“Neither does a dead hostage.” Declan had moved his horse forward, his presence radiating controlled violence. “Ye harm that child, and there’s nowhere ye can run that I willnae find ye. Understand this, I will hunt ye to the ends of the earth and make ye wish ye’d never been born.”
“Such passion for another man’s bastard.”
“She’s mine.” The words came out with absolute finality. “That child is mine in every way that matters. And ye’re going to release her now.”
“Am I?” Violet’s eyes glittered with malicious amusement. “And if I don’t? If I decide a dead daughter is worth more than a living one? The scandal alone would destroy what’s left of the Watson name. Our father would pay handsomely to keep that quiet.”
She was going to do it. Francesca could see it in her sister’s eyes, the cold calculation of someone weighing options and finding murder acceptable. Violet had already killed once. What was one more death?
“Take me instead.” Francesca took another step forward, now within arm’s reach.
“Why would I trade a child for you?” Violet’s laugh was harsh. “Children are so much more effective for inspiring guilt and compliance.”
“Because I’m worth more.” Francesca forced her voice steady even as her heart hammered. “Father would pay more for me than for a grandchild he barely acknowledges. And I won’t fight you. I’ll come willingly if you just let her go.”
She was close enough now to see Eloise’s tear-stained cheeks below the blindfold, close enough to see her daughter trembling. Close enough to act if she could just distract Violet for one crucial moment.
“Francesca.” Declan’s warning growl told her he’d guessed her intention.
“Please, Violet.” She let tears into her voice, let her sister see her desperation. “She’s your daughter. Whatever you think of her, whatever mistakes you made, she’s innocent in this. Let her go.”
“Touching.” But Violet’s grip on the dirk wavered slightly, her attention divided between Francesca and the men positioned around the clearing. “But I think…”
Francesca lunged.
It wasn’t graceful or practiced. Pure maternal instinct drove her forward, hands reaching for Eloise even as Violet’s blade flashedtoward her. She caught Eloise around the waist, spinning to put her own body between the child and the weapon.
“Run!” she screamed at Eloise, shoving her toward where Fraser had already started moving. “Run!”
The dirk sliced across her shoulder, white-hot pain searing through her. But Eloise was moving, stumbling in her blindfold, but moving away from Violet. Fraser caught her, sweeping the child up and away from danger.
Then Violet was on her, fury twisting her beautiful face into something ugly. “You stupid bitch! You’ve ruined everything!”
They fell together, hitting the ground hard enough to drive the air from Francesca’s lungs. Violet’s dirk came down again, and Francesca caught her wrist, straining against her sister’s strength as the blade inched closer to her throat.
“You always had to be the hero,” Violet hissed, spittle flying from her lips. “Always had to be perfect, beloved Francesca. Well, let’s see how perfect you look with your throat cut.”
A roar of pure rage, and suddenly, Violet’s weight was gone. Declan had her by the throat, lifting her like she weighed nothing. His grey eyes had gone black with fury, his face a mask of lethal intent.
“Ye dare.” Each word was measured, deadly. “Ye dare touch me wife.”
Violet clawed at his hand, gasping for air. Her dirk slashed wildly, catching Declan’s arm. He didn’t even flinch, just tightened his grip.
“Declan, don’t—” Francesca tried to sit up, pain lancing through her shoulder.
But Violet made one final, desperate lunge, dirk aimed at Declan’s throat. He moved with fluid grace, turning the blade back toward her with inexorable strength. The weapon found its mark, sliding between ribs with a sound Francesca would hear in nightmares for years to come.
Violet’s eyes went wide with shock. “You bastard.”
He released her, and she crumpled to the ground, the dirk still embedded in her side. Blood spread across the dirt in a dark stain as her breathing turned shallow and rapid.
“Eloise,” Francesca gasped, turning from the horror before her. She ran toward Fraser, who was already lowering the trembling child into her arms.
“It’s all right, darling,” she whispered, wrapping Eloise close, shielding her from the sight behind her. “It’s over. You’re safe now. It’s over.”
“Mama?” Eloise’s small voice cut through the shocked silence. “Mama, are you hurt?”
“No, baby.”
