The Duchess and Desperado

by Laurie Grant

  “Hey, mister, if you want a threesome I’ll join ya,” offered the shirking, blowsy brunette who was closest to them.

  Morgan felt Sarah shrink closer to him. “Another time, sweetheart,” he told the whore, plastering a silly grin on his face. “Tonight I promised the little lady we’d be all alone.”

  Moments later a sulky-looking faded blonde who must have once been pretty stomped down the stairs, eyed them and snarled, “It’s all yours—last door on the left. I just changed the sheets after my last customer.”

  The room was small, ill lit with a smoky kerosene lamp, and possessed only a washstand, a mirror, a trunk and a narrow bed. The supposedly fresh bed linens were gray and threadbare, and there was a thin coverlet pulled halfway up. A wide strip of oilcloth covered the foot of the bed.

  Sarah watched as Morgan closed and locked the door. She had held her tongue downstairs as he had asked, but now she needed some answers.

  “Morgan, we can’t stay here!” she cried before he had even turned back around. “We have to get back to the hotel! My uncle must be terribly worried about me...he must have heard what happened by now!”

  The face he turned to her was that of the dangerous desperado, all grim, hard lines. “Nope, we’re not goin’ back to the hotel. It’s time to face the facts, Duchess. Your uncle is the one behind this-he has to be! He’s one paying the assassin!”

  She felt her jaw drop. “That’s utter nonsense. You tried to make me think that he could be the one who wanted me dead before, and I didn’t believe it then and I don’t believe it now.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I tried trustin’ him. But he’s the only logical one, Duchess! I know it hurts to think this way, but who stands to gain as much as he does if you’re dead?”

  “Well, there’s Kat—Kathryn,” she noted, “my younger sister, who becomes duchess in the event I die without issue. But you’re even more insane if you’re suggesting she—”

  Morgan’s eyes softened just a fraction. “No, of course not, but if I’m right, maybe you better be thinkin’ about her safety, too.”

  “What on earth are you saying?” The room started to spin at the thought that Kat could be in any danger.

  “If you’re out of the way, and she becomes the duchess, she’s the only one between the title and dear old Uncle Frederick.”

  “You’re demented, completely and absolutely demented,” she told him. “I cannot—will not—believe such a crazed idea.”

  “Am I? Do you want to stake your life on it, and then your sister’s, Duchess? Think about it. Who besides your uncle knew you had changed your plans and decided to go to the Denver Theater rather than the Apollo?”

  “My secretary and my dresser, of course...and poor Ben...” She had an instant, terrible image of the sight of her groom’s lifeless body tumbling from the top of the landau. “Oh, my God, poor Ben...” she said, trembling as the tears began to fall.

  “Easy, Duchess,” he murmured, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I know it hurts, but you can’t think about him right now. Now, back to who betrayed you. I don’t think it could have been your dresser or your secretary. If something happened to you, after all, they’re out of a job.”

  She forced herself to stop weeping, to wrench her concentration back to what Morgan was saying. “Yes...Uncle Frederick hardly needs a dresser, and he’s never been that fond of Donald Alconbury, unfortunately,” she said with a wry quirk of her brows. “And in any case, anyone could have followed the landau.”

  “Maybe, but those shots came from the roof of the bank building next door. It gets locked up at five. I arranged for the police to watch the neighboring buildings between closing time and when you were expected, so that no one could break in,” he told her, stopping in his pacing for a moment. “So someone had to know in advance where you were going, tell the shooter, and he had to get inside the bank building when it was still open and manage to get to the roof or a window that looked into the alley, I’m not sure which.”

  “You’ve thought this through very thoroughly, haven’t you?”

  Morgan looked surprised. “That’s what you were payin’ me for, wasn’t it? And, Duchess...I know it’s hard to face this, but who else but your uncle had anything to gain by your death?”

  His voice was insistent, echoing inside her brain. Sarah spread her hands in front of her face. She did not want to imagine it, could not imagine her uncle plotting her death! Not Frederick, the curmudgeonly but kindly man who had stood solid as Gibraltar for her ever since her father had died. No, it couldn’t be...

