“She’d also be miserable and unloved.” Krista moved to stand beside her. “Ye gave that child somethin’ precious, a mother who would fight for her. That’s nae nothin’, Me Lady.”
Through the window, Francesca could see Declan mounting his stallion, his movements sharp and controlled. Even from this distance, the fury radiating from him was palpable. He said something to Fraser that made his cousin nod grimly, then the group of riders wheeled their horses toward the gates.
“He’ll find her,” Betsy said quietly. “I’ve never seen the Laird like this, so coldly furious. Whoever took the wee lass will wish they’d never been born.”
Francesca pressed her hand to the glass, watching until Declan and his men disappeared beyond the castle walls. “He loves the little girl.”
“What’s that, Me Lady?”
“When he was organizing the search. He said, ‘No one takes what’s mine.’ He meant Eloise.” The realization made her throat tight. “When did that happen? When did he learn to love her?”
“The same way ye did, I’d wager,” Krista said with surprising gentleness. “The Laird doesnae give his heart easily, but when he does, it’s fierce and complete. He’ll move heaven and earth to bring that child home.”
“And if he can’t?”
Neither maid answered because there was no comfort in false promises.
Time crawled by with agonizing slowness. Lady Gretchen arrived within the hour, taking one look at Francesca’s pale face before pulling her into a fierce hug.
“They’ll find her,” her aunt said with absolute certainty. “That laird of yours is not a man who fails.” Lady Gretchen guided her to a chair. “Now, tell me everything. When was she last seen? What did the note say? Has Declan formed a plan?”
Francesca recounted what little she knew, her voice mechanical as she forced the words past numb lips. Lady Gretchen listened intently, her sharp eyes missing nothing.
“Ransom,” she said finally. “That’s something at least. They want money, not to harm her.”
“They threatened to kill her if Declan doesn’t come alone.”
“Which is precisely why he’ll bring half the clan with him, I’d imagine. Your laird doesn’t strike me as a man who follows orders from kidnappers.” Lady Gretchen patted her hand. “He’ll outsmart them. Wait and see.”
But waiting was torture. Every minute that passed was another minute Eloise spent terrified and alone. Another minute where anything could go wrong. Another minute, Francesca couldn’t protect her.
“I should have checked on her earlier,” she whispered. “I should have looked in on her when I woke instead of assuming she was sleeping late.”
“And if you had, you might have been taken too,” Lady Gretchen said sharply. “Then where would we be? Stop torturing yourself with should-haves and focus on what comes next.”
“What comes next?”
“We wait. We trust. And we prepare to welcome that child home with all the love and comfort she’ll need after this ordeal.” Her aunt’s voice softened. “She’ll need ye to be strong, Francesca. Not broken by guilt that isn’t yours to carry.”
Francesca nodded, but the words rang hollow. Because the truth was simple and devastating: Eloise was gone, taken by someone who meant her harm, and Francesca was here—safe behind castle walls—while her child faced unknown dangers alone.
Please let Declan find her. Please bring her home safe.
19
“Me Laird, we’ve already sent scouts to the village. No one saw strangers pass through last night.” Fraser stepped forward, his weathered face grim.
“Then they didnae go through the village.” Declan swung himself into his saddle with lethal grace. “Fraser, take the eastern roads. I’ll cover the north. Send runners between groups; the moment anyone finds a trace, I want to ken.”
“What about the meetin’ point?” Fraser asked quietly. “The old kirk. Should we position men there in advance?”
“Aye, but hidden. I want eyes on that place from every angle.” Declan’s grey eyes were hard as winter steel. “These bastards think they can dictate terms to me. They’re about to learn otherwise.”
The men mounted up, their faces set with the same cold fury their laird displayed. This wasn’t just about retrieving a kidnapped child; this was personal. Someone had violated MacGhee hospitality, had stolen from under their laird’s protection. That demanded blood.
“Move out!” Declan’s command sent horses surging forward, hooves thundering against cobblestones as they split into search parties.
They rode hard, covering miles of Highland terrain with ruthless efficiency. Declan pushed his stallion to the edge of endurance, his mind cataloging every detail of the landscape—places to hide, paths to escape, ambush points where cowards might wait.
