Читать книгу The Duchess And The Desperado - Laurie Grant - Страница 12

Chapter Three

“Why on earth would you encourage such a ruffian, niece?” Lord Halston said, once the carnage conveying Sarah, her secretary, her dresser and himself had pulled away from the station. “Why, for all we know, he could be in league with the sniper.”

“What an absurd thing to say, uncle. If that were so, he could have killed me behind the boxcar, couldn’t he?”

Sarah frowned, but it didn’t discourage Lord Halston. “You heard the man,” he said. “He didn’t think there was any need for a reward, and I quite agree. He was just doing the decent thing—and rather too enthusiastically, if you ask me. It wasn’t at all necessary to throw you to the ground, in my opinion. Your dress will never be the same again. And Sarah,” he added, forgetting the presence of her secretary and dresser as he addressed her with the familiarity of a relation, “it’s not at all the thing to have such a man calling on you, as if you owed him anything more than the thanks you already gave him....”

Once he began fuming, Uncle Frederick could go on and on like a clockwork toy that refused to wind down. Sarah held up a hand. “Uncle, do stop. I’m getting a headache all over again! And I do not agree—I think saving a life requires much more than a civil thank-you,” she told him as she gazed out the window at the mostly brick buildings of the young city She’d read of a fire several years ago that had destroyed much of the town, causing Denverites to use brick when they rebuilt. The streets, however, were still dirt.

“He said he wouldn’t take any money,” Lord Halston persisted.

“Perhaps we shall persuade him to change his mind, uncle,” Sarah said, proud that she sounded serene and unruffled. “But if we do not, we shall at least treat him to an excellent meal. It looks as if it’s been a good while since he’s had one.”

She could not have said why it was so important that she see the American with the drawling voice, mocking green eyes and that air of danger that he carried about him like an all-enveloping cloak, she only knew that it was important to her that she see him again, and this time in safe, secure surroundings. She wanted him to see her with the grime of travel bathed away, dressed in one of her prettiest tea gowns—perhaps the dusky rose one.

He might not come, of course—her impulsive invitation had caused Morgan Calhoun to look as startled as one of those wild American mustangs they’d seen running across the plains when the train whistle had startled the herd. He might be intimidated by her obvious wealth and decide he had no clothes fit to wear to take tea with a duchess. Wary, he might figure that the only way to refuse taking money from her was never to see her again. And if he chose not to come, there would be nothing she could do about it. She would never encounter him again.

It shouldn’t matter, of course Thierry would be waiting for her at the prearranged city at the end of her tour, and though her uncle and the rest of her party didn’t know it now, she would be returning home a married woman—married to the man of her choice, not the stuffy-but-eligible Duke of Trenton the queen had deemed suitable for her.

What a handsome couple they would make, she and her âThierry, the dashing Comte de Châtellerault. But even Thierry, who had a Gallic tendency to jealousy, could not be upset that she wished to reward a valiant man who had saved her life, could he?

“You don’t seem inclined to take your near-assassination very seriously, either,” Lord Halston went on in an aggrieved tone. “Good heavens, three shots were fired and yet the dreamy-eyed expression on your face would lead one to believe you were picturing a beau!”

His continued ranting, just when she wanted to plan what she would say if Morgan Calhoun did come to tea, made Sarah irritable. “What would you have me do, my lord—weep and wring my handkerchief?” she demanded. “I have said I thought the whole matter a mistake and would forget it, and so I shall. Please have the goodness not to bring up the matter again.”

“As your grace wishes,” Lord Halston said heavily. “We have arrived, Donald. Please go on in and announce her grace and her party.”

“Your grace, Mr....uh...Calhoun has arrived,” the somberly dressed woman called from the anteroom, all the while eyeing Morgan suspiciously. After returning her stare with a cool one of his own, he went back to studying the elegant wallpaper and paneling of the anteroom and its paintings of Western mountain scenes. A vase by the door held pink roses that had to have been grown in a hothouse. Compared to the Mountain View Boardinghouse, where he was staying just long enough to gather his provisions before heading up into the mountains, the Grand Central Hotel was a palace. And a duchess was practically a princess, wasn’t she? What did that make him—the dragon?

“Show him in, Celia,” came the musical, aristocratic voice.

For the hundredth time since he’d seen the duchess ride off in her carriage, Morgan wondered just why he’d obeyed the summons to tea.

He had no intention of taking any money for what he’d done this afternoon. Protecting a helpless woman when there were bullets flying in her direction had been no more or less than the right thing to do, and he would have done the same thing if she’d been homely and dressed in the simplest calico. But telling her his real name, when that name and his likeness were on Wanted posters all over the West, was probably the greatest piece of idiocy he’d committed in the past few years. He should have given his name as Jake Faulkner, or one of the many other aliases he’d used since he’d been on the run.

And coming here simply because she’d asked him to, when he had no intention of taking any reward money from her, was even more stupid. He should be out buying a pack mule and the beans, bacon, salt, flour, sugar and coffee that he’d need to go up into the mountains, not taking tea with a foreign duchess who was so perfectly beautiful she might have been a princess from a fairy tale.

His thoughts made him angry at himself, and so he was edgy and nervous as he followed the woman—what did they call them, ladies-in-waiting?—into the sitting room.

There were more flowers in vases around the room, but he paid little attention to them, for he saw the duchess arising, smiling, from a velvet-upholstered carved-back chair. “Ah, there you are, Mr. Calhoun. It was good of you to come.”

She was dressed in a gown that was the same pink as the roses. There was pleated lace in the V-shaped neckline, which matched the lace at her waist. Her golden hair was once again artfully arranged in a coil at the nape of her neck, as it had been before he had knocked her to the ground and disarranged it. But it was her eyes that held his attention, just as when he had first seen her. Then, as now, he was reminded of the vivid blue of a Texas sky on a sunlit spring day.

