The Duchess and Desperado

by Laurie Grant

  “J-just what I s-said, sir.” The informant’s eyes bulged with apprehension. “A-after the shooting, the two of them ran off—”

  The assassin cut him off. “I know they ran off, idiot, I was the one up on the roof shooting at them! But they didn’t make their way back here? His lordship has received no communication from them?”

  The informant shook his head so vigorously it looked as if it might go flying off at any moment. “No one has found a trace of them, even though the local constables are combing the streets! Lord Frederick sent a message to the governor at dawn, but the duchess was not there, nor had she sought protection with the mayor—”

  The assassin made an impatient gesture. “What else do you know?” he snarled.

  “Her grace’s horse is missing—so is Calhoun’s!”

  The assassin’s pulse quickened. “The horses are gone?” He looked down the shadowy length of the barn, and sure enough, the stalls that had held her grace’s fine bay mare and the Texan’s paint were empty. “When was this discovered?”

  The informant looked blank for a moment, making the assassin want to scream with impatience. He should never have relied upon this dolt!

  “Someone—the police that were lookin’ for the duchess, I suppose—heard sounds in the stable in the middle of the night. They rushed m here and found the liveryman tied and gagged, but he wasn’t any help—he hadn’t seen who knocked him out. When he woke up, those horses were missing.”

  “Calhoun must have come for them,” the assassin concluded.

  He had to admit, at least to himself, that he found the Texan’s quick thinking and stealth admirable, even though it complicated things mightily for him. Morgan Calhoun was proving a worthy opponent, and Sarah Challoner had surprised him by trusting the man. It was going to be so much harder to find her now, but once he found her, he would still kill her—and her would-be savior. “She must have decided her uncle cannot protect her.”

  “You have Calhoun to thank for that, I think. I could tell he didn’t approve of Lord Halston. He was always watching him out of the corner of his eye,” the other man said.

  The assassin considered the information. “So Calhoun thinks my lord is the one behind the attempts, eh? He is the obvious one to gain, of course, if one does not consider Lady Kathryn back home....” But of course he had considered the duchess’s younger sister. “I suppose this means they intend to make a run for it on their own.”

  “Run? Run where? His lordship has a policeman watching the train station, in case her grace should show up there. He’s to stop anyone who could possibly be the duchess—she might be disguised, you know,” Alconbury told him importantly.

  Sarah was too clever just to go to the train station in Denver, the assassin thought, if she was in fear for her life and trusted no one but the damn Texan. He’d wager all the money he ever hoped to have that his sweet duchess was still planning to go to Santa Fe. But how? Hundreds of miles lay between there and Denver.

  And what about Calhoun? Would he help her get there? How would she persuade him? He knew that Sarah never carried much money, if any. She had gone to earth with only the clothes on her back.

  On her back... The phrase seemed to reverberate in his mind as he remembered the way Calhoun had looked at the duchess—his duchess! The acid filled his already raw stomach. She’ll seduce Calhoun into taking her, she’ll smile and bat those myopic blue eyes at him, and open her legs.... Damn her! Killing her will be sweet!

  Morgan reined in once they were clear of the town. He was silent for a moment, obviously listening for any sound of pursuit, but nothing disturbed the chill predawn air.

  “The first thing we have to do,” he told her, “is get provisions for the trip. We’ll find a trading post and—”

  “But Morgan, we have no money,” she reminded him, “except for about a dollar in coins I had in my reticule—unless you have some, that is?” she added hopefully.

  “Not much,” he said with a rueful smile. “I have a half eagle left from gettin’ that fancy frock coat and shirt made,” he said, nodding at the coat he’d insisted she wear over her wrinkled, mud-spattered gown of gold faille. He wore only his union suit and the trousers that matched the coat; he’d stuffed the ruined, crimson-stained shirt in an ash can far from the parlor house.

  “A half eagle?”

  “Five dollars, Duchess. We have six dollars, all told. So unless you plan to ride all the way to Texas in that fancy gown, with nothin’ to eat, you’re gonna have to use that necklace to trade. Of course, you won’t get near what it’s worth, but we can probably get all the things we’re going to need.”

  She felt her jaw drop. “Sell my necklace? But it’s been in the family for a hundred years or more!”

