The Duchess and Desperado (22 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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“Yeah.” Morgan was amused to hear Sarah growl in her best imitation-American-male. “So don't try nothin'. I'd jest as soon kill you as look at you, you ugly galoot.” He was going to have to be sure to ask her which sensational novel she'd gotten her lingo from.
By the time Morgan and Sarah were packed and ready to go in the draw, they could see the two men as tiny dots on the horizon, heading due north back toward Pueblo. Even at this distance, Morgan could see that the wounded man was leaning on the other for support. Those two wouldn't be riding after them seeking revenge any time soon.
The Apache's name, Morgan learned, was Naiche, and he'd been on a hunting expedition for his hungry people. When Morgan translated for Sarah's benefit, she immediately walked over to the packhorse, got the remains of their antelope feast and offered the Apache some, but he shook his head.
“He will not eat until the
N‘de
, his people, can eat,” Morgan told her. “We're going to have to see him back to his village, Sarah. He's in a lot of pain, and he's stayin' conscious out of pride alone.”
“Of course. I wouldn't think of leaving him here alone,” Sarah replied firmly.
The Apache eyed her, and smiled slightly as he made a comment and then asked Morgan another question.
“He asked what you said,” Morgan told her. “After I translated, he said you are a woman of great heart, and asked if you were my woman. So I guess you can quit usin' the deep voice, 'cause he wasn't fooled. I'm goin' to tell him you are my woman, okay? I think it's safer.”
“Go ahead and tell him so, Morgan,” she said, her voice steady as she looked him in the eye. “It's true, anyway.”
He stared back at her. “Duchess, what are you sayin'? Careful now, don't say something you're going to regret—”
“Let's not argue, Morgan,” she said with serene resolve. “We'll talk about it later, when we're alone.”
They'd talk about it, all right, Morgan vowed. He had to make her see he couldn't accept her generous offer of herself, no matter how much he wanted to. It wasn't right. He wasn't right for her, not for a few nights of passion, and certainly not for the rest of their lives.
“Which way?” Morgan asked the Apache once they'd bandaged his hands and helped him to mount. The scrubby horse they'd taken from the white men had shied from the smell of blood, but once the Indian was atop him, he didn't seem inclined to buck.
Naiche pointed southwest to the mountains they'd been skirting all along.
“Is it far? My woman's mare was not bred for the mountains,” Morgan told him.
The Apache eyed Trafalgar admiringly, and said in Apache, “She is much horse, just as your golden-haired woman is much woman. I would trade all my string of horses for her.”
Morgan wasn't sure whether he meant the thoroughbred or Sarah, but knew he had to be careful what he said either way. “My woman and the mare's spirits are attached by an invisible, magic cord,” Morgan told him, adding, “Each would wither without the other, and I would wither without her.”
The answer seemed to satisfy the Apache.
An hour later Morgan spotted a mule deer and shot it, then tied the buck over the packhorse's withers. It wouldn't hurt to have some meat to offer when they met up with Naiche's band of Jicarilla Apaches.
Naiche had tried to remain stoic, but his face got paler with each mile, and finally he consented to drink some of the whiskey Morgan offered. He drank deeply and long, prompting Morgan to urge him to stop. He had to remain alert, Morgan told him, for how would they find his people if Naiche was insensible with firewater?
The Apache just gave a weak grin, and said, “Do not worry if that happens, Texan. Just ride into the mountains, and they will find you.” A few minutes later he sagged on his mount and would have fallen off if Morgan hadn't caught him. They stopped and transferred him onto Rio, and Morgan rode from then on with the limp figure of the Indian cradled in his arms.
They rode until the sun was high in the sky. Morgan figured they were in New Mexico by now. He'd planned for them to enter the territory over Raton Pass, and join up with the Santa Fe Trail, but at least this way they wouldn't be charged the toll travelers paid to go that way—four bits each horse, a dollar and fifty cents per wagon.
Just as Naiche had promised, “the People” found them before Morgan and Sarah found the village. One minute they were alone on the narrow mountain trail, the next, four copper-skinned men clad in breechcloths, fringed, tanned-hide shirts and knee-high moccasins had surrounded them, rifles held at the ready.
Chapter Twenty-Two
 
 
S
arah froze in the saddle. It was one thing to read tales about wild red men in novels about the West, quite another to confront the real thing.
Silently she stared at the copper-skinned Apache men with their straight, raven black hair held back with wide cloth bands across their foreheads. They stared back at her. The unblinking obsidian intensity of their gazes made Sarah look away first.
One of them, who had gray liberally mixed with the black of his hair, pointed to the limp Indian Morgan held in his arms, and uttered something in Apache. There was no doubt from his tone that it was a question, and more than that, it was a question for which Morgan better have the right answer.
Morgan answered in Apache, nodding toward Naiche's bandaged hands, which had been concealed in his lap. The four men came surging forward, exclaiming.
Their sudden movement caused Trafalgar to rear and whinny in alarm, and Sarah momentarily forgot the Indians as she struggled to keep her seat. Then, once she succeeded in quieting the mare, Sarah saw the gray-haired leader point straight at
her
and heard him ask another question.
