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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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I'll just bet he did,
Morgan thought, fixing his piercing gaze on the mining magnate until the other man's eyes fell.
“I'm afraid I'll have to agree with Mr. Calhoun, your grace,” said Lord Halston, who had suddenly appeared at Morgan's side in time to hear the last exchange. “It would be most unwise.”
“My dear duchess, what on earth are they talking about? Have you been threatened?” Wharton demanded.
Her face smoothed out as she looked at Wharton. “It's nothing, Mr. Wharton. Truly. They're just being cautious. Isn't there some quieter room to which we can go and chat some more? I vow, all this noise is giving me a headache!”
“Certainly, your grace,” Wharton said with a genial smile—a smug smile that Morgan wanted to wipe off the man's ginger-cat face with his knuckles. “The governor has a small library downstairs where we may be private, I'm sure. If that's all right with your...guardians,” he said with deliberate provocation.
Morgan's fists clenched at his side as he struggled to be polite. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lord Halston bristling and white-faced.
Good for you, Halston.
“I reckon that's all right, if I can go with you and check out the room first, and then I'll stand outside the door and make sure no one else comes in,” he said.
“Well, it's not all right with me,” Sarah Challoner snapped, her eyes blazing with blue fire at Morgan and Lord Halston alike. “You two are smothering me, and I won't have it. There is absolutely nothing amiss in my speaking to Mr. Wharton privately, and if you wish to continue in my employ, Mr. Calhoun, you'll stay upstairs,
is that clear?
Come, Mr. Wharton, show me this library.”
Morgan stared at her retreating figure as she left the reception room. Life was too short to put up with a woman so obstinate she wouldn't even accept guidance when she'd asked for it. He could be back at the boardinghouse within the hour and heading for the mountains day after tomorrow, a free man. And the duchess could go to blazes.
Then he felt Lord Halston's hand on his shoulder. “I'd like to apologize for my niece's behavior, Calhoun. I'll speak with her later, get her to see reason. I—I'd take it as a personal favor if you wouldn't quit without giving her another chance.”
Morgan couldn't have been more surprised if Lord Halston had suddenly sprouted a halo and wings, and it was the surprise that cooled his anger. “All right,” he conceded, “if you'll talk to her, I'll stay. I'm not going to go through this every time she disagrees with me.”
“She's very headstrong,” the marquess admitted. “A result of her being raised as heiress to a duchy. The late Duke of Malvern treated her as if she were the son he'd never had. Once it was apparent she would be duchess one day, he encouraged her to make decisions on her own just as if she were a man. As her oldest male relative, I've tried to guide her as best I could, but...” He shrugged. “Sometimes that strong will leads her into error.”
“I just hope that stubbornness doesn't get her killed,” Morgan muttered, and stalked away to find a drink—a real one, not just that damn punch.
 
Crouched in the darkness outside the territorial governor's residence, the assassin waited on the roof of the mansion next door to the governor's. The owners of the mansion, who were present at the reception, didn't know he was there, and since their servants had been lent to McCook for the evening, too, he'd had no difficulty stealing inside and making his way to the roof. He was dressed in black from head to foot. Even the barrel of his Winchester rifle had been rubbed with grease and then coated with soot so as not to give off a betraying gleam.
He'd taken up his position on the roof long before the duchess had arrived. He could have shot her as she strolled into the house with her uncle and that watchdog she'd hired, but he'd decided it was too risky. There were a lot of people outside, and someone might have seen the flash from the muzzle of his rifle when he fired. He'd decided to wait until the duchess took the air out on the balcony or on the porch, but that hadn't taken place yet, either. Maybe her watchdog had warned her against it. But it wouldn't save her. He had a contingency plan already in place.
He pulled a pocket watch out and studied its face by the light of the full moon. Any moment now the duchess would come rushing out the door with her entourage, and their faces would reflect the panic they felt inside. Panicked people were easy targets.
 
 
“Mr. Calhoun, we've got to leave. Immediately!”