He caught sight of the grumpy-looking fellow she’d introduced as Lord Halston hovering unhappily behind her chair, looking even more unhappy as his eyes met Morgan’s. Morgan saw a disdainful expression creep across Lord Halston’s face as he stared at the clean denims and the white shirt Morgan had paid the widow who ran the boardinghouse an extra two bits to press for him. He stared right back until Lord Halston reddened and looked away.

“Hello, Miss—Duchess,” he said, feeling more awkward than he ever had in his life. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to call you...and I reckon these aren’t goin’-to-tea duds, but I didn’t exactly come to Denver prepared to—”

“No apologies are necessary, Mr. Calhoun,” the duchess interrupted, extending her hand but not enlightening him as to how to address her. “The pleasure of your company is quite sufficient.”

He had the feeling he was supposed to do something with that hand besides shake it. Once he’d seen a European fellow kiss a lady’s hand, but he couldn’t imagine he was supposed to take such a liberty with a duchess. So he just took it in his, savoring its satin-smooth texture. He could just feel the slight tremor in it. So she was nervous, too, he realized. How much more nervous would she be if she knew I was a wanted man?

Lord Halston stepped forward as Morgan reluctantly let her hand go. “Her grace has asked me to prepare a reward for your—ahem!—heroic actions this afternoon,” he said, looking as if every word pained him.

Morgan saw that he was carrying a small leather pouch that looked as if it were heavily weighted with coins.

“Go ahead, take it,” Lord Halston urged, glaring at him. “You’ll find it’s a substantial amount in gold.” His expression told Morgan he hoped he would depart as soon as he’d accepted the bag.

Morgan’s eyes cut back to the duchess. “Ma’am, I told you this afternoon I wasn’t going to accept any money, and I’m not. You keep your money...though I thank you for offering it,” he added belatedly, when his words echoed back too belligerently at him.

Lord Halston appeared relieved, then he and the duchess exchanged a look.

“Are you sure, Mr. Calhoun?” Sarah Challoner inquired in her lovely, well-modulated voice. “Surely you could use it in whatever endeavor you intend to pursue in Colorado Territory?”

Actually, he could—the supplies he had to buy would take most if not all of the money that remained from his last poker winnings—and not taking it was the third stupid thing he’d done today. But he knew he just wouldn’t feel right taking money for what he’d done.

“There, you see, uncle? It’s just as you said, he won’t take it,” said the duchess, turning back to her uncle. “So you can now relax. Perhaps you have correspondence to take care of? In that case you must feel free to excuse yourself. Celia will attend me,” she said.

Morgan had to admire how neatly she’d gotten rid of the sour old windbag—and against his will, too, he saw with amusement as her uncle struggled to hide his dismay.

“Just as you say, your grace,” he said, giving a stiff little bow in her direction. “Mr. Calhoun, I’ll bid you good day,” he said. The words were civil, the tone hostile.

“Mr. Calhoun, won’t you come and sit down?” the duchess said, going over to a low table between two chairs to Morgan’s right. He had not even noticed it when he came into the room, for he had been intent on her.

In the center of the table, set on a silver tray, was a great silver teapot, several delicate china cups and a few small plates. Surrounding them lay dishes covered with more food than he’d seen since the war.

“I-I thought you asked me to tea, duchess?” he said, certain that he must have misunderstood. “This—this looks like supper to me.”

She gave a high, silvery laugh that reminded him of the music of water dancing over stones in a hill country stream. She sat down and indicated he should take the other chair. “Oh, no, Mr. Calhoun, it’s merely tea—or high tea, as we should properly call it back home in England—simply something to carry one through until dinner later on. We had some ado to get the hotel cook to make us watercress and cucumber sandwiches, and Celia was only able to get biscuits, jelly and butter rather than scones and crumpets, but I think you’ll find the little cakes are quite good. I must confess I nibbled on one while I awaited your arrival.”

Her mischievous smile as she admitted the last fact made her suddenly less an aristocrat, more approachable. For a heartbeat he caught a glimpse of what she must have looked like as a young girl. She must have been a handful even then, he decided as he lowered himself carefully into the other chair.

“Shall I pour, your grace?” the female servant inquired, approaching.

“No, Celia, I’ll do it, but come and get something to eat. You must be hungry,” the duchess said. “Celia, I do not believe you have been properly introduced to Mr. Calhoun. Celia Harris, may I present Mr. Morgan Calhoun? Celia is my dresser,” the duchess informed him. “I should be quite lost without her.”

The woman’s face lost some of its severity. “Thank you, your grace.” As the duchess poured a cup of tea, and poured in some cream, Celia came forward and carefully placed a watercress sandwich, a biscuit, a blob of jelly and one of the sugary cakes on her plate. Then, after taking the cup of tea her mistress proffered, she carried her plate and cup over to a chair against the wall and took up a position where it would be easy to keep an eye on Morgan.

Morgan forgot about the servant, hypnotized by the effortless, graceful movements of the duchess’s fingers and slender wrists as she poured the steaming tea into the cup without spilling a drop.

“Mr. Calhoun, do you take sugar? Cream?” Her hand, holding a small pair of tongs, was poised over the sugar bowl.

He hadn’t tasted tea since courting the banker’s daughter when he’d been seventeen. Coffee and whiskey were what he was used to, and the latter only when he had money, and when he was somewhere where he could afford to let his guard down.

“I...I like a lot of sugar, ma’am. No cream.” He saw her smile, then watched as she dropped three lumps of sugar into the tea she had poured for him, then handed the cup and saucer to him.

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.”