Harper St. George - His Abductor's Desire

Montana Territory, 1887

Heiress-turned-outlaw Charity Blake is determined to get back the fortune the Davenport banking family took from her father—even if she has to hold Brent Davenport ransom to do it! After all, the seductive charmer stole something even more valuable from her five years ago: her heart. But once she has Brent in chains, Charity must face the fact that her desire for the man has grown from the sweet dreams of a young girl to the unquenchable passion of a woman. And soon it’s not clear whether she’s the captor, or the captive....

His Abductor’s Desire

Harper St. George

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Dedication

For my husband, who believed in me when even I didn’t, and for V.S., who introduced me to

historical romance. Love to you both.

Author Note

The Old West has always been a source of fascination for me. It was the last fundamental struggle of men and women in America attempting to tame the natural world while surviving the highs and lows of human nature. Lawlessness pervaded the land, leaving one with the sense that anything could happen—and often did. This tempestuous world spawned the countless legends and tall tales that we still recount today. And the best part is that scarcely more than a lifetime separates us from those days.

This wild time period inspired my heroine, Charity. A woman who defied the odds to take control of her life and attempt to right the wrongs done to her. Her methods may have been dubious but her heart was in the right place. She blended well within a world where often the villains were heroes and the good guys could be corrupt. It’s my favorite kind of story—a story steeped in undertones of gray.

I hope you enjoy my very first romance. Please visit my website at www.harperstgeorge.comand connect with me on Facebook at www.facebook.com/HarperStGeorge.

Best wishes,

Harper

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter One

Montana Territory

1887

“Nobody move! Keep your hands where we can see ’em!”

A hush swept over the room as the bank customers, one by one, began to realize what was happening. Charity Blake would have smiled at the effectiveness of her command if she hadn’t been so unsettled to find the place crowded. It was late Tuesday afternoon. No one was supposed to be there except the clerks. Even the bank manager should have been two blocks over at the saloon settling in for a long night of drinking and gambling, his weekly indulgence when his wife spent Tuesday evenings with her sewing circle. Yet, there he sat behind his desk, quivering hands held high in the air, staring wide-eyed back at her.

Apparently their reconnaissance had been wrong.

She vowed to do better next time and pushed the disappointment from her mind. It was better to concentrate on not allowing her own hands to shake around the grip of her pistol than linger on the setback. Besides, she knew from the first two robberies that she had only seconds to command the attention and thus the respect of the room before someone tried to be brave. It was time to get to work.

“Don’t worry, folks. We ain’t here for yer valuables, just the money in the vault.” Her contrived accent came out deep and loud to make it past the muffling barrier of the scarf covering the lower half of her face and to hide her cultured Bostonian intonation.

As she spoke, her partners took their appointed positions. Elle had come in through the back door and quietly made her presence known, while Dew moved to disarm the men in the room, quickly establishing a stack of revolvers in the far corner.

“Get up and open the vault.” Charity barked the order to the manager.

He sputtered for a moment as if he might argue and looked at the customer sitting across the desk from him. Had she not been watching so closely, Charity would have missed the almost imperceptible nod from the man that gave the manager the courage to get on his feet. Hands still in the air, he walked his wiry frame to the vault, which sat in plain view behind the row of clerks, and stopped there, afraid to proceed.

“Th-the key is on my belt.” He explained, hands still in the air. His gaze went from her to the customer left sitting at his desk.

Charity followed his gaze and found herself looking at a broad pair of shoulders encased in a fine wool coat. The coat was impeccably tailored, not the roughspun typically found this far outside of the town of Helena. A banking official was her first thought, but that didn’t explain why her heart was suddenly threatening to pound out of her chest and the blood had gone cold in her veins. The girl who had long ago been banished to areas deep in her subconscious had already recognized the set of those shoulders. She knew that thick, sable hair brushed back in a style that had been entirely too long for Boston society but was a trademark of his contemptuous nature.

“My friend here can help you.” She managed to sound in control as she nodded to Dew who then quickly walked over and cut the key free.

After a moment of hassling with the lock, the bank manager pushed the door and it opened with an ominous screech that filled the deathly silence of the bank. Dew motioned him inside with her gun and followed him in to fill the three saddlebags slung across her shoulders with as much cash and gold as they could carry.

The moment they were out of sight Charity walked up behind the mysterious customer sitting at the desk. It was stupid. Everyone knew you didn’t go begging for trouble. But the devil who she had long suspected had taken up residence inside made her do it. The barrel of her pistol parted the hair at the back of his head.

“What’s yer name, mister?”

The man did not so much as flinch when the steel touched his scalp.

“My name is none of your damned business.” The voice was as hard and cold as the pistol.

“Turn around,” she commanded in a controlled, steady voice, but inside her stomach was in knots.

“The sheriff’s office is only blocks away. If you shoot, you won’t make it out of the bank alive.” He did not turn around nor raise his hands from the desk in surrender.

His refusal to give in to her command only made her devil beg to be appeased. This man and his family had taken everything there was to take from her. She needed to stare him down. Needed him to watch her take something from him, whether he knew her identity or not.

“Turn around, Mr. Davenport.”

That got him.

He jerked around to look at her, steely blue eyes riveted to her face. Too bad he couldn’t see her smile behind the scarf. He wasn’t the type to startle very often and the look he gave her was worth the slim chance of recognition.

Well, almost. Amidst the surprised gasps from some of the bank patrons—it wasn’t every day a member of the Davenport banking family came to a backwater town like Lindon—she heard Elle’s groan of dismay. There would be hell to pay from that quarter later. But Charity knew he wouldn’t recognize her with the scarf covering half her face and her hat pulled low over her forehead. She wondered if he’d even recognize her without the disguise. Did men like Brent Davenport ever remember girls like her after they were done with them?