Page 1 of The Runaway Heiress (The Gilded West)

Chapter One

M arried?

Sophie closed her eyes and prayed that she had heard him wrong. Then she counted to ten in an attempt to dispel the anger she could feel rising within her. Experience had taught her that it was never worthwhile to show anger when her uncle was in one of his moods. And he was in rare form today.

She opened her eyes to see him relaxing in the leather wing-backed chair, gazing at his cigar with a self-satisfied smile curving his lips.

Having just delivered the blow orchestrated to finally break her, he had every reason to smile.

He crossed his legs and picked up the tumbler of cognac from the marble-topped table beside him and took a sip, seeming to forget she was there and that he had just ruined her life.

She hated him.

“Oncle Jean, perhaps I misheard—”

“ Non, cherie, you heard me correctly. Your wedding will be next month. Anton and I have already discussed the matter. The specifics can be worked out later. Nothing too large. An intimate gathering will suffice. You’ll need to have a gown made, but I’m sure an arrangement can be made with Martine to have it finished in time.

There will be no need for a Worth gown for such a small celebration, non?

If only your mother hadn’t run off to marry that Scot, she would have had a proper gown to pass down to you, but… ” His words ended on a sigh.

Sophie refrained from pointing out the Scot had been her father and had her mother not run off to marry him the conversation would be moot.

“Well, what can we do?” her uncle continued.

“She did what she did, and I do owe her a debt, do I not? I am here now and not in France, and look at my good fortune.” He gestured to the room, with its frescoed ceilings, exotic wood floor and gilt-trimmed furnishing; it was the epitome of excessive opulence.

Then his gaze lit on her and he gave the smile she hated: worse than smug, this smile was dead.

“And I repay a little of my debt every day.”

He meant that he repaid the debt by raising her and her brother. He had become their guardian after her parents’ untimely death, which meant that he lived a life of luxury on the wealth generated from their copper mine.

“But Monsieur Beaudin is…is…” Old. Repulsive. Abhorrent. Each descriptor was more fitting than the last, she had trouble choosing just one.

“Careful, cherie, he is my dearest friend.”

Sophie looked at her uncle in his coat of maroon velvet, his garish neckerchief, his pale skin and graying hair slicked back with pomade, and thought he could have been Monsieur Beaudin sitting there for all the difference there was between them.

Many of the ladies in town thought him handsome, but she saw only the evil lurking beneath the surface.

“Oncle, you mistake me. I was merely going to point out that he is too sophisticated for a girl who lacks sophistication. While you have been more than kind to take me in, that is what I am having never left Helena, and one never really strays far from one’s roots, no?”

A vein twitched in his temple and she knew her barb had landed.

She couldn’t check the cowardly impulse to glance at the silver hawk’s head of his walking cane where it was propped against his chair.

Perhaps it was suicide to remind him that he came from Le Marais, a slum in Paris, but recklessness was as much a part of her nature as this forced deference was foreign to it.

Being from the same slum, her mother never would’ve had a proper wedding gown, anyway.

“Rejoice that I have found a Frenchman willing and gracious enough to overlook your many shortcomings. You will be a good wife to him, Sophie, or you will answer to me for it. Do you understand?”

All pretense of civility had fled, leaving his eyes cold and flat.

The look he gave her now was the look that had earned him free rein in the copper mines in this region of the territory.

His only rivals were the Jamesons. They had long ago divided the valley and mountain range between them in a precarious agreement that was like a box of dynamite on the verge of ignition.

“Oui. Could I telegraph Alexandre? He should come to the ceremony.” She had not seen her brother since he’d been forced to sign over his inheritance. Their uncle had sent him off to Chicago under the guise of educating him. That had been about five years ago, though Jean gave her regular updates.

His good humor restored by her compliance, her uncle smiled and took a puff of his cigar. “I will see that he is notified, but you may write a letter to post if you wish.” Finished with the conversation, he said, “The Nelsons’ ball is at nine tonight. Be ready.”

Sophie stood to take her leave. “Merci, Oncle.” It was her customary closing with any of their conversations.

Thank you, Uncle. Thank you for taking me in after you murdered my parents. Thank you for allowing me breath one more day. Thank you for not committing most of the unspeakable crimes against me your soulless eyes promise you are capable of perpetrating.

Yet.

She hated him! If only her life didn’t stretch out before her as one endless act devoted to playing out the whims of that monster.

Already, the sounds of despair and anger that she’d had trouble containing were threatening to escape her throat, causing her shoulders to shake with the effort of subduing them.

She closed the door to his study, intent on fleeing to her room.

But when she turned, something solid and decidedly masculine blocked her path.