  She shook her head, and the tears she had been holding in by sheer force of will started coursing down her cheeks again. “I can’t bear the idea that he would want me dead.”

  The argumentative light went out of his eyes, and the tension in his jaw relaxed somewhat. “Aw, hell, Duchess, I don’t like tellin’ you these things,” he told her, throwing his hands up in the air. “But you hired me to keep you safe. If you go back, though, sooner or later he’ll succeed, one way or the other, and even I won’t be able to stop it.”

  She shivered, suddenly feeling as if she were encased in a sheet of ice. “I’m not saying I believe you about my uncle, Morgan, but what do you propose to do?”

  His gaze was steady as he said soberly, “I think we ought to go to the governor, Duchess, and tell him all this, and claim his protection for you while the police arrest your uncle. McCook will order an investigation.”

  “But what if there’s no proof? What then?” she demanded, realizing she had just as much as admitted she was beginning to believe Morgan’s horrible charge.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Morgan raked a hand through his hair and looked suddenly weary. “Then he can at least hold him long enough to buy us time. We’ll get on a train goin’ east, and I’ll stay with you till you board the ship for England. The sooner you’re back home, Duchess, the safer you’ll be.”

  She shook her head. “I wouldn’t trust the governor to protect me from a horsefly, Morgan. Oh, he was pleasant enough when I met him, but I could see McCook as just another one of those men who pats a woman on the head and tells her not to imagine nonsense.”

  “But you’re a duchess!”

  She allowed herself a cynical laugh, thinking back over a lifetime of having men rule her existence. “Beneath that tide, I’m still just a woman to a man like that, and my lord uncle can be very persuasive. What if Frederick decided to tell him I’d been...ah...subject to delusions, or something of the sort? He’d believe him, I’m sure of it. No, Morgan, I’m not wagering my life on the governor’s chivalry. We’ve got to escape on our own, you and me.”

  “Escape?” he demanded in the same tone of voice he’d use if she suggested jumping off a cliff. “You mean hide somewhere until we can get on a train east, without the governor’s protection? I don’t know, Duchess....”

  Thierry would be waiting for her in Santa Fe. He would keep her safe once Morgan brought her to him, she thought, wondering why the idea didn’t warm her chilled soul. But she’d never confided in Morgan about her secret engagement to the French count, and if she was going to ask him to take her on such a perilous journey, it was only fair that she tell him everything.

  But after what had passed between them yesterday, did she dare? Would the feelings that existed between them make him refuse to take her to another man?

  “Surely Uncle Frederick would expect me to go east, since the railroads would get me there fastest,” she observed. “That’s why you have to take me south—to New Mexico, and on into Texas. I can board a ship at Galveston and sail home.”

  His jaw dropped. “Duchess, like I said before, there’s no train that’ll take you all the way to the other end of Texas, and there’s no way in hell I’d consider takin’ you through country like that, just the two of us.... No, you’d be much safer goin’ east by train.”

  She took a deep breath. “Morgan, there’s something I haven’t told you,” she said, her heart pounding as
she looked into his eyes. “Someone I haven’t told you about. I must go by way of Santa Fe. I—I’m meeting someone there. The man I’m going to marry.”

  She watched the color drain from Morgan Calhoun’s face.

  “The...man you’re going to marry?” he repeated, as if he couldn’t trust his ears. “You’re engaged, Duchess?”

  Sarah nodded, feeling sick as she saw his jaw tense and the warmth leave his eyes.

  “Yes...to Thierry de Châtellerault, a French count on Louis Napoleon’s staff. He was also a captain in the French cavalry...before Louis Napoleon was exiled to England. He came over with the emperor,” she explained.

  His gaze impaled her. “How come you never talk about this fellow, if you’re promised to him? Don’t you love him?” he demanded.

