Page 9 of Duke of no Return (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #23)
CHAPTER 9
B y late afternoon, the storm had passed, but the forest still wore the aftermath of rain like a shroud.
Water dripped from leaves in rhythmic drops, the earth damp and fragrant beneath their boots as they walked beside their mount. The trail had become too narrow and uneven to ride, and their horse was weary. But Frances and Johnathan pressed forward, driven by necessity, and the knowledge that they could not stop for long.
It was just before dusk when they stumbled upon the glade.
Tucked into a dip in the hillside, surrounded by towering beech trees and blooming foxgloves, sat a half-collapsed stone wall and the remnants of what once must have been a shepherd’s station—just enough shelter to keep off the wind and rain. A partial roof. A hearth, scorched and cracked. But dry.
They had been on the road for six days now—six days of shifting weather, narrow escapes, and stolen moments beneath the stars. Frances had lost count of the inns and barns they had hidden in, each one a blur of tension and fatigue.
She ran a hand along one of the old beams and turned toward Johnathan with a tired smile. “This might be the most beautiful ruin I have ever seen.”
Johnathan gave a short, soft laugh. “It will do.”
They worked together. He tethered the horses beneath a tree and unpacked supplies. Frances gathered kindling, her movements slower now, stiff with fatigue. Her shoulder still ached, but she ignored it.
Soon, a fire flickered in the hearth, casting long shadows that danced across the stone. Frances sat down with a soft sigh, drawing her knees up to her chest. Johnathan handed her a tin of food—some salted beef, a crust of bread.
They ate, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the quiet rustle of wind through damp trees.
It was Frances who broke the silence.
“When I was twelve,” she said softly, “I asked my father if I could study in Edinburgh.” He laughed, of course.
Johnathan glanced over at her, but said nothing. He waited.
“Father told me that books were fine for winter afternoons, but my duty was to prepare for a useful match. That it was foolish to think I needed anything more than grace, a husband, and a solid dowry.”
Her voice was calm, but her hands clenched around the tin.
“That night,” she continued, “I snuck into the library and read poetry until dawn. It was the only rebellion I could afford.”
Johnathan leaned back against the wall beside her. “You should have gone.”
“I know.”
They sat together in the hush that followed, broken only by the pop of a log settling in the fire.
“And you?” she asked after a long moment. “What of your father? Your dreams?”
Johnathan stared into the fire for so long she thought he would not answer.
But then he did.
“He said I was a disappointment from the moment I drew breath.” His words were clipped, as if he had rehearsed them a thousand times and still could not dull the sting.
Frances turned sharply toward him. “What?”
Johnathan’s voice was low. Steady. Not emotionless, but restrained.
“He wanted an heir molded in his image. Ruthless. Obedient. Perfect. But I asked questions. I challenged him. When I was ten, I refused to let a stable boy go because my father had accused him of stealing a watch he had never owned. That night, I got a beating and a lesson in obedience.”
Frances reached for his hand, but he did not seem to notice.
“He told me love made a man weak. That compassion was a mask for failure. When my mother died, he did not shed a tear. Just told me to stop ‘pining like a woman.’” He snorted. “I was fourteen.”
A shiver laced through her. “Johnathan…”
He looked at her then, really looked. “I left that house as soon as I was able and did not look back until I became duke. I became what he feared most—a man who could not be controlled. And the more they whispered, the more I fed the rumors. The duels. The debts. The women. All of it. Better they fear me than try to own me. I lived to defy him, to make my own choices. I ran from him, not you. But at what cost?”
Frances reached for his hand again, this time gripping it tightly. She hesitated, her fingers still gripping his hand. The weight of his words pressed down on her chest, and she could feel the conflict in him, the burden of a man who had run too far for too long. “I do not see him when I look at you,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremble in her heart.
“Maybe. But I still wonder how much of him is in me.”
“You did,” she said firmly. “You are not your father, Johnathan. You never were.”
Their eyes met, and for a long moment, the fire reflected in both their gazes—flickering with pain, regret, and the beginning of healing.
“I am tired of hiding,” he murmured.
“Then do not,” she whispered. “Not from me.”
He brushed his thumb against her fingers. “I am unsure what happens next.”
Frances leaned her head against his shoulder. “As am I.”
And yet, in the quiet glow of their ruined refuge, with the night gathering around them and the truth between them laid bare, neither of them needed answers.
Only this moment. Only each other.
Night deepened around them, the darkness outside thick as ink. The forest fell quiet again, save for the occasional hoot of an owl or the rustle of wind through leaves.
Frances drifted from her seat by the hearth to the nest of straw he had laid out on the dry stone floor. She curled on her side, the coat still draped around her shoulders, and watched the flames through half-lidded eyes. Johnathan remained sitting upright, legs stretched before him, gaze distant.
