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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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The fragrant aroma of the tea rose around his head, mingled with the scent of roses that seemed to surround her. He took a sip—and promptly burned his tongue. The spoon clattered against the cup and saucer as he hurriedly set the teacup down.
“Oh, I quite forgot to warn you how hot it was,” the duchess apologized. “Celia—perhaps a glass of water for Mr. Calhoun?”
Celia's glare as she rose to obey her mistress's request told him she thought him a graceless idiot. He certainly felt like one, but the duchess didn't seem to notice.
“Won't you have something, Mr. Calhoun?” she invited as she put a pair of the impossibly delicate sandwiches on her own plate. “Or perhaps you're not hungry?”
At the moment he would have eaten sawdust if she suggested it. “Yes, ma'am, I am.” He picked out a biscuit and gingerly spread some jelly on it, feeling clumsy as he handled the fine china and silverware.
“Well, now—what brings you to Colorado, Mr. Calhoun?”
He stared down at the dark red jelly for what seemed like an eternity. How could he tell her he'd come here to hide out from those who hunted him? How could he make an English noblewoman understand about coming home to Texas after the South had been defeated in the War Between the States, and finding his ranch taken over by some scalawag in the favor of the Federal troops? He'd run the fellow off, of course, but then the whispers had started:
He rode with Mosby's Rangers, you know. He's nothing better than a bandit and a hired killer.
For four years he'd been blamed each time a horse was stolen, each time some cattle were rustled, and though he'd managed to prove his innocence, people began to suspect that where there was smoke, there might be fire. They began to shun him. Finally, three years ago, he'd been falsely accused of holding up the stage that brought the troops' payroll.
Morgan had been pleasantly occupied with a woman that night. But when he'd heard about the robbery, and that he'd been accused of it, he'd known she wasn't the sort of woman who'd disgrace herself by providing him an alibi. Morgan had seen the handwriting on the wall, and he hadn't waited around for a trial. He knew there was no such thing as a fair trial in Federally occupied Texas for a man who'd ridden with Mosby's Rangers.
He'd lit out for New Mexico, and changed his name, and got a job as foreman for a rancher there. That had worked for a while, until someone recognized his face from a Wanted poster in town. He'd headed to Mexico, and stayed till he thought it was safe, then drifted on up to Arizona Territory. He'd taken another name and signed up as wrangler on a ranch. He was there a year until someone recognized him, and he'd had to flee again.
There was to be no starting over for him, it seemed. He hit the trail, living by his wits, surviving on what he could win at cards and occasionally by what he could steal—but only from scoundrels or rich Yankees who could well afford to lose what he took.
He'd been on the run now for three long years, and he was tired of being hunted, his name and likeness on Wanted posters all over the West. He'd decided to go up into the mountains, grow a beard to disguise his features, and prospect He'd be relatively safe from pursuit in the isolation of the mountains—the mining camps were wild and lawless and the miners had their own shadowy pasts to worry about. Maybe he'd strike it rich and have enough money to hire the best lawyer from the East to go back and clear his name—or maybe he'd just take his money, go down to Mexico and set up a rancho where he could raise horses and live like a king.
“Are you...are you perhaps a rancher, Mr. Calhoun?” the duchess inquired, reminding him that he'd never answered her question.
He felt himself color with embarrassment. “I-I'm sorry, ma‘am! I-no, I'm not a rancher. I'm...thinkin' of goin' up into the mountains and minin'.”
“Oh! I know nothing about such things, of course, but I thought you had more the look of...of a cowboy,” Sarah Challoner told him.
“I was a rancher...before the war,” he admitted. “I had a nice spread.” A stabbing pain pierced his heart to have to say
had. Damn the Yankees and the scalawags who sucked up to them.
“And where do you come from, Mr. Calhoun?” she continued, her probing gentle. “I'm just learning about all the different accents you have here in this country, but you sound... ah... Southern?”
“Texas, ma'am.”
“Yes, I thought so,” she said, looking pleased with herself.
He was afraid she'd ask for more detail, and then he'd have to commence lying to her. Somehow he didn't like the idea of telling a lie to this lady whose clear blue eyes studied him so candidly. Perhaps if he distracted her by asking a few questions of his own, it wouldn't be necessary.
“Ma'am, may I ask you a question?”
She looked amused. “Of course, Mr. Calhoun.”
“If you're a duchess, are you...I mean, is there...is there a duke?” The question sounded foolish the minute he asked it. “I'm sorry, I guess that's gettin' a little too nosy,” he said quickly, after she began to chuckle.
