Page 5 of Duke of no Return (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #23)
CHAPTER 5
T he rain had stopped an hour ago, leaving the narrow dirt road ahead slick with mud and the sharp scent of wet earth clinging to the air. Johnathan guided his horse with a grim determination, sparing only fleeting glances behind them as they departed the barn. The moon’s glow had not yet ceased to daybreak, and though the storm had passed, the tension in his chest had not.
Beside him, Frances rode quietly, her posture too rigid, her eyes fixed on the winding road ahead. She had not spoken since they’d resumed their journey, and he had not pressed her. Not yet. Not while they were still too close to danger, too exposed.
Johnathan’s grip on the reins tightened.
What the devil had he been thinking?
Whisking her out of the church had felt righteous in the moment—damn satisfying, even—but now, with mud spattering their clothing and danger stalking their heels, the consequences loomed large. He had crossed a line. A bold one. And he had brought her with him.
She had let him.
That alone twisted something in his chest.
He cast another glance her way. She was paler than normal. Paler than she had been even the night she had turned up on his doorstep, cloaked in desperation. A shadow of weariness clung to her expression, but still her spine held firm. Stubborn, proud. Frances Rowley had always been made of stronger stuff than most ladies.
A memory surfaced—her at fifteen, flushed with victory after besting him in an impromptu fencing match behind her family’s stables. She had cheated, of course. Distracted him with some scandalous tale and jabbed him clean in the ribs. He had laughed until he could not breathe. She had grinned like the devil.
But that girl was long gone, replaced by the woman now at his side, fleeing a life she had never chosen.
And he had not been there for her.
He clenched his jaw and looked away.
They reached a crossroads near midday, the moorland stretching ahead, broken only by the silhouette of a weathered inn nestled in a cluster of trees. The sign creaked in the breeze. The Crooked Stag. It looked half-abandoned, but they needed rest.
Johnathan dismounted and crossed to her side. “We will stop here,” he said, reaching for her reins. “The horses need rest. And so do we.”
Frances hesitated, then nodded once. He caught the flicker of hesitation in her eyes, the way she gripped the saddle before slipping down, her boots hitting the earth with a soft thud. She winced—just barely—and he moved to steady her, but she stepped away before he could offer support.
He let her have the distance, but his gaze did not waver. What the devil was wrong with her?
Inside, the inn was dim and smelled of damp wood and stale beer. A tired innkeeper offered no more than a grunt as Johnathan requested a room and food for two. He paid in coin without haggling. Privacy mattered more than frugality.
Their room upstairs was modest, but clean. A fire crackled weakly in the hearth, and the bed—small—sat beneath a narrow window overlooking the road.
Frances walked to the window, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her jaw set. She had not removed her gloves or cloak. She had not looked at him since they entered. She had scarcely spoken all day.
But now, the silence between them shouted louder than hoofbeats ever could.
Johnathan shed his wet greatcoat, draping it over a chair. He turned to her. “We need to talk.”
She did not flinch, but her voice was cool. “Indeed.”
He waited, giving her space to speak. But she said nothing. Just stood there, staring out the window as though expecting Cranford or his men to burst from the trees at any moment.
When the silence stretched too long, he took a step forward. “I know you are angry, though I cannot imagine why.”
Her head snapped around. “Do you? Because I am not sure you are capable of understanding what you have done.”
“I stopped your wedding,” he said flatly. “Which, unless my memory is faulty, is what you wanted.”
She walked past him then, pacing the edge of the room, each step sharp with restrained fury. “What I wanted was help. Freedom. Not a spectacle. Not for another man to tell me what to do and when. You speak of Gretna Green, but have yet to ask what I want. You ruined me the moment you entered that church and gave me no warning.”
“You would rather be Lady Cranford?”
She turned, fire igniting in her expression. “I would rather not be ordered about, Johnathan! You gave me no warning, no chance to choose how it happened. You decided—again—without me. You have made every decision.”
He took a breath, reining in his temper. “Because there was no time. Because you would have gone through with it out of duty or despair. And I?—”
He cut himself off, turning away from her, fists clenched.
Say it, you bloody coward.
But the words stuck.
He heard her exhale sharply. “You do not get to make decisions for me anymore.”
Johnathan turned back slowly. “I did not come to that church for the spectacle. I came because the thought of you walking down that aisle—of him touching you, owning you—it made me want to tear the whole place apart.”
Her lips parted slightly, breath caught. A flicker of something passed through her expression—surprise, vulnerability.
“That does not mean I think you belong to me,” he added more quietly. “But I will be damned if you will belong to him.”
Frances blinked once, then turned away, moving to warm her hands by the fire.
