The barkeep was drying glasses. He looked at Shannon warily.

"May I have a brandy, please? And could you put it on my husband's tab?"

He shrugged uncertainly, found a glass, filled it and set it before Shannon. She nodded her thanks and swallowed the brandy down. She looked around the saloon again. Malachi was definitely not there.

Kristin would be horrified that she was standing in the saloon, Shannon thought. But then Kristin had always been more conventional, and Kristin had always had a better hold on her temper. Well, maybe not. Kristin had waged a few battles with Cole, and Cole was such a lamb in comparison with Malachi. None of that would matter to Kristin. A lady shouldn't be in a saloon like that.

Even if she was wondering what her husband of five hours was up to.

He wasn't in the saloon.

"Have you seen, er, Mr. Gabriel?" she asked the bartender sweetly.

The blond woman answered, looking her up and down and smiling sweetly. "He's still sleeping up in Iris's room, last I heard."

Shannon felt dizzy. It was as if the whole room went black, then seemed to be covered in a red haze.

"Thank you very much," she said pleasantly. "When you do see him again, please tell him that he is most welcome to remain where he is, and that he will not be at all welcome elsewhere. Thank you."

"Wait," the woman began.

But Shannon cut her off with a clipped, commanding tone, her chin high, her eyes a cutting, crystal blue. There was a note of warning in her voice. "Please, just see that he gets my message." She'd had no idea that she could speak quite so commandingly, but the woman's next words died on her lips and Shannon turned and left the saloon. In the middle of the street, she suddenly paused, doubled over and let out a deep, furious, and anguished scream.

Martha Haywood came running out of her parlor. "Oh, dear, oh dear, what is it?"

Shannon straightened. "Nothing. I'm fine, Mrs. Haywood."

"You're fine!" Mrs. Haywood exclaimed. "That didn't sound at all like fine to me!"

"Well, I wasn't fine until I did it. Now, I am fine. I promise you." She wasn't fine at all. She felt as if she was being ripped apart on the insides by sharp talons. She wanted to kill Malachi. Slowly. She wanted to stake him out on the plain and allow a herd of wild buffalo to trample him into the dust. She wanted to watch the vultures come down and chew him to pieces. She wanted…

She wanted him to come back so she could tell him just how furious she was. And how hurt. How deeply, agonizingly… hurt.

"I am fine, Mrs. Haywood," she repeated, smiling, stiffening. She clung to her temper. She would never forgive him. Never. She stood as tall as she could, straightening her shoulders. "Just fine. If you'll excuse me… Can you please see to it that I'm not disturbed until the morning?" She pushed past Martha and hurried into the house. She raced up the stairs and went into her room, locking the door and assuring herself that she had both keys.

She gasped, trembling, as she looked around.

Martha Haywood had tried so hard to make it welcoming!

Hot water steamed in the bath and there were fresh flowers beside the bed. A silver tray with cold meat and pastries sat on a table, and across the bed lay one of the most beautiful white satin nightgowns she had ever seen. There was a note on it. Shannon picked it up. "Every bride deserves a new thing of beauty. Wear it with our warmest wishes. Martha and Hank."

She set down the note and sank onto the bed, and suddenly she was softly sobbing. Every woman harbored and cherished dreams of just such a gown on her wedding night. And every woman cherished her dreams of a man, magnificent and gallant and handsome. A man who would hold her and love her…



She had the gown, and she had the man. But the dream had dispersed in the garish light of reality.

Malachi did not love her.

She lay on the bed and gave way to the flood of tears that overwhelmed her, and then, when her tears dried, she stared at the ceiling and she wondered just how long she had really been in love with Malachi. They'd never had a chance to be friends. From the start the war had come between them.

But she would never forgive him for this. Never. Come what may, he would never touch her again.

Whether he'd been coerced into marriage at gunpoint, it hadn't been her doing; she'd tried her best to stop it all. He'd had no right to go straight to the red-haired whore, and she would never forgive him.

After a while, the shadows of twilight played upon the windows. The bath had grown chilly, but she decided to indulge in it. She carefully set a chair under the doorhandle first; she wasn't taking any chances.