Without even looking, she knew who it was. Gray. She was always so preternaturally aware of him; every fiber of her being knew when he was near. Today he was Jean’s sentry. How had she not noticed him on her way into the study?

Strong hands came up to her waist to steady her. She slowly looked up at him, unable to so quickly hide the wetness in her eyes and the misery lurking behind them.

“Breathe.”

His voice poured over her, further igniting the prickling recognition she had no right to feel.

It was an awareness that went much deeper than the simple fact that she had heard his voice many times before.

Her fingers curled against his strong chest, begging to stroke him, to take some comfort from him, the man she had come to think of as her favorite.

Instinctively, her body did as he commanded.

She sucked in a deep breath while allowing her gaze to trace his face and luxuriate in the rare chance to study him.

He was stoic, forbidding like the rest of her uncle’s gunmen, and handsome.

Her gaze touched his strong jaw, blade-straight nose, and sculpted cheekbones.

There was a touch of brown in his complexion and midnight in his hair which bespoke a native heritage.

He was breathtaking. She sometimes wondered if that alone was the reason she was so fascinated by him, but then he would speak and prove her wrong. There was so much more to him.

“Did he hurt you?” His gaze touched every part of her face, leaving her skin hot and tingling where it lingered.

That look was the perfect example of what drew her to him.

It was full of genuine concern. He was the only one who looked at her as someone who might be in pain or need help.

He gave her a glimpse of what it might be like to feel cared for and safe, even though the very idea of safety was wrong.

If Jean ordered any of his men to remove her as a threat, none of them would hesitate. Gray included.

She shivered, reminding herself to never forget that her uncle only employed men he had thoroughly vetted. They were completely loyal to him. But still…she couldn’t step away.

“No, he didn’t. I’m fine.” But then she shook her head because she wasn’t fine at all. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. The back of her throat ached, and she swallowed past the lump that had formed there.

“Just breathe in.” His hands began to lightly stroke up and down the length of her back. Again her body obeyed his command and she took in a deep gulp of air. “Now let it out slowly.”

His startling gray eyes held hers as he bid her repeat the process two more times. He was so confident in his soothing commands that the tension began to seep from her body. The feeling of security inexplicably made her confide her trouble to him.

“I’m going to be married. I don’t…” But her voice trailed off when his eyes narrowed.

“When?” The question was a breath between them.

“In a month.” Oh, God, only weeks away! She bit the inside of her lip to keep it from trembling.

For a moment there was nothing, no response, nothing flickering in his eyes. There was only the sound of his breathing, slow and even. She fancied she felt it caress her cheek, but it was a ridiculous thought to savor now when her world had been pulled out from under her.

“Who’s the groom?” The muscle in his jaw tightened and he clenched his hands almost possessively at her waist.

“Monsieur Beaudin,” she whispered.

“He doesn’t deserve you.” The words were so emphatic and blasphemous, spoken there in the hallway just outside her uncle’s door, that they shocked her. Did he know? Did he have any idea that she was a prisoner in every sense of the word?

She searched his face, looking for the meaning behind them, but the momentary ferocity brought about with those words had gone and his handsome face was impassive again.

Still, she couldn’t stop the flush of pleasure they evoked as she settled on his eyes.

They were dark like the clouds of a thunderstorm. She’d never seen anything like them.

“Who would deserve me?” She hadn’t meant to ask, but his intense stare had hypnotized the question from her.

That stare never wavered when he answered. “Somebody who’ll take care of you.”

His words were so pleasing she closed her eyes briefly to revel in them.

She’d almost forgotten what it meant to be taken care of, to not wake up every morning and battle the fear that constantly plagued her.

Life with Anton would be a gross continuation of her life with Jean.

Never knowing when she might displease him.

Never knowing when a remark might provoke him to strike her or give her a week locked away in her room with scarcely enough food to sustain her.

She’d learned to gauge Jean so those things rarely happened now, but with Anton she’d have to start over.

But Gray… She took in a long, shuddering breath.

Gray was a protector. The woman who was lucky enough to be his would never know fear.

There would be so much more. It was those thoughts of more that made her become aware of the impropriety of their near-embrace and slowly push herself away from him.

His hands dropped from her waist with a lingering caress that she imagined was intentional, while her own hands reluctantly returned to her sides.

“I’m afraid the question of my care doesn’t figure into things.

” She attempted a parting smile. “Thank you.” And she started to walk past him, but his eyes held hers a little longer.

There was something deep and longing there, but impossible to explore.

So she walked to the stairs while trying to pretend that she couldn’t still feel his hands on her, that she wouldn’t perpetually relive that brief moment in his arms. It was the only time he had touched her, and she knew she’d never forget it.