Johnathan let the silence sit between them for a moment. He dropped into the chair by the hearth, then leaned forward, elbows on knees.
“I know you do not trust me,” he said, watching the flames. “Not anymore. Maybe not ever again. But I swear to you, Frances, I will not force your hand. Not now. Not ever.”
She did not respond immediately. Then, slowly, she pulled off her gloves and sat on the edge of the bed.
“I do not want to go back,” she said softly.
“You will not.”
She looked up, and their eyes met.
“And if we reach Gretna Green?”
Johnathan drew a breath. “Then we marry. But only if you want it.”
She sighed.
“I am not sure what I want,” she murmured.
“I know.”
A hush settled over the room, the fire popping in the hearth. Then, without looking at him, Frances added, “You snore.”
A reluctant chuckle escaped his lips. “Only when I am content.”
“Thank you for saving me.” She smiled faintly. And the tension between them began to thaw. “I do not mean to be a trial.”
They ate what the innkeeper brought them—a poor meal of boiled potatoes and stew that tasted mostly of salt—but they were too hungry to care. Frances said little, and Johnathan did not press her, though his gaze often lingered on her face, noting the shadows under her eyes, the fatigue she tried so hard to hide.
When the sun slipped beneath the trees and the room dimmed to dusk, he rose and threw another log on the fire. The warmth spread slowly, coaxing a measure of comfort from the chilled room.
Frances stood slowly and unpinned her cloak, folding it neatly and laying it over the back of a chair. She still wore her wedding dress, wrinkled and dirty, yet still elegant. Her hair had come mostly undone in the wind and rain, and loose tendrils curled around her cheekbones.
Johnathan cleared his throat. “I will sleep on the floor.”
Frances looked at him. “Do not be ridiculous. It is freezing, and you are injured.”
“I am fine.”
“You are limping.”
He frowned. Damn her sharp eyes. “I have had worse.”
She crossed her arms. “We are both exhausted. We can share the bed without incident. We are adults.”
Johnathan arched a brow. “Have you not heard the rumors?”
She laughed, soft and unguarded. It stirred something deep in his chest, something he had long buried beneath whisky, women, and the defiant swagger of a wayward duke.
They settled under the covers with a cautious space between them. The silence stretched again, but this time it was not as brittle. It held something warmer—tentative, uncertain.
“Johnathan,” she said.
He turned his head. “Yes?”
“Why did you leave that summer? The one after my brother died.”
The question landed like a blow to the gut, knocking the breath from his lungs.
He exhaled slowly. “Because I was grieving, too. And because I was a coward.”
She did not reply right away. Her fingers twisted in the blanket, and her gaze drifted to the flickering hearth as if searching for courage in the embers. Then, very softly, her voice barely above a breath, she whispered, “I missed you.”
He turned toward her, his voice quiet. “I missed you, too. Every damn day.”
Outside, wind whispered against the panes. Inside, warmth settled between them—not passion, but something like trust, carefully rebuilt.
Johnathan closed his eyes, listening to the quiet rhythm of her breathing beside him, and in that moment, he let himself believe that redemption might not be out of reach.
Frances awoke to the soft crackling of embers and the distant cry of a bird greeting the morning. For a moment, disoriented and warm beneath the coarse wool blanket, she forgot where she was. But the ache in her limbs returned quickly, a cruel reminder of the miles behind them and the uncertainty ahead.
Johnathan had already risen.
He stood near the window, shirt sleeves rolled up, shoulders tense as he peered through the warped glass at the empty lane below. The rising light caught in his hair, casting it in hues of gold and chestnut. For a man who claimed to be a rogue with no conscience, he carried himself like a soldier guarding a citadel. Always alert. Always bearing the weight of something unsaid.
Frances pushed herself upright, drawing the blanket closer. “Did you sleep at all?”
“Not much.” He nodded toward a small table where a valise sat. “I spoke with the innkeeper’s wife. She fetched what she could from the local seamstress. Not much. A brush, stockings… a riding habit.”
She rose and crossed the room quietly. Outside, the mist was lifting, the wet earth steaming in the pale sun. Somewhere beyond the edge of the village, a horse whinnied.
“They will follow the northern road,” he said. “We need to move east. Take the back roads toward Penrith.”
She nodded, then paused. “You sound as though you have done this before.”
His mouth curled, not quite a smile. “Running from my mistakes? Yes.”
Frances looked at him, long and searching. “You do not have to protect me alone, Johnathan. I am capable of looking out for myself, too.”
That made him turn. His gaze locked on hers, unreadable for a moment, then softened. “But I want to.”
Frances lowered her gaze. “Then let me protect you too.”
He did not answer, but something shifted between them. A breath closer.