There was a bottle of wine with the food on the table. Shannon sipped a glass as she bathed quickly.

She even donned the beautiful satin gown.

In time, she stretched out in bed. She closed her eyes and she remembered him the evening before, coming into the room with a vengeance and a purpose. Sweeping her up, holding her.

Claiming his rights, when they weren't in truth married.

But now she was his bride.

Eventually, she closed her eyes. She had her Colt by her side, fully loaded. If he tried to return, she would demand that he leave quickly enough, and she would enforce her words.

But this night, their wedding night in truth, he did not return.

Toward dawn, she cried softly again.

He was her husband now. He did have certain rights.

But he wasn't coming back. Not that night.

CHAPTER TEN

At two in the morning, Malachi stirred. His head was killing him; his mouth tasted as if he had been poisoned, and his tongue felt as if it was swollen in his throat. A clock ticked with excruciating, heavy beats on the mantel.

He staggered out of bed and peered at the clock. When he saw the time he groaned and looked around the room. Iris was gone. She was a good kid. She had gone to Sparks, trying to help him. He was sleeping in her room, while Shannon…

Oh, hell.

His head pounded with a renewed and brutally savage fury. Shannon…

Shannon would be sleeping, too, by then. If she wasn't sleeping, it was even worse. She'd be furious, hotter than a range fire.

He threw himself back on the bed. The hell with her. They were going to have one fabulous fight, he was certain. It couldn't be helped.

He was going to be a rational man, he promised himself. He was going to be level and quiet. He was going to be a gentleman. Every bit as much a gentleman as the Yank she mourned.

The hero…

Well, hell, at this moment, it was easier for a Yank to be a hero. Rebs weren't doing very well. Just like she liked to tell him—they had lost the war.

Darlin'…the South will rise again, it will, it will, he vowed to himself. Then he remembered that he had just promised himself that he was gong to be reasonable.

They were married to one another.

His head started pounding worse as his blood picked up the rhythm, slamming against his veins. He was married to her…for real. If he had a mind to, he could walk right across that street and sweep her into his arms. He could do everything that the rampant pulse inside him demanded that he do. He could meet the blue sizzling fire in her eyes and dig his hands through her hair and bury his face against her breasts. He could touch her skin, softer than satin, sweeter than nectar, he could…

Rape his own wife, he thought dryly, for she sure as hell wasn't going to welcome him.

She would have let him hang! He was the one with the right to be furious. Granted, he would have come for Kristin with or without Shannon—he had meant to come without her—but it was still her sister he had traveled into enemy territory to save.

He could have been in Mexico by now. He could have been living it up in London or Paris. There was no more cause, no South left to save. It was over.

It should have been over.

He exhaled. He wasn't going to go to her now. She'd surely bolted the door against him. And the house would be silent. Dead silent. It just wasn't the time for a brawl, which is what it would be.

If she didn't just shoot him right off and get it over with.

She wouldn't shoot him. She was his wife now.

Yeah, a wife pining for a divorce, or pining to become a widow quick as a wink.

The turmoil and tempest were swirling inside him again. He didn't want to start drinking. He rose and went to the washstand and scrubbed his face and rinsed out his mouth, availing himself of Iris's rose water to gargle with. He felt a little better. No, he felt like hell. He felt like…

Racing across the street and breaking the door down and telling her that she was his and that she would never lock a door against him again, ever…

He groaned, burying his head in his hands. They were just a pair of heartfelt enemies, cast together by the most absurd whims of fate. She was in love with a dead man, and he wasn't in love at all. Or maybe he was in love with…with certain things about her. Maybe he was just in love. Maybe there really was a mighty thin line between love and hate, and maybe the two of them were walking it.

He walked to the window and stared at the night.

The new moon was coming in at long last, casting a curious glow upon the empty street.

They were forgetting their mission. Kristin…they had come all this way and met with physical danger, culminating with the last encounter with the Haywoods. They had come together in a burst of passion, and they had exchanged vows, and now they were legally wed, man and wife, and despite it all, they were still enemies, and despite it all, he could still never forget her, never cease to want her.