“I never knew,” she said quietly. “How hard it was for you. I only saw the stories—the reputation. But I did not see the man behind them.”
He gave a soft, bitter laugh. “That is all I wanted you to see. The rogue. The reckless duke. The man who could not care less.”
“And yet,” she murmured, “here you are. Carrying the weight of the world and watching over me while I sleep.”
He looked at her, jaw tight. “Because I made a promise.”
“To me?”
“To myself. That if I ever had the chance to undo what I ruined between us, I would take it.”
Her breath caught. “What did you ruin?”
Johnathan rose slowly, crossing to her side. He knelt beside her but did not touch her.
“Do you remember the summer after your sixteenth birthday?” he asked. “You kissed me.”
She flushed, but held his gaze. “And you kissed me back.”
He nodded. “Then I vanished. I read every letter. I burned them—not because I did not care, but because I did.”
Frances’s throat tightened.
“I thought if I let you love me, father would use you to control me. That he would hurt you to punish me.” He shook his head. “So I ran.”
“You broke my heart,” she whispered.
His eyes flickered with pain. “I know.”
He took her hand in his, his grip gentle. “And I have regretted it every day since.”
She stared at him. “Why tell me now?”
“Because I am done being afraid,” he said. “Of my past. Of what I feel. Of you.”
A hush wrapped around them. Not uncomfortable—but charged.
Then she moved—just a fraction closer.
“Do you still love me?” she asked.
His hand trembled as he reached for hers. “Yes.”
Her breath shuddered. “I want to trust in that.”
“I vow to prove it.”
He lay down beside her, not pulling her close, not assuming, but simply being near. She turned into him, her head resting against his chest, and he wrapped his arm around her with aching care.
The rhythm of her breathing slowed.
And with her in his arms, Johnathan Seton, Duke of Hargate, felt at peace.
He awoke before dawn to the soft weight of Frances still curled against him, her head nestled beneath his chin, one arm resting lightly across his chest.
The fire had died down to embers, and the stone walls were cold again, but he did not feel the chill. Not with her there. Not with the warmth of her breath on his skin and the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against his side.
He let himself savor it for a moment.
This.
Not the flight. Not the danger. Just the stillness. The rare gift of being with the woman he had thought he had lost forever.
But dawn waited for no one.
They had miles to go still. Danger at their backs. The border drawing near—but so was Cranford.
Johnathan eased out from beneath Frances, careful not to wake her. He stoked the fire and stepped outside to check the horses. He had been able to obtain a fresh pair yesterday. Dew beaded on every leaf, and the morning sky had just begun to glow with the pale promise of sunrise.
When he returned, Frances was awake and sitting up, her cloak wrapped around her shoulders.
“You left,” she murmured.
“Only to check the horses,” he said. “I did not intend to disappear again. I gave you my word.”
Her eyes met his, tired but open. “I believed you.”
They broke their fast with what remained of their rations, and when the sun lifted above the trees, they resumed their journey—side by side once more.
The forest thinned around midday, and the rugged landscape opened into wide, sloping meadows. Sheep grazed in the distance, and a stone path curled over a ridge toward a narrow valley ahead.
“Is that—?” Frances shaded her eyes.
“Yes,” Johnathan said. “The border road.”
Relief washed across her face—but it did not last.
A sharp whistle pierced the air.
Johnathan yanked his horse around. Behind them, at the edge of the woods, figures emerged—three riders, dark-cloaked, moving fast.
“Ride!” he shouted, spurring forward.
They galloped hard, the sound of hooves drumming like thunder behind them. Frances stayed tight at his side, bent low over her mount, her eyes locked on the ridge ahead.
One of the pursuers closed the gap. Johnathan glanced back and recognized him—a tall man with a scar across his cheek.
“Faster!” he yelled.
But the scarred man raised his pistol.
Johnathan swerved his horse sideways, narrowly avoiding the shot. He twisted in the saddle and fired back—once, twice.
The man veered off with a cry of pain.
Still, the others gained ground.
The last of the riders aimed at her.
Johnathan did not think. He urged his horse sideways, slamming into the attacker, knocking him off balance. They tangled for a heartbeat—hooves, fists, steel—and then the man fell.
Johnathan galloped forward, blood pounding in his ears.
Frances had reached the bridge.
He caught up beside her as the final rider gave up pursuit, vanishing into the trees.
They thundered across the bridge—not just over water, but into freedom. Into something chosen. When they finally reined in at the edge of the village, breathless and whole, the silence between them was not fear. It was wonder.
“We lost them.” She glanced over her shoulder, then dismounted.
Johnathan dropped down beside her. “Yes.”
He had faced pistols and regret and nearly lost her again. But now, at last, the only thing left to fight for was her.
With resolve coiling through him—he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, not with desperate hunger—not to claim, not to calm, but to honor with reverence, with joy.
With love.