The rain lashed at Eleanor's face as the horse thundered through the night, its hooves a relentless drumbeat against the muddy road. Nathaniel's arms encircled her, his chest a solid wall at her back, his breath ragged against her ear as he urged the mare onward. London's edges blurred into shadow—Stepney's squalor giving way to sparse hamlets, then open fields swallowed by darkness. The Red Lion was a memory, its raucous din replaced by the storm's howl and the creak of leather. Eleanor clung to the saddle, her cloak sodden, her heart a wild thing in her chest. She'd leapt, and there was no turning back."Hold tight," Nathaniel shouted over the wind, his voice a lifeline in the chaos. "We're not clear yet."She nodded, though he couldn't see, and pressed herself closer, the heat of him a stark contrast to the cold seeping through her clothes. The road east was a gamble—away from the Admiralty's immediate reach, toward the coast where he'd hinted at allies. But Crowe's betrayal loomed like a specter, and every shadow could hide a pursuer. She trusted Nathaniel, though—his steady hands, his unyielding resolve—and that trust was all she had to anchor her now.They rode for what felt like hours, the rain easing to a drizzle, the mare's pace slowing as exhaustion set in. The landscape shifted—rolling hills, skeletal trees, the distant bleat of sheep. Nathaniel reined in near a copse of oaks, their branches a canopy against the fading storm. He slid from the saddle, boots sinking into the mud, and offered a hand to help her down. Her legs wobbled as she dismounted, stiff from the ride, and he steadied her, his grip firm on her waist."You alright?" he asked, his eyes searching hers in the dim light. Rain streaked his face, plastering his dark hair to his brow, and the scar on his jaw gleamed faintly."Cold," she admitted, her teeth chattering. "But alive. Where are we?""Near Epping," he said, releasing her to tether the horse. "Far enough to breathe, not far enough to rest. There's a barn ahead—abandoned, last I knew. We'll hole up till dawn."She followed him through the trees, the ground slick beneath her boots, her skirts dragging in the wet grass. The barn loomed ahead, a sagging relic of weathered wood, its door hanging ajar. Inside, the air was musty, thick with the scent of old hay and damp earth, but it was dry. Nathaniel lit a small lantern from his satchel, its glow casting long shadows across the straw-strewn floor. A ladder led to a loft, and he gestured her up."Warmer up there," he said. "I'll keep watch below."She climbed, the rungs creaking under her weight, and found a nest of hay in the loft, a rough blanket folded in a corner—someone's forgotten refuge. She spread it out, sinking into the straw, and called down, "You're not staying down there. It's freezing."He hesitated, then climbed up, his movements weary but deliberate. He settled beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed, and set the lantern between them. The silence stretched, broken only by the drip of water outside and the mare's soft snorts below. Eleanor pulled her cloak tighter, the chill lingering in her bones, and glanced at him. His face was taut, lines of strain etched deep, but his eyes softened as they met hers."You didn't have to do this," he said quietly. "Run with me. You could've stayed—played the lady, let me take the fall.""I could've," she agreed, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear. "But I didn't want to. You're not the only one who doesn't bow, Nathaniel."A faint smile curved his lips, and he leaned back against the wall, his coat open to reveal a shirt clinging to his chest. "You're stubborn as hell. I should've known that at the ball.""You should've," she said, a spark of humor breaking through her fatigue. "I don't dance to anyone's tune—not my father's, not Haverford's, not even yours.""Good," he murmured, his gaze holding hers. "I'd hate to tame you."The air shifted, a current running beneath his words, and she felt it in the quickening of her pulse. They were alone, truly alone, no ballroom or ship or tavern to buffer them. Just straw, a flickering lantern, and the unspoken pull that had drawn her here. She shifted closer, the hay rustling, and his breath hitched, a subtle sign he felt it too."Why me?" she asked, her voice softer now. "You could've warned me and left. Why bring me along?"He looked away, then back, his