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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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The knife twisted deeper into his own heart. He took off his hat and raked his hand through his hair. He knew what he ought to say—
Yeah, Duchess, that's all it was. I'm a normal, healthy man and I wanted you, but don't try to fool yourself that there's any happily-ever-after waiting for us
But he couldn't say it.
Instead, he turned to her, letting his eyes meet hers. “No, Duchess, I can't lie about it, not to you, not to myself—though you'd be better off if I did. I love you, all right, and that's forever. I'll still love you when I take my last breath. I have nothing to give you, Duchess, but love, and it ain't en—”
“Yes, it
is
enough, Morgan!” she cried, her voice breaking at the end. “If we love one another, we'll find a way—”
“No, we won't, Duchess,
and that's the end of it,” he said in a voice that, for all its quiet, brooked no argument. “I won't let you follow me on the outlaw trail, you understand?” Then, hearing her start to sob, he softened his voice and reached across the distance between the two horses to take hold of her hand. “It's
because
I love you and always will that I want you to be safe and happy, Sarah, not on the run with me, with the fear of me bein' caught makin' you old before your time. I won't do that, and that's final.”
She jerked her face away from him and was silent for a long moment. “Very well, Morgan, we'll speak no more of it.”
Her chill, precise voice was like the drumroll that was played right before they sprang the trapdoor on the gallows, dropping the man into hell.
“Fine,” he managed to say. “Now suppose you tell me just what the plans are for meetin' up with your Frenchman.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
 
 
“W
hen we made the plan to meet in Santa Fe, we didn't know, of course, what hotels were available there,” Sarah said as they urged their horses forward. “So Thierry, knowing he would likely arrive before I, hit upon the idea of leaving a message at the local constable's office, a message saying where he was staying. If I arrived and found no message, I was to leave one saying where
I
was staying, you see?”
He saw. “So we need to find the local calaboose. The jail—the sheriff's office,” he added when Sarah looked confused at the term.
“Oh, right.” She squared her shoulders. “Before we go there, I shall want to secure a pair of rooms—and stabling for the horses. And after we see if Thierry has left a message, I need to visit a telegraph office.”
“And look up your Frenchman after that?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “Not today, I'm afraid. It's already noon By the time we have finished our errands, it will be much too late.”
He stared at her, suspecting her motives, suspecting the feeling of relief, of reprieve, that had flooded his soul. “Why are you dallyin', Duchess? If it's because you think one more night will make a difference in what I said—”
She uttered a mirthless little laugh. “No, it's nothing like that, I assure you. You've quite convinced me that your mind is made up. Didn't you notice I said
rooms
, not
room?
Naturally, I shall want to bathe away the dust of the road and change my clothes,” she said with a gesture toward the dusty, travel-worn masculine attire she still wore. “I shouldn't want to present myself to my
fiancé
dressed like this. I shall wait until morning, when I have been refreshed by a good night's sleep.”
“Naturally,” he echoed, her casual use of the word
fiancé
eating like acid into his heart. If only his suspicions had been right! Instead, she wanted to delay so she would look beautiful for her damned Frenchman. Damn it, if she only knew how beautiful she had looked to him on the trail, even dusty and wearing men's clothes! The thought of being with her for another full day was exquisite torture, yet he would not have forgone it at the cost of his salvation.
“Well, if you're determined t' get gussied up for your fancy Frenchman,” he drawled, “surely you aren't plannin' on puttin' on that wrinkled gold dress again, or that plain ol' skirt an' blouse? I think we ought t' go shoppin' an' see if we can't pick you up some eye-poppin' ready-made dress to wear. And I reckon you won't have your spectacles on for that meetin', will you?” His mocking words rang in his ears like counterfeit pennies.
She stared at him, and Morgan caught a glimpse of a suspicious brightness in her eyes. “What a fine idea, Morgan,” she said in a brittle voice. “Indeed, I think I would like a new gown, if you think Santa Fe affords such a luxury.”
“What were you sayin' about a telegraph office?”
She looked amused. “Have you forgotten our arrangement, Morgan? You took on this job with the understanding that I owed you four thousand pounds—I forget what that amounted to in dollars—at the end of the journey. I have to arrange a transfer of funds from the bank in New York City, the one I set up a relationship with when I arrived in the States. We'll have them send the money to the bank in Santa Fe.”
