The Duchess and Desperado (16 page)

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Authors: Laurie Grant

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

BOOK: The Duchess and Desperado
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“Well, mister,” the black man had answered with a grin, “I figger from yer talk, you prob‘ly wouldn't understan' it, but I used ta be a slave, an' I belonged to a Texas massah what whupped me all th' time. So I don't owe nothin' to no damn Texans.”
“I see...” the assassin had murmured, grateful for the ill feelings that lingered because of slavery. And how fortunate that he had stopped here instead of heading out onto the vast plains! His instincts were as clever as those of a hunting wolf!
So Calhoun had taken the duchess up into the mountains? The fool! Sarah's horse would break a leg and they'd have to ride double! Then it would be child's play to catch up with them. After all, he had campaigned in the Alps! Thanking the smiling black man profusely, he left the trading post and headed west toward the Rockies.
Chapter Sixteen
 
 
L
ate that afternoon they made camp in what Sarah would have described as a narrow gully; Morgan called it a “draw.” It had obviously been used as a stopping place before, for a pile of empty whiskey bottles and tin cans lay in a heap under the sparse shade of a pair of cottonwood saplings. On one side of the draw, the bluff overhung the dry, flat ground. They'd put their bedrolls there, Morgan said, for they'd be less visible to wandering Indians or white rascals that way. Sarah guessed he was particularly thinking about the assassin who might be trying to follow them.
Surely all Denver was abuzz with the news of her disappearance, and perhaps the local newspaper had even printed a story about it by now, so her would-be killer would surely be aware that his quarry had flown.
Was
he somewhere behind them, even now? Was he that determined to see her dead? The thought was on Morgan's mind, too, she guessed, for he frequently stopped to look back over his shoulder. Thank God for Morgan's keen vision—he'd be able to see the glint of the sun off a gun barrel or field glasses that would betray the fact of another rider following them. So far, he'd seen no sign of pursuit, but his action caused her to frequently glance over her shoulder, too, even though she couldn't hope to see as well, even with her spectacles.
Sarah, you'll run daft if you imagine yourself the hunted hare all the time,
she admonished herself. Vowing to put the thought aside, she looked longingly at the shallow trickle of a stream running through the draw as the horses lowered their heads to drink.
“What's wrong?” he asked, his eyes on her.
“Oh, just wishing the water were deeper,” she admitted with a rueful chuckle. She bent over, upstream of the drinking horses, and splashed some water on her face. “You've no idea how I'm longing for a bath, but it's hardly deep enough to get my ankles wet.” She blushed at the admission, for a lady did not mention any part of her legs, let alone that she longed to wash her entire body! But a lady did not go fleeing into the wilderness with a man, or wear trousers while she did so, either.
He looked away, but not before she saw his green eyes darken with—what? Could it be desire?
“Oh, I reckon you'd see plenty of water if we were to get a sudden cloudburst. In fact, we'd have to run for high ground—this draw could be full to the rim in nothing flat,” he said, pointing in the direction from which the flood would come. “I wouldn't even consider camping here if there was a cloud in the sky, but there's isn't, and I can't smell any rain, either. But we can jaw about the weather later. Soon's I get the horses unsaddled and secured, you got a shootin' lesson to attend, Duchess.”
She groaned. “Can't we cook dinner first? I'm famished,” she admitted. “I could have my cooking lesson,” she added hopefully.
He grinned. “All this fresh air's good for the appetite, isn't it? But no, we'll shoot first, while the sun's still high.”
“Impossible man,” Sarah grumbled, but it was a good-natured grumble. She was beginning to realize that she enjoyed doing just about anything with Morgan, though she'd never have said so. She helped him unsaddle their mounts, staggering a little with the weight of Trafalgar's stock saddle, then, seeing him picking up his stallion's feet to check for stones, she did likewise with her mare.
“How're you holding up, old girl?” she murmured, pitching her voice so it was low and soothing to distract the mare while she picked up each hind foot. Trafalgar hated having her hooves fussed with, but she suffered Sarah's ministrations with no more than a toss of her proud head. “You miss Ben, don't you? So do I—but he'd be so proud of how well you're doing, I just know it. You're showing that gaudy painted stallion of Morgan's just what a British horse is made of, aren't you? Stiff upper lip and all that.” She stroked the mare's back, looking for sore spots and feeling the dampness of the hair where the saddle and blanket had rested all day. Was Trafalgar thinner already? She'd have to see about getting her some oats as soon as they came to a town—the thoroughbred, wasn't used to a diet of grass only.
“How's she doing?” Morgan said, right behind her.
How did he manage to move so quietly, as if he were barefoot instead of wearing boots? She hoped he hadn't seen how he'd startled her. “Fine!” Sarah insisted, trying not to sound shocked.
“Since we're going to be shooting nearby, we'd better tie her extra well,” he said, slipping a loop of rope around the mare's neck and securing it to one of the young cottonwood trunks. “Don't want her running off down the draw in a panic.”
After unbridling the thoroughbred, Morgan, carrying an armful of the empty tin cans from under the mesquite, led her back up onto the plain by the path they'd used to descend into the draw. After lining up the tin cans on rocks, he motioned for her to follow him and strode several yards away from them.
