But she could hear him.
She heard his pants fall to the floor, and she heard his footsteps as his bare feet padded behind her. He dropped to his knees and his lips touched her shoulders like a burning brand. She jerked away from him and wished she hadn't, for when she turned to him she saw his hungry eyes on her newly exposed breasts. Her nipples hardened instantly and flames seemed to rise to her cheeks, then sink back and lie deep in her core. She sank into the water. She wanted to be angry, indignant. Her voice came out as a husky whisper. "Malachi, I am not your wife!"
He was on his feet, naked as a jay, and his manhood flying proud and firm. She was determined not to stare, but her teeth were chattering, and she felt compelled to watch him, like a marionette jerked by strings. She loved the look of him, she realized. She felt some ancient and instinctive fascination, which lay deep below the level of her mind, something that caused her blood to race and heat and her breath to catch and come too quickly and that made her flesh come alive at the very thought of him. She could not draw her eyes from him. She could not help but respond to the naked length of him. She found him magnificent. From the breadth of bronzed shoulders to the lean hardness of his thighs, she found him so boldly and negligently male that she could not turn away.
He stepped into the tub, sitting behind her so that his feet brushed her bottom. He leaned back against the rim of the tub and sighed deeply. "This is just wonderful." He closed his eyes in complete comfort.
Hating him, hating herself, Shannon swore furiously. "Malachi, I am not your wife!"
His eyes flew open, glittering and dangerous. "That's not what you told Miss Andre when you so rudely doused her."
"I—I had to appear upset."
"Did you now?" He leaned forward. His hands dangled over his knees. His fingers almost brushed the flesh of her breasts. She leaned against the tub, as far as she could go. It made no difference. "You're lucky she controlled her temper."
"You're damned lucky that I'm controlling mine right now."
"Am I? Why, beloved, is that a threat?"
She didn't answer him. She was shaking all over and she only hoped she had the bravado to make an escape. "If you're going to stay, Malachi, then I'm going to go." She started to rise. He was on his feet in an instant. He set his hands on her shoulders and pressed against them with relentless determination. Water and bubbles swished all around them. Her rear landed hard against the bottom of the tub, and he followed her quickly back down.
"Sit. You're not going anywhere."
"Don't you dare manhandle me! I've had it. I've simply had it! I'm not going to sit—" She tried to rise again. He caught her foot this time. She felt his free hand roaming the water for the soap. His fingers brushed her thighs and her rear and her flank and she gritted her teeth to keep from screaming out.
"Malachi—"
"Sit," he said pleasantly. "Just sit, darlin'."
"Malachi, you son of a bitch!" She tried to pull away. His grip upon her foot was firm. Softly humming "Dixie," he washed her foot with the lavender soap.
She leaned back and spoke through a clenched jaw. "Malachi, I want you out of here! Now! You left me cooling my heels to run off to a saloon. You spent the whole afternoon and evening with a whore. I had to act the way I did—"
"Jealous, darlin'?" He taunted huskily. She opened her eyes. Her foot was free and he had come close to her. Very close. Their limbs were all entangled. She could feel the shaft of his sex against her ankle, the hardness of his thighs against her toes. It was unbearable.
And she could see the pulse beating, beating, against his throat. His lips were close to hers as he spoke.
"Never!" she promised him in a heated panic. "I just can't stand the thought of being sullied by your touch."
"No?" He cocked his head, and his lashes fell lazily over his cheeks. "You didn't mind down in the store this afternoon."
"That was—that was necessary."
"No, I don't think so. I don't think so at all. Shannon, I haven't ever, not even by the most practiced whore, been kissed so provocatively in my entire life."
She leaped up. It had gone too far. Her cheeks were blazing and her breasts were heaving. The bubbles and water sluiced from her, bathing her in a seductive white foam.
Malachi leaned back. His eyes fell on the hardened dark peaks of her breasts as they thrust through the white foam of the bubbles. She saw that look in his eyes again, and she cried out softly as she stepped from the tub. She grabbed for the towel, but she had barely dried her face before he was up behind her. He lifted her cleanly from the ground and tossed her upon Mrs. Haywood's crocheted spread. She gasped for breath, trying to rise. It was impossible. He was down beside her within a split second, a leg cast over her hips and thighs, his arm a bar of steel across her.
"That kiss wasn't necessary at all," he told her.
"I am going to scream, Malachi. I'm going to scream so loudly that you'll be sorry."
"If you scream," he promised her, "it isn't going to be for help."
"You bastard!" She surged against him. "You can't come from a fancyhouse to me—" She broke off, straining against the muscles that held her. She tossed like a wild creature, but it served no purpose. It just put their bodies more fully in contact. Her breasts rubbed against his chest, and her limbs became more and more entangled with his. She felt the hard, searing heart of his desire against her thighs, against her belly. She tried to kick him and failed, but he swore softly, knowing her intent. He straddled her, keeping himself safe from her rancor, and caught her hands, pinning them to her sides. Exhausted, she twisted her head from his, gasping desperately for breath.
She heard him chuckle softly and she opened her eyes, staring at him in fury. "I will scream, Malachi! You bastard!" Tears glazed her eyes. "Gentleman! Southern cavalier! The last of the flower of knighthood—"
"Shannon, I didn't touch her."
"What?" she breathed.
"She's a friend, and a good one. She's going to do some spying on Fitz for me."
"Fitz?"
"We're not far, not far at all now. Fitz has Kristin. She's in jail."
"Oh, no, Malachi!" She surged against him, bit her lip and fell back.
"But she's all right. Iris is going to go see her. She's going to help us."
"Or else turn you in," Shannon said softly.
He shook his head with irritating confidence. "She's a friend."
"I'll bet she is."
He lay over her, his head close to hers. "You are jealous, Miss McCahy. I told you; I didn't touch her.
"That—that doesn't mean anything at all," Shannon whispered against his lips. "I don't—"
His mouth closed upon hers with a curiously tender force, parting her lips, searing them, causing them to part sweetly beneath his. She lost contact with everything but the fire of his tongue, so hot and hard, thrusting into the depths of her soul and desire. She didn't feel the bed beneath her, or know that gentle candlelight filled the room. She could only taste the fever of his kiss.
She ceased to fight him. Her fingers curled around his. His mouth lifted from hers, and touched down again upon the column of her throat. The brush of his mustache and beard feathered softly over her flesh, and she moaned, arching hard against him. He lowered his head, sweeping his face over her breasts, slowly encircling one mound with the tip of his tongue, then taking in the fullness of her nipple with the whole of his mouth. His teeth grazed the pebbled peak