"You're one Yank I do intend to touch, my love."

She pulled back the trigger on the Colt, letting him hear the deadly click. "Get out. You know that I can aim."

"I haven't come to do anything to you. I've come because this is my room, and you are my wife. Put the gun down. I have every right here, and you won't shoot me."

"You have no rights here, and I will shoot you!"

He took a step toward her. She fired, with deadly accuracy. The bullet whizzed by his face, so close that it clipped his beard before embedding itself into the thick wood of the door behind him. He stopped, staring at her, the muscles in his jaw working. He was surprised, but he was not afraid. "You shot at me!" he said, his voice harsh and low. "You actually shot at me!" He took another step toward her.

"You fool!" Shannon warned him, backing away. She fired again, and drew blood this time, nicking his ear.

But it did no good. He was upon her, wrenching the Colt from her hand. His fingers dug around her upper arms with a trembling force, and he picked her up and tossed her like a sack of wheat upon the bed. She struggled to rise, but he caught her and pushed her back. He straddled her, pinning her down, and she saw the naked amazement and wrath in his eyes. "You little bitch! You really would have killed me!"

She wriggled and kicked, struggling fiercely. "If I'd meant to kill you, you'd be dead, and you know it."

He eased his hold on her to touch his ear, feeling the trickle of blood. She used the opportunity to surge against him, freeing her hands and swinging at him. She caught him on the jaw with a good punch, and he swore savagely, securing her beneath him again. The beautiful white satin bridal nightgown was twisting higher and higher around her hips with every fevered moment. "Let me go, Malachi."

"Oh, no, Shannon, you're the one who wanted to play rough. Well, let's play rough, shall we?"

And he wrenched the gown up high on her thighs with his free hand. He released her to unbuckle his trousers, and she screeched, jumping up. He caught her arm, twisting her down.

"You shot at me!" he hissed at her.

She swung forward, trying to hurt him, trying not to cry.

"And you slept with the red-haired harlot, so leave me alone!" She slammed against his chest and thrashed out with her legs. She heard him groan in pain and she knew that she had gotten him good.

But he fell against her again, and her hair caught and pulled in his fingers. "I didn't sleep with her—"

"Oh, no! Don't try to play me for a fool, Malachi."

"I did not sleep with Iris. She's a real friend, an old friend. I should sleep with her. She is kind, and caring. And warm. But I wasn't with her last night. I slept in her bed, but not with her."

"Liar!"

"No!"

He pushed her flat against the bed. Tears stung her eyes and she writhed and struggled against him. "Liar!" she accused him again. But his lips met hers, and she didn't understand what happened at all.

"I am not lying!" he swore, and his hatred contoured and marred his features.

"Please…"

He assaulted her…but she met his fury with her own. His mouth forced down hard upon hers…but her lips parted to his, and she met the invading thrust of his tongue with the passionate fury of her own. When his lips broke from hers, she cried out his name. She didn't know if it was a plea, a broken whisper, a beseechment that he leave her…or a prayer that he stay with her.

Whatever it was, it changed his touch. He went very still. Shannon was amazed that she had freed her hands, only to wind her arms around him, only to rake her fingers through his hair. She felt the touch of his fingers, slowly curling around her breasts over the satin of the gown.

"I am not lying!" he vowed again, and softly. He rubbed her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and felt it swell to his touch. She felt the softness of his beard, and the sweet, burning tenderness of his kiss. He ravaged her body still, but with care, with passion, but with some strange lust gone, so gentle that she arched and writhed and twisted toward him, maddened to feel more and more of it…

Then he thrust into her, deep, full, grinding, and defying all his previous gentleness. Bold, determined, sure, his fingers and his eyes locked with hers as he claimed her completely and cast her shuddering to her depths with the ecstasy of feeling his body within her own, burning within her, a part of her mind, her heart, her frame…her soul.

"Malachi." She whispered his name again as he began to move within her. She held him, embraced him, caressed him. Fever and tempest were with them as they whirled and whirled in a dark and furious and timeless storm that stripped away pretense…

And even hatred…

Satisfaction burst upon them, as volatile as the burning cannon fire of the war that had raged around them.

He pulled from her when it was over. She lay silent; he lay looking at the ceiling.