The duchess was suddenly standing in front of him, white-faced and trembling. Wharton was standing by her side, looking as if his genial composure had permanently deserted him.
Morgan had been sipping whiskey by a potted aspidistra with Helen Wharton, who had rejoined him, apparently not minding that he had challenged her brother He had felt his knotted-up gut relax under the influence of her pleasant chatter and the mellow amber liquid.
It took him a few seconds to refocus. “What's wrong, Duchess?”
She was trembling like an aspen in the wind. “Show him, Mr. Wharton ”
The other man reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced a folded piece of paper. “This was just delivered by a servant who claims to have been paid by a stranger to deliver it at half after ten.”
Morgan unfolded the note, feeling the knot reforming in his gut. It said “HAVIN A GOOD TIME DUCHISS? SOON YOUL BE IN YER GRAVE A PATRIOTT.”
Chapter Seven
 
 
“Y
eah, we've got to leave, but careful-like,” Morgan said, suddenly all business. “Where's Lord Halston?”
Suddenly it seemed as if there was little air in the room. None of the blurry figures standing around the room looked like the familiar figure of her uncle. “I don't know! But we've got to find him, and I must say my farewell to the governor! It would be rude not to thank Mr. McCook—”
“There's no time for those things. We'll send the carnage back for your uncle. I don't want
anyone
else knowin' we're leavin', Duchess,” he said in a low voice. “Wharton, go out and find the duchess's driver. He should be standing by a landau with a matched pair of grays. Talk loud—say that the duchess and her party are gonna stay the night, and she wants him to go on back to the hotel. Then whisper that he's to wait about midway down the street behind this one. We'll find our way to him. And don't tell anyone else what we're doing.”
Wharton blinked, and Sarah was reminded of an owl. “I will, but wait for me here. I'm coming with you to make sure the duchess is safe.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wharton,” Sarah breathed. “It's very good of you—”
Morgan interrupted, saying, “Just go do what I told you, Wharton.”
As soon as Wharton had disappeared, Morgan's hand was on her elbow, propelling her toward the staircase. “Come on, Duchess, this way,” he said
“But we were going to wait for Mr Wharton!” she protested as Calhoun pulled her down the carpeted staircase.
“No.” They reached the bottom, and he steered her down a darkened hallway that apparently led to the rear of the house. Coming to a door, he opened it and pulled her inside.
It appeared to be a parlor. Letting go of her arm, Morgan crossed the room in three rapid strides, took hold of one of the dark, heavy curtains hanging over the window and gave a yank, pulling it down.
“Here, put this around you like a cloak—over your head, too,” he said
“But...” she began as she pulled the curtain around her.
The dust rising from it made her sneeze.
“We're goin' out the back way. The dark curtain will make you a little harder to spot in the darkness,” he explained. “Come on.” And then he seemed to notice that she was shaking. “You gotta take hold of yourself, Duchess,” he commanded. “Panic is just what this fella is countin' on. Just do what I tell you, and we'll come outa this okay.”
She nodded, braced by his certainty, and determined not to appear a frightened mouse in Morgan Calhoun's eyes.
Moments later she was running with him across the darkened back lawn, clutching her makeshift cloak at her neck and holding Calhoun's hand with her other one to keep herself from falling. His hand felt warm and strong. He clutched a pistol in his other hand.
He found the gate into the alley, and pulled her after him into the dark passageway.
“We'll take it slow from here, Duchess,” he whispered. “Try and walk quiet”
No matter how quietly she walked, though, Sarah was sure any pursuer could hear her panting like a winded fox. She knew how that fox would feel, hearing the dogs come closer and closer She'd never ride to hounds again.
He paused when he came to the gate to another yard down the alley. “We'll cut through here.”
This yard was more uneven than the governor's, and she stumbled, going down heavily on one knee. She heard the fabric rip, and a stinging pain shot through her knee.
Calhoun pulled her to her feet without comment, and they continued on around the side of a darkened house. There was a tall tree with low-hanging boughs on the front lawn, and he pulled her into the deeper darkness against its broad trunk.
