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Page 8 of Duke of no Return (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #23)

CHAPTER 8

D awn broke, shrouded in thick fog that clung to the earth.

Johnathan crouched near the fire, the cold biting at his bones as he broke a piece of dry bread. The horses stood tethered under a thicket of trees, steam rising from their flanks as they dozed. Beside him, Frances slept soundly, her breathing even beneath the shelter of his coat. He could not bear to wake her, not yet. Her peaceful face, unmarred by the struggles of their flight, felt like the last thing to hold onto in this madness.

He leaned back on his heels, watching the embers glow low. The fire mirrored something inside him—once dangerous, now banked and smoldering. A quiet heat that refused to go out.

The feel of her hand in his last night lingered like a ghost. He could still recall the exact pressure, the way her fingers had slipped between his as though they had always belonged there. She had not kissed him again. Had not whispered promises. But something had passed between them in that silence—something stronger than any vow.

And it terrified him.

Johnathan stood, brushing crumbs from his fingers. He walked the perimeter of their makeshift camp, scanning the trees. Something was wrong. He felt it in the stillness. No wind. No birdsong. No rustling of deer.

Only breath and fog.

He returned to the fire, his pulse quickening as he crouched beside Frances. He touched her shoulder gently, but there was an edge to his voice when he said, “Frances. Wake.”

She stirred at once, blinking up at him, bleary but alert. “What is it?”

“Trouble.”

He offered no further explanation as he helped her sit up and gather her things. Within moments, she was on her feet, tightening the straps on her pack.

They traveled for nearly an hour without speaking, sticking to narrow deer paths and dry riverbeds. He led the way, Frances riding close behind. Every now and then, she would glance over her shoulder. She felt it, too.

By midmorning, the sun had burned off most of the mist—but the feeling only deepened.

Then he saw it.

Just ahead, where the trail curved around a rise, a movement in the trees.

Too fast. Too still.

He yanked on the reins. “Down!”

Frances obeyed without question, throwing herself from the saddle just as the crack of a musket echoed through the woods. Her horse reared and bolted. Johnathan dismounted hard, drawing his pistol.

Two men emerged from the underbrush, masked and armed.

Highwaymen.

Not Cranford’s footmen—they could be hired cutthroats. Paid by Cranford.

They fired again, the sharp crack of the shot piercing the stillness, a bullet whistling past his ear with a sound that made his blood run cold. He dove behind a fallen tree, scanning for Frances. She was on the ground, crawling toward cover, her cloak catching on thorns.

“Frances!” he shouted, motioning to her. “Circle right!”

She nodded, staying low.

Johnathan fired a shot, hitting one of the attackers in the shoulder. The man dropped with a grunt, gun falling from his hands.

The other took off running—up the ridge and out of sight.

Johnathan did not pursue. Not yet.

He glanced over at Frances, seeing her face set with determination, eyes wide with the realization that this was no longer a life of evasion—it was a fight for survival.

He ran to Frances, pulling her behind a cluster of rocks. Her breathing was ragged, her cheeks streaked with dirt, but her eyes burned with fury.

“That was no chance ambush,” she said.

“No,” Johnathan agreed, voice grim. “He sent hunters.”

“Then we are prey.”

He met her gaze. “Not for long.”

They moved swiftly through the underbrush, abandoning the main trail entirely. Frances walked beside him now, her horse having fled into the woods. Johnathan’s remained with them, but he did not mount. Not yet. The narrow paths were better suited for stealth, and mounted travel would be too noisy.

Every nerve in his body was taut.

The cutthroats were skilled. That meant, if he had been the one to send them, Cranford had shifted tactics. No longer content to chase them through social avenues or public disgrace, he had sent men who knew how to hunt. Men who did not care about the law.

Johnathan clenched his jaw, a deep, simmering rage unfurling inside him. Frances was not a woman merely chased by the whispers of scandal—she was prey, hunted by men who had no honor. And he would not allow it.