  He wanted to add, And if you love him, how come you were kissin’ me like that yesterday? How come you would have given yourself to me if I hadn’t stopped? But maybe yesterday had nothing to do with love... and maybe duchesses didn’t fall in love, anyway. It was too bad fools like him did.

  She looked away. “Of course I do.”

  Something wasn’t right here.

  Sarah’s laugh sounded brittle, forced. “I—I’m afraid it’s a secret betrothal, Morgan. We... we’ve planned to elope once I meet him in Santa Fe.”

  “Why is it secret?”

  She shrugged. “In England it’s thought that a duchess should only marry her equal, a duke. A mere foreign count is viewed as a bit of a mésalliance—marrying beneath me, you see.”

  He didn’t see. “Who thinks so?”

  “Her Majesty Queen Victoria, for one. She’ll be horrified. She wanted me to marry the Duke of Trenton. Uncle Frederick will be scandalized, too,” she added. Then she shuddered, remembering Uncle Frederick was trying to kill her.

  “But you want to many this Frenchie,” he said, feeling his heart die within him.

  “Yes,” she said simply. “That’s why I need you to take me to Santa Fe, Morgan. Thierry will be there by the time we get there. We can get there on horseback, can’t we?”

  “No.” No, damn it all to hell, I’m not taking you to Santa Fe only to give you away. I’d rather be tortured by Comanches first.

  “No? Do you mean it’s impossible, or merely difficult? I’m tougher than I look, Morgan—”

  “I mean no, I’m not taking you, Duchess. You’re loco if you think you and that horse would survive a trip over the kind of country that lies between here and Santa Fe, let alone here and the coast.”

  “But you could, couldn’t you?”

  “Well, yeah, I reckon, if some Indian doesn’t scalp me on the way, and nothin’ happens to Rio, and—”

  “Then I can do it, too.”

  “No, you can’t, Duchess. Why don’t you understand about the dangers I’m talkin’ about? It’s hundreds of miles over mountains, through deserts...”

  “I’ll double your salary.”

  “No,” he said, turning his back so he wouldn’t see the pleading blue eyes. There isn’t enough money in the world for me to do what you’re asking. Not if I have to see you go to another man when we get there.

  “Very well, I’ll more than double it. Nine thousand pounds, Morgan Calhoun, for getting me to Santa Fe, and then escorting us on to Galveston. It’s a fortune! Think how you could live if you had that much money!” she pleaded.

  Damn you for thinking you can buy me, Duchess. “It doesn’t matter how much money it is if we aren’t alive to finish the journey,” he retorted, turning back to her. He thought he would see her pale, but her luscious mouth just took on a more determined set.

  “Name your price, Morgan. I must get to Santa Fe, and you must take me there.”

  Lord, but she was one determined lady. “Why Santa Fe?” he asked, just out of curiosity. “Why not New York, or California?”

  Sarah hesitated and looked away. “Oh, I’m afraid I’m a bit of a romantic,” she said with an airy wave of her hand. “Santa Fe sounded so charming with all of its Spanish-American architecture....”

  She must really love this Frenchie, damn it all to hell. But she’d have to back down if she knew the truth about him, wouldn’t she?

  “Duchess, I reckon I got some confessin’ to do, too, and after I do, you’ll see why it’d be loco to travel with me, even assumin’ we’d survive the trail,” he told her.

  She waited, her eyes shining with such faith in him that he hated to open his mouth and destroy her hope. But he had to.

  “I—I didn’t tell you the truth about why I’m here in Colorado Territory, Duchess. Oh, yeah, I plan to go minin’ up in the mountains—but that’s because I have to get to some place where the law can’t get me. I’m an outlaw. My face is on Wanted posters all over the Southwest.”

  Sarah looked startled, as he’d expected. She turned away and went to stare out the window, though there was little to see in the darkness. He waited while a minute or two went by.

  “I think I suspected, the moment I saw you,” she told him. “You have...such an air of danger about you.... Is Morgan Calhoun even your real name?” She turned to see him answer.

  “Yeah. I still don’t know why, but I gave you my real name.”

