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Page 6 of Duke of no Return (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #23)

CHAPTER 6

J ohnathan and Frances set out at first light. The sky had darkened with heavy clouds by the time they trotted beyond the last marker of the previous village. Frances’s heart beat unevenly beneath her cloak, each hoofbeat a reminder of how close they were to the border—and how thin the veil of safety truly was. Her thoughts raced with images of Cranford and his men, of being dragged back to London in disgrace. The scent of damp earth and the hush of impending rain filled the air. The path narrowed through a dense stretch of trees, and the temperature dropped as wind blew through the branches. The horses moved at a steady clip, their breaths fogging the chilly air.

She shifted her hands on the reins, casting a quick glance toward Johnathan. His gaze stayed fixed on the road ahead, shoulders tight.

She did not see the danger yet, but she felt it—gathering like a storm just beyond the hill. “Do you think they are still pursuing us?” she asked, her voice barely above the wind.

Johnathan nodded, his eyes scanning the woods. “If they are smart, they are nearby.”

Frances felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She had barely slept the night before, her dreams haunted by faceless pursuers and the memory of Cranford’s cold, furious gaze at the altar. Her hands trembled despite her resolve.

As the dense trees thinned, the trail opened to a rocky outcrop, revealing a stream and a fork in the road ahead. Johnathan pulled up, dismounting and crouching to study the tracks in the dirt.

Frances followed suit, crouching beside him. “What is it?” she asked, her voice taut with apprehension. Her eyes scanned the surrounding woods as her thoughts raced—was this the moment they would be caught? The whisper of danger in the air suddenly felt tangible, pressing cold fingers to the back of her neck.

“Three sets of hoof prints heading west,” he murmured. “Fresh. Less than an hour ahead of us.”

“Cranford and his men?”

“Possibly. Or perhaps other travelers. Either way, we must remain alert.”

Frances felt her heart stutter. “Then let us proceed east.”

Johnathan nodded. “We will follow the ridge. Harder terrain, but safer.”

They remounted and turned toward the eastern road, more of a path truly, which sloped sharply uphill along brush and loose stones. The horses labored, and they rode in silence again, the air between them tense with unspoken thoughts.

As the light began to fade, a sudden crack echoed through the trees.

A gunshot.

Frances flinched, her horse rearing slightly as Johnathan surged forward, placing himself between her and the tree line.

“Go!” he shouted, drawing his pistol from beneath his coat.

Another shot rang out, striking the earth just inches from his boot.

Frances kicked her horse forward, heart pounding. Johnathan rode beside her, scanning their surroundings.

A group of riders emerged from the woods, masked and armed, their horses thundering down the slope.

“They are trying to cut us off!” Johnathan yelled. “This way!”

They veered right, toward a narrow pass between two hills. Frances ducked low as another bullet whistled past her ear. Panic surged through her, but she forced herself to hold steady.

She heard Johnathan fire in return, the crack of his pistol sharp against the chaos. One of the attackers fell back, his horse stumbling. The others surged forward.

They reached the pass and galloped through, the trail barely wide enough for two riders. Frances heard shouting behind them, but did not dare look back.

Then, without warning, her horse’s hoof struck a loose stone. It slipped.

Frances scrambled for purchase as she was thrown from the saddle, hitting the ground hard.

Pain exploded through her shoulder and side. She tried to rise, dazed, but the world spun.

“Frances!”

Johnathan dismounted, dropping to his knees beside her, heart thundering in his chest. His breath caught at the sight of her crumpled form, his mind reeling with the worst possible outcomes. He reached out with trembling hands, one already stained with dirt and sweat, and cupped her face gently. “Frances,” he said again, the panic in his voice barely contained. The world around him—thundering hooves, the crack of branches, the hiss of wind—faded into a muffled hum. In that moment, she was all he saw. He touched her face, eyes wild. “Where are you hurt?”

“My… shoulder,” she gasped.

He helped her sit up gently, assessing the injury with quick hands. “Allow me to examine it.”

Behind them, the sound of pursuit grew louder.

“We do not have time,” she said through clenched teeth.

“It is dislocated.” He braced her against his chest. “This will hurt.”

She met his gaze, trembling but resolute, and bit down hard on her lip—willing herself to be brave.

With a swift, practiced movement, he popped the joint back into place. Frances screamed, tears springing to her eyes.

“Breathe,” he whispered, holding her close. “Just breathe.”

She did.

Johnathan helped her to her feet. “We have to keep moving,” he said, as he grabbed their valise.