They reached a shallow creek and paused. Johnathan helped her cross by hand, guiding her onto the moss-covered stones, noting the way she winced as she stepped.

“You are hurt,” he said.

“I will live.”

He did not doubt her strength—she had proven that—but her limp worried him. That shoulder still had not fully healed, and now she carried new bruises.

“I should have seen them sooner,” he muttered, more to himself than her.

“Johnathan,” she said softly, squeezing his hand as they reached the other bank. “You saved me. Again.”

His eyes met hers, something sharp and unspoken tightening in his chest.

“I swore I would,” he said.

She did not let go of his hand immediately, as though clinging to the one person she had left who could keep the world at bay. She needed him, needed that touch, more than she was willing to admit.

They moved on.

By mid-afternoon, the terrain had changed. Rocky highlands gave way to low, rolling glades, where wildflowers pushed up from damp soil. Trees thinned. The wind returned.

Johnathan glanced skyward. The clouds were beginning to part. They would have a clear night—and be visible to anyone following.

They had to find shelter before sundown.

A half mile ahead, nestled in the trees, stood an abandoned hunting lodge. Weather-beaten, roof sagging, but intact.

He knew the place. Years ago, his father had owned the land and leased it to a family of minor gentry. They had fled abroad after a scandal, and the lodge had fallen into disrepair.

Johnathan led Frances inside, his pistol drawn.

Empty.

No signs of recent habitation. Dust coated the floor. A few tattered pelts still hung from the beams, and a hearth stood cold at the far end of the room. Frances exhaled in relief and crossed to the wall, leaning there with a hand pressed to her side.

“Are you sure this is safe?”

“No place is safe anymore,” he said. “But this will do.”

He gathered wood from the small shed behind the lodge, returning to build a fire. Frances had slumped into a chair near the hearth, pulling off her boots and stretching her legs with a wince.

Neither spoke—not at first.

But as the fire crackled to life and the warmth filled the room, Johnathan lowered himself to the floor across from her, his gaze never leaving her face.

“Are you afraid?” He asked.

Frances looked at him then—not startled. Not pretending. Just honest.

“Yes,” she said. “But not of him anymore.”

Johnathan’s brow furrowed. “Then what?”

She hesitated. “Not of Cranford. Not of death. But of what comes after. Of what we will be. Of what we will not.”

He leaned forward slightly. “You think I will leave you?”

“I think you have spent a lifetime convincing yourself you do not deserve anything permanent.”

He stared into the fire for a moment. Then said, “You are right.”

Frances’s breath caught.

“But I am tired of running,” he said quietly. “From them. From myself. From you.”

She said nothing, but her hand reached across the space between them and settled atop his.

“Then stop.”

He turned his palm to hold hers, a hush folding around them again.

Danger lingered.

But tonight, for now, they were together.

They did not sleep deeply.

Johnathan kept his pistol within arm’s reach, and though Frances lay on a pallet of old blankets near the fire, she stirred often, eyes flicking toward the windows as if expecting shadows to gather just beyond the glass.

The fire dimmed to coals. Outside, the wind shifted. The night grew still.

At first light, Johnathan helped her mount his horse, then swung up behind her. They traveled hard, abandoning the woodland path for a jagged route through shallow marshes and stony moors.

Hours passed. Rain threatened again.

But neither spoke of it. They did not need to.

By dusk, they spotted the gray rise of Scottish hills on the horizon.

Hope.

Johnathan reined in, breath sharp, Frances clutching the saddle before him.

“We are almost there,” he murmured against her ear. “We will make it.”

Frances turned her head. “We have to.”

But even as they watched the border draw near, hoofbeats echoed behind them—three, maybe four riders.

Johnathan pressed his forehead briefly to the back of her neck, then whispered, “Hold on.”

And they rode.

Faster than before. Faster than fear.

Through the rising wind. Toward the promise of freedom.

Toward Gretna Green.

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