Downstairs, the innkeeper’s wife offered a plate of eggs and fresh bread, which they ate quickly, grateful for the nourishment. Frances tried not to linger on the tremble in her fingers as she lifted her cup. She had to be strong. For both of them.
After breaking their fast, they went to the stables. The horses were rested, fed, and saddled by the stable boy. Johnathan helped her mount, his hand lingering for the barest second at her waist.
The road ahead forked eastward through narrow woods, damp from the storm. A hawk circled overhead, its cry piercing the quiet.
They rode for some time, the stillness between them growing more companionable. Frances caught herself watching him more than once, memorizing the cut of his jaw, the way he scanned the trees without missing a beat.
“Do you ever regret it?” she asked finally.
He turned his head. “What?”
“Becoming who you are. The scandal. The rakish reputation.”
He gave a quiet huff. “You make it sound deliberate.”
“Was not it?”
He considered. “Some of it. After my father died, even before, if I am being honest, it was easier to embrace what people expected of me than disappoint them with anything real.”
Frances looked ahead. “So you gave them the Duke of No Return?”
He nodded slowly. “But it is a lonely place, Frances. All charm and shadows.”
She understood. Far too well. “And yet you came back for me.”
He did not answer at first. Then, voice low, he said, “I never really left. Not where you were concerned.”
Her breath caught, but she said nothing. The emotion felt too raw to touch.
As they guided their mounts, the sun climbed higher. Birds chirped in the hedgerows, and the fields widened into gentle hills. They passed an old stone bridge, worn smooth by years of travelers. Frances found herself relaxing, if only slightly. The constant thrum of fear dulled, though not forgotten.
By midday, they stopped in a glade to rest the horses. Frances stretched her legs, the hem of her dress damp with dew, and walked a short distance to where wildflowers grew in lazy patches of gold and violet.
Johnathan sat against a tree, his coat folded beneath him, watching her.
She plucked a daisy and turned it in her fingers. “Did you mean what you said last night?”
He looked up. “I meant every word.”
She hesitated. “Even about marrying me, if we reach Gretna?”
Johnathan stood, crossing the grass until he stood before her. He took the daisy gently from her hand and tucked it behind her ear.
“Especially that,” he said. “But I will not force you. You can change your mind at any moment.”
Frances tilted her chin, meeting his gaze fully. “I know.”
Their breath mingled in the still air. He leaned in slightly, and for a moment, she thought he might kiss her. But he did not.
Instead, he said, “We should move. The more distance between us and Cranford, the better.”
She turned toward her horse.
They rode again, the landscape shifting as the afternoon waned. They passed through a small hamlet where children played in the street and an elderly couple sat arm in arm on a bench beneath a hawthorn tree. The simplicity of the moment made Frances ache. Would she and Johnathan ever have such peace?
But the dream was shattered as they rounded the bend into open country and Johnathan suddenly drew up short, his hand raised.
Frances halted beside him. “What is it?”
He motioned toward the far ridge. “Riders. Three of them. Moving fast.”
Her heart leapt into her throat. “Cranford?”
“Or someone else. Either way, they are too close. We need to disappear. Now.”
They turned sharply off the main road, galloping toward the woods.
Behind them, hoofbeats thundered.
Frances bent low, wind tearing at her hair as they darted through narrow trails and over shallow creeks. Her pulse pounded. They could not be caught now. Not when they had come so far.
They crested a hill and descended into a hollow, hooves pounding the soft earth.
Johnathan glanced back. “They are gaining.”
He turned to her, urgency burning in his voice. “There is a village ahead. We will stop there. Lose them in the crowd.”
Frances nodded, teeth clenched.
As they emerged from the trees, she saw the cluster of buildings ahead, stone cottages and a small market square. Smoke rose from chimneys. Church bells rang faintly in the distance.
They galloped into the village, drawing curious glances and startled cries. Johnathan veered toward a livery stable, tossing coin at the bewildered stable hand. “Two fresh horses. Now.”
Frances dismounted quickly, her legs trembling with effort. She turned to see the riders enter the village—three men, cloaked, scanning the square.
Johnathan pulled her into the stable shadows. “Take my coat. Put up your hood.”
She obeyed without question, heart hammering.
The stable boy moved with surprising haste, no doubt well-compensated by Johnathan’s coin, and a few minutes later, they emerged on new mounts. Frances now cloaked in Johnathan’s dark greatcoat, head low.
They rode out of the village slowly, calmly, merging with a group of traders until the buildings fell away and the forest swallowed them once more.
Only then did Frances exhale.
Johnathan cast a sideways glance as they galloped side-by-side. “You always rode far too well for a proper lady.”