“No, no, not at all, Mr. Calhoun,” she said, startling him by leaning forward and laying a hand on his wrist to stop his apology. “Actually, it's quite an intelligent question, for in answering it I am allowed to boast of my own uniqueness. You see, in England a title usually does pass only to a male relative, or falls into abeyance, as it's called, if there isn't one.”
She took a breath, and he helped himself to some of the delicate little sandwiches. They were surprisingly delicious, though nothing he'd want to rely upon to keep his stomach from growling on the trail.
“But in the case of the Duchy of Malvern,” she went on, “I was quite fortunate in that the original Duke of Malvern, back in the days of Queen Elizabeth, was, for a short time, in the same position as was my own father—a widower with no sons, only daughters, and he didn't like the thought of his brother succeeding to the title. He was able to have the letters patent drawn up so that he could pass the title to his eldest daughter, should there be no direct male issue. But he did remarry, late in life, and sired a son who succeeded him, but the details in the letters patent remained the same, and thus I am the first Duchess of Malvern who is duchess in her own right, and not merely because her husband is a duke. Do you understand?”
He nodded. “So what you're sayin' is you're one of a kind, ma'am. I guess you could rightly be proud of that.”
She smiled becomingly. “I
am,
dreadfully so, though it makes for all sorts of difficulties. My peers back at home don't know what to make of me. They think-and Queen Victoria agrees—that the best solution is to have me safely married off.”
“And you don't want to marry?” he asked, surprised. He thought all women wanted to be wives, even wealthy ladies like this one.
A faint flush of color came and went in her cheeks. So there is someone, he thought, annoyed at himself for finding the idea disappointing.
She waved a hand airily. “Oh, someday, of course,” she said. “But I don't want to wed the Duke of Trenton, the only eligible bachelor whose rank is equal to mine. He's a stuffy fool, and I quite detest him, but he's the man the queen has been pressuring me to wed. It's either that or marry some foreign noble or princeling and have to live somewhere other than England part of the year.”
“And you don't want to do that.”
“No, not really. I love Malvern, my estate, and my horses—and of course there's my younger sister, Kat—Kathryn, who will come out next year. I shouldn't want to be constantly leaving them.”
He hadn't the faintest idea what “come out” meant, but he wasn't sure it mattered. “This uncle of yours,” he said, nodding toward the closed door Lord Halston had disappeared behind, “he doesn't mind that you've got the title? He doesn't wish that it'd gone to him?”
She looked amused again, and clapped her hand over her mouth as if to smother a very unduchesslike giggle. “Oh, actually he does, tremendously, but what can he do?” she asked in a lowered voice. “He can't change the way the letters patent were written. But he is a marquess, and that's just below me in rank, so he's not
too
deprived.” She laughed again. “Mr. Calhoun, I find myself telling you the most shameless things....”
He was just about to promise he wouldn't breathe a word to anyone, thank her for inviting him and begin to take his leave, when he heard the door open from the corridor, and the balding, stoop-shouldered younger man Morgan had seen among the duchess's party at the train station burst into the room.
He was panting and red in the face. “Your grace! Oh, I—I didn't know you were receiving, please pardon me! Th-there was a message left for you—”
“Donald, you're all out of breath!” Sarah Challoner observed. “What is it you're so alarmed about?”
“This, your grace!” he said, handing the duchess a folded piece of paper with her name on the back in bold block letters. “The desk clerk said it had been left for you when he'd stepped away from the desk for a moment, so he didn't see who left it....”
The duchess took the paper, unfolded it, and as she scanned the message, Morgan saw the blood drain from her face. Her hand shook and a moment later she dropped the piece of paper on the thick Turkey carpet.
“Ma'am?”
The duchess was staring straight ahead of her, her eyes wide and unseeing. She looked as if she might pass out in the next moment.
“Ma'am?” Morgan repeated, uncertain as to what to do. His eyes sought Celia, but the servant was already at her mistress's side, bringing a bottle of hartshorn out of her skirt pocket.
Shuddering, the duchess turned around, waving the hartshorn and the hovering servant away.
Finally Morgan just leaned over and picked the paper up from the carpet. He read the crude block letters: “PREPEAR TO DIE IF YEW DONT LEAVE NOW DUCHISS. YERS TROOLY, A PATRIOTT.”
Chapter Four
 
 
“D
o you have any idea who might have written this?” Morgan asked in the direction of the duchess's rigid back.
Lord Halston came bustling back into the room from the adjoining one into which he'd been banished. “I demand to know what all the commotion was about! What have you done?” His eyes shot pale blue daggers at Morgan.
