Why had nobody come from the house? Surely they had heard the shots. But perhaps the noise was muffled by the barn walls and the hay.

And neither could she seem to hear anything from the house or from beyond the stables. She was pitched into a desperate world where she was on her own.

No noise had come from the intruder. No thud, no cry, no gasp of fear or anger or dismay. There was nothing at all.

Had she killed the man?

Shannon stepped forward, moving as silently as she could upon the earthen floor. She moved slowly, pausing with each step. She must have killed him. She heard nothing, nothing at all.

She took another step toward the hay, peering around the side of the tied bale. There was nothing there. She thought she heard something from the stalls. She swung around and realized that it was only the horses moving restlessly.

Then she sensed a movement in the corner. But that was impossible. No one could have gotten by her, not even in the darkness…

It was a mouse in the corner. A mouse, and nothing more. She had shot and probably killed the intruder, and he lay there, somewhere in the hay.

Shannon moistened her lips and tried to still the fear that swept along her spine. She still sensed danger. He wasn't dead. He was hiding, lurking in the darkness. She wanted to shriek and scream and turn and flee in terror. She didn't dare. She had to find him before he found her.

She turned once again and hurried to the next stack of hay, piled higher than the first. She looked to the rear and each side of it…and then a rustle came from just above her head.

She inhaled and jerked back, looking up, trying to aim her Colt. It was too late.

He leaped upon her.

They fell to the ground together. Shannon's Colt went flying through the darkness. He fell hard upon her and she was assailed with the scent of leather and fine pipe tobacco. His hard-muscled arms held her and a wire taut body covered her. A scream bubbled and rose within her.

His hand clapped hard over her mouth.

"Stop," he hissed.

She interrupted him with a savage kick.

He swore in the night, but his hold went slack.

She shoved against him with all her might, and found her escape. She leaped to her feet and dashed toward the door, inhaling for a loud, desperate scream.

"No!" The voice thundered behind her. He caught her by an elbow, wrenching her around. Her scream died in her throat as they crashed to the ground again. This time, he held her with force. He thrust his frock coat back and straddled her prone and dazed form. Shannon lashed out madly with her fists, thudding them furiously against his chest.

"Stop it, Shannon!"

His use of her name did not register in the raw panic that had seized her. She had not come this far to be raped and murdered in her own stables. She gasped for breath to scream again and raked out with her nails, seeking his eyes.

"Stop it!" He caught her wrists and pulled them high above her head. She started to scream, and he secured her with one hand, clamping the other hard over her mouth. She bit him. He swore in a white rage, but did nothing more than grip her jaw so hard between his thumb and forefinger that she could scream no more for the pain that it caused her.

"For the love of God, will you stop it, brat!"

She froze. She wondered how it was that she had not recognized his voice until he used that particular term.

Malachi!

Malachi Slater had come home.


CHAPTER TWO


She stopped struggling and looked up at him. The moon must have come out, for some light was now filtering into the stable. He leaned very close against her, and she began to make out his features.

They were handsome features. She would grant Malachi that much. He was a striking man. His forehead was high and broad, his eyes were large, cobalt blue, sometimes nearly as black as the darkness that now surrounded them. His mouth was full and well defined, his jaw square beneath the gold and red sweep of his mustache and beard, and his nose and cheekbones chiseled in strong, masculine lines. He was a tall man, made lean by the war, and made hard by it, too.

With his face so close to hers, she realized that his beard was not so neatly clipped as it had always been before. There were shadows beneath his eyes. The rough wool of his Confederate uniform was tattered and torn in many places, and the gold braid, the insignia of his rank in the cavalry, was nearly worn away.

She should have known him much sooner. They had tangled often enough. She knew the strength of his arms and the deep tenor of his voice, and the bullheaded determination of his anger. She should have known him.

But he was different tonight. He was still Malachi, but more fierce than ever. Tonight, he seemed brutal. Tension lived and breathed and seethed all around him.

"You gonna be quiet now, brat?" he asked her harshly.

