The Duchess And The Desperado

And what would Thierry say if he knew she had hired a bodyguard? He should be glad, if he could not be there to protect her, right? Instinctively, though, she knew that if the Count of Ch?tellerault had met Morgan Calhoun, he would be jealous, not glad.

Thierry de Ch?tellerault’s only fault, really, was his jealousy. Sarah had never been a flirt, had never given him cause to be insecure about her affections, but she could tell Thierry wasn’t happy whenever a well-favored lord conversed with Sarah or asked her to dance at a ball. They’d talked about it, and Thierry had claimed to understand the need for such subterfuge until their surprise marriage was a fait accompli, but each time, his face looked like a thundercloud.

Morgan Calhoun was just an employee, not a social equal, but Thierry was a very perceptive man. If Thierry had been present, he would have sensed that Morgan Calhoun had a certain effect on Sarah—and he would have been on the alert.

Just then, through the door of her bedroom, she heard the muffled knock on the outer door of her suite, and the sound of footsteps as Donald went and let in the knocker.

“Oh, it’s you, Calhoun,” she heard her uncle say, and her heartbeat quickened. He had come. Morgan Calhoun was here, and now, officially, her bodyguard. “What, you’re not dressed yet? Good God, man, we must leave within moments!”

“Now, just hold your horses,” she heard Calhoun drawl. “I got a suit of clothes right here on my arm, but I didn’t want to wear it ridin’ over here, and end up smellin’ like my horse, so I brought it in my saddlebags instead. Give me a coupla minutes and a room to change in, and I’ll be ready.”

Celia’s eyes met Sarah’s again in the mirror. “Doubtless Mr. Calhoun’s clothes will need pressing,” she informed her mistress primly. “Unless there’s something else your grace would want me to do, perhaps I’d better go put the iron on the fire. I’ll summon you, ma’am, when all is finally in readiness for our departure.”

“I believe I’m ready as I am,” Sarah said. “Yes, do go see if Mr. Calhoun needs assistance.”

And so Sarah found herself waiting in her room for a good fifteen minutes, listening to Lord Halston fume that they were going to be late, and what would everyone say if the duchess were late to the reception being given in her honor?

At last Celia opened the door and said that Mr. Calhoun was dressed, and if her grace was ready, they could depart for the reception.

Her mouth was suddenly dry, her pulse pounding Sarah rose halfway out of her seat, then sank back and reached for her bottle of scent. She applied the moistened stopper to her wrists, the area behind her ears and between her breasts, and smiled slightly at herself when she smelled the rose essence. Then she arose and started for the door, only to stop stockstill halfway out of the room and step back to the mirror. She’d almost gone out there in front of Calhoun wearing her spectacles—that would never do! Sarah frowned as she removed the gold-rimmed circles of glass and everything farther than six feet from her became blurry.

She supposed she had so many material blessings as the Duchess of Malvern that wishing for perfect eyesight was a little ungrateful of her, but she wished it anyway. Taking as deep a breath as her corset would allow, she stepped into the other room

Immediately she heard a sharp intake of breath. A dark-clad figure lounging in a chair by the door sprang to attention.

“Duchess, I...I reckon you look pretty as a...well, I don’t know what to compare you to, ma’am. You look beautiful, and that’s a fact.”

Sarah felt the blush spreading down from her scalp all the way to her toes as she came close enough to be able to focus on him.

“Her grace’s appearance is of no concern to you, Mr. Calhoun,” she heard her uncle mutter.

“Don’t be tiresome, uncle,” she chided. “I could hear you fussing from inside my room. Mr. Calhoun is very nice to compliment me.”

Now close enough to be able to see Morgan Calhoun clearly, she could tell the man was transformed. From somewhere he had managed to find a black frock coat and trousers, and a dazzlingly white shirt with a stiffly starched, upstanding collar and wide, red-striped tie knotted at his neck. The coat had been made for a man with narrower shoulders, though it was not as ill-fitting as Uncle Frederick’s would have been, but it would do very well until he could have a tailor take his exact measurements and make something especially for him. He looked imposing—and the stark black and white of his clothes made him look formidable, Sarah decided. He did not look like a man to be trifled with.

“Do I pass inspection?” he asked.

She gazed up into green eyes over which the lids drooped halfway, giving him a deceptively sleepy appearance. She was reminded of a dozing leopard—sleek, black and just as deadly.

“Yes, I believe you’ll do, Mr. Calhoun,” she said, injecting a note of briskness she was far from feeling. “Now, Donald, has the carriage been sent for? Yes? Very good. Then perhaps we had better leave for the reception. Celia, Donald, we’ll try not to be too late,” she said, waving to her dresser and her secretary. “Come, uncle,” she said, and started for the door.