The idea of being paid such a vast sum, which had pleased him initially, held no charm for him now. In fact, he hated the thought of it.
“Naw, forget that, Duchess. I don't want your money.”
She look surprised, even touched. “But you've earned it, Morgan Calhoun, and this duchess pays her debts—that's final,” she said with an ironic quirk to her brow as she repeated his own words.
He decided to argue no further He'd just have to find a way to give her back her money without her knowing about it.
They threaded their way up the narrow, oxcart-crowded streets, and he could tell that Sarah was charmed by the quaint old Spanish-American town. She exclaimed over its adobe buildings, with their
ristras
of drying peppers hanging from exposed rafters, and the Indians and Mexicans selling their wares. She didn't even seem shocked at hearing the colorful curses the mule skinners leveled at the obstinate beasts pulling their wagons.
The trail ended in the plaza, at one end of which lay the long adobe building that was the historic Palace of the Governors. The shenff's office and jail lay diagonally across the square from it.
“I was here in Santa Fe last spring,” Morgan told her, “and I stayed overnight in a little posada, an inn, around the corner. It had a livery right next to it. You want to stay there?”
Sarah inclined her head. “Lead on, Macduff,” she said with a sardonic curve to her mouth.
Once they had settled the horses and paid for their rooms, they returned to the plaza.
“I'll wait over yonder,” Morgan told her, indicating the side of the square adjacent to the palace side, but farthest from the jail, “where the sheriff won't see me. You go ahead on in and inquire,” he added, pointing at the jail, barely visible through the low-hanging boughs of shady cottonwoods.
Her mouth formed an O as the realization dawned in her magnified blue eyes. “You think there might be a Wanted poster with your likeness on it in the jail office?”
He nodded. “It's likely, Duchess. But we won't run into any problems if I wait over here.”
He waited until she'd gone inside, then went over to where an old Indian sat in the shade of one of the trees. Morgan figured Sarah would be safe enough for a few minutes, especially in the presence of a lawman. The Indian had spread out silver jewelry on a blanket in front of him. Morgan still had some coins jingling in his pocket, and he had a notion about buying something for Sarah. Something to remember him by.
 
As Calhoun and Sarah stood talking, one of the serapedraped men dozing under the trees raised his sombrero from over his face just enough so that he could see the two, yet not reveal his decidedly un-Latin features.
So they had come. He had been clever to wait here in the plaza, where every traveler to Santa Fe came sooner or later. His fingers tightened around the long-barreled pistol whose bulge in his white cotton trousers was concealed by the colorful serape. For a moment he considered whipping the pistol out and shooting each of them in the back as they walked their separate ways, but only for a moment. He would enjoy watching them fall, dying, the blood drenching the backs of their shirts, and hearing the screams of the others who frequented the plaza in the noonday sun, but it was just too risky to shoot them with the blue-coated soldiers lounging under the overhanging roof of the palace porch nearby.
He had waited this long—he could stand to wait just a little bit longer. It would be enjoyable to just watch and see what happened after Sarah identified herself at the jail. The duchess—now nothing better than a common
putain
—and her Texan lover were about to get a big surprise. Then all he had to do was wait until Sarah sought him out in his hotel room.
He remained in his place, watching surreptitiously as Calhoun strode over to the sleepy-eyed Indian selling jewelry nearby. After a few minutes' perusal and some good-natured haggling, he saw Calhoun purchase a necklace of chased silver with interspersed nuggets of turquoise.
The assassin's lips curved upward as he slid the sombrero back over his face. He wondered if Calhoun would have time to give the present to his whore before the trap was sprung.
 
“Excuse me,” Sarah said, hoping her voice alone would be sufficient to wake the man who sat in the chair behind the cluttered desk, his head tipped back, snoring. Surely he was the man she sought, for he wore a tin star on his tobacco-flecked shirt.
It was not sufficient The snoring continued unabated, but she did succeed in gaining the attention of another man, who lounged in a chair tipped against the wall, a cigar in one hand, a sheaf of papers in the other.
He sat up with a thump, then stood, narrowing his eyes in the gloom to study her.
“Ma‘am? You wantin' the sheriff? You'll have to talk louder'n that—shout, even. Or reach over and shake him a little. Go on, you won't hurt him,” he urged.
