The Duchess and Desperado

by Laurie Grant

  A collective gasp—clearly one of admiration—arose from the men. Then Morgan said something else to them, and two of them peeled away from the rest and ran ahead up the path.

  “I’ve told them Naiche needs the medicine man, and that we would be honored to spend the night with them.”

  Her heart pounded within the man’s shirt she wore. “Oh, Morgan, is that really necessary? Surely now that we’ve brought Naiche back home, our obligation is through. It’s early enough that we can find our way back down the mountain, can’t we?”

  He shook his head “Hospitality is sacred to the Apache. If we didn’t stay the night, they would take it as a grave insult. They might even decide we had something to do with Naiche’s injury after all.”

  She considered his words, then took a deep breath. “Very well,” she said. “One night. Only fancy how much fun it will be to tell this story at the palace!”

  His expression was approving. “That’s the spirit.”

  The two men who had run ahead had evidently warned the village, if the collection of crude, round huts made of brush and grass could properly be called a village. About two dozen men, women and children came surging down the narrow path to exclaim over their fallen warrior and eye the newcomers with suspicion and naked curiosity.

  One of them, skinny, gray-haired and wrinkled, came forward and said something to Morgan, pointing to the hut from which he had just come.

  “That’s the shaman, the medicine man, Sarah, and he wants me to bring Naiche into his wickiup. You can dismount, but stay right there with your mare and Rio.”

  As if she would have consented to go anywhere else! As soon as he went into the wickiup, the Indians pressed forward, staring at her from just inches away, some of them even daring enough to reach out and stroke her hair. They were just as inquisitive about Rio and Trafalgar, stroking their necks and flanks. The mare rolled her eyes and tossed her head nervously, but fortunately, she didn’t kick.

  Just as Morgan came out, a pair of Apache braves thundered past them on spotted ponies, heading down the mountain.

  “Where are they going, do you think?” Sarah asked, calm now that Morgan was with her again.

  “From the snatches of talk I’ve heard, I’d guess they were going after the two who tortured Naiche,” Morgan told her as a cloud of dust rose in their wake. “I wouldn’t want to be those fellows if they’re caught between here and Pueblo.”

  The older brave with the iron gray hair came forward again and spoke to Morgan, pointing at a wickiup set a little distance away from the others.

  “That’s where we’re to spend the night, Duchess,” Morgan translated. “They tell me it’s normally used by newly married couples in this band.”

  “Oh?” She felt herself blush.

  They were the guests of honor at a feast that evening. They were directed to sit in front of the leader’s wickiup, and the warriors, women and children found places on the ground as near to them as possible. The only meat served was the venison they had brought on the packhorse, but a plentiful amount of roasted yucca and agave, woven baskets full of wild onions, berries and pinon nuts were served, first to Morgan and Sarah, then passed to the men, and finally to the women and children. Sarah and Morgan ate sparingly, aware that their Indian hosts had put on the feast not from an abundance of food, but from the gratitude in their hearts.

  They were given gourds full of a colorless liquor Morgan called mescal. “Just pretend to drink this,” he warned, handing her a gourd, “’cause it’ll knock you flat on your back, Duchess.”

  “I’ll be careful,” she promised, but took a sip, since the man who had handed it to her was watching closely The liquid burned all the way down to her stomach, and Sarah resolved to wash her food down with the water she had also been given.

  An Apache woman had just laid an intricately woven basket at her feet, filled with pieces of some sort of yellow-and-pink-speckled sweet mixture.

  “It’s a sort of candy made of preserved yucca fruits mixed with sunflower petals,” Morgan told her. “Try it.”

  It was delicious. But she was equally interested in the basket. “Beautiful,” she said to the woman, pointing to the design.

  After Morgan translated, the woman beamed and touched Sarah’s hair, then the spectacles that she wore.

  “She says you are beautiful, too, Woman of Golden Hair and Far-Seeing Eyes,” Morgan told her. His eyes added their own praise. Then he told her that the tribal subdivision name, Jicarilla, came from the Spanish word for the baskets the women wove.