Morgan spoke again, pointing to Sarah, then back to himself
“What's he saying? What have you told him?” she asked.
“I've told him what happened to Naiche, and that we brought him here because we mean well to the Apache. And I said I have told you, my wife, to dress like a man for your safety on our journey,” he said.
The leader made a gesture toward her head, and seemed to demand something.
“He wants to see your hair, Sarah,” Morgan said. His eyes said,
Trust me. It will be all right.
Slowly, keeping her gaze locked with Morgan's and trying to keep her hands from shaking, she lifted the hat and allowed the thick blond plait to fall down her back.
A collective gasp—clearly one of admiration—arose from the men. Then Morgan said something else to them, and two of them peeled away from the rest and ran ahead up the path.
“I've told them Naiche needs the medicine man, and that we would be honored to spend the night with them.”
Her heart pounded within the man's shirt she wore. “Oh, Morgan, is that really necessary? Surely now that we've brought Naiche back home, our obligation is through. It's early enough that we can find our way back down the mountain, can't we?”
He shook his head “Hospitality is sacred to the Apache. If we didn't stay the night, they would take it as a grave insult. They might even decide we had something to do with Naiche's injury after all.”
She considered his words, then took a deep breath. “Very well,” she said. “One night. Only fancy how much fun it will be to tell this story at the palace!”
His expression was approving. “That's the spirit.”
The two men who had run ahead had evidently warned the village, if the collection of crude, round huts made of brush and grass could properly be called a village. About two dozen men, women and children came surging down the narrow path to exclaim over their fallen warrior and eye the newcomers with suspicion and naked curiosity.
One of them, skinny, gray-haired and wrinkled, came forward and said something to Morgan, pointing to the hut from which he had just come.
“That's the shaman, the medicine man, Sarah, and he wants me to bring Naiche into his wickiup. You can dismount, but stay right there with your mare and Rio.”
As if she would have consented to go anywhere else! As soon as he went into the wickiup, the Indians pressed forward, staring at her from just inches away, some of them even daring enough to reach out and stroke her hair. They were just as inquisitive about Rio and Trafalgar, stroking their necks and flanks. The mare rolled her eyes and tossed her head nervously, but fortunately, she didn't kick.
Just as Morgan came out, a pair of Apache braves thundered past them on spotted ponies, heading down the mountain.
“Where are they going, do you think?” Sarah asked, calm now that Morgan was with her again.
“From the snatches of talk I've heard, I'd guess they were going after the two who tortured Naiche,” Morgan told her as a cloud of dust rose in their wake. “I wouldn't want to be those fellows if they're caught between here and Pueblo.”
The older brave with the iron gray hair came forward again and spoke to Morgan, pointing at a wickiup set a little distance away from the others.
“That's where we're to spend the night, Duchess,” Morgan translated. “They tell me it's normally used by newly married couples in this band.”
“Oh?” She felt herself blush.
They were the guests of honor at a feast that evening. They were directed to sit in front of the leader's wickiup, and the warriors, women and children found places on the ground as near to them as possible. The only meat served was the venison they had brought on the packhorse, but a plentiful amount of roasted yucca and agave, woven baskets full of wild onions, berries and pinon nuts were served, first to Morgan and Sarah, then passed to the men, and finally to the women and children. Sarah and Morgan ate sparingly, aware that their Indian hosts had put on the feast not from an abundance of food, but from the gratitude in their hearts.
They were given gourds full of a colorless liquor Morgan called mescal. “Just pretend to drink this,” he warned, handing her a gourd, “'cause it'll knock you flat on your back, Duchess.”
“I'll be careful,” she promised, but took a sip, since the man who had handed it to her was watching closely The liquid burned all the way down to her stomach, and Sarah resolved to wash her food down with the water she had also been given.
An Apache woman had just laid an intricately woven basket at her feet, filled with pieces of some sort of yellow-and-pink-speckled sweet mixture.
“It's a sort of candy made of preserved yucca fruits mixed with sunflower petals,” Morgan told her. “Try it.”
It was delicious. But she was equally interested in the basket. “Beautiful,” she said to the woman, pointing to the design.
After Morgan translated, the woman beamed and touched Sarah's hair, then the spectacles that she wore.
“She says you are beautiful, too, Woman of Golden Hair and Far-Seeing Eyes,” Morgan told her. His eyes added their own praise. Then he told her that the tribal subdivision name, Jicarilla, came from the Spanish word for the baskets the women wove.
Sarah realized she had never felt as welcome in any drawing room or at any country-house party as she did in this village. The court at Whitehall seemed not only an ocean away, but part of another lifetime.
Then the storytelling began. The men of the tribe told of buffalo hunts and raids against other tribes, especially the Comanches, their enemies. Morgan translated each tale for Sarah's benefit, then told a couple of his own, one in which he had successfully outrun a hunting party of Comanches on the Staked Plain, and another in which he had helped a band of Mescalero Apaches steal the cattle bound for a fort on the plains.