eyes dark with something raw. "Because you see me—not the hero, not the scandal, just the man. And because I couldn't leave you behind, not after you chose this."Her throat tightened, and she reached out, her fingers brushing his hand. "I see you, Nathaniel. And I'm here."He turned his hand, lacing his fingers with hers, his skin rough against her softness. The touch was electric, a tether in the storm, and for a moment, they simply sat there, the world shrinking to the space between them. Then he pulled away, standing abruptly, his jaw tight."We need rest," he said, his voice gruff. "I'll take first watch. Sleep, Eleanor."She wanted to protest, to pull him back, but the weariness in his frame stopped her. "Wake me in a few hours," she said instead, lying back on the blanket. "I'll take my turn."He nodded, descending the ladder, and she closed her eyes, the hay prickling through the fabric. Sleep came in fits, her dreams a tangle of hoofbeats and blue eyes, and when she woke, the lantern was dim, the barn silent save for Nathaniel's steady breathing below. She crept to the edge of the loft, peering down. He sat against a post, head tipped back, asleep despite his promise.A smile tugged at her lips, and she climbed down, careful not to wake him. She took his coat from the floor, draping it over his shoulders, and settled beside him, her back to the post. The night stretched on, the rain a faint patter now, and she kept watch, her thoughts drifting to the road ahead. Epping was a pause, not a haven—Crowe's treachery and the Admiralty's pursuit would find them soon enough. But for now, they had this: a stolen moment, a shared defiance.Dawn crept in, gray and reluctant, and Nathaniel stirred, his eyes blinking open to find her there. "You didn't wake me," he said, his voice rough with sleep."You needed it," she replied, meeting his gaze. "And I managed."He sat up, the coat slipping, and rubbed a hand over his face. "You're something else, Eleanor Ashwood.""So are you," she said, a quiet truth.He stood, offering a hand to pull her up, and they stepped outside, the mare nickering as they approached. The sky was clearing, a pale sun breaking through, and Nathaniel scanned the horizon, his posture alert. "We'll head for Tilbury," he said. "A friend there owes me a favor—smuggler, but loyal. He'll hide us till we know the lay of the land.""Tilbury," she echoed, mounting behind him as he swung into the saddle. "How far?""Half a day, if we're lucky," he said, spurring the horse forward. "Keep your eyes open—Crowe's not the only one who'd sell us out."The ride was quieter now, the storm spent, but tension rode with them. Eleanor's arms circled his waist, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, and she felt the steady beat of his heart beneath her hands. It was a comfort, a promise, and as the miles unrolled—fields giving way to marsh, then the distant shimmer of the estuary—she let herself imagine a future beyond the chase. Not a lady, not a captain's wife, but something new, forged together.By midday, Tilbury's rough sprawl came into view—docks, taverns, a fortress brooding over the Thames. Nathaniel guided them to a narrow street, stopping at a weathered house with a red door. He knocked thrice, a pause, then twice more, and the door cracked open, revealing a man with a scarred lip and a wary grin."Grey," the man said, stepping aside. "You look like hell. Who's the lass?""Eleanor," Nathaniel replied, ushering her in. "She's with me. Can you keep us?""Aye," the man—Tom, he called himself—said, eyeing her with curiosity. "For a price. Admiralty's got your scent, mate—word's out.""I'll pay," Nathaniel said, dropping a purse of coins on the table. "Food, beds, and silence."Tom nodded, pocketing the money, and led them to a back room—small, with two cots and a cracked window. "Rest here. I'll fetch grub."When he left, Nathaniel sank onto a cot, exhaustion carving lines into his face. Eleanor sat beside him, the closeness a balm after the road. "What now?" she asked."We wait," he said, his hand finding hers again. "Tom'll hear what's stirring—Crowe, the Admiralty, the Wing. Then we plan."She squeezed his fingers, a silent vow. "Together?""Together," he confirmed, his voice a low rumble.The room was quiet, the world held at bay, and as Tom's footsteps faded, Eleanor felt the weight of their flight ease—just enough to breathe, just enough to hope.