"What are we doing to one another?" he said softly. But he didn't look her way. He rose. Shannon could not move, not even to adjust the satin of the gown over her hips. She heard him doffing his borrowed clothes, donning his own trousers and shirt and boots. She still did not move.

He paused at last. "We've got to go. Get up. Get dressed. I'll explain when you come down, but I've got some good news as far as freeing Kristin is concerned. Hurry. We need to get moving."

He walked to the door. When he reached it, he paused for several seconds.

"I'm sorry, Shannon. Really sorry. It…it won't happen again."

He was gone. She listened dully as his footsteps faded away on the staircase. Listlessly, she curled into herself. She had to get up. She had to get dressed and ready. They were going after Kristin. This was what it was all about…

She dragged herself up. Then she leaped up from the bed, anxious to call him back because she realized now she could still hear his footsteps. She had to tell him that she was sorry, too, so very sorry… "Malachi!"

He was coming up the stairs, coming back to her. She raced to the doorway.

A man was coming up the stairs. He was wearing a feather hat, and his head was bowed low, and the brim covered his face. But it wasn't Malachi. A sense of danger suddenly sheared along her spine.

At that moment he reached the top step and raised his head.

She stared straight into the evil leering face of the bushwhacker, Justin Waller. "Howdy, Shannon. Excuse me— howdy, Mrs. Gabriel," he said softly. "My, my, my, I have been anxious to catch up with you. And you do look particularly pretty this morning."

"You!" she cried, swinging around to dive for the Colt.

"Me! Justin Waller, Mrs. Gabriel. Why, yes'm, I've turned up again, and I am…anxious!"

The Colt was on the floor somewhere. She groped frantically, opened her mouth to scream. The sound that issued from her was a breathy gasp. He caught her around the waist. She opened her mouth to scream again, and his hand clamped tight over her mouth. "No, no, my little darlin'," he crooned, his face taut against hers, his pleased grin displaying his teeth. "You do have to hush! The captain might have gone for the horses, but the Haywoods are downstairs, and I planned to leave kind of quiet like. I do want to deal with Malachi Slater, but not here. Not now. You're going to be real, real quiet for me."

Shannon tried desperately to inhale and bite his hand. He laughed, reaching into his pocket with his free hand, and produced a soaking, foul-smelling scarf. He removed his hand from her mouth. She gasped in quickly to scream, but before she could issue a sound, he dropped the scarf upon her face, and she inhaled the potent drug upon it.

The room spun and faded and went opaque, and then disappeared entirely from view.

Justin Waller waited. Her eyes fell shut; she went limp beneath him. He pulled the scarf from her face at last, and lifted her dead weight over his shoulder.

At the top of the staircase, he hesitated. He heard Slater talking in the kitchen.

Quickly, quietly, he ran down the stairs and out the front door. The street was quiet. He smiled. He walked calmly to his horse, tossed Shannon over the animal's flanks, and mounted behind her lolling body.

And rode serenely out of town.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

When Malachi returned with the horses, Iris was already waiting for him, seated in a small buckboard wagon. She was wearing green brocade with a cocky little feathered hat, and the green went exceptionally well with her red hair.

Malachi tethered the horses and looked at her. "You're a beautiful woman, Iris," he told her.

She smiled and didn't flush. "Thanks, Malachi. You didn't need to say that."

"You don't need to come."

"Yes, I do," Iris said. "You don't know anything about the back entrance to Cindy's house. And you won't be able to run around in the town of Sparks, I promise you. You won't be able to do your brother one bit of good if you're arrested along with his wife."

"I don't like putting you into danger," he said softly.

"I won't be in any danger. Cindy's a friend of mine. I come into Sparks often enough. I'm known there."

"Still—"

"Malachi, I swear that I will be in no danger.

Malachi still didn't like it, but he knew he had no right to dictate to Iris. And her trip to Sparks had been monumentally important.

She had found Cole. He'd been sitting in the local saloon, his hat pulled low over his head. She hadn't recognized him herself at first, not until she'd leaned back and seen his silver gray eyes. He'd been wearing ranch clothes and a Mexican serape and his face had been covered with the rustic start of a beard and mustache. He hadn't looked at all like Cole.