“We'll wait here for your driver,” he whispered.
“What if he doesn't come?” she whispered back, straining to see his face in the darkness. Ben might not believe that Wharton had really come from her, and might insist on speaking to her or her uncle personally.
“Then eventually we'll have to walk back to the hotel,” he told her. “But I reckon the wild eyes on that jackass Wharton will convince him.”
His contemptuous tone ignited her anger, burning away her traces of fear. “How dare you speak of a gentleman like that? And what about you? I saw you standing there all cozy with his bold-eyed tart of a sister when you should have been—”
“Should have been
what,
Duchess?” he demanded. She could barely make out his eyes glittering in the darkness. “You wanted me to leave you alone, remember?”
She was silent, trying to rein in her temper. Her heart felt as if it was pounding in her ears. “I—I just won't have you speaking of Mr. Wharton like that. He—he was very pleasant company, that's all.” She could feel him staring at her in the darkness.
“You're the boss ”
“Indeed.” She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of protesting too much, but pleasant company
was
all Wharton had been. He'd been entertaining and complimentary and clearly awed to be speaking to a duchess. And he was one of the few men she'd met this evening who hadn't been staring down the front of her dress, asking sly questions about her wealth, or offering to be her duke, as if that were possible. She hadn't felt any tug of attraction to Wharton, though she'd agreed when he'd asked to escort her to the theater.
It wasn't as if she were looking for an American man to replace Thierry, she assured herself. And it wasn't like being with Morgan Calhoun, whose very presence seemed to demand much of her. Maybe too much.
Wharton had meant nothing improper when he'd asked her to take the air with him, she was sure of it. But she'd seen the look in Calhoun's eyes when he'd stopped them, and guessed how it had looked to him. Good Lord, what if he'd known she was secretly engaged? Would he have an even worse opinion of her for wanting to go out on the balcony with Wharton then?
By God, she was a duchess, and not about to let a man dictate to her, especially a man whose salary she paid!
Then she heard a soft clip-clopping, which grew louder, stopping just down the street.
Calhoun peered around the broad trunk of the tree. “There's the landau,” he said. “Come on.” He seized her hand and pulled her into a zigzagging run to the coach. Sarah would have stopped to explain to Ben, but Morgan thrust her almost roughly into the coach and followed her inside, calling out, “Get on back to the hotel! I'll explain once we get the duchess back safe in her room.”
Sarah held herself rigidly erect on the way back to the hotel, hoping Calhoun would see that she was furious with him, but he didn't even seem to remember she was there. He kept lifting the curtain and peering out the window. Neither of them spoke.
Back in her suite at the Grand Central, Sarah gave her dresser and her secretary a terse explanation of their early return without Lord Halston, watching out of the corner of her eye while Calhoun checked windows and looked behind curtains and under furniture.
“Well, thank God for Mr. Calhoun, I say,” Celia muttered as she knelt before Sarah to examine the dirt-stained rent in the skirt of Sarah's gown. “Better to have ruined a dress than to be shot at again. Isn't that right, Mr. Alconbury?”
But Sarah's secretary, hovering at Sarah's elbow, could only stare at her, white-faced.
“Cheer up, Donald,” Sarah said bracingly, patting him on the shoulder. She was touched that her secretary cared so much. “I'm unharmed, as you see. Do you suppose you could sit down with me and help me quickly compose a note for Ben to take to the governor when he goes back to pick up my uncle? I owe the poor man
some
explanation for disappearing from his reception! We shall have to tell him the truth, I suppose. Whatever will he think?”
“Why not tell him you're leavin' Denver tomorrow while you're at it?” Morgan suggested.
“Because I shall not be leaving, Mr. Calhoun,” she told him. “Do me the favor of not bringing it up again.”
Calhoun sighed and looked away.
Donald managed to pull himself together, and within moments the missive was ready and the secretary was taking it down to Ben, who waited at the landau.
“Now, your grace, why not let me help you out of that ruined thing and into your dressing gown?” Celia said practically. “You can wait in your bedroom for my lord's return. I'll have hot milk sent up from the kitchen.”