  He was astonished to see her smile then. “You couldn’t lie to me,” she said. “And your being an outlaw—don’t you see? That makes you even more suited to the task, Morgan. You’ve eluded capture this long, so you must be very...ah, adept at escape. I—I need someone with such a talent right now.”

  Was there no getting through to this woman? “Duchess, I don’t think you understand,” he said. “I’m a bandit. I’ve robbed people—I’m a bad man. You’re a duchess.... You can’t be riding all over creation with a bad man! What would your Frenchman say if you rode into Santa Fe with a fellow like me?”

  “I know you, Morgan, and I know you’re not a bad man. And Thierry will know that I did what I had to do to reach his side.”

  There was such a dogged, martial gleam in her eye, he wanted to kiss her—if that light hadn’t been there for the sake of another man. He just couldn’t do what she was asking, damn it, not and give her up. He decided to play his ace.

  “Duchess, you can’t go with me. I—I’m wanted for murder.” He hadn’t killed the driver of the stagecoach that was carrying the army payroll, of course, but he’d been accused of it.

  The roses left her cheeks. “Did you do it?”

  “No.”

  She closed her eyes and sighed. Then, as he watched, her widened blue eyes simply flooded with tears. “Oh, Morgan, please,” she said, catching hold of his hand with hers. “I’m begging you. For the love of God, take me to Santa Fe....”

  She was weeping. Good God, why did she have to go and weep? And all for the sake of another man. She loved this Frenchman enough to sacrifice her pride in front of Morgan, to risk dying, just to reach his side.

  He took a deep breath. “Stop cryin’, Duchess. I—I’ll take you. I reckon I must be the one who’s crazy—”

  She gave a small cry and launched herself at him, laughing and crying at the same time, and kissed his cheeks.

  “Oh, Morgan, I don’t care what anyone says—you’re wonderful, a prince among men! Thank you! Thank you!”

  She danced out of his grasp just as he was about to wrap his arms around her and kiss her back in a way that would leave her in no doubt about how he felt about her.

  “Now we must make a plan, Morgan. We must find a way to obtain our horses without being seen,” she said, suddenly very businesslike.

  “Duchess, I’ve been tryin’ to tell you, that thoroughbred of yours isn’t suited—”

  “But we have to have horses, don’t we? And you don’t wish to leave your pinto behind, do you?”

  No, he didn’t want to leave behind the horse he’d ridden since the day he left his home in Texas. He shook his head.

  “Then we can get Trafalgar, too. And she’ll do fine, Morgan. You’ll be surprised at how well she’ll travel, I kn
ow you will.”

  Well, at least the mare ought to survive long enough to get her out of Denver. By the tune the highbred hayburner dropped over dead, they ought to be far enough from immediate pursuit that the duchess could ride double with him until they could get her another mount, somehow.

  “All right, I’ll get the damn mare, too. Now, here’s what we’re going to do....”

  Minutes later Morgan tiptoed down the back stairway out of the parlor house, leaving Sarah behind in the room, and stole through the now-quiet streets of Denver back to the Grand Central Hotel. He managed to avoid a pair of lawmen out patrolling the streets, probably looking for some sign of him and the duchess.

  Approaching the hotel from the side, he saw the hotel manager nervously pacing up and down in front of the door, pausing every so often to mop his forehead. Poor overwrought fellow. Lord Halston was probably making his life hell. Then, looking up, Morgan saw light still gleaming behind the curtains in the duchess’s suite. He wished he could somehow let Celia Harris and Donald Alconbury, Sarah’s servants, know that their mistress was all right, but of course there was no way.

  It proved easy enough to sneak up behind the lone groom guarding the hotel stable and knock him out with the butt of his gun, then tie him up and gag him so he wouldn’t sound the alarm. Quickly and efficiently, Morgan saddled both horses, thanking God he’d left his spare Colt and holster in his saddlebags. Minutes later, Morgan rode away, mounted on his pinto and leading Sarah’s saddled thoroughbred.

  They left Denver before dawn, riding south.

  Fourteen

  “What 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.