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November 21, 1870

Marguerite

Luci wishes for me to keep a record of our stay in Colorado.

I have never been fond of writing, but have assured her I will do my best.

I’d rather sketch the way she looks right now—draped in ebony velvet and plum silk.

She looks like the Goddess among mortals she is, hair loose in long black waves down her back, eyes blue and bright.

But her rosy lips are pursed in discontent and it makes me laugh.

She is so grouchy!

I wonder if I will be as easily annoyed when I reach her age.

Now, I am still close enough to my former life to have some vitality, this effervescence for existence that drives me to feel alive.

Digging into my suitcase, I pulled out a bundle of fabric which I knew Luci was going to despise.

“Would you like to play pretend?” I asked, mischief in my gaze.

Her eyes slid over my form as I stepped out of my nightgown and into a pair of scratchy trousers.

I buttoned up a cotton shirt and tucked my pale braid into a wide-brimmed wool hat.

A coat and boots completed the illusion and I hooked my thumbs into my front pockets and grinned up at her.

“My God, Maggie,” she hissed.

“For what possible reason would you put those clothes on your body?”

I giggled like a schoolgirl.

“If we want to have any fun in this place, it cannot be as women. Do you wish to lounge in the salon and sip lukewarm liquor while greasy men swagger around trying to gain our notice?” She looked ready to vomit.

Her fingers curled and flexed at her sides and I knew she was imagining the feel of the rough-spun fabric.

Luci is brilliant and cunning and stylish, but she is also extremely particular.

Textures, colors, or scents she dislikes are at times unbearable for her, but she should know by now that after two decades together, I have learned all her idiosyncrasies.

From the bureau, I withdrew a small paper-wrapped parcel bound with twine.

She made no move to take it from me, so I pulled the bow free myself and revealed a crisp poplin shirt, velvet waistcoat and a pair of soft wool trousers.

As is her way, Luci moved so quickly I did not see it.

She was before me in a blink, looking down into my eyes with an almost-smile.

Her kiss was gentle, a whisper of gratitude borne on the softness of her lips.

Somehow, even this far from home, she smelled like violets and almond blossoms.

My chest heated as I breathed her in and suddenly I would have preferred to be removing her clothing rather than providing it.

“If you wish to dine this evening, we have little time for this.” She nipped at my lower lip, drawing a tiny pinprick of blood with her scalpel-sharp canines, laughing at me when my response was to pout and fold my arms across my chest.

“You look like a very petulant little boy,” she teased, knocking my hat with her knuckle.

“Give me that horrid clothing and I shall do my best to oblige your fancy.”

I helped the Countess Luciana Ombrezze out of her gown as I did when I was living.

Unlike then, I pressed kisses to her prominent vertebrae as I went.

Her colorless skin pebbled beneath my touch and I could not pretend it did not bring me satisfaction to see a physical manifestation of her desire.

How far we have come from the days of hidden glances and subtle hinting, from Lady-in-waiting and Lady in title.

She has not aged a day, eternally thirty-four, and I, forever twenty-one.

Her skin has lost more of its rosy blush as the years have passed, and the hollows of her hips and collarbones are more pronounced than they were in our early days.

But she is just as stunning as she always has been—the perfect picture of beauty and brutality.

Her scowl sold the disguise more, perhaps, than the clothing.

Beneath her severe dark brow, her eyes were ferocious shards of ice ringed in black lashes.

“All right, Marguerite,” she groused.

“What is your cunning plan, now that I’ve been debased by such frockery?” I rolled my eyes, leaning in to push another pin up into her hair, restraining the final errant strands.

“Do you crave a meal, tesoro mio ?” The flash of predation in her eyes answered before her lips had time to follow.

“You know that I do,” she replied.

“And I am terribly bored with this dusty, lifeless place. I have yet to sort out why you wanted to come here of all the many destinations we could have chosen.”

“It is a new world,” I answered honestly.

“Not truly, of course, but to Europe and these Americans as they’ve named themselves, it is a place of uncharted land and endless possibility. So many men who answer to no one, they will not be missed! It is a veritable buffet. And where else would I find something truly remarkable? To perhaps speak with someone who knows nothing whatsoever of Napoleon III or the price of painted china! A culture entirely unknown to us all. Oh! I cannot dream of a more exciting venture.”

“You wish to go speak with people who have been driven from their lands by foreign armies? I love your optimistic heart, but these people will not want to have a chat with you over tea, Maggie. They have far greater concerns than indulging your fancies. They are not entertainment, and I will not allow you to behave as such.”

I waved my hand at her as though she spoke gnats into the air.

“Hush, my lady. We will sate your hunger and then slake my thirst for adventure. So long as you join me, I am certain to be happy. Stop your worrying, I have no intention of harassing the native peoples.” Taking her hand in mine, I pulled her close for a quick, audible kiss and straightened her collar.

“You look positively handsome, my darling. Let’s go find a suitable candidate for our evening meal.”

“Fine,” she sighed heavily.

“But I would like this one to be familiar with the concept of bathing. I tire of the taste of poor hygiene.”