Sarah stared at the man who had spoken, then back at the man he had called the sheriff. Just then the sheriff snorted in his sleep, startling her. “Oh, no, I couldn't do that,” she demurred. “Surely there's some other way to wake him?” Sarah thought the other man seemed to be studying her and listening to her voice with intense concentration, but perhaps it was only the odd combination of a woman wearing men's clothes and speaking in an English accent.
The other man grinned “Yes, ma'am, there is another way.” Stepping up behind the slumbering sheriff, he cupped his hands around one of the man's ears and shouted,
“Andy
1
There's a lady here to speak to ya!”
The sheriff came awake with flailing limbs and widened eyes, and in his efforts to regain his balance, fell sideways off his chair, much to the amusement of the man standing in back of him.
She was sure it would only further the sherift's embarrassment if she shared in the other man's amusement, so she forced the smile from her face and looked around the interior of the jail while the sheriff struggled to his feet.
One side of the square, not overly large room was occupied by cells—three of them in all. The rest of the floor space was taken up by the sheriff's desk and a couple of extra chairs—one of which the other man had been sitting in before she had spoken. A rack of rifles hung on the wall nearest the door. The other wall was plastered with Wanted posters.
Since she was still wearing her spectacles, it took her no time at all to find Morgan's picture among the gallery of assorted rogues and evildoers, for it held pride of place in the center
The picture was crudely drawn, but Sarah could nevertheless tell who it depicted even without the words written in bold type beneath. “Wanted: Morgan Calhoun,” it read, “for Army Payroll Robbery in Texas, and Assorted Robberies of Stagecoaches and Individuals across the Southwest.” There was more in smaller type beneath the first sentence, but Sarah would have had to go closer to read it, and she did not want to appear to be interested in any particular poster, especially now that the sheriff had succeeded in standing up and was goggling at her in amazement.
“Kin I help you, ma'am?” he said, his face dubious as he stared at her denim trousers as if he had never seen such a garment before.
“Yes, I hope so,” said Sarah, extending her hand and giving him the sort of friendly, open smile that seemed to move mountains in America. “I'm Sarah Challoner, Duchess of Malvern—from England, you see. Please pardon my appearance, but I've been traveling overland, and it seemed more sensible to wear suitable clothes....”
The sheriff blinked, then a light dawned in his red-rimmed eyes. “You're her, the duchess?
Yes, ma‘am,
we shorely was expectin' you, wasn't we, Stoner?” He took her hand and shook it with enthusiasm. “M‘name's Andrew McElroy, ma'am.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. McElroy,” Sarah murmured, watching the other man as he stepped forward, too, his hand extended. She had seen irritation flash across the other man's eyes for the briefest of seconds when McElroy had agreed they were expecting her, and then a look was passed between the two men. A frisson of alarm passed down her spine, but then both men were smiling broadly as she shook hands with the second man.
“Jackson Stoner, ma'am.” He was also wearing a badge, Sarah noticed, but it seemed slightly different from the sheriff's badge. Perhaps he was a deputy? He said nothing to enlighten her.
“Ah...if you're expecting me, does this mean you have a message for me?” she prompted, eager to get out of the place. “A message from a Frenchman, Comte Thierry de Châtellerault?”
“Yes, ma'am—”
“You call her ‘your grace,' Andy,” the other man prompted.
“Ahem!
Your grace,
I meant to say!” the sheriff amended. “I shorely do have a message from the count. He—he wrote you a letter,” he said, bending over to rummage in the center drawer of his desk, which Sarah could see was cluttered with papers, balls of string and plugs of chewing tobacco. “Here it is,” he said triumphantly, holding out a folded sheet of paper. “But he told me where he was staym'. He says he'll be waitin' for ya in his rooms at the Exchange Hotel, just a short walk from here, yore grace. I understand yore t' be wed?”
Sarah nodded, taking the paper and breaking the blob of sealing wax on the back. She unfolded it and read the words written in Thierry's familiar, ornate script.
My darling, if you are reading this, you have come at last! How happy I will be to greet you, and to kiss you and hold you in my arms as my wife! I have arranged all for our wedding. I hope you have managed to reconcile your uncle, the estimable Lord Frederick, to the match, but no matter if you have not. We shall know a lifetime of bliss,
ma duchesse, ma comtesse
A thousand kisses until I see you.
Thierry, Comte de Châtellerault.
BOOK: The Duchess and Desperado
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