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Page 7 of Duke of no Return (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #23)

CHAPTER 7

T he storm returned by morning.

Johnathan awoke to the low rumble of thunder, his senses slowly registering the steady patter of rain against the thatched roof. His back ached against the uneven wooden floor, and the sharp scent of damp earth and lingering smoke clung to the air. The chill in the room crept beneath the hem of his coat, and instinctively, he reached for the pistol at his side. Only then did he remember where he was—and who was beside him.

She was still asleep, curled on her side just inches away, her face soft in slumber. One hand rested near his, palm open, as if reaching for something. Or someone.

He had not meant to sleep. He had meant to keep watch. But after the days of near-constant flight, of blood and fear and aching limbs, sleep had claimed him. It was only the sound of her gentle breath and the certainty of the storm outside that allowed his body to give in.

Now, in the hush of morning, he allowed himself the luxury of watching her. Not with lust, though he would not deny her beauty. No, this was something more dangerous.

Frances stirred. Her lashes fluttered, and slowly, she blinked into wakefulness. Her gaze landed on his, sleepy and startled.

“You are staring,” she said, her voice hoarse with sleep.

“You are in my line of sight,” he replied, voice dry.

She sat up, brushing hair from her cheek. “Convenient.”

Johnathan chuckled, but the amusement did not reach his eyes. He pushed himself upright, wincing as pain shot through his side. The riding, the sleepless night, the lack of food, it had all taken a toll.

Frances noticed immediately. “You are hurt.”

“It is nothing.”

“You are a poor liar.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “And yet I still manage to fool most of London.”

She shifted beside him and reached out, her fingers brushing his sleeve. “Let me see.”

He stilled, but did not stop her. She peeled back the fabric, revealing a long, bruised scrape along his ribs. Frances inhaled sharply, her heart tightening at the sight. The wound, raw and darkening at the edges, seemed far worse than he let on. A sudden chill ran through her—what if she lost him? What if one careless moment cost her this man who had just begun to matter again? Her fingers hesitated above the angry mark before she gently laid her hand against his skin, as if the act could soothe not only the wound but the gnawing dread curling in her chest.

Frances inhaled sharply. “You did not say anything.”

“It was not worth mentioning.”

Her fingers were gentle as she examined the wound, the pads of them cool against his skin. Johnathan watched her, the air between them thick.

“What kind of man throws himself into danger without a second thought?” she murmured.

“The kind who would do anything,” he replied. “If it meant keeping you safe.”

She looked up, their faces inches apart. Her breath caught, the intimacy of the moment tightening in her chest. For a heartbeat, she considered all that had changed—how far they had come, what still hung unspoken between them. This close, she could see the flecks of silver in his eyes, the line of strain etched at the corner of his mouth. Her voice, when it came, trembled with the weight of hope and hesitation. “Do not say things like that.”

“Why not?” His gaze held hers.

“Because I might start believing them.”

The tension between them crackled like lightning, sudden and electric.

Frances sat back, creating space, though her hands lingered on her lap as if reluctant to fully withdraw. “You should rest.”

“So should you,” he said.

But neither of them moved.

Later that morning, the storm grew worse.

Rain lashed the windows, and thunder cracked overhead, shaking the shutters. The fire had died down to embers, and the chill of damp earth crept through the hut like an unwelcome guest.

Frances stood near the hearth, arms wrapped around herself. Her cloak had dried, but her dress still clung to her in uncomfortable damp patches.

“We will not get far in this,” Johnathan said, watching the storm from the small window.

She turned. “You are suggesting we stay here?”

“Only until the worst passes. We would be mad to venture out in this.”

She nodded slowly, then approached him. “So we wait.”

He looked at her. “Not quite the thrilling escape you imagined, is it?”

“It is exactly what I imagined. Terrifying. Uncertain. Cold.”

He grinned. “You forgot the part where your rescuer is outrageously pleasing to look at.”

Frances rolled her eyes. “I will add that to the ledger of exaggerations.”

He moved to the hearth, adding what little dry wood remained to the fire. Flames flared, casting golden light across the stone walls.

She watched him from the corner of her eye, her mind drifting dangerously toward thoughts she had tried to avoid: the curve of his mouth when he smiled, the intensity of his gaze, the maddening way he infuriated and reassured her all at once.

She turned away, frustrated with herself.

“When we were children,” she said suddenly, “I used to think you would grow up to be a hero.”

He paused, surprised. “A hero?”

She nodded. “You were brave. Wild. Unafraid of anything.”

“And now?”

She hesitated. “Now I think you are something else entirely.”

He approached her slowly, deliberately. “Something better? Or worse?”

She lifted her chin. “That depends on what you do next.”

The hut, for all its chill, felt oppressively warm. Or perhaps it was only the heat building between them. Frances looked up at him, her voice low. “If you kiss me, Johnathan, there is no going back.”

The air between them didn’t move. Neither did she.

“I know,” he said.

“This cannot be a mistake,” she said.

“It is not.” He reached out, brushing a damp curl from her cheek. “Tell me to stop,” he said, his thumb brushing her cheek with exquisite care. “And I will.”

She leaned forward.

And, he kissed her.

It was not tentative. Not unsure. It was the kind of kiss forged from years of longing, from all the words unspoken and moments stolen. His hands came to her waist, drawing her closer, as hers slid to his shoulders. The world outside disappeared. The storm. The fear. The flight.

There was only this.

