He dismounted with a slow, deliberate grace. “I did not come to fight, Hargate. I came to offer a deal.”
Frances’s heart pounded. “What kind of deal?”
Cranford looked at her. “You come with me now, peacefully. And your… companion here walks away. No injury. No ruin. He keeps his reputation. Even his little club of rogues.”
Johnathan laughed—short, bitter. “You think I care about any of that?”
Cranford turned to him. “I think you care about her.”
Frances sucked in a breath.
His gaze slid to Frances. “Your father gave his blessing, signed betrothal papers. You belong to me. And I dare say the duke might even face charges should you refuse me. His title can only shield him so much.”
The world tilted beneath her.
“No,” she whispered.
“Your father thinks you have been compromised,” Cranford said. “And he is eager to protect what remains of your name. He is very… convincing.”
Johnathan’s grip on the reins turned white-knuckled.
Frances caught only fragments—a sharp word here, the scrape of leather there—sounds that blurred as if carried from underwater. Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out everything but the rush of panic.
This was all her fault. She should have married Johnathan the moment they entered Scotland. She had to protect him now. They were outnumbered and ill prepared to fight off Cranford and his men.
Her pulse thundered as her breath came shallow and quick. Her fingers clenched around the reins, knuckles white, her mind grasping at thoughts that scattered like leaves in a gale.
Her father. Her father had signed papers that would condemn Johnathan.
And Cranford—cold, calculating Cranford—stood before her with the gall to pretend mercy.
She looked at Johnathan, willing him to see the love in her eyes. Praying he would understand her decision.
He neither spoke nor moved.
He just stared at her. Not pleading. Not angry.
But waiting.
He would not make the choice for her.
She slid from her horse. Stepped forward slowly, her boots crunching on gravel.
Cranford’s men did not move.
She stopped a few feet from him and looked up.
“I will go,” she said.
Johnathan made a sound behind her. Raw. Almost a curse.
She did not look back.
“I will go with you,” she said again, louder. “But only if you swear—on your name and title—that Johnathan goes free. No harm will come to him.”
Cranford smirked. “So dramatic.”
“Swear it,” she said.