  Sarah realized she had never felt as welcome in any drawing room or at any country-house party as she did in this village. The court at Whitehall seemed not only an ocean away, but part of another lifetime.

  Then the storytelling began. The men of the tribe told of buffalo hunts and raids against other tribes, especially the Comanches, their enemies. Morgan translated each tale for Sarah’s benefit, then told a couple of his own, one in which he had successfully outrun a hunting party of Comanches on the Staked Plain, and another in which he had helped a band of Mescalero Apaches steal the cattle bound for a fort on the plains.

  The Apache men laughed and clapped Morgan on the back in obvious approval.

  Then the older warrior with the iron gray hair, his face turning serious, pointed first to Sarah, and then to Morgan.

  “What does he ask, Morgan?”

  “He wants to know what we’re doing, traveling all alone like this over dangerous country.” He addressed the Apache. “I told him we had business in Santa Fe, but we had to come alone because we had enemies back in Denver, and that one of them might be trailing us.”

  It was a sobering reminder of what lay beyond the night in this encampment.

  The stars were twinkling in the velvet sky above by the time Morgan, carrying a burning stick to light their way, led her to their wickiup. Sarah was grateful that it lay at some distance from the rest of the grass-and-brush huts, for she had made up her mind about something, and she turned to face Morgan, who had stooped to light the small pile of sticks in the middle of the round hut.

  In a moment tiny flames cast their light across the diameter of the floor. There was a small circular hole at the top, and the smoke began to curl upward, escaping through it.

  He’d brought their blanket rolls in here earlier, and they were lying side by side. “If you want, I’ll move mine to the other side, Duchess,” he said, bending to pick it up without looking at her. “I thought in case someone came in here lookin’ while we were at the feast, it’d look more like we were really married if I laid ’em out together.”

  “No,” Sarah said when he would have moved his bedroll. “Don’t move it.”

  He stopped, straightening until his head brushed the round top of the wickiup, staring at her in the dim light.

  “Duchess, what are you saying?” he asked.

  She let her actions speak for her, removing her spectacles and laying them carefully aside. Then she stood right in front of him and began to unbutton her shirt.

  “Sarah, did you drink more mescal when I wasn’t lookin’?” Morgan sounded uneasy. “Now stop that,” he ordered as she continued to unbutton her shirt.

  “No more than a couple of sips,” she said, smiling and ignoring his command. “You drank a whole cupful, I noticed.”

  “I’m used to it,” he protested. “Sarah, this isn’t wise,” he added, seeing her pull her shirttail out of the waistband of her pants and lower her hands to the buttons on her fly. He took a step or two backward.

  Sarah paused, feeling his eyes on the mounds of her breasts that trembled under her camisole, only partly covered now by the shirt. Her fingers quivered on the buttons of the pants. “I’m tired of being wise, Morgan,” she told him, advancing on him. “I’ve tried to do the sensible thing ever since I succeeded to the duchy, and I’m tired of it. I came to America because I was weary of always doing the safe, sensible thing, and now I want to make love with you, Morgan.”


  “Sarah,” he breathed, his hands coming forward, then sinking to his sides. “Sarah, no. I want you, too, honey, more than I want my next breath, but I can’t have you. I agreed to take you to that French fellow, Sarah... and I think that’s what I should do. Once we hit the Santa Fe Trail, it won’t take long to get there. We—oh, Sarah...”

  She had stepped out of the dusty trousers, and let the shirt slide backward off her arms, and was clad only in her pantalets and chemise. Then she raised her arms and pulled the chemise off over her head. As he stared, she loosed her hair from the confining braid and let it fall to her shoulders.

  She closed the distance between them, unbuttoning his shirt, knowing there was only bare skin beneath, for he’d been leaving his union suit off because of the heat of the August days.

