Chapter 4: Shadows on the Road

The wind off the northern fields carried the chill of winter and the scent of ash. France was burning not just its cities and estates, but its very soul.

Amelia Fairbourne rode through the darkness with her cloak drawn tightly around her, the horse’s breath clouding in the cold air. Each hoofbeat echoed like a heartbeat against the hollow silence of the countryside. She had not slept in nearly two days.

Her hair clung damply to her temples; her hands were raw from the reins. Every muscle in her body ached. But it was not the exhaustion that haunted her it was him.

Ryan Ashford’s voice still rang in her ears, that final, torn whisper before she fled: “You don’t understand.”

She had wanted to hate him to curse his name and the stone walls of Château d’Ashford. Yet as the miles passed and the world grew colder, hatred slipped away, leaving only something quieter, sharper.

Loss.

She remembered the young man he had been laughing beneath the apple trees at her father’s estate in Kent, his coat undone, his hair catching the sun. He had spoken of dreams then, wild ones, of building something lasting in a world that offered him nothing. And she foolish, frightened Amelia had turned him away, fearing his ambition more than she feared loneliness.

Now he had everything he’d ever wanted. And she was the fugitive.

A shout broke the silence behind her.

She froze. Voices. Torches flickered far down the road too many to be travelers.

Her heart seized. The soldiers.

With trembling hands, she urged her horse off the main road, plunging into the darkness of the trees. Branches clawed at her cloak; twigs snapped underhoof. She rode until the shouts faded into the distance, until the only sound left was the frantic rhythm of her heart.

When she finally stopped, she was shaking. She dismounted and sank to her knees beside a fallen log, gasping for breath.

For a long moment, she listened to the wind, to the faraway barking of dogs, to the restless whisper of the leaves.

Then she reached into her cloak and pulled out the locket. The small, tarnished thing glinted faintly in the moonlight. Inside, Ryan’s portrait stared back at her the man he had been, not the one she’d left behind in that burning château.

Her throat tightened. “Why did you let me go?” she whispered into the dark. “Or… did you?”

A twig snapped behind her.

Amelia spun, heart in her throat but it was only a boy, no more than fifteen, dressed in rags and clutching a basket of apples. His eyes were wide, fearful, but curious.

“Mademoiselle,” he said softly, his French thick with the rural drawl. “You should not be here. The patrols ride these woods.”

She straightened, trying to steady her voice. “And you? Do they not ride for you too?”

The boy’s gaze flicked to her horse. “They do not waste horses on peasants.”

He tossed her an apple from his basket. She caught it, blinking in surprise.

“For luck,” he said. “You will need it.”

Then, before she could thank him, he disappeared into the shadows.

Amelia stared after him, then down at the apple in her hand. It was bruised, imperfect but still sweet when she bit into it. She chewed slowly, tears stinging her eyes.

When dawn came, she mounted again and pressed on. The road curved toward the coast now, winding through villages where the tricolour flag fluttered over shuttered windows. People moved like ghosts wary, silent, watching.

By midmorning, she reached a tavern on the edge of a river crossing. Her horse could go no farther. She tethered it behind the stables and stepped inside.

The smell of bread and smoke filled the air. A few travelers sat at rough tables merchants, soldiers, a weary mother rocking a child. No one looked up as Amelia entered, but she felt the weight of every unseen gaze.

She ordered broth and sat by the window, trying to still her trembling hands.

Outside, the river glimmered with reflected light. She could almost imagine she was safe until the door opened, and a voice she knew too well cut through the noise.

“Two men. English. Tall. One carries papers sealed by the King’s crest.”

Ryan.

Her spoon slipped from her hand.

He stood near the bar, his back to her speaking in low tones to the tavern keeper, his coat dusted with rain. His face looked drawn, his eyes shadowed.

For a heartbeat she couldn’t move. Every part of her screamed to run but part of her stayed frozen, drinking in the sight of him.

He was alive. And he had followed her.

When the tavern keeper nodded and pointed toward the road, Ryan thanked him curtly and turned his gaze sweeping the room.

Their eyes met.

Time shattered.

For a long, terrible second, neither moved. Then Ryan’s expression shifted shock, relief, guilt all warring in his face.

“Amelia,” he breathed.

She bolted.

The door banged open behind her as she fled into the stable yard. She scrambled into the saddle, spurred the horse forward but before she could reach the gate, a hand caught the reins.

“Amelia, stop!”

“Let me go!” she cried, pulling back hard.

Ryan seized the bridle, forcing the horse to a halt. “Please, listen to me”

“Why should I?” Her voice broke. “You locked me in. You were going to deliver me like a criminal!”

His eyes burned. “And yet here I am, chasing after you like a fool instead of turning you in. Does that sound like a man who wishes you harm?”

She hesitated, trembling.

Ryan stepped closer, lowering his voice. “The soldiers know you’re heading to Calais. They’ve sealed the ports. If you try to cross, you’ll be caught.”

She swallowed hard. “Then what do you suggest?”

“There’s a monastery two days north,” he said. “The friars there still protect refugees. If you reach it, you’ll be safe.”

Her gaze flicked to him, searching his face. “And what of you? You’ll be arrested for aiding me.”

A humorless smile touched his lips. “Perhaps I already have been.”

Something inside her twisted fear, gratitude, love she’d tried to bury. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

Ryan met her eyes, and for the first time since Kent, his voice softened. “Because I couldn’t lose you twice.”

The words hung between them, raw and unguarded. Amelia’s breath caught but before she could answer, the pounding of hooves shattered the silence.

Ryan’s head snapped toward the road. “Too late,” he hissed. “They’ve found us.”

He grabbed her arm. “Go! Ride through the orchard and across the river. Don’t stop.”

“What about you?”

He gave her a faint, bitter smile. “I’ll delay them.”

“No!”

But he was already moving drawing the pistol from his belt, turning to face the oncoming riders. “Go, Amelia!”

Tears blurred her vision as she spurred the horse forward, galloping toward the trees. Behind her, gunfire cracked through the air.

She rode hard, the world a blur of branches and sunlight. At the riverbank, she plunged into the shallows, the horse splashing wildly. The cold bit into her skin, but she didn’t stop until they reached the far side.

When she finally dared to look back, she saw smoke rising over the tavern and no sign of Ryan.

Panic surged. “Please, God,” she whispered. “Don’t let him be”

A figure stumbled from the treeline on the far bank. Ryan. Blood on his sleeve, his coat torn.

Their eyes met across the rushing water.

He raised a hand in silent signal Go.

She shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. But then she heard more shouts more riders approaching.

Amelia pressed a trembling hand to her heart. “I’ll come back for you,” she whispered. “I swear it.”

Then she turned and rode into the mist.

The sky deepened toward dusk. By nightfall, she reached the ruins of an old windmill and took shelter inside. Rain drummed on the broken roof; her hands shook as she tried to start a small fire.

When it caught, she pulled her cloak tighter, staring into the flames. Her mind replayed every moment his voice, his touch, the blood on his arm.

He had saved her.

And now, because of her, he might die.

She drew out the locket again, holding it close. “Forgive me,” she whispered into the fire. “For refusing you… for leaving you… for loving you still.”

Outside, thunder rolled across the hills.

And far to the south, at the burned remains of the tavern, a soldier knelt beside a pool of blood. He lifted a torn scrap of velvet deep blue, embroidered with the Ashford crest.

“Find him,” the officer ordered. “And bring me the Englishman alive.”