“Here,” he said, handing her one of the Colts. “Time to get friendly with this—it just might save your life.”
She took it and was amazed at how heavy it was, for he handled it as if it weighed nothing. She ran her fingers over the smooth wood grain of the butt, praying she'd never have to use this against anything human.
“Hold it in both hands—you'll need both hands to steady it,” he said, stepping behind her. “Now raise it...and sight down that barrel. That's it, Duchess.” His drawling voice was just inches from her right ear, causing her neck to tingle. “Now, cock the hammer-that's this thing up here—and you're ready to shoot. Keep your eye on that tin can yonder, the one in the middle, and just squeeze the trigger....”
She did as he instructed, and the resultant reverberating explosion was so loud in her ear—and the jolt of the pistol against her hands so unexpected—she nearly dropped the Colt in fright. When she managed to open her eyes again, she saw a puff of dust rising from the ground well to the right of the last can, nowhere near the center one she had been aiming for.
“I reckon I forgot to mention about the way she'd kick,” Morgan admitted. “Now try again.”
Her next effort was even more laughable than the first, though she was more ready for the recoil of the pistol this time.
“Let me help you a little, Duchess,” he murmured, coming closer behind her and reaching around her on both sides to wrap his larger hands around hers. This brought his chest and arms in close contact with her back and arms, and his cheek against the side of her head.
She shivered as his beard-rough cheek caught at strands of her hair. He smelled of horse and leather. Couldn't he feel the way her pulse immediately raced into a full gallop? But he seemed oblivious to anything but the lesson as he said, “Now, keep one eye open, Duchess, and just squee-eeze that trigger....”
That shot was better, at least, they hit the far right can, though she'd still been aiming at the center one. She heard a tinny clunk as it rocketed up from the stone it had been sitting on, then fell back against it.
“Don't worry, Duchess, we'll make you a deadeye shot yet. For a Britisher, anyway,” he promised into her hair. “Keep trying.”
Lord, his nearness made it so she could barely
brearhe,
let alone shoot accurately, but the honor of England was at stake, so she fired again and again, until on her sixth shot she finally hit the edge of the can and caused it to jump a couple of inches into the air.
She wanted to jump and whoop like a wild Indian, but he merely said calmly, “That's better, Duchess. Now I have to show you how to reload, 'cause you're outa bullets.”
He did, and then he set up the cans again before taking up his position behind her, steadying her hand for another six shots. This time she hit the target three times out of the six, once squarely in the middle of a can, and came close to the other three.
After she reloaded under his supervision, he made no move to come closer, and realizing she was now on her own, she raised the pistol and shot. She hit only one can, but as she turned and saw him give an approving gesture, she felt as triumphant as if she'd been given a trophy.
Just then Morgan took the gun from her and, without a word of explanation, sighted down the barrel and fired at something off to their left, twice as far away as the cans.
“What was that?” she asked, startled. All she had seen was some grass rustling before he fired.
“Jackrabbit,” came his laconic explanation. “Now we'll have meat for dinner instead of just beans.”
Load. Aim. Fire. Load. Aim. Fire. Her hands and arms ached, her head throbbed and the ground at her booted feet was littered with empty shells by the time Morgan decided they'd better quit and make dinner, but Sarah hardly noticed her aches as she strode back to camp. She was filled with a new feeling of confidence.
I can do this. I can hold my own, and I will survive.
She was not allowed to rest on her laurels, however. “You didn't do half bad—for a woman,” he teased as he built up the fire in the gathering dusk. She looked away while he gutted and skinned the rabbit, until he had it spitted and roasting over the fire.
“Now let's see how you are at biscuits. That ought to come naturally to any female.”
She shot him a rueful grin. “No fair, Morgan. I wasn't allowed in the kitchen at Malvern Hall when I was a little girl, except on rare occasions. But if you ever need to know how to pour tea gracefully or make your curtsy to the queen, I'm an expert.”
“I'll keep that in mind. Now you watch how I do this, 'cause you're going to make the breakfast biscuits.” The biscuits he made were fluffy and light, and they ate them slathered with the jelly they'd bought at Socrates' store, along with the roasted jackrabbit. She had to admit the rabbit was tasty, though anything was palatable when one was this hungry!
“We'll reach Castle Rock tomorrow, with any luck,” he murmured, leaning back against his saddle as the light faded in the draw. “The Denver and Rio Grande railroad stops there, and we ought to be able to ride a fair distance toward the New Mexican border on it. Duchess, I'm going to turn in,” he said, covering his mouth to hide a yawn. “If you wanted to go a little ways down the draw and wash, I reckon I'd be close enough to holler awake if you needed anything.” He sank back against the saddle and pulled his blanket up over him.
Sarah was a bit nonplussed, for she had looked forward to talking more. She'd planned to ask Morgan how he thought she could improve her shooting, if he knew how big a town Castle Rock was, what he planned to do with his life after she went back to England.... But now his eyes had drifted shut, so she might as well go have a wash.
 