The kiss lingered—slow, deep, filled with all the things neither had dared say aloud. When they broke apart, breathless, Frances did not move away. Instead, she lingered, her fingers curling slightly against the back of his neck, as if anchoring herself to the moment. Her eyes searched his face, half-expecting doubt or regret—but there was none. She stayed in the circle of his arms, her forehead resting lightly against his.

“You always were infuriating,” she whispered, the words catching in her throat. A hint of a smile touched her lips, but her eyes shimmered with unspoken emotion—fondness laced with fear, and the quiet ache of letting someone in again.

Johnathan chuckled, his breath warm against her skin. “I will take that as praise.”

She drew back slightly, eyes searching his face. “This changes everything.”

“I am counting on it.”

A hush stretched between them, the kind not meant to be filled with words.

They pulled apart gradually, both aware of the fragile line they walked. Outside, the storm softened to a whisper of rain, tapping gently against the windowpanes as if even nature had exhausted itself.

Johnathan stirred the fire, adding the last of their kindling. Frances moved to the bench near the hearth, wrapping her arms around her knees.

“How far do you think we are from the border?” she asked.

He glanced up. “Maybe two days’ hard ride. Less if we push the horses.”

She frowned. “And if Cranford catches us before then?”

Johnathan’s jaw tensed. “He will not.”

“You cannot promise that.”

“I can promise I will fight to keep him from you.”

Frances did not respond. She stared into the fire.

“I wish I could forget what I saw in his eyes the day in the church,” she murmured. “It was not mere anger. It was worse. Possession.”

Johnathan crossed to her, crouching down, taking her hands. “You are not his to possess. And you never will be.”

Frances looked down at their joined hands, the way her fingers fit into the spaces between his. She swallowed against the rising tide in her throat and let her thumb brush lightly across his knuckles. A breath escaped her—not quite a sob, but not relief either.

“Never,” she echoed at last, the word trembling with conviction.

A flicker of wind stirred the ashes in the hearth, and the scent of rain and ash curled around them like a promise yet to be fulfilled.

Frances looked at his hand. It was rough, callused—hands that had fought, built, broken, and rebuilt. She found strength there.

“You are not what I expected,” she said.

He smiled faintly. “Neither are you.”

The storm passed fully by late afternoon. They packed their things in companionable silence, pausing only when the hush between them grew too heavy.

As they prepared to leave, Frances pulled Johnathan’s coat tighter around her shoulders. She turned to him at the threshold of the cabin.

“If we make it to Gretna…”

“When we make it,” he corrected.

She nodded. “When we make it—do not expect me to be a meek duchess.”

He grinned. “Perish the thought.”

by some stroke of sorely needed luck, Johnathan found their horses grazing nearby.

Frances checked his side again before they left, her hand brushing lightly over the bruised skin. He winced, but said nothing, and she did not press. The wound was there—but it would not stop them.

She mounted with effort, her shoulder still aching, and Johnathan instinctively moved to steady her, his hand resting lightly at her waist. She met his gaze briefly, a flicker of pain quickly replaced by quiet determination. The gesture was not just about balance—it was a reminder that they were no longer facing the road alone. They resumed their journey at a cautious pace, the road slick with rain.

As they traveled deeper into the woods, Johnathan occasionally glanced her way, as though to make sure she was still there. Still real.

And every time, Frances met his gaze with quiet certainty.

They rode side by side through the narrowing path, and while neither spoke of the kiss, both carried its fire with them—steady, dangerous, and impossible to forget.

Night fell quickly.

By the time they reached the edge of a small, mist-shrouded valley, the moon had risen behind tattered clouds. Johnathan found a hollow beneath a rocky outcropping—a place dry enough to rest for the night, shielded from view. They tethered the horses nearby and made a modest camp from their remaining supplies.

Frances sat close to the small fire Johnathan coaxed into life, wrapping her arms around herself for warmth.

“Will you sleep tonight?” she asked, watching him from across the flames.

He glanced up. “I will try.”

She hesitated. “May I stay near you?”

The question was not bold. It was not flirtation. It was raw and open—a request born of fear, of closeness, of the instinctive need for safety.

Johnathan nodded and spread his coat out next to him.

They lay beside each other in the shelter of stone and night, their bodies barely touching, but every inch of space between them brimming with unspoken understanding. He did not reach for her, did not pull her close—but he stayed awake, listening to her breathing, feeling the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath the borrowed cloak.

He wanted to hold her—not with lust, but with reverence. With the ache of a man who had finally found something worth protecting, something he feared losing more than he could admit. Her.

She shifted slightly, her head brushing his shoulder.

“Johnathan?” she whispered.

“Yes?”

“If we make it… If we survive all of this—I do not want to go back to the life I had.”

He turned his head toward her in the dark. “You will not have to.”

“You do not understand. I do not want ballrooms. I do not want marriage for duty. I do not want to be anyone’s pawn.”

“You never were,” he said. “They just tried to make you forget.”

She bit at her lower lip. Then, said, “What do you want?”

Johnathan exhaled. “You.”

The air between them held still, suspended.

“Not the girl you remember,” she murmured, vulnerability threading through every word.

“No,” he said. “The woman you have become.”

Frances was quiet for a long time.

Then she reached for his hand in the dark. Her fingers laced with his beneath the stars.

No kiss. No declarations. Just this moment, where childhood friendship gave way to something deeper. Steadier.

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