Bounty Hunter's Bride. Carol Finch
to Cale Elliot. He looked too rugged for her tastes, and she naturally assumed from his appearance that there would be nothing gentle or enjoyable about his embrace. He certainly hadn’t showed any tendencies toward tenderness when he’d clutched her to him, then searched her for weapons as impersonally as he might search a criminal.
The question was how determined was she to marry? Determined enough to sacrifice her innocence to a stranger who would take what he wanted from her and likely give nothing in return?
The thought caused Hanna to shiver, and she reflexively reached out to flip the thin bedspread over her shoulders. She lay there for a moment, asking herself just how much she was willing to sacrifice for her long-awaited freedom. She’d come this far. She’d given up all that was familiar and comfortable, but she was not returning to her father’s home to marry Louis Beauchamp, no matter how many French titles his uppity ancestors had flaunted.
Hanna drifted off to sleep, knowing that she would meet Cale Elliot’s stipulations, as distasteful as subjecting herself to his lusty pleasures would undoubtedly be. It was only one night, she consoled herself. She could endure that sort of physical torture for one night, couldn’t she? After all, nothing worth having came without a price, did it? This was the price she had to pay to call her life her own.
Her freedom and independence were worth it.
Walter Malloy stormed to the far end of his elegantly furnished study, wheeled around, then stalked back in the direction he’d come. Curse that devious daughter of his! He’d thought he’d finally got that willful girl under his thumb and convinced her to wed the man of his choice. Walter had found the perfect social match, but Hanna had defied him.
When Walter had stood at the church a few days earlier, staring in disbelief at the open window and realizing Hanna had fled, he’d vowed all manners of punishment when he located his runaway daughter. He would never forget the humiliation and embarrassment he’d suffered when he was forced to enter the sanctuary and announce to the guests that the wedding had to be postponed.
Walter scowled sourly and pivoted to wear another path on the imported Aubusson carpet. He’d been left to deal with Louis Beauchamp’s outrage and indignation. Even Walter had gotten sick of hearing how the entire lineage of Beauchamps had never been left at the altar, and that Hanna’s deceit ranked right up there with high treason.
Gad, what a disaster! By the time Louis had finished ranting and raving about the potential shipping monopoly being null and void if Hanna didn’t return to voice a public apology and follow through with the wedding, Walter was in the throes of a full-blown headache—and it hadn’t let up yet!
The quiet rap at the door prompted him to lurch around and glare at the agent he’d sent to locate Hanna. “Did you find that ungrateful child of mine?” he boomed.
Rutherford J. Wiley stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “No, sir, I’m afraid not. Miz Hanna seems to have vanished into thin air. I checked the train depot, shipping yard and riverboat depot, but her name didn’t appear on any of the passenger lists.”
“Well, of course not, you dolt!” Walter bellowed. “You think she’d traipse off, dragging her real name behind her?”
The agent shrank as Walter’s buglelike voice ricocheted off the walls. “Of course not, sir.”
Walter’s stubby arm shot toward the door, as if the feather-brained hireling didn’t have enough sense to know where it was. “Wire the Pinkertons immediately,” he barked. “Give them my daughter’s description. Instruct them to name their price, and I’ll double it. I want every available detective on this case and I want them now!”
“Yes, sir, at once, sir.” Rutherford spun on his heels and scurried through the foyer posthaste.
“Hell and damnation,” Walter muttered as he resumed his restless pacing. He’d lost his only son, the child who was to become the heir to the vast fortune Walter and his wife, Clarissa, had amassed. Now his wife was gone and he was consumed with such grief that there were times Walter swore constant work was all that kept him from losing his mind. He was left with a daughter whose appearance reminded him so much of his beloved Clarissa that staring too long at Hanna caused his heart to squeeze painfully in his chest.
Now even Hanna had abandoned him, and Walter had the raging Louis Beauchamp breathing down his neck, vowing all sorts of revenge if the missing bride didn’t turn up within the month.
Walter threw himself into his chair to brood. When he got his hands on Hanna, he swore he’d never let her out of his sight for a minute until she’d been delivered into Louis’s hands and had spoken her wedding vows. Then she’d be Louis’s headache, and Walter would gladly relinquish his responsibility.
Other men had dutiful daughters who honored and respected their fathers’ wishes. Why was he stuck with an unruly misfit who’d been taught her place but refused to remain in it?
Cale waited until he heard the quiet click of the door across the hall before he gathered various weapons and tucked them into his boots, at the small of his back and inside the sleeve of his buckskin shirt. Then he strapped the double holsters around his waist and tied the wicked-looking Bowie knife to his thigh. He’d armed himself to the teeth for so long that he felt naked without the feel of cold steel resting against his skin.
When he was sure Sarah—or whatever her real name was—had made it to the staircase, he opened the door and stepped into the hall. Cale had no intention of damaging the woman’s reputation further, if they didn’t reach an agreement. Escorting Sarah downstairs would send gossip flying. Cale was too well known in town, and she was so stunningly attractive that he suspected she drew considerable attention and speculation without unnecessarily linking her name to his.
Cale halted at the head of the steps and watched Sarah descend to the lobby. Sure ’nuff, she was already the object of scads of male attention. A throng of men congregated at the door and huddled inside the foyer to feast their lusty eyes on her. Cale gnashed his teeth, surprised by the sudden possessiveness that gnawed at him. He knew exactly what this gaggle of men was thinking. Hell, he could practically hear their collective speculations ringing in his ears. They wondered, as he did, how this ravishingly attractive female would look in the altogether.
When Sarah stepped into the restaurant and disappeared from sight, hungry male gazes lingered on the empty space she’d occupied, and whimsical sighs caused a warm draft to whisper through the lobby. Hell. A woman as bewitching as Sarah was definitely trouble, Cale mused as he descended the steps. He’d be asking for a barrel of it if he instigated the clever plan that had been buzzing around in his head since he awoke from his nap.
Cale wanted nothing more than to apprehend Otis Pryor, shut down that bastard’s illegal operation and seek personal revenge. The perfect solution to infiltrating Pryor’s stronghold in Cromwell, Texas, had hit him like a bolt from the blue. It was an ingenious cover—if he could convince Sarah to participate in the sting. In hopes of gaining her cooperation, Cale had devised a tempting incentive while he dressed for supper.
His thoughts trailed off when he entered the restaurant to see Sarah seated in the middle of the busy establishment, awaiting his arrival. Another unfamiliar sensation spiked through him as he strode forward. Despite all the male gazes focused on her, she was staring directly at him, as if he was the most important individual in the room.
Cale took a seat across from her and nodded a greeting when she forced a smile. He could tell she was apprehensive after the live grenade he’d dropped in her lap before she exited his room earlier. Judging by the look in her eyes and the pinched expression around her mouth, she’d reached a decision. He doubted she was comfortable with it, but she was determined to meet his demands, in exchange for his name on the marriage license.
“I took the liberty of ordering a steak for you. My compliments,” she said, doing a damn fine job of holding on to her composure.
“No, my compliments,” he contradicted as he leaned his elbows on the table and met her gaze directly. “That is, if you’ve decided to accept my terms.”
She