The duchess, ignoring her uncle, looked over her shoulder at Morgan, her face tight and set. “No, of course I don't know,” she said to Morgan.
Morgan held out the note to Lord Halston, then watched the English lord's face as he read it. The man's eyes widened, then bulged. His face went a strange reddish purple and a vein bulged alarmingly in his temple. “This is an outrage!” he announced. “We must notify the authorities!”
If the man was acting, he was damned good at it, Morgan thought, turning back to the duchess.
“Are you sure, Duchess? Sure you don't know anyone who has a bone to pick with you?”
She gave a tremulous smile at the phrase, and murmured, “No, no one...certainly no one who writes like
that.
Whoever it is has a deplorable inability to spell and rather a lack of penmanship, wouldn't you say?” she asked, with an unsuccessful attempt at a laugh.
“You're a duchess. You're rich. You have everything a body could ever need. Are you sure there isn't anyone who wants what you've got, Duchess?” Morgan persisted, glancing casually toward Lord Halston. The man had gone back to glaring at him.
Duchess Sarah blinked once, twice. “I suppose anyone who is poor might be envious, Mr. Calhoun.... Or I suppose it could be some American who's opposed to royalty and titles and all that—I'm aware there are some of your fellow countrymen who still feel that way. Is that what you meant?”
He shook his head, wondering if the duchess was as naive about people as she sounded. She'd told him her uncle would have been duke but for her and her sister back home, after all.
“Your grace, I believe you will now accept my earlier suggestion that we leave at once. You will see it is necessary,” Lord Halston said. “You could have been killed at the train station, and now there is this note! You must get home where you can be kept safe.”
The noblewoman whirled toward her uncle, eyes flashing. “Run home to England with my tail tucked between my legs, uncle? I think not.”
“But Sarah—”
“No,
my lord,” she said, her jaw set firmly, and Morgan was surprised to see that even a beautiful duchess could have a mulish streak. “I have not come thousands of miles to retreat,” she went on, “just when I've reached the land I've longed to see all my life. I will understand if you wish to return home, uncle—or you, Donald, or you, Celia,” she said, facing each of them in turn.
Everyone was silent for a moment. Then Lord Halston said stiffly, “I trust I know my duty to your grace. As your uncle, it is my duty to guard you, to ensure your comforts, to see that all is properly—”
She silenced him with an upraised hand, while her secretary and her dresser echoed their willingness to remain.
Morgan cleared his throat, no longer so certain that the uncle was the one who intended her harm, but sure of one thing. “Ma‘am, it isn't any of my business, but I think your uncle's right. You ought to go home—maybe with a handful of men hired on to guard you till you get there, but you'd be a damn sight easier to protect in jolly ol' England than here—beggin' your pardon for my language,” he apologized, after he noticed Celia's indignant face.
“Don't give it a thought,” Sarah said. “But Mr. Calhoun, you must think violence toward noblemen never takes place in England. I suppose he hasn't heard of the princes in the Tower, or Henry the Eighth's antics, has he, uncle?”
Morgan was annoyed to feel left out as the duchess and her uncle shared a grim chuckle. “No, I don't known anythin' much about English history,” he admitted. “But it's just so much less civilized out here. And you're plannin' on goin' farther west? Lots of places, there's hardly any law. And there's Indians—and outlaws,” he added, inwardly amused, since he was one of them, “and so many places for them to hide. You'd need a small army to protect you. At least a cavalry regiment, and I don't reckon the government'd be willing to provide you with one.”
“No, they're not. I've already made inquiries,” Lord Halston said, surprising Morgan and, from the duchess's face, the duchess, too. “Please listen to him, niece. We should leave.”
Morgan watched her square her shoulders and lift her chin. “I am not leaving, and that is final,” she told Lord Halston, who looked away and clenched his fists in a frustrated fashion.
She looked at Morgan. “But I will accept your assessment that I need some extra protection here,” she said. “Would you be willing to accept a position as my bodyguard, Mr. Calhoun?”
He felt as if he had a noose around his neck and the trapdoor had just fallen out from under him. A man whose face was on Wanted posters deliberately placing himself at the side of a rich, famous woman who would be the center of all eyes, wherever she went? Morgan suppressed an ironic laugh. True, he wasn't likely to be notorious up here in Colorado or as far west as she mentioned going, but there were apt to be newspaper reporters talking to her, and writing their articles about the duchess and her entourage. There was no telling how far those newspaper stories might go. Someone might even publish a pen-and-ink drawing of the duchess with him standing by her. No, much as the idea of being in this beautiful woman's presence for weeks appealed to him, as it would to any red-blooded man, he was going to have to pass for his own safety.
