The Defiant Duchess

by Kari August

  She stiffened. “What are you doing? I never gave you liberty to—”

  “A woman is coming towards us,” he hissed. Charlie couldn’t help noticing how her tall frame fit so well with his big build and felt a sudden flood of intimacy. But he tamped the feelings down harshly, considering he was with a woman who would so obviously not appreciate them. Waldemar then gave a playful growl as if this was some game.

  “Make some moan to cover up Waldemar and pretend you like what I’m doing and then get the damn door open.”

  “Lan-guage,” Mags scolded in a singsong tone, but then she uttered, “Oooh. Oooh.”

  Charlie couldn’t help laughing. “That is the worst fake passion I have ever heard before,” he whispered.

  The door finally opened, and they practically fell into the room. He closed the door quickly behind them.

  He looked at her, still chuckling. “I thought Bridget told me you were married before? Aren’t you a widow? Oooh. Oooooh is the best you could fake?”

  She scowled at him. “I am not talking to you about passion. Now help me get Waldemar off.”

  He lifted him out of the pack, and Waldemar proceeded to run around the room, sniffing corners.

  “How about you make some sort of bed for him while I get the rest of our stuff from the truck.”

  “Fine.” She still seemed miffed by his passion comment.

  Then he remembered as he walked back to the truck that she was some kind of actress. He must have insulted her. Well, she would get over it eventually.

  When he returned to the room, he saw she had not only made a bed out of towels for Waldemar—who was sleeping like a rock—but she had rearranged their own. Down the middle of the mattress, couch cushions and pillows were piled in a way to obstruct view of one another and to act as a barrier. He chuckled. Then he heard her singing in the shower.

  He put his beer in the minifridge, then knocked on the bathroom door.

  She stopped singing. “What is it?”

  “I got your bag if you want your clothes.”

  He heard padding across the floor. Then she opened the door a crack and peered around it suspiciously.

  He lifted up her luggage. She took it from him, banging it against the door that she opened only slightly more before slamming it closed. Then he heard the lock turn.

  A moment later she was back to singing. He bounced onto the bed, causing some of the pillows to hit the floor, while he waited for his turn in the shower. He listened to her some more. Then he remembered. He knew that song. He had not heard it in a long, long, time, but it brought back memories of his Grandma.

  He turned as she opened the bathroom door. He chuckled again. She had not only put on a conservative nightie, but also a sweater over it and pants underneath. “Okaaay. My turn now.”

  “Be my guest.” She motioned towards the bathroom.

  He showered quickly and put on the best he could do for pajamas—which he did not have.

  She screamed as he exited the bathroom. “Cover yourself. Cover yourself.”

  He looked down at his boxers and T-shirt. “These are the only things I have washed, I mean besides my new shirt and slacks—and I’m not wearing those to bed.” He quickly turned off the lights. “Just don’t look.”

  She hurried over to the bed and turned on her side away from him. He slid in himself.

  Silence reigned—at least between them. But the bar band and patrons on the floor beneath were suddenly very noticeable. Charlie doubted he would be able to sleep until the place closed down for the night—that was hours away.

  He found it strangely pleasant to be in bed with her, but not. She was so obviously uncomfortable with the situation that he could not help feeling so himself. He did not know what to say, if anything. He was afraid to even turn lest he spooked her more.

  Finally, five minutes later he ventured in the dark, “Duchess, you awake?”

  She promptly responded, “Indeed. How could I not be?”

  “Wanna talk for a bit?”

  “Okay.” She turned toward him.

  “I know that song you were singing.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, it’s from that Cary Grunt movie Houseboat. My Grandma used to have a thing for him, and we would watch all his movies when I stayed with her.” He could not believe he was telling her this. He had never talked about it with anyone before—it was kind of embarrassing.

  She sat up. “Oh! Did your Grandma ever meet him? What’s he really like?”

  “She never met him.”

  “His name is actually Archie Leach.”

  He sat up also. “You’re kidding.” He smiled.

  “Why would I kid about that?”

  He didn’t bother to explain. An idea suddenly occurred to him. “You ever see the movie Father Goose?”

  “Is he in it?”

  “Yeah. I actually have a version of it.”

  “You do?”

  “I watch it occasionally when I want to remember my Grandmother.”

  “Oh, Charlie. That’s so sweet.”

  “Just what every man desires to hear about himself.”

  “It is?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Oh.”

  “We could watch it while we wait for the ruckus to end below.”

  “Okay.” She even seemed excited now.

  He got up and played around with his download until he had it positioned and started on the pillow between them.

  Truth was that Charlie actually loved this movie. The Gruntster was older in it, acted unrefined—though he was educated—and lived like an absolute slob who avoided responsibility—his current ideal. He played a man forced into working for the military during the world war. He is assigned to rescue this uptight woman and the children she is watching while stranded on a deserted isle in the Pacific.

  He looked over. Mags obviously had never seen the Gruntster in such a state. She was gaping again.

  “Is that really Archie Leach?”

  “Yep.”

  “But . . . but . . . what happened to him?”

  “He’s obviously lovin’ life.” Charlie smiled.