  “Please, Morgan,” she murmured as she finished unbuttoning it, sliding her hands along his arms until her breasts were almost touching his chest. “As you say, we’ll be in Santa Fe soon. Oh, Morgan, I couldn’t bear it if you hadn’t made love to me—just this once....” She injected all the yearning she felt into her voice, knowing if he rejected her now, there was nothing left for her but ashes. Later there would be time to explain to Morgan that she was in love with him, that she no longer loved Thierry and planned to break their betrothal once she arrived in Santa Fe. But for now all she wanted was Morgan.

  “Morgan,” she whispered, stepping forward so that her bare breasts brushed against his chest, “make love to me.”

  The sensation of her soft nipples touching his chest, accentuated by every ragged breath she took, was a jolt of lightning that went straight to his heart. He groaned.

  “Oh, Duchess—Sarah—are you sure? What about—” He couldn’t think of the man’s name to save his soul. “What about your Frenchman?”

  “Forget about him for tonight,” she commanded in a whisper. “I don’t believe I could live if you don’t make love to me now.”

  Still he hesitated, and she must have read his uncertainty in his eyes, for she said, “Morgan, in my world, affairs of the heart are not unusual. Provided one is discreet, one’s heart may be given as one likes.”

  He understood She was reminding him she was not a virgin. He’d always figured she and her Frenchman had gone to bed together, but maybe she’d had other lovers, too. And now she desired him, Morgan Calhoun, but she had accepted that there would be only tonight for them. She would go to the Frenchman, and back to her own world, when they reached Santa Fe. God in Heaven, would one night be enough for him?

  Self-control was a thing of the past, though. His arms encircled her, pulling her tightly against him so that her breasts were crushed against the hard planes of his chest. He was sure he’d never felt anything better in his entire life—unless it was the feel of her tiny hands trembling on the buttons of his denims.

  He helped her push them down his hips, chuckling as he leaned on her slightly so he could balance on one foot and then the other to pull off his boots and step out of his trousers. And then he was naked, and she was in his arms, and he was pulling her up against his erect manhood, letting her feel how much he wanted her.

  She pulled back, and Morgan thought for a heartbeat she had changed her mind, that she’d been too frightened, but she was only stepping away to undo the drawstring tie at her waist so she could pull her pantalets down.

  Now she was as naked as he, and he couldn’t wait any longer to feel her skin touching his from head to toe. Gently he urged her down until they were both stretched out on his blanket roll, lying on their sides and entwined together.

  “Oh, Sarah, if you only knew how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he breathed into her hair as his hand sought and found her breast and cupped it.

  “No longer than I have, surely—” she began, and then her voice ended in a moan as his hand was replaced by his mouth. He suckled from her breast until she arched against him.

  “That day at the train station...” he said when he could find his breath again.

  “Yes, that’s when it began for me,” she said, her voice unsteady as she added with a laugh, “Mind you, I don’t start desiring every chap who knocks me to the ground while bullets fly overhead.... Oh, Morgan,” she breathed as his fingers found her.

  She was hot and wet and ready for him, he discovered as he parted her curls and stroked her with his fingers, and her breath came in gasps. “Morgan, please,” she begged as she writhed against him, and he continued to drive her—and himself—crazy with pleasure.

  Still stroking her, he began to thrust against her opening again, too, so that she couldn’t tell what was pleasuring her the most, his manhood or his hand, and he wasn’t sure himself. He only knew he was about to explode with the effort of holding himself back, but he was determined to give her the ultimate joy before he allowed it to himself.

  “Morgan, now! Now, please!” she pleaded, almost sobbing, and he obeyed, parting her legs the rest of the way and thrusting into her—and feeling the resistance as the thin band of tissue around her woman’s passage parted to allow him full entrance. He heard her whimper, and raised his head to see Sarah trying to stifle the sound against her knuckles.

  He pulled out of her. “You’re a virgin,” he accused. “Sarah? You said—you implied—”

  She opened her eyes and looked up at him. “I know. I wanted you to think I’d...done this before. I’m sorry... I haven’t. I wanted you to be the one, Morgan, the one who made me a woman. Please, Morgan, the pain’s almost gone—I knew it would hurt a little, the first time.... There aren’t words for how wonderful you were making me feel before. Please, don’t stop....”

