The Duchess And The Desperado. Laurie Grant
the duchess back safe in her room.”
Sarah held herself rigidly erect on the way back to the hotel, hoping Calhoun would see that she was furious with him, but he didn’t even seem to remember she was there. He kept lifting the curtain and peering out the window. Neither of them spoke.
Back in her suite at the Grand Central, Sarah gave her dresser and her secretary a terse explanation of their early return without Lord Halston, watching out of the corner of her eye while Calhoun checked windows and looked behind curtains and under furniture.
“Well, thank God for Mr. Calhoun, I say,” Celia muttered as she knelt before Sarah to examine the dirt-stained rent in the skirt of Sarah’s gown. “Better to have ruined a dress than to be shot at again. Isn’t that right, Mr. Alconbury?”
But Sarah’s secretary, hovering at Sarah’s elbow, could only stare at her, white-faced.
“Cheer up, Donald,” Sarah said bracingly, patting him on the shoulder. She was touched that her secretary cared so much. “I’m unharmed, as you see. Do you suppose you could sit down with me and help me quickly compose a note for Ben to take to the governor when he goes back to pick up my uncle? I owe the poor man some explanation for disappearing from his reception! We shall have to tell him the truth, I suppose. Whatever will he think?”
“Why not tell him you’re leavin’ Denver tomorrow while you’re at it?” Morgan suggested.
“Because I shall not be leaving, Mr. Calhoun,” she told him. “Do me the favor of not bringing it up again.”
Calhoun sighed and looked away.
Donald managed to pull himself together, and within moments the missive was ready and the secretary was taking it down to Ben, who waited at the landau.
“Now, your grace, why not let me help you out of that ruined thing and into your dressing gown?” Celia said practically. “You can wait in your bedroom for my lord’s return. I’ll have hot milk sent up from the kitchen.”
Calhoun stopped his pacing long enough to growl, “You can go fetch it. I don’t want to wonder if it’s really a hotel employee knocking on this door.”
“Very well, Mr. Calhoun,” Sarah’s dresser fairly snarled back at him. “I will be happy to ‘fetch’ it. But I will assist her grace first. Come, my lady.”
The two women headed for Sarah’s bedroom, which lay directly off the main room, only to have Sarah stop in amazement at the cot that lay in front of its door. “What on earth—?”
“He directed it be put there,” Celia informed her archly with a nod toward Calhoun, who’d begun prowling about the room again. “He says he’s going to sleep there.”
“Is he? How very medieval,” Sarah murmured, then allowed herself to titter. She hoped Calhoun heard it.
The next morning she had Donald escort her down into the stable through an entrance in the back of the hotel. Her secretary had told her Calhoun had gone there to check on his horse.
Uncle Frederick had been beside himself when he’d returned last night and received the full report on what had happened. Once again he’d begged Sarah to leave Denver immediately, not even waiting till morning. But when Sarah had once again adamantly refused to go, he’d proceeded to give her a stern dressing-down for her display of temper at the reception.
She found Morgan Calhoun in a stall, currying a tall, skewbald horse.
“Mr. Calhoun, if I might have a word?”
Calhoun whirled as if he’d been shot. Clearly he’d been deep in thought and hadn’t heard her approach.
“I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said.
“What are you doin’ here, Duchess? I thought I told you not to leave your room without me.” His eyes were like green icicles.
“It’s all right, Donald came with me,” she said, indicating her secretary standing behind her “Donald, why don’t you go and post the letters I dictated? Oh, and don’t forget to take the note I wrote my sister—I left it on the tea table.”
She waited, staring down at her feet, feeling his eyes on her, until they were alone. “I—I’ve come to apologize,” she said at last. “I realize, after talking to my uncle, and doing some thinking, that I behaved rather badly last night.” She would not tell him that she had tossed and turned last night, and had even contemplated leaving her bedroom in the middle of the night to apologize right then and there. The only thing that had stopped her was the impropriety of waking him. “My attitude at the party, when you were only trying to counsel me for my own safety...and when we returned here...did me no credit,” she went on, then darted a glance upward to see how he was receiving her words.
She saw surprise flicker across his face, but nothing more.
“I’m afraid arrogance...and a dislike of being told what to do...are failings of mine. I want you to know that while I may not always agree with you, I shall not be discourteous again. I will cooperate as fully as possible.” There. She’d said it.
A trace of a smile made his lips curve the least bit upward. “Well...maybe you’re not arrogant, but you do put me in mind of a horse’s long-eared relative sometimes,” he admitted, mischief dancing in his green eyes. “But I reckon we can start over from here, Duchess.”
She was so relieved, she didn’t even mind his comparing her to a mule. “Capital, Mr. Calhoun,” she said. Then, wanting some kind of confirmation that peace had been achieved, she extended her hand over the stall door. “Pax.”
She could tell he didn’t know the word. “It means ‘peace’ in Latin, Mr. Calhoun,” she explained as he took her hand and shook it. As before, she found his touch disturbingly powerful.
“The Indians would say we were buryin’ the hatchet, I reckon,” he said. “And while we’re bein’ so peaceable, do you think you could call me Morgan? You keep callin’ me Mr. Calhoun, and I keep lookin’ around for my pa.” His grin warmed her soul.
“I reckon I could, Morgan,” she said, smiling back at him. Of course, she couldn’t reciprocate and ask him to call her by her given name, but he didn’t seem to expect that.
She was loath to just turn around and leave. “So that’s your horse, this skewbald?” she asked, gesturing toward the brown-and-white-splotched horse, who watched her with pricked-forward ears. “He—he’s very handsome.” You sound like a giddy schoolgirl, Sarah.
But Morgan didn’t seem to find her remark stupid. “His name is Rio,” he said. “And he thinks he’s handsome, too—don’t ya, boy?” he asked, scratching the horse’s ear. The stallion tossed his head as if to agree. “Here in the west, though, we call horses like that pintos, or paints.”
“I see.” It was a moment of perfect harmony. “I-I’d best look m on my mare.”
“I’ll come with you. I’m done here.” He let himself out of the stall. “What’re you planning for today, Duchess?” he asked as they strolled down the aisle to where Trafalgar was stalled.
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