Calhoun stopped his pacing long enough to growl, “You can go fetch it. I don't want to wonder if it's really a hotel employee knocking on this door.”
“Very
well,
Mr. Calhoun,” Sarah's dresser fairly snarled back at him.
“I
will
be happy
to ‘fetch' it. But I will assist her grace first. Come, my lady.”
The two women headed for Sarah's bedroom, which lay directly off the main room, only to have Sarah stop in amazement at the cot that lay in front of its door. “What on earth—?”
“
He
directed it be put there,” Celia informed her archly with a nod toward Calhoun, who'd begun prowling about the room again. “He says he's going to sleep there.”
“
Is
he? How very medieval,” Sarah murmured, then allowed herself to titter. She hoped Calhoun heard it.
 
The next morning she had Donald escort her down into the stable through an entrance in the back of the hotel. Her secretary had told her Calhoun had gone there to check on his horse.
Uncle Frederick had been beside himself when he'd returned last night and received the full report on what had happened. Once again he'd begged Sarah to leave Denver immediately, not even waiting till morning. But when Sarah had once again adamantly refused to go, he'd proceeded to give her a stern dressing-down for her display of temper at the reception.
She found Morgan Calhoun in a stall, currying a tall, skewbald horse.
“Mr. Calhoun, if I might have a word?”
Calhoun whirled as if he'd been shot. Clearly he'd been deep in thought and hadn't heard her approach.
“I'm sorry... I didn't mean to startle you,” she said.
“What are you doin' here, Duchess? I thought I told you not to leave your room without me.” His eyes were like green icicles.
“It's all right, Donald came with me,” she said, indicating her secretary standing behind her “Donald, why don't you go and post the letters I dictated? Oh, and don't forget to take the note I wrote my sister—I left it on the tea table.”
She waited, staring down at her feet, feeling his eyes on her, until they were alone. “I—I've come to apologize,” she said at last. “I realize, after talking to my uncle, and doing some thinking, that I behaved rather badly last night.” She would not tell him that she had tossed and turned last night, and had even contemplated leaving her bedroom in the middle of the night to apologize right then and there. The only thing that had stopped her was the impropriety of waking him. “My attitude at the party, when you were only trying to counsel me for my own safety...and when we returned here...did me no credit,” she went on, then darted a glance upward to see how he was receiving her words.
She saw surprise flicker across his face, but nothing more.
“I'm afraid arrogance...and a dislike of being told what to do...are failings of mine. I want you to know that while I may not always agree with you, I shall not be discourteous again. I will cooperate as fully as possible.” There. She'd said it.
A trace of a smile made his lips curve the least bit upward. “Well...maybe you're not arrogant, but you do put me in mind of a horse's long-eared relative sometimes,” he admitted, mischief dancing in his green eyes. “But I reckon we can start over from here, Duchess.”
She was so relieved, she didn't even mind his comparing her to a mule. “Capital, Mr. Calhoun,” she said. Then, wanting some kind of confirmation that peace had been achieved, she extended her hand over the stall door. “Pax.”
She could tell he didn't know the word. “It means ‘peace' in Latin, Mr. Calhoun,” she explained as he took her hand and shook it. As before, she found his touch disturbingly powerful.
“The Indians would say we were buryin' the hatchet, I reckon,” he said. “And while we're bein' so peaceable, do you think you could call me Morgan? You keep callin' me Mr. Calhoun, and I keep lookin' around for my pa.” His grin warmed her soul.
“I
reckon
I could, Morgan,” she said, smiling back at him. Of course, she couldn't reciprocate and ask him to call her by her given name, but he didn't seem to expect that.
She was loath to just turn around and leave. “So that's your horse, this skewbald?” she asked, gesturing toward the brown-and-white-splotched horse, who watched her with pricked-forward ears. “He—he's very handsome.”
You sound like a giddy schoolgirl, Sarah.
BOOK: The Duchess and Desperado
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