when she heard it.
Hoofbeats. Rapid. Heavy.
Johnathan reacted instantly.
He wheeled his horse around and shouted, “Ride!”
They did not make it far.
A group of riders emerged from the trees ahead, cutting off the path. Two more thundered in from behind.
Trapped.
Johnathan drew his pistol.
Frances drew her breath.
The man at the front raised a gloved hand. “No need for blood,” he said. “His lordship only wants the lady.”
Frances stiffened. “I will not go with him.”
A new voice answered. Cold. Familiar.
“You do not have a choice.”
Daniel Wraxall, Viscount Cranford, stepped from behind his men.
He was immaculate, as always—dark riding coat, gloves, boots polished to a mirror shine. But his eyes were wrong. Harder. Wilder. Like the porcelain mask of civility had finally cracked.
He loomed over her like a shadow made flesh, but Frances noticed the stiffness in the men who accompanied him. They did not meet her eyes. One even flinched when Cranford barked a command.
Something in him had cracked since the church. Not broken—no, he was too cruel for that—but strained.
“You think a public scandal will not touch you?” she asked. “You think the whispers have not already started?”
He sneered. “Whispers are wind. But they forget—I weather storms.”
Yet Frances saw the tightness around his eyes. He was no longer untouchable. Only desperate.
Johnathan edged his horse in front of hers. “If you want her,” he said, “you will have to come through me.”
Cranford sneered. “How noble. How tragically predictable.”
