Page 4 of Duke of no Return (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #23)

CHAPTER 4

T he sudden knock at the door sent a shiver of alarm down Frances’s spine, her body seized with dread, heart thudding violently. For one harrowing moment, she imagined Cranford himself standing on the other side, flanked by ruffians, ready to drag her back to the altar she had fled.

Johnathan motioned her toward the corner of the room, placing himself instinctively between her and the door.

“Who is there?” His voice was low, edged with warning.

“It’s the innkeeper, sir,” came the muffled response. “There are men asking after you. I thought you’d want to know.”

Frances’s breath caught. Cranford, or her father…perhaps both, were after them.

Johnathan glanced briefly at Frances, his eyes sharp and calculating. “Thank you. Please tell them nothing.”

“Aye, sir. Thought as much.” Footsteps retreated down the hall, and Johnathan wasted no time moving toward the window, pushing back the curtain just enough to peer outside.

Frances approached cautiously, her stomach in knots. “Is it Cranford?”

Johnathan’s jaw clenched. “Most likely. He will not let this humiliation go unanswered.”

She swallowed thickly, the memory of Cranford’s dark expression at the altar still fresh. “What do we do?”

“We cannot stay here.” He began gathering their things quickly—his movements efficient, practiced. “We have to put distance between us and those who wish to stop us.”

She rushed to retrieve her damp cloak, pulling it around her shoulders. Johnathan pressed several shillings into the innkeeper’s palm on their way down the narrow staircase. The man nodded grimly, stepping aside.

“Slip through the kitchen,” he instructed quietly. “There’s a back way out through the yard. You’ll find horses ready.”

Johnathan touched the brim of his hat briefly in gratitude, then guided Frances forward. The kitchen was dimly lit, the scent of stale bread and smoke thick in the air. A scullery maid glanced up, startled, but said nothing as they passed, her wide eyes tracking their hurried steps.

Outside, the night air felt colder, sharper, pricking Frances’s cheeks. Two horses stood tethered near the fence, saddled and waiting. Without a word, Johnathan helped Frances mount, then swung into his own saddle with practiced ease.

“Keep close,” he warned. “Ride as though hell itself follows us.”

Frances nodded mutely, gripping the reins until her knuckles whitened. Her mind raced, every nerve alight with peril. She feared not just capture and the wrathful consequences it would bring, but also the terrifying possibility of losing Johnathan—either to injury or worse. The thought sent a sharp pang through her chest, tightening her throat and making her grip on the reins grow even tighter.

They followed a narrow lane lined by hedgerows, the only sounds the muffled thuds of hooves on damp earth. Frances cast anxious glances behind her, expecting at any moment to see the shadowed forms of riders emerging from the darkness.

Johnathan kept them moving swiftly, his gaze scanning the landscape tirelessly. Every rustle in the brush, every flicker of shadow set her heart pounding. The weight of silence between them grew heavy with tension until she could bear it no longer.

“Where are we going?” she asked, breathless from the fear tightening her chest.

“North,” he replied shortly, eyes never leaving their path. “Gretna Green.”

Gretna Green. The name sent a shiver through her as vivid images leapt to mind: the clang of pursuit, the whispered judgment of society, the weight of forever sealed by an anvil and a vow. She recalled hushed tales of lovers who had fled there, scandal nipping at their heels. Some had found joy and freedom; others, only heartbreak.

For Frances, Gretna Green was no mere destination—it was a reckoning. A rebellion. The place where obedience ended and something uncharted began. The Scottish border promised more than marriage. It promised a severing, a beginning, and the terrifying question of what came after. But would freedom found through flight truly set her free, or would it only bind her tighter to another fate?

Her thoughts scattered as Johnathan suddenly tensed beside her, his body rigid in the saddle. Voices carried faintly on the night air—men shouting orders, horses neighing sharply in protest.

“They have found us.” His voice was sharp, decisive. “Ride hard, Frances. Do not look back.”

She barely had time to gather her reins before Johnathan spurred his horse forward, and they surged into a gallop, the wind rushing past her ears, yanking at her cloak, her breath came in ragged bursts like thunder in rhythm with the horses’ hooves.

Shouts rose louder behind them. Fear clawed at her throat, bitter and sharp, driven by the pounding hoofbeats echoing behind them and the distant shouts cutting through the night, each sound driving her heart into a frenzied panic. She could almost feel the hot breath of pursuit at her back, imagined Cranford’s furious face looming in the darkness.