  She put her hands on his bare buttocks, urging him into her again. Heaven help him, but he couldn’t have stopped now if he wanted to. He had taken her innocence, an innocence he had never guessed she had maintained in the glittering world from which she had come, and now he was going to give her something in its place.

  Putting his own hands under her buttocks, he lifted her to him, entering her as gently as he could, and began a steady rhythm of thrusting and retreating, slowly at first, then faster and harder until he felt the ripples of her climax and heard her soft scream against his ear. Only then did he release himself in her, feeling the stars burst against his eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  They slept little that night. Morgan seemed tacitly determined, since one night was all he would have of her, to make love to her in every way possible. Sarah, for her part, had no wish to refuse him.

  Now she lay on her side, still naked and propped up on one elbow, staring down at him as the morning sunlight streamed into the wickiup’s entrance. He looked boyish as he slept, the severe planes of his face softened, the tight line of his mouth relaxed. My desperado, she thought, smoothing back a lock of dark hair that had fallen over his forehead. She smiled to herself, planning how she was going to tell him, somewhere on the trail, that she had no intention of leaving him to go with Thierry, that she was only meeting “her Frenchman” in order to end their relationship. She would also tell him she was going to abdicate the title in favor of her sister and remain with him.

  Morgan would argue, she knew. He’d protest that he wasn’t good enough for her, had nothing to give her. But he was going to find out that nothing could be as stubborn as a duchess who knew what she wanted.

  A shadow blotted out the sunlight coming from the doorway, and she gasped, grabbing for something to cover herself with. The only thing within reach was his shirt, and she pressed it against her breasts before turning to see who was there.

  It was the old shaman, and he said something to her in his guttural-sounding language.

  “Wait a moment, sir—I don’t understand a word,” she muttered, knowing it was useless to say so in English, but he smiled as she reached over to shake Morgan awake.

  He came instantly alert, turning to see the old man, who smiled again and said something else.

  “I’ll just be a minute, Duchess,” he said, grabbin
g for the spare blanket and wrapping it about his middle. He stepped outside the entrance of the wickiup and Sarah could hear them conversing in rapid Apache for several minutes. A few moments later Morgan came back inside, and she could hear other footsteps retreating down the pathway.

  “The shaman says Naiche’s pain is better this morning, and he has changed the poultice around the stumps of Naiche’s fingers. So far the wounds are healing cleanly.”

  “Thank God,” she murmured, guessing he was leading into something.

  “He said it will be several days...a week, maybe...before he can ride again, and learn to shoot arrows from his bow because of the missing fingers....”

  She nodded. “Does this concern us in some way, Morgan?”

  He reached for his denims and began to thread one leg into them. “Only if you’re willing for it to, Duchess,” he said, pausing before thrusting the other leg in. “The shaman says the Apaches are gonna escort us safely to Santa Fe, and Naiche wants the honor of leading,” he told her, his eyes unreadable. “He says it is the only way he can repay what we did for him yesterday.”

  “What did you say, Morgan?” she said, trying not to show any sign of the desperate leap of joy his words had engendered.

  “I said I would speak to you, but I thought we’d have to say no, for our business in Santa Fe might not wait,” he said.

  Though she searched his face, he gave her no clue as to what he wanted. But hadn’t he said Naiche’s wishes would concern them if she was willing?

  “Oh, Morgan,” she said, letting him see her smile, “I think it would be churlish to leave now and refuse Naiche that honor... ”

  “But Sarah,” he began, kneeling in front of her, “what about the Fr—”

  She put her finger over his lips, stopping him. “My business will wait—he’ll wait, Morgan. He doesn’t know how long it will take me to get there from Denver.” The idea of being given another week to be with Morgan, to convince him that she belonged with him, not with some titled Frenchman, was intoxicating.