Frances smirked, breathless. “You taught me. Remember the hedge jump behind the summer orchard?”
“You broke your ribbon.”
“And beat you by a full horse length.”
He chuckled. “You were fortunate. I was in love with you even then.”
Her cheeks flushed.
Johnathan offered a crooked grin. “Reluctant partnership suits us, do you not agree?”
She laughed, breathless and shaking. “It might be growing on me.”
And though danger still loomed behind them, she let herself believe they might just make it to freedom.
Soon, the road before them narrowed as tall bushes and skeletal trees closed in on either side. The air was thick with the scent of wood-smoke and moss, the air damp, and the wind whispered low across the landscape, as if urging them forward—and warning them not to look back.
Frances pulled the collar of Johnathan’s greatcoat up to better shield her face. The scent of him still clung to the fabric—leather and sandalwood, grounding and strangely reassuring. It reminded her of a summer years ago, riding across an open field with the wind at her back and Johnathan at her side. That comfort now settled over her like a balm—unexpected, but real. Against all logic, he was the one constant in the unraveling chaos of her life.
He led them through a wooded path barely wider than the horses’ breadth, his posture tense, hand resting often near the pistol strapped at his side. Each time a bird rustled a branch, or a squirrel darted across their path, she flinched.
“Are you always this quiet on the road?” she asked softly, needing the sound of his voice.
“I find silence keeps a man alive,” he murmured. “But I will make an exception for you.”
A wry smile tugged at her lips, then faded just as quickly. “Do you think we lost them?”
“Not yet,” he said. “But if we reach the fell road before nightfall, we will have a chance to double back and confuse their trail.”
Frances nodded, though her stomach twisted with dread. “And what if we do not?”
Johnathan looked at her then, something flinty in his gaze. “Then I will fight.”
She did not doubt him. Perhaps that frightened her most of all—that he had already made peace with what he might have to do. That he would fight, or kill, or bleed to keep her free.
The realization tightened her chest. “Do not,” she said suddenly.
He blinked. “Do not what?”
“Do not throw yourself in front of danger for me.”
He arched a brow. “I would rather not be lectured by a woman who stormed into my home in the middle of the night.”
“You were my last hope.”
“And now I am your shield.”
She stared at him, torn between anger and a longing so sharp it left her breathless.
They broke free of the woods and followed a stretch of road that opened into windswept moors. The sky was changing again, clouds thickening and bruising along the horizon.
As dusk neared, they spotted another coaching inn in the distance—less a refuge and more a structure holding its ground against the wind.
“We will need to stay here until morning,” Johnathan said. “The horses are near spent, and I would rather face danger rested than flee half-asleep.”
Frances said nothing, too weary to argue. She was covered in road dust, her body sore, her mind a maze of what-ifs.
Inside the inn, the warmth of the fire did little to soothe the fatigue clinging to her bones. Johnathan paid for a room again—this time with less ceremony. The innkeeper, a wiry man with a crooked smile, paid them little attention. He scarcely glanced up as he accepted Johnathan’s coin.
Their room was smaller than the last—sloped ceiling, shuttered window, and one narrow bed.
“Do not argue,” she said as she entered, catching his glance at the bed. “We will share.”
“That is unwise.”
“I am not some delicate debutante.”
“No,” he said, removing his gloves slowly. “You are far stronger than most men I know. Which is why I will still insist you sleep in the bed and I take the floor. You are exhausted, Frances.”
“And what about you?”
“I will manage.”
She exhaled and sat on the edge of the mattress, her shoulders sagging.
A long silence passed.
“You are as brave as ever,” he said.
She looked up, surprised. “I am not as fearless as I was before…” she trailed off.
“Before they tried to make you a proper lady?”
A soft smile curved her lips. “Precisely.”
“I liked the other Frances better.”
“She never really left. She just learned to hide.”
Johnathan moved toward her then, crouching before her. His hand brushed hers gently. “Do not hide from me.”
The intimacy of the gesture—and the quiet urgency in his voice—unraveled something in her chest. “I have been hiding for so long I am not sure I remember how to stop.”
“Then let me remind you.”
His hand remained over hers. Not possessive. Just there. A quiet tether to something real.
“I still do not forgive you,” she whispered. “For abandoning me.”
“I know.”
“But I want to believe you.”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Then we are halfway there.”
They remained like that for several moments until her eyes drifted shut and exhaustion overtook her.
Later, as she slept in the bed and he kept vigil near the hearth with a pistol at his side, Johnathan stared into the flames, haunted by the shape of the future. He knew Cranford would not relent.
But he also knew this: Frances was not a damsel to be saved. She was a woman reclaiming her power.
And he would see her free, even if it cost him everything.