“Faster!” Johnathan urged, his voice slicing through her panic. She leaned low, gripping tightly as her horse surged beneath her, lungs burning from the effort.

The countryside blurred past, hedgerows becoming mere streaks of shadow in the moonlight. Time seemed suspended, their flight eternal. Only when the distant sounds of pursuit faded did Johnathan slow their pace, guiding their exhausted horses toward a copse of trees.

They dismounted swiftly, horses steaming in the chill night air. Frances leaned heavily against a tree, breath ragged, her body trembling.

Johnathan approached quietly, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

She shook her head, unable to speak, tears she had been fighting finally spilling free. He gently pulled her close, his warmth and solidity offering comfort against the chaotic emotions roiling inside her.

“Forgive me,” he murmured. “I did not want this for you.”

She drew back enough to meet his eyes, her own brimming with a fierce resolve that steadied her trembling voice. For all the danger they faced, she knew this much—she had chosen her path, and she would not falter now. “No regrets,” she whispered, her voice low but resolute. “I chose this. I chose you.” Her fingers tightened around his sleeve, the weight of her decision anchoring her to the moment, even as fear pulsed through her.

His expression softened, and for one precious moment, there was only understanding, and the shared heat of their breath mingling between them, the warmth of his hand against her shoulder steadying her, the scent of damp earth and pine enveloping them in the quiet intimacy of the woods. “We rest here briefly. Then we ride again. We cannot let them catch us.”

Frances nodded, steeling herself against weariness and fear. Whatever lay ahead, she would face it with him—no matter the cost. Yet even as she clung to that resolve, a distant, unsettling rustle in the trees reminded her that the shadows around them held threats unseen, and their journey was far from over.

Johnathan moved swiftly, checking their surroundings with practiced vigilance. He stepped carefully around the horses, murmuring softly to calm their nervous shifting. Frances watched him silently, her heartbeat gradually slowing, though tension remained knotted within her muscles. The darkness pressed around them, but Johnathan’s calm determination steadied her fraying nerves.

He offered a reassuring nod as he drew closer. “No sign yet, but we cannot afford to linger long.”

Frances sighed softly. “How much further until we are safe?”

Johnathan hesitated, clearly choosing his words with care. “We have a hard ride ahead. If we can reach the border before they overtake us, we will have a chance. Until then…” His voice trailed off.

“Until then, we run,” Frances concluded, her voice firm despite the anxiety tightening her chest.

He reached out, gently taking her hand. “We will make it, Frances. I swear to you.”

His unwavering confidence reignited the spark of determination she had felt earlier. She lifted her chin slightly. “I believe you.”

They mounted again, bodies aching but driven by urgency. Each hour stretched into eternity as they trotted through shadowed fields and along narrow trails barely discernible under the wan moonlight. Every rustle of leaves, every distant howl of a fox sent fresh spikes of fear through her.

Eventually, dawn began to creep across the horizon, its pale light slipping over the land. It touched the treetops with a burnished glow, soft as a promise, and yet its quiet majesty only deepened Frances’s unease.

“These horses will not carry us much farther without rest,” Johnathan said, breaking into her thoughts. “We shall stop soon.”

Within the hour, they halted at a shallow brook to allow their horses a respite. Frances dismounted stiffly, knelt, and cupped the icy stream water in her palms. It cooled the fire in her throat, but did little to quiet the storm in her chest.

Johnathan stood vigilant nearby, his gaze never lingering in one place for long. His weariness was evident in the slight slump of his shoulders.

“We will make it,” he said quietly, as though sensing her thoughts. “But you are right, Cranford will not give up easily. He will send more men after us. Your father may as well. They will be relentless.”

Frances shivered, standing slowly. “Why is he so determined? It is merely pride, is it not?”

Johnathan turned, his eyes dark with something unreadable—a flicker of old knowledge and rising fury sparking behind them. “It is more than pride, Frances,” he said, his voice low, resonant with both anger and something older—a hard-earned understanding. “It is power. Control. Men such as Cranford do not just want obedience. They need to dominate, to erase the will of others so they feel strong. He does not see you as a woman. He sees you as a possession.”

Her stomach churned with revulsion. “I will never belong to him—or anyone else.”