But Morgan was there before her, barring her way.

“Just a moment, Duchess. I reckon we should start bein’ careful right now. Just let me check the corridor first, and the stairway down to the front of the hotel, and I’ll come back and tell you it’s safe to go.”

“Yes, very well,” she managed to say. She hadn’t realized how having a bodyguard would affect her every step, but clearly Calhoun was taking his responsibilities seriously.

He was back moments later, saying it was all right to go, and Sarah, on the arm of Uncle Frederick, descended the stairs, preceded by Calhoun.

The sun was hanging low over the mountains beyond Denver as they stepped outside the hotel and toward the waiting landau.

Morgan stopped without warning, nearly causing Sarah and her uncle to careen into him.

“I gave an order for the top to be put back up, but I see your driver didn’t do it,” he said, gesturing to the folded-down roof of the landau, which was made in two sections to go over the facing seats when desired.

“Her grace’s instructions were for the top to be down,” Ben, her groom, growled back from beside the carriage. He had been doubling as coachman when required during this journey.

“The top’s got to be put up, Duchess,” Morgan said, his face implacable. “Please just step back inside the hotel until I’ve fixed it.”

Ben wouldn’t like the newcomer telling him what to do, Sarah thought, dismayed. “Oh, but is that really necessary?” she asked Morgan, then wished she could call back the words. She sounded like a child being denied a sweet at teatime. Perhaps if she explained... “It’s such a pleasant night! I’d fancy feeling the breeze in my hair on the way to the reception.”

“Would you?” His face was unreadable in the twilight, but his next words were clear enough. “As long as you leave the top down, that man who tried to shoot you this afternoon might fancy getting a clear shot at your head or your heart, Duchess.”

She couldn’t stifle a gasp at the graphic image.

“Surely it’s not necessary to speak so bluntly to a gentlewoman,” snapped Frederick.

Morgan looked down at Lord Halston. “Your lordship, I reckon I don’t know any other way to speak. You want someone to make big speeches, you hire someone else. But I’m telling the duchess it ain’t safe to ride around in an open carriage when someone tried to shoot her just hours ago.”

Sarah said crisply, “Uncle, this is the very thing I’m paying Mr. Calhoun to tell me. Ben, I’m sorry, but the top will need to be put back up. Mr. Calhoun, we’ll just wait inside as you’ve suggested until it’s done.”

Calhoun’s nod of approval should not have mattered so.

Chapter Six

The drive to the territorial governor’s residence, an imposing brick two-storied building on the northeast corner of Welton and Blake Streets, did not take long and was without incident. Morgan hopped down from his perch beside the truculent coachman, and the curtain over one of the landau’s windows was pushed back.

“Goodness, it’s going to be a crush,” Sarah Challoner said, referring to the people spilling out over the governor’s porch and thronging the upstairs balcony.

“Just wait in the carriage a moment, Duchess,” Morgan said in a low voice as he looked up and down the street, and scanned the shrubbery and rooftops of the neighboring houses. He could see nothing moving in the rapidly fading light. He didn’t like the idea of Sarah Challoner mingling with all those people without his searching them first, but he knew that wasn’t possible. “All right, let’s go ahead, but I’m sticking right by you.”

“Do you suppose you could address your employer properly as ‘your grace,’ at least in public?” hissed Lord Halston as he emerged from the depths of the carriage.

Two men, dressed in evening black, separated themselves from the milling crowd on the porch and came forward, and Morgan recognized the taller and thinner of the two as the mayor, who’d greeted the duchess at the train station.

“Your grace, we’re happy you’re here,” John Harper said. “May I present Edward McCook, governor of the Territory of Colorado?”

The other man, whose face was decorated with a heavy mustache, bowed gravely. “Your grace, my apologies for not meeting your train, especially in view of what I’m told took place there. I understand you suffered no injury, madam—is that true?”

“How nice to meet you, sir,” Sarah Challoner said, smiling, her face serene. “And yes, I’m perfectly fine. Please don’t give that incident another thought I’d like to present my uncle, Frederick, Lord Halston, the Marquess of Kennington....”

“My lord.”

She wasn’t going to mention the written threat she had received, Morgan guessed as he kept looking in all directions. He wished they’d hurry up and go into the house. She was too vulnerable out here in the open.

“And this is Mr. Morgan Calhoun, my... bodyguard,” she said, nodding over her shoulder to indicate Morgan.

McCook and Harper looked alarmed, but were evidently not about to question a duchess. They nodded to Morgan, but did not extend their hands.