Shannon gritted her teeth. She could not begin to answer him. The gall of the bastard! He had known that it was her. He must have known that it was her from the moment she had entered the stables, and he had knocked her down and dragged her around—twice!—and had no apology for it.

She squirmed hard against him, fighting his hold. His hand pressed more tightly upon her, his breath warmed her cheeks, and she felt a new wave of his ruthless determination.

"Well?" he repeated. His teeth flashed white in the darkness as he smiled with a bitter amusement. "Shannon, are you going to be quiet now?"

He lifted his hand from her mouth. Her lips felt bruised and swollen from his casual disregard.

"Quiet!" she said, and her tone was soft at first, deceptively soft. She knew she should use some restraint. At the best of times, he had little patience with her.

Well, she had no patience with him. Her temper ignited like a fuse. "Quiet?" Her voice rose, and then it exploded. "Quiet? You scurvy, flea-ridden son of a jackass! What the hell do you think you're doing? Get off me!"

His lips tightened grimly and his thighs constricted around her hips.

"Miss McCahy, I'll be happy to do so. Just as soon as you shut that lovely little mouth of yours."

"Get off!" she whispered furiously.

"Shh!"

He was too close to her. His eyes were like pits of blue fire boring into hers, and she was acutely aware of him as a man. He leaned so close that his beard brushed her face. His thighs were hot and tight around her, and his arms, stretched taut across her as he maintained a wary grip upon her wrists, were as warm and threatening as molten steel.

"Malachi—"

"Shannon, I am waiting."

She closed her eyes and ground her teeth. She waited, feeling her heart pound, feeling the seconds pass. Then she smiled with savage sarcasm, but remained silent.

Slowly, he eased his hold. He released her wrists and sat up. He still straddled her hips, but he was no longer pinning her with his touch. Shannon tried counting to keep her smile in place. She longed to explode and shove him far, far away from her.

And still he kneeled there. He crossed his arms over his chest, and watched her through narrowed eyes.

She waited. She could stand it no longer.

"I have been quiet! Now get the hell off me!"

In a flash, his hand landed on her mouth, and he was near her again, so near that this time the warm whisper of his breath touched her cheek, and sent hot, rippling sensations seeping throughout the very length of her. He was tense, so tense that she wondered if she really knew the man at all, and she was suddenly afraid.

"I have been fighting blue bellies a long, long time, and you are the worst of them. Now, I am not going to wind up in prison or swinging from a rope at the end of this because of you. I do swear it. Shut up, Shannon—"

"Don't you threaten me!"

"Threaten! I'll act, and you know it!"

She didn't realize until it pulled and hurt that he had a grip upon her hair. She clenched her teeth, swallowed and tried to nod. Even for Malachi, this was strange behavior.

It was the war, she decided; he had finally gone insane.

"I'll be quiet!" she mouthed.

"Do so, Shannon, I'm warning you."

She nodded again.

He seemed to realize that he was hurting her. He stared at his hand where he gripped her hair, and he dropped it as if it were a golden fire that truly burned. He sat back again, then watched her.

"No sudden movement, no screams."

"No sudden movement," she repeated in a solemn promise. "No screams."

Seeming satisfied at last, he rose, finding his plumed cavalry hat on the floor nearby and dusting it off upon his thigh. He swept it low before her, and Shannon curiously caught her breath.

He was a charismatic man, a tall and arresting one. She knew he rode with elegance and finesse, as if he had been born to it. It sometimes seemed that he embodied some spirit of chivalry, something of a certain gallantry that had belonged to a sector of the deceased, prewar South. He had grace, and he had courage, she did not deny him those. He would never think of personal safety if something threatened someone he loved. He was loyal and devoted to his brother, and to her sister, Kristin.

He also seemed to have gone quite mad, and she needed desperately to escape him at the first opportunity. She didn't know whether to be terrified or furious.

"Miss McCahy," he murmured, reaching for her hand. "Please accept my hand. I admit, my manners were poor…"

It was too much. He had wrestled her to the ground twice, threatened her, bullied her and acted as if he belonged in an asylum. Now he was acting like the last of the cavaliers. She wanted no part of him; she had to escape.