  Morgan gave a rueful smile. “Well, I reckon I could hold up a stagecoach, then we could hang on to your bauble a bit longer....”

  She swallowed, knowing she had no choice. “No, I...don’t think I want to...encourage you to break the law, Morgan. Very well, we’ll trade the necklace for supplies.”

  They rode on for about an hour, following Cherry Creek as it meandered to the southeast, until they came to a little cabin set a few yards back from the creek. A crudely lettered sign on the porch labeled it the Cherry Creek Trading Post. No one was in evidence outside, but the smoke curling from the chimney proclaimed its inhabitant was awake.

  “Hello, the cabin!” he called out.

  “But will they even take my necklace?” she asked dubiously as they dismounted. “Surely they have no market for such costly things here—”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised what places like this take in trade, Duchess,” Morgan said as he tethered Trafalgar for her. “I’ve traded supplies for jewelry at trading posts before,” he added grimly, then turned and walked toward the cabin.

  She started to follow, then stopped dead as she realized what he was telling her. He’d robbed people—not just men of their money, but ladies like herself.

  He turned around. “Look, I ain’t proud of robbing folks, okay, Duchess? But thanks to the damn Yankees, a scalawag robbed me of my land after the war—my land—and left me with nothin’ but my pistols. I’ve never taken so much as a penny from anyone but Yankees, and only those who could well afford to lose it, so you don’t need to act so snake-bit about it. You weren’t that upset a few hours ago when I told you I was an outlaw—you were just thinkin’ how you could use my talents to your advantage, remember?” He started walking again, his long strides taking him onto the porch.

  She heard the bitter defensiveness in his voice, and the pain that lay underneath it. “I—I’m sorry, Morgan,” she said, hurrying to catch up to him. “I didn’t mean to sound so prud—”

  Sarah stopped in midword as the biggest, blackest man she had ever seen opened the door.

  “Well, I’ll be—Morgan Calhoun, you ol’ bastard!” he cried out, a wide grin splitting his face to reveal gleaming white teeth.

  Morgan looked equally astonished and delighted. “Socrates Smith, as I live and breathe! What the hell—” he hesitated, evidently remembering Sarah behind him “—I mean, what’re you doin’ up here in Colorado Territory, you black reprobate?”

  “Women troubles—you know how them womens is,” he said with a chuckle, and then he caught sight of Sarah. “Oh, my lands! Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, I didn’t mean t’blister your ears—”

  “No offense taken, sir,” she assured the man, determined to leave her prissiness behind. It would not serve her well on this journey. She saw him goggle at her accent.

  “Your grace, may I present Socrates Smith,” Morgan said, as formal as if they were in a drawing room. His eyes held an amused glint. “Socrates, this here’s Sarah Challoner, the Duchess of Malvern.”

  “A real live duchess? For real? You ain’t foolin’ wit’ me, is ya, Morgan?”

  “I swear on a stack o’ Bibles, Socrates,” Morgan said, grinning. “She’s even met the queen.”

  “Mr. Smith, it
’s a pleasure to meet you,” Sarah said, giving her best court curtsy.

  Socrates Smith got even more goggle-eyed, clearly not knowing what to do. At last, though, he managed a bow. “It be mah honah, ma‘am.” Then he turned back to Morgan, demanding, “Then what she doin’ wit’ you? Last I saw you, you was half a mile ahead o’ the law.”

  Morgan rubbed his beard-shadowed cheek and looked down at the unpainted planks of the porch beneath his shoes. “The duchess has had a speck o’ trouble, Socrates, and I’m tryin’ to help her,” he said. “We need to make tracks outa the territory, and we’re gonna need some provisions. You reckon you could fix us up, in return for that pretty necklace she’s wearin’, and not tell a soul you saw us?”

  Socrates narrowed his eyes at the necklace and came closer. Feeling suddenly very self-conscious to be having the huge man staring at her upper chest—at least, the part that wasn’t covered by Morgan’s frock coat—she reached back, unfastened the clasp and held the necklace out to him.

  “Those are real diamonds and topaz,” she said as the man took the necklace with hands that were bigger than some dmner plates she’d seen. Good lord, she sounded like a Billingsgate pickpocket, boasting about her take! She added, “That necklace was in my family since the reign of Queen Anne.”