  They watched some more until Charlie remembered the specialty brew he had bought. He paused the movie, walked over to the fridge and opened the door. “Want some beer?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He looked inside. It was gone. “Where’s my beer?”

  She raised her noggin imperially again. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  He started looking around the room, raising the curtains, pulling out the couch, and peering behind the desk. “Okay, just where did you put it while I was in the shower?”

  “I will not have you getting drunk and ravaging me.”

  “Drunk? And what? I just want one beer. And listen, Missy, if there’s going to be any despoiling of anyone, it’s going to be you on me. I see how you’re gazing at my boxers.”

  That apparently was her last straw.

  She stomped out of bed and strutted towards him. “You are the most . . . the most . . .” she spluttered.

  “What, Duchess? Give me your best.”

  “Crudest. Discourteous. Incorrigible. Irredeemable. Rudest. Gentleman Alive!”

  “Well, at least I’m a gentleman. Now can I have one of my beers?”

  She stared at him a moment, then spat, “Fine, but just one.”

  He watched as she took a barricading couch pillow off the bed, unzipped it, and removed a can.

  “Ah, crafty.”

  “Thank you.” She gave it to him and viewed him taking a gulp.

  “Want a sip?”

  “Well, perhaps one. You have gotten me—”

  “All bothered?”

  “—annoyed.”

  He gave her the can. She poured a tiny bit into a glass at the minibar then returned to her side of the bed with it. “Can we please watch the movie?”

  He plopped onto the bed, causing her to bounce off-balance. “Sure
.”

  Fifteen minutes later, it suddenly occurred to Charlie that the woman who played the prim and proper leading actress, not only behaved like her, but actually looked like pretty Mags.

  “Oh, my God—”

  “Lan-guage—”

  “You’re Goody Twoshoes.” The name the actress had acquired in the movie.

  She looked at him a moment. “Well, guess what?”

  He chuckled. He knew what was coming. “What?”

  “You’re the Filthy Beast.”

  He slid down in bed, chuckling. Oh, he was having fun.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The next day, Mags wondered how it was actually possible that she was having such jolly merriment. She was tired—with only a few hours of sleep the night before—was being delayed from her important mission—of building a reputation for herself—and was continually challenged or even insulted by a rascal of a man—who did it on purpose no less.

  They had been driving again and had just stopped at the Yellowstone National Park Visitors Area. While she had walked Waldemar in the parking lot, Charlie had gone inside. He came back to the truck now, holding more brochures, and smiling. He sat in his seat, started to give the pamphlets to her, then pulled back. “You know, Duchess, I think you should be surprised today by what you see. I’m not letting you read these yet.”

  She stared at him. How dare he dictate to her. She just despised him. Well, actually, no, she didn’t. But she realized she should. Nobody had ever been allowed to talk to her or treat her as he had. What was wrong with her?

  She was attracted to his build, his laugh, his smile, and even his taunting personality—at times. How utterly ludicrous.

  She was not herself. The only thing she could think of was that somehow coming to this century had warped her sensibilities.

  Sure, she had shown up in her sixties miniskirt—which she could not see wearing now in front of him since who knew what kind of response it might bring out of him—thinking she had wanted to find romantic passion. But not with someone like him.

  And after finding out exactly what kind of disaster her reputation was in, certainly she had better things to do with her time than have some romantic fling, especially with him. And yet . . .

  No. No. No. Archie Leach awaited her when she returned to heaven—though the movie last night had certainly shown another side to that gentleman.

  “What? No sharp reply, Duchess?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Well, let me assure you of one mystery. You will not have your way with me tonight no matter how drunk you try to make me.”

  She gave him a withering look but turned away and bit back a smile.

  Charlie saw they only had a few minutes before the next gushing spout should happen. Mags was sitting next to him on a bench, waiting. She was staring at the little steam coming from the ground currently. Waldemar was sniffing around as far as his leash would go.

  “Is this the big attraction? A hot spring?”

  “I’m surprised you’ve never heard or read about Old Faithful.”

  “Well, I perused what I thought was important to buy that ranch.”

  He smiled. “Yes, you were quite the expert.”

  “Thank youuuuuuuu—What’s that?—Good heavens!” She glanced at him and grinned widely.

  The water from the geyser was soaring into the air. Waldemar hurriedly crouched beneath him and then let out a howl. The crowd laughed as did Charlie and Mags.

  As the steam started to wane a few minutes later, she looked at him warmly. And Charlie knew in that moment that he never would have had as much pleasure on this part of his trip unless Mags had come along. He impetuously put his arm around her, pulled her towards him and gave a quick kiss on her crown.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, surprised by his actions.

  “Don’t get any ideas, Mags. You still can’t have me.”

  She pushed him away playfully, then frowned slightly. “Charlie, what if this . . . this thing is the work of the devil? It certainly doesn’t seem natural.”

  He reached into his back pocket. “Read the brochures while I get us a snack.” He paused. “Or do you want to see Old Faithful Inn yourself?”

  She turned around. “You mean that timber-framed manor house over there?”

