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Authors: Laurie Grant

Tags: #Romance, #Historical Romance, #Nineteenth Century, #American West, #Protector

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BOOK: The Duchess and Desperado
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Fourteen
 
 
“W
hat do you mean, she has disappeared?” the assassin demanded the next morning when he met with his informant in the stable of the Grand Central Hotel, empty now of any other human inhabitants. His head already throbbed from the wine he had drunk last night.
“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.
BOOK: The Duchess and Desperado
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