CHAPTER14
Johnathan stood outside the gates of Cranford’s manor with nothing but cold steel in his chest.
They had let him walk away.
That was the bargain. Frances surrendered, and he went free. No ramifications. No blood spilled. A clean break.
His hands curled into fists at his sides, jaw tight, breath shallow—every nerve in his body taut. He wore stillness like armor, but inside, the storm raged. The wind had never felt colder, the dusk never darker. Every step he had taken away from her was a lie.
He remembered her laughter at fifteen, chasing him through the orchard, her braid undone, the scent of ripening apples thick in the air and sunlight dancing through the leaves above them. Johnathan had lost that girl once. He would not lose the woman she had become.
He crouched in the darkness, hidden by a thicket of trees bordering the estate. The moon was high, veiled by clouds, and the manor house loomed ahead like a beast sleeping with one eye open.
She was in there.
And he was going to get her back.
William shifted beside him. “You are certain about this?” he whispered.
Johnathan’s hands flexed over the pistol he held low against his thigh.
“No,” he said. “But I am doing it anyway.”
William smirked faintly. “That’s the spirit I remember.”
Johnathan glanced at him. “Remind me to punch you later.”
“Please do,” William said. “I undoubtedly deserve it.”
His heart skipped a beat. “There she is.” Johnathan nodded to a second-floor window where Frances peered out at the night. Could she see him? Did she know he had come for her?
“Knowing her location in the house should make this easier,” William said. “Shall we?”
Johnathan did not hesitate.
The plan was simple. Get in. Find Frances. Get out. Marry her immediately. If Cranford tried to stop him? Then God help the reprobate for Johnathan would not lose her again.
They moved at a crouch, circling behind the stable and slipping in through the servants’ door. The back corridor was dim and narrow, lined with crates and tools, the scent of horse and dust thick in the air.
Every creak of wood or distant footstep sent Johnathan’s pulse into a fresh sprint.
They reached the second floor without incident. The guest chambers were quiet. Footmen posted at the stairwell below were distracted by dice and a bottle of brandy.
Johnathan’s hand hovered near the doorknob of the last room.
Locked.
He pressed his ear to the door, then whispered, “Frances. Open the door.”
Then again.
“It is me, Johnathan.”
The door opened a fraction, then swung wide.
She was pale, standing tall with shoulders drawn back, her breath steady despite the tension coiled beneath her skin, wrapped in a dressing gown of fine silk. Her hair was loose, and her eyes—those fierce, determined green eyes—lit up the moment she saw him.
She opened her mouth, but he pressed a finger to his lips and stepped inside.