  “Yes, ma‘am, Miz Duchess. I shorely am sorry y’all are havin’ to part wit’ it. But I’ll get y‘all fixed up for your trip, I shorely will—an’ I won’t tell nobody I seen you, neithah. Come on inside,” he said, beckoning.

  “Thank you.” With Morgan, she entered the small shop, seeing the barrels lined up at one end and shelves packed with dry goods.

  “Socrates,” Morgan said, looking around him, “we’re gonna need a packhorse, plus flour, salt, sugar, coffee, beans, bacon, a Winchester, shells for it and for my pistols, two pair of boots, a coupla pairs of denims and a coupla shirts for each of us, blankets, a hat apiece—”

  “Denims and shirts?” she interrupted. “Morgan, are you suggesting I’m to wear trousers? But surely Mr. Smith has a less formal dress, or a skirt or two....” She could see a few ready-made garments hanging on hooks on the wall. The material was just calico and coarse homespun, but surely it would be better than wearing men’s trousers....

  “Yes, trousers, Duchess. Socrates, we’re also gonna need to trade the sidesaddle on her mare for a stock saddle.” He turned back to Sarah. “Duchess, I know you ain’t used t‘wearin’ men’s clothes, but trousers and shirts’ll be warmer, and there’s no use temptin’ the rascals out there from a distance. We’ll have enough problems with the ones who see you up close. And we’re gonna have to do some hard ridin’ over mountains and plains. If we’re unlucky, we might have to run from Indians. You can’t be tryin’ to hang on to a sidesaddle then. Your mare ever been ridden astride?”

  “Only when B-Ben exercised her,” she said, nearly losing her composure at the thought of her slain groom.

  “Then she’ll do all right,” he said, his tone brisk and bracing. “Here, go try these on behind that blanket yonder,” he said, handing her a pair of folded trousers and a shirt after the black man had gotten them down from a shelf. “You’ll have to leave the dress behind. It’s only gonna take up room in your saddlebags.”

  Sarah looked down at the rumpled gown that had looked so splendid on her—was it only last evening? She had seen the admiring look Morgan had tried so hard to conceal when she’d first appeared in it, and had reveled in the knowledge that she was beautiful in his eyes.

  “No,” she heard herself saying. “It won’t take up much room if I roll it up and leave the petticoats behind. But I might need it. I can’t very well show up in Santa Fe wearing men’s trousers, can I?”

  His eyes narrowed “Whatever would Thierry say?” he said in a mocking drawl, and she was suddenly sorry she’d wanted to keep the dress. His mouth twisted. “All right, all right, keep it! Now go put these on, Duchess. We can’t be jawin’ here all mornin’. We’ve got to be hitting the trail.”

  She started toward the blanket, then turned back and stepped closer to him. “Um, Morgan,” she whispered, “I—I’m going to need some help to get out of this.” She nodded over her shoulder at the row of tiny buttons that marched down the back of the dress from between her shoulder blades to her waist.

  Morgan groaned, but followed her as she lifted the tattered blanket that divided the shop area from Socrates’s humble living quarters. Touching each of the buttons as if it were a white-hot, glowing coal, he made quick work of unbuttoning the back of Sarah’s dress and left her alone to change into the rust-colored trousers and shirt.

  Moments later Sarah emerged, clad in the unfamiliar garments. It felt distinctly odd to be walking without skirts and petticoats swishing about her ankles. She had left her chemise and pantalets on, but the shape of her breasts was illconcealed. The trousers, of course, had not been fashioned to be worn by a woman; they were loose at the waist, then clung lovingly to her hips.

  Morgan took one look, then became very busy looking over what Socrates had laid out on the counter. “She needs a belt,” he said, growling as if the fit of the trousers was the black man’s fault. “We’ll need coats, too.”

  Within minutes the supplies had been loaded onto a scrubby brown packhorse Socrates had brought from a leanto barn in back of the trading post.

  Trafalgar showed the whites of her eyes as the unfamiliar, heavier saddle was lowered onto her back, and sidled away when her mistress approached in her strange clothing.