  “It’s gotta be at least a hundred years old.”

  She shook her head. “I prefer to stay here. I’ve seen a million places like that.”

  He grabbed back one of the pamphlets. “Let’s see. It says here . . . The Old Faithful Inn was designed in 1904 so that the asymmetry of the building reflected the quote— ‘chaos of nature’—unquote. The enormous structure with its soaring seventy-foot lobby is considered a masterpiece of rustic architecture. The hotel remains one of the largest log-style structures in the world and is a National Historic blah, blah, blah.” He looked up at her. “You still want to stay here?”

  “Yes. I tell you, I’ve seen quite a few log structures.”

  “I’ll be back. Hold Waldemar.” He gave her the leash.

  He returned fifteen minutes later with a couple ice cream cones.

  She took a lick. “Now this is incredible.”

  That was what impressed her? He chuckled. “You’re an odd woman, Mags. Truly odd. But don’t worry. I’m beginning to like your quirkiness.” He smiled.

  “But I’ve never tasted this kind of ice cream before, and I’ve lived with flavors from around the world. It’s a bit like bilberry.”

  “It’s huckleberry.”

  “Huckleberry,” she uttered slowly. “We must have more before we leave, don’t you think?”

  “Sure, Mags. But let’s go see another attraction.”

  She was duly astounded, as was he, by the Grand Prismatic Hot Spring, where water travelled 121 feet from a crack deep in the terrain to reach the surface of a beautiful rainbow-colored pool of water. Then they drove on to scenic Yellowstone lake, the largest body of water in North America at so high an elevation—over seven thousand feet—but, as it was already afternoon, they headed next to the park offices.

  A couple hours later, they walked out, feeling a bit foolish—at least Charlie did. Of course, the park was not going to consider releasing any of their buffalo to them when they had not even bought the ranch for certain yet or made any of the necessary improvements—whether they were requesting in person or not. None of them had been really thinking straight when this trip had been suggested, but Charlie now was glad of that. Mags wouldn’t be with him now, if not.

  He looked at her and stated the obvious. “Well, that was a waste of time.”

  She nodded, thoughtfully.

  “It could easily be the same at Wind Cave.”

  She glanced at him, saying nothing.

  “Do you still want to try there?” Mags had to realize that he was inquiring about more than bison. In other words, did she still want to spend more time with him or should he just put her on a plane at Jackson airport? He waited for her response, surprised at how much he wanted her to reply a certain way.

  “I’m not sure . . .” she prevaricated. “Uh, do you?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “Absolutely. I’m curious to see where this . . . uh, trip leads.”

  She smiled, appearing pleased. “Indeed. We should finish what we have started.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. So, what are we going to do tonight while we wait for the bar below our room to quiet?”

  She hesitated and Charlie hoped she had the same thing in mind as he did.

  “Do you want to play chess? I’ve always liked that game.”

  Chess? That was not what he had been thinking, but he replied, “Ah, a game of strategy. I guess I could buy a set in town.”

  “Are you any good because I pride myself in my ability.”

  “I haven’t played in years. How about we make it interesting. Every time I beat you, I get to have one of my beers.”

  “I’m not sure . . .”

  “Okay,” he kidded gr
udgingly. “You can have a sip, too.”

  Charlie took a long gulp, then handed her the can while he looked at the score of the preseason football game that he had put on the tube. She poured a little in her glass, took a sip, then studied the board intensely. He had won the first game skillfully—had done a victory dance—and they were now in the middle of the next. He was winning again. Of course, he had not informed her that he had played this game all the time with his Grandma.

  She moved a knight. He glanced down, and then captured it with his rook.

  “Another slip, Mags? Or part of your plan?”

  She frowned at him. “How am I supposed to concentrate when you have that television on so loud?”

  “So loud? I can scarcely make out the commentary. Sounds like excuses to me, Mags.”

  A move later he won again. He chuckled as he watched her storm over to the frame of the large mural on the wall and grab another of his beers from behind the upper edge.

  “No thanks, Mags. I already got one. But perhaps you should drink it—might relax you for the next game.”

  She stared at him a moment. “Perhaps I will.” She poured her glass full with beer.

  “Wow. Don’t go crazy or anything now, Duchess.”

  She took a dainty sip, then announced, “I’m tired of chess.”

  “Really? But you’re so good at it.”

  She took another sip. “I am, actually. I don’t know why I’m so off tonight.”

  “Probably got your mind on other matters.”

  She looked at him. “Like what?”

  He shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. My manly figure?” He chuckled. He had said it to get her goat, but to his surprise, she glanced up at him, blushed without a retort, and then drank more beer. If he had been with any of his former girlfriends, he would have made a move so fast, they would have already been tumbling in the bed. But with Mags . . . he just knew he couldn’t, or at least he was going to have to take things really slowly. He had to get out of this confining room before he did something she was not going to like.

  He glanced at Waldemar. He was out like a rock again. Now that the dog trusted them, he seemed to be catching up on all his lost sleep. They probably could leave him alone for a bit. “You want to go to the bar and get a drink—see if there is any dancing?”