He nodded solemnly. “No, you will not. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

They resumed their journey shortly after, the landscape becoming increasingly rugged as they traveled north. Hills rose on either side, the air cooler and tinged with mist. Frances found herself looking backward less frequently, her gaze fixed forward with cautious hope.

Yet, just as she dared to believe the worst was behind them, the distant echo of hoofbeats shattered her fragile confidence. Johnathan swore under his breath, urging their exhausted horses to quicken once more.

Frances clung tightly to her reins, breaths coming in ragged bursts as panic surged anew. They flew over the uneven ground, branches snagging her cloak, the wind stinging her eyes. Each beat of the pursuing hooves grew louder, relentless and terrifying.

“Keep going!” Johnathan called sharply, guiding them toward a narrow, winding trail that cut through dense woodland. “Do not stop!”

Frances forced every ounce of strength into keeping her seat, her mind fixed desperately on the promise of safety ahead. But even as she focused forward, the relentless threat pursued them, reminding her once again that freedom was still perilously uncertain.

The narrow trail twisted sharply, thick branches scraping their faces as they pressed onward. Frances’s breath came in ragged gasps, each lungful feeling painfully insufficient. She could hear the labored breathing of the horses, strained yet relentless, matching her own frantic desperation.

Ahead, the forest opened briefly into a clearing, a pale expanse of grass shimmering softly under the midday light. Johnathan motioned urgently, steering them across the open space. Frances hesitated momentarily, the vulnerability of the exposed ground sending a spike of fear through her. But Johnathan’s confident urging pushed her forward, his determined gaze unwavering.

Suddenly, from the far side of the clearing, shadows emerged rapidly, horses galloping toward them at terrifying speed. Frances’s heart nearly stopped as she recognized Cranford’s men, their faces grim and determined beneath wide-brimmed hats.

“Ride!” Johnathan’s command pierced the stillness, fierce and authoritative.

The chase resumed with even greater intensity, Frances and Johnathan’s horses weaving between tightly clustered trees, hooves slipping slightly on damp, uneven ground. Frances pressed low, branches whipping past her, the sound of pursuit never far behind.

“Stay close!” Johnathan shouted, expertly guiding them toward a steep incline, the terrain becoming increasingly difficult. Their horses scrambled up the slope, stones dislodging beneath their hooves. Frances fought to maintain control, leaning forward instinctively, her eyes watering from the cold wind and fear.

At the crest of the rise, Johnathan paused briefly, glancing backward with narrowed eyes, judging their lead. “They have fallen behind,” he said grimly. “But it will not last.”

Frances drew a shaky breath, the momentary respite allowing the full weight of exhaustion to press against her. She glanced at Johnathan, seeing clearly the fatigue etched into his face.

“We must push on,” he said gently, recognizing her weariness. “Just a little further.”

She straightened, nodded firmly, and urged her mount forward once more.

As they continued, the landscape gradually shifted again, the forest thinning and giving way to rolling fields dotted by grazing sheep, the sun casting a glow across their surroundings. Frances felt a small surge of hope.

Yet, even as hope blossomed, the distant rumble of pursuit returned, determined and relentless. Her heart sank, the brief moment of optimism overshadowed by renewed dread, and a lack of sleep.

“Do not give up,” Johnathan encouraged, sensing her tension. His voice was steady, calm in the face of danger, bolstering her courage.

Ahead, a small stone bridge loomed, crossing a narrow stream. Johnathan spurred forward, Frances close behind. As they reached the crest of the bridge, she dared a glance backward, heart seizing at the sight of Cranford’s men in the distance.

“Neck or nothing!” Johnathan urged fiercely, his voice cracking like a whip through her momentary paralysis.

They thundered across the bridge, hooves clattering against worn stone, and surged into the safety of the other side. The tree line blocking them from view and tight packed gravel masking the horses’ path. Frances felt the change instantly, not physical but profound, the weight of fear loosening ever so slightly.

Johnathan slowed their pace gradually, guiding them toward the shelter of a barn. They halted, breathing heavily, horses trembling beneath them. Frances glanced at Johnathan, relief and exhaustion mingling in her gaze.

“Are we safe now?” she asked softly, voice raw from the ordeal.

Johnathan checked his pistol as he positioned himself near the door. “Not until we are married. But safer,” he conceded cautiously, meeting her eyes with a quiet intensity. “I will keep watch—you are safe enough to dream. Get some sleep.”