  “I know, dear girl, nothing’s as it usually is, is it?” Sarah murmured soothingly. “’Twill be different for me, too, you know,” she reminded her as she swung a leg over the bay mare’s back. “I haven’t ridden astride since I was a schoolgirl.”

  Socrates had gone inside, but he returned and handed Sarah a leather pouch from which a savory aroma of bacon and biscuits arose.

  “Here, ma‘am. I reckon that ol’ rebel yore ridin’ wit’ ain’t remembered t‘feed you nothin’ this mawnin’.”

  “But that’s your breakfast,” she said, remembering having seen the food sitting on the stove in his living quarters. “We can’t take your breakfast, Mr. Smith.”

  “I’m just Socrates, Miss Duchess, and doan’ you worry, I’ll just make some more. Y’all be careful, now,” Socrates admonished. “Morgan, you take care of this lady. You do right by her.”

  “I mean to,” Morgan replied, and there seemed to be layers of meaning to his words. “You take care of yourself, ol’ friend.”

  Morgan sat by the campfire, listening to the coyotes howl in the distance and watching Sarah sleep.

  They had traveled all day, covering miles of rolling land covered mostly by buffalo grass, pausing only to rest the horses. The thoroughbred mare had done surprisingly well, not only adjusting to the unfamiliar saddle but keeping up with Rio, and she had even stopped laying her ears back when the pinto ventured too close. She’d even decided she liked the patient brown gelding packhorse.

  Sarah had not uttered a word of complaint the entire day. She hadn’t mentioned stopping for the night until Morgan said they should. Morgan had seen her wince when she dismounted, though, and watched her stiffly moving about as she helped him lay out their bedrolls and gather what little firewood there was to be found. But still, she said nothing of how sore she must be. Once the fire was burning well, he’d set her to cooking the beans while he saw to the horses.

  He’d come back from the horses only to find her sitting by the fire clutching the spoon, her head sunk on her chest, fast asleep. Fortunately, the beans hadn’t boiled dry, but they were just about to. She’d muttered something incomprehensible when he’d picked her up and carried her over to her bedroll, but once he’d laid her down and wrapped her in the coarse woolen blanket Socrates had provided, her regular breathing told him she was deeply asleep.

  He shouldn’t be surprised. Neither one of them had slept a wink last night, and his eyelids felt as if they were full of sand. But he was use
d to such things. Many times over the past few years, when he’d been running from a posse or some particularly persistent bounty hunter, he’d gone for two full days without sleep.

  Poor little duchess. Too exhausted to stay awake for supper—such as it was, he thought wryly as he rested his tin plate full of beans in his lap and took a sip of the hot black coffee. Sarah hadn’t eaten a thing since the breakfast Socrates had provided. She’d be hungry in the morning, for sure.

  Finishing his meal, he laid the plate aside, too weary himself to go down to the creek and rinse it.

  She had placed his bedroll on the opposite side of the fire from hers. No doubt it would never have occurred to her to do otherwise, for propriety’s sake. But as deeply as she was sleeping, she’d never know the difference, so he got up and moved his bedroll until there was a scant foot between his and hers.

  He lay wrapped in his blanket, staring at her lovely, unconscious face, until at last sleep claimed him, too.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sarah was dreaming of hot tea and delicious buttered scones, enjoyed in front of a crackling fire in her sitting room at Malvern Hall. Her sister, Kat, was there, and was smiling instead of pouting, as she had last seen her. Morgan Calhoun sat by Sarah’s side. The Texan, oddly enough, was dressed in tweeds as an English lord might be on a country weekend, but he seemed completely at his ease. Amazmgly, both Lord Halston—who looked happy to be taking tea with his niece and her bodyguard—and Ben were there, too. She was just wondering where Thierry was, and pondering how weird it was to see the dead groom and the uncle who was trying to kill her—as if nothing were amiss—when the earthquake struck. Surely only an earthquake could be shaking her body so insistently.

  “Rise and shine, Duchess,” a voice drawled in her ear. “It’s time for breakfast.”

  Morgan’s face swam into fuzzy focus as he bent over her, shaking her shoulder. A blurred wedge of moon hung low behind him, and the sky still seemed inky black.