They abandoned the horses, scrambling down the pass on foot, ducking low through the trees. Thunder rumbled above them as they reached a ravine and climbed into a crevice beneath an overhang.

Rain began to fall in heavy sheets, masking their trail.

They crouched low, breath coming hard.

Frances pressed a hand to her shoulder, still trembling. “They will not stop.”

“No,” Johnathan said. “But neither will I.”

Their eyes met in the dimness, and something passed between them—a shared defiance, a bond forged through pain and peril.

“We will rest here until the rain lets up,” he said. “Then we move again.”

Frances nodded, fatigue tugging at her limbs.

Johnathan removed his coat and draped it around her shoulders.

She looked up at him, surprised. “You will freeze.”

“I have survived worse.”

She smiled faintly. “You are forever saying that.”

“And it remains true,” he said, wrapping his arm around her.

As the storm raged on, they huddled close beneath the rock, warmed only by each other’s presence.

When the rain eased to a misting drizzle, twilight had slipped into full dark. The woods were hushed now. The danger cloaked in stillness rather than storm.

Frances stirred beside him. “We should go.”

Johnathan nodded. He helped her stand, and they picked their way down the slick slope, her steps unsteady.

“Do you think they are still close?” she asked, voice low.

“I would be shocked if they had given up,” he said. “But they will not find us easily in the dark.”

“Then let us take advantage of that.”

They made their way back to the main path, sticking to the edges of the trees. After an hour of slow, cautious travel, they stumbled upon a weather-beaten shepherd’s hut nestled in a low glen, half-hidden by brambles.

Johnathan pushed the door open cautiously.

It creaked, but the place was empty. Inside, a pile of firewood sat near a stone hearth, and a few broken chairs leaned drunkenly near a table. Dust coated everything, but it would do.

Frances exhaled slowly. “It is not the Clarendon, but it is shelter.”

Johnathan grinned. “A glowing review.”

She shrugged, wincing slightly. “I am in no state to be choosy.”

He went to work building a fire, and soon, warmth crept into the cabin.

Frances settled onto a blanket near the hearth, her back against the wall. The flickering flames lit her face in a soft amber glow, casting dancing shadows beneath her eyes. Her damp curls clung to her neck, and she looked… vulnerable. But not broken.

Johnathan sat beside her, close but not touching.

“You have indeed done this before,” she said, watching him stir the fire.

“Fled into the wilderness from well-dressed assassins? Once or twice.”

A ghost of a smile curved her lips. “You make light of it.”

He grinned. “Better that than fret over what I cannot control.”

She studied him. “And yet, you came for me.” Her voice was low, probing. “Because control was always someone else’s to wield?”

The question caught him off guard. He leaned back, his expression shifting from teasing to thoughtful. “Partly. My father controlled everything—how I spoke, how I stood, how I breathed. When he died, I could finally choose who to be. So I became someone no one could command.”

“And yet,” she said slowly, “you came for me. Risked everything.”

“I did not think. I just—knew I could not let you go through with it.”

Frances looked down at her hands resting in her lap. “It is strange. I spent so long planning how to escape Cranford. I had ideas, schemes. But not once did I imagine it would be you at the altar.”

“I am flattered.”

“You should be ashamed.”

“I am,” he said, and meant it.

A hush wrapped around them, intimate and heavy.

Then she asked, “What happens when we reach Gretna?”

“You already know the answer.”

“I want to hear it from you. I need to know it is what you want.”

He met her gaze. “We marry. But not because you must. Because you choose it.”

Frances inhaled slowly, then looked down at her hands. A dozen thoughts warred behind her eyes—the fear of binding herself to him—to any man. Her voice quiet but steady. “And if I do not?”

“Then I will make certain you are safe, and I will ride south alone.”

She swallowed hard, heart aching with a mixture of relief and fear. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It is not.” He grinned. “Nothing with you ever has been.”

She reached for his hand, their fingers lacing together in the space between them.

“You once told me I deserved more than a man like you.”

He turned toward her fully. “I was wrong.”

Frances smiled faintly. “I know.”

She had loved him once—years ago, when they had been too young to understand what love demanded. Now, as firelight flickered across his face and exhaustion softened his edges, she realized she had never truly stopped.

Outside, the wind picked up again, whistling through the trees. But inside the cottage, they sat side by side, their bodies warm from the fire and from the closeness they had fought against for so long.

Neither spoke of the danger still stalking them. Not tonight. Tonight, they rested in fragile peace—together.

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