Page 8 of The Runaway Heiress
When Gray went to hurry down the steps, Sinclair stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Wait. Beaudin’s men.”
Beaudin had had men on her ever since the marriage had been arranged. Two of them were watching now from across the road. Gray had nearly forgotten them. He wasn’t thinking clearly which was dangerous.
“If they suspect a thing, Beaudin might demand to move up the wedding,” Sinclair said very reasonably. “We can’t let them know she’s trying to escape.”
Gray was in full agreement with that, though likely for different reasons. He didn’t want the bastard to get his hands on Sophie. “I’ll follow her.” She was farther down the block now, almost completely lost to the gray of twilight. He had to hurry. “I’ll take her to my room. You take Miss Martine home in her place. We’ll meet back here tomorrow morning and switch them.”
“They’ll never know,” Sinclair agreed. The men had been swilling from a bottle of whiskey ever since they’d gotten here. “I’ll send the carriage around to the back door and sneak the dressmaker in. Go.”
Gray didn’t need further prompting. Aware of Beaudin’s men watching him, he sauntered across the road in the direction of the saloon until they lost interest, probably having assumed he was off duty for the night. The very moment they stopped watching, he hurried down an alley and in Sophie’s direction, determined to find her again.
Chapter Six
Apolitician or corporate figure had graced their table almost every night since Sophie had been informed of her wedding. She was forced to play hostess while Jean bribed his way to lower taxes or cheaper timber. Everything was a game with him as he looked for ways to turn his copper into gold. She had no choice but to don the facade she had become so adept at wearing and be a pretty fixture at the table.
It was a facade that had taken her many years and many punishments to cultivate. She’d been ten when her parents had died in the mine explosion. It had been a Sunday and Jean had invited them to go see the progress being made. No one was supposed to be working. But the dynamite had exploded anyway, leaving Jean unscathed. Three years passed before it even occurred to her that he might have had a hand in the accident. She only thought it then because she’d overheard him arguing with Alexandre, who was fifteen by then and too hotheaded to keep his opinions to himself.
The memory of how badly her brother had been beaten still caused her to shudder. She’d begged him to leave and so he had, with a promise to come back for her. But ever since then she’d had trouble hiding her own suspicions and continuing to be the biddable niece. Her resentment was clear in every word, every action, and it hadn’t taken long for Jean to grow weary of it. She’d felt the wrath of his cane across her legs and back more times than she cared to remember.
Finally, she’d learned to control those rebellious impulses. As long as she played the role he wanted, nothing bad happened. Occasionally she’d still push too far and be struck for it or locked in her room, but nothing like before. It was livable. But with Anton she’d have to learn all over again. And what would be demanded of her would be so much more than she could give.
So while Jean had schemed over those dinners, Sophie had quietly plotted her escape. She refused to live like this any longer. He had left on a trip to visit a mine this morning, and the perfect opportunity had presented itself. Escape was the only way to save herself. She planned to run to her brother in Chicago, but first she needed funds.
This was how Sophie found herself awkwardly arched over a green felt-topped billiard table in the back of Victoria House attempting to sink the last of her balls into the corner pocket. The gaming hell was the only place that might be safe enough for what she had planned. The saloons in town were known to be rough. Victoria House was run by a woman, Glory Winters, and it was rumored that she welcomed women in her establishment. She even provided protection in the form of doormen who kept a watchful eye over the crowd. It was the first place Sophie thought to go.
A bead of nervous sweat rolled down her back causing an itch between her shoulder blades that was destined to go unattended to. For the first time that night her scheme seemed like a badidea. The mood of the crowd that had gathered to watch the spectacle had gone from revelry after the first game she had won to something darker.
For the life of her, Sophie did not understand exactly what had precipitated the change. But her fingers twitched around her cue stick in awareness, and she straightened, pretending to assess the shot from a different angle. The hum of conversation resumed somewhat.
The crowd had moved too close, forcing her to brush against them on her way around the table to take the shot from the other side. The wall on that side was much too close to afford many unhampered shots but she sought the sanctuary it offered more than anything else. Just on her way around the last corner, a large hand shot out from the crush and fitted itself to her hip. She was too shocked to protest and then a low voice behind her said, “Throw the shot.”
Gray! It was unmistakably his voice. He hadn’t spoken to her directly since the night of their kiss, but she recognized it.
She froze. Then she frowned because it meant they—her uncle’s gunslingers—knew she was here and if they did, so would her uncle. And she had planned her escape so carefully. Despair held a death grip on her lungs, but she refused to give into it. She might have been found but she hadn’t been captured yet. Her gaze flicked to the two piles of cash resting under a heavy marker on the table’s bank at the other end. Her contribution had been desperately hidden away one dollar at a time over the years.
It represented freedom and it was hers if she sank the shot.
She moved to continue, ignoring Gray, but his hand moved to her wrist in a grip that refused to be ignored. “We’ll never make it out of here if you don’t.”
That made her look over her shoulder at him. Gray wasn’t looking at her but at the other end of the table. He merely nodded toward to the group situated behind the cash. Jeb, theman she was competing against, stood there in deep discussion with a few rather unfriendly looking characters. Those men had not been there earlier. Not when she’d beaten Jeb in the first game ten minutes ago and certainly not when he had so graciously proposed a double or nothing scenario.
Jeb looked back at her, a deep scowl darkening his features, and her heart sank. He was angry. And then the group around him looked at her and she actually blanched. Something menacing gleamed deep in their eyes.
“The lady forfeits.” Gray’s voice carried loud and strong across the table and over the din of the crowd.
Sophie immediately took exception to his interference and opened her mouth to say so but then closed it, mentally evaluating the possible outcomes. If she sank the shot, would she be allowed to walk away unscathed? The looks the men gave her suggested not.
“Does she know that?” Jeb laughed, a hollow sound without mirth. He pushed his greasy hair back from a brow that was prematurely creased from years in the sun. She had pegged him for a ranch hand, but outlaws also spent a lot of time outdoors.
Gray came around her then and she found herself pushed behind his shoulder. The movement was so abrupt that the veil of her hat came tumbling down over her face. She had borrowed the whole ensemble from Martine as a means of escaping from the dress shop undetected. She pushed up the stiff lace so she could see.
“Doesn’t matter. She forfeits,” Gray said.
Sophie was grudgingly beginning to accept that Gray’s assistance was needed to get her out of the situation, but hearing herself relegated to an insignificant detail was more than she could take.
“Now—” She started to interject but his hand pressed lightly against her stomach and halted anything she might have said.
“Just who are you?” Jeb persisted.