“Ma‘am, I'm afraid I had other plans—you know, the minin' I mentioned? So I'm gonna have to thank you for your kind offer, but I'll have to say no.”
“But Mr. Calhoun,” she said, her voice musical and persuasive as she glided forward to lay a hand on his arm, “you can see I have a real need for a man who can keep me safe.”
He forced himself to look away from the appeal in those blue eyes. “Ma‘am, I've never had any experience as a bodyguard. You need a man with experience—several men, in fact. And I need to be gettin' on up into those mountains, and finding some riches of my own.”
“But you've already shown me you can protect me, Mr. Calhoun. That's worth more to me than all the credentials a man could carry. I don't want to have to hire some stranger or strangers. I want
you,
Mr. Calhoun,” she said, giving him the full force of her compelling gaze.
His grom tightened as the words echoed in his head.
I want you
. Lord, what he'd give to hear a woman like her saying such words with a more intimate meaning! Maybe she even guessed as much, and was playing him like a bass on a fishing line.
“And you'll be handsomely paid, I do assure you—probably more than you could earn mining, and with none of the backbreaking work.”
“No, none of the backbreaking work,” he agreed. “I could live real easy, bein' your bodyguard—and get killed with an easy bullet.”
Her face paled. “Yes, there is a risk, as you saw this afternoon. But I don't want to die, either, and I'm willing to pay you well to protect me as best you can. Perhaps all it will take to discourage this—this
scoundrel,”
she suggested, “is the presence of a strong, intelligent man who is prepared to defend me.”
“You don't know me,” he told her, locking his gaze to hers. “You don't know anythin' about me, Duchess. Everythin' I've told you could be a lie.”
“Well, I can agree with
that,
at any rate,” Lord Halston said from behind them. “He's right, your grace, we don't know the first thing about Mr. Calhoun. He has the look of a ruffian, if I ever saw one. That may not even be his real name. It would be ridiculous to consider placing your trust in such a man. How could you trust a man who might steal the very jewelry from your neck, not to mention the valuables of the important people we will encounter? Why, we might all be murdered in our beds.”
Even as he suppressed a mighty urge to knock the stuckup, mouthy nobleman into the middle of next week, Morgan's gaze was involuntarily drawn to the matching, square-cut sapphires at her neck and on one elegant finger. He had to admit the man had a point, even if he didn't suspect how accurate he was. Not that Morgan would ever murder anyone, but stealing just the gems she was wearing right now would probably keep him for a year, if he could sell them for a reasonable price. And if she had more, he might even be able to buy that rancho he was always dreaming about in Mexico.
But the thought died as quickly as it was born. He wouldn't steal from this woman. Not if she had all the riches of England and America combined.
“My lord, that is unforgivably rude to a man who has offered me nothing but kindness,” the duchess snapped. “You will apologize.”
“I stand by my opinion,” Lord Halston retorted. “It is my duty to say it, even if 'tis not what you want to hear, niece.”
Morgan pretended to ignore the argument and suddenly took the hand she had laid on his wrist into his own. Maybe he could scare her into abandoning the idea, make her realize she was playing with fire, even though he'd love to hear her defy the pompous fool.
“Listen to your uncle, Duchess,” he said, staring down at her with a deliberate, predatory air. He rubbed his thumb over the smooth, soft surface of her palm, lowering his voice so that it seemed they were alone in the room. “He could be right. I might steal all your jewelry... and murder you in your bed.”
The last three words seemed to take on a resonance of their own. He saw the pulse beat quicken in her neck, and felt the faint tremor of the cool hand he held.
“I believe you're trying to frighten me, Mr. Calhoun, though I cannot think why,” she said. “You already proved you're to be trusted, even at great risk to your own personal safety. My mind is made up. You're the man I want for the job, Mr. Calhoun. I can double the salary I was intending to offer you, if that's all you need to accept.”
He heard Lord Halston start to sputter behind them, and then she gripped his hand as tightly as he'd been holding hers.
It would have taken a stronger man than he was to resist that kind of temptation. Maybe he could stay with her for a little while, at least until she got out of Colorado Territory, until whoever was threatening her figured out he'd have to go through a bodyguard to get to the duchess, and got discouraged. And it wasn't too likely anyone looking for him would think he'd dare to be seen at the side of an English noblewoman, even if she was going to be in the public eye much of the time. Even if it was summer, it'd be nice to be off the outlaw trail for a while, to have good food to eat that wasn't cooked over a campfire, to be dry and warm, and not have to sleep on the cold hard ground under the stars.
“You don't have to double my salary, Duchess. I reckon I'll take the job.”

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