The Apache men laughed and clapped Morgan on the back in obvious approval.
Then the older warrior with the iron gray hair, his face turning serious, pointed first to Sarah, and then to Morgan.
“What does he ask, Morgan?”
“He wants to know what we're doing, traveling all alone like this over dangerous country.” He addressed the Apache. “I told him we had business in Santa Fe, but we had to come alone because we had enemies back in Denver, and that one of them might be trailing us.”
It was a sobering reminder of what lay beyond the night in this encampment.
The stars were twinkling in the velvet sky above by the time Morgan, carrying a burning stick to light their way, led her to their wickiup. Sarah was grateful that it lay at some distance from the rest of the grass-and-brush huts, for she had made up her mind about something, and she turned to face Morgan, who had stooped to light the small pile of sticks in the middle of the round hut.
In a moment tiny flames cast their light across the diameter of the floor. There was a small circular hole at the top, and the smoke began to curl upward, escaping through it.
He'd brought their blanket rolls in here earlier, and they were lying side by side. “If you want, I'll move mine to the other side, Duchess,” he said, bending to pick it up without looking at her. “I thought in case someone came in here lookin' while we were at the feast, it'd look more like we were really married if I laid 'em out together.”
“No,” Sarah said when he would have moved his bedroll. “Don't move it.”
He stopped, straightening until his head brushed the round top of the wickiup, staring at her in the dim light.
“Duchess, what are you saying?” he asked.
She let her actions speak for her, removing her spectacles and laying them carefully aside. Then she stood right in front of him and began to unbutton her shirt.
“Sarah, did you drink more mescal when I wasn't lookin'?” Morgan sounded uneasy. “Now stop that,” he ordered as she continued to unbutton her shirt.
“No more than a couple of sips,” she said, smiling and ignoring his command.
“You
drank a whole cupful, I noticed.”
“I'm used to it,” he protested. “Sarah, this isn't wise,” he added, seeing her pull her shirttail out of the waistband of her pants and lower her hands to the buttons on her fly. He took a step or two backward.
Sarah paused, feeling his eyes on the mounds of her breasts that trembled under her camisole, only partly covered now by the shirt. Her fingers quivered on the buttons of the pants. “I'm tired of being wise, Morgan,” she told him, advancing on him. “I've tried to do the sensible thing ever since I succeeded to the duchy, and I'm tired of it. I came to America because I was weary of always doing the safe, sensible thing, and now I want to make love with you, Morgan.”
“Sarah,” he breathed, his hands coming forward, then sinking to his sides. “Sarah, no. I want you, too, honey, more than I want my next breath, but I can't have you. I agreed to take you to that French fellow, Sarah... and I think that's what I should do. Once we hit the Santa Fe Trail, it won't take long to get there. We
—oh, Sarah...”
She had stepped out of the dusty trousers, and let the shirt slide backward off her arms, and was clad only in her pantalets and chemise. Then she raised her arms and pulled the chemise off over her head. As he stared, she loosed her hair from the confining braid and let it fall to her shoulders.
She closed the distance between them, unbuttoning his shirt, knowing there was only bare skin beneath, for he'd been leaving his union suit off because of the heat of the August days.
“Please,
Morgan,” she murmured as she finished unbuttoning it, sliding her hands along his arms until her breasts were almost touching his chest. “As you say, we'll be in Santa Fe soon. Oh, Morgan, I couldn't bear it if you hadn't made love to me—
just this once
....” She injected all the yearning she felt into her voice, knowing if he rejected her now, there was nothing left for her but ashes. Later there would be time to explain to Morgan that she was in love with him, that she no longer loved Thierry and planned to break their betrothal once she arrived in Santa Fe. But for now all she wanted was Morgan.
“Morgan,” she whispered, stepping forward so that her bare breasts brushed against his chest,
“make love to me.”
The sensation of her soft nipples touching his chest, accentuated by every ragged breath she took, was a jolt of lightning that went straight to his heart. He groaned.
“Oh, Duchess—Sarah—are you
sure?
What about—” He couldn't think of the man's name to save his soul. “What about your Frenchman?”
“Forget about him for tonight,” she commanded in a whisper. “I don't believe I could live if you don't make love to me now.”
Still he hesitated, and she must have read his uncertainty in his eyes, for she said, “Morgan, in my world, affairs of the heart are not unusual. Provided one is discreet, one's heart may be given as one likes.”
He understood She was reminding him she was not a virgin. He'd always figured she and her Frenchman had gone to bed together, but maybe she'd had other lovers, too. And now she desired
him,
Morgan Calhoun, but she had accepted that there would be only tonight for them. She would go to the Frenchman, and back to her own world, when they reached Santa Fe.
God in Heaven, would one night be enough for him?
Self-control was a thing of the past, though. His arms encircled her, pulling her tightly against him so that her breasts were crushed against the hard planes of his chest. He was sure he'd never felt anything better in his entire life—unless it was the feel of her tiny hands trembling on the buttons of his denims.

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