Maybe the duchess believed he was asleep, but his body knew better. Morgan could still feel the imprint of her shoulders against his chest, and the softness of her hair as he'd helped her with her aim. He kept savoring the joyful sound of her pleased laughter and the sparkling blue of her eyes behind the lenses of her spectacles as she'd struck her target—first with his help, and then without. He'd gotten hard just watching her delicately pulling the meat off the rabbit leg with her even white teeth surrounded by those kissable lips, and he stayed hard now as he heard the splashing water just a few yards down the draw.
He imagined each step of her washing in excruciating detail. his groin aching. First she'd unbutton her shirt, then pull down her chemise and expose proud breasts surmounted by nipples that were doubtless as rosy and perfect as her lips.... She'd take the cloth and soap and wet them, then work up a lather before rubbing the cloth over her neck and shoulders and the hollow of her throat....
She'd probably dry herself, and put her chemise back on before shedding the trousers that had so perfectly outlined the length of her legs and the curve of her bottom during the day. Then she'd slip off her pantalets, and lather up the cake of soap again....
He groaned and struck the ground with his fist in frustration, causing Rio, tethered a few feet away, to nicker in inquiry. Damnation! That soap wasn't the only thing getting lathered, he thought, feeling beads of sweat break out on his forehead as he heard her humming snatches of some tune.
He wanted nothing better than to throw off that blanket, get up and walk down the draw and fill his eyes with the sight of her. Then he'd fill his hands with her—and his mouth—before sinking his aching flesh into her sweetness.
He'd get up and go to Sarah right now if he thought she'd welcome his caresses—but she'd made it very clear she was interested only in having him help her join her lover in Santa Fe. A duchess wasn't for the likes of him.
But dear God how on earth am I going to survive this kind of temptation on a daily basis? How am I going to take Sarah Challoner all the way to Santa Fe without touching her?
It wasn't her fault that it had been weeks—or was it months?—since he'd had a woman. Lately he'd been so busy running from the law that he hadn't given the matter much thought. But once he'd hired on with the duchess—especially now that he was alone with her day and night—he'd thought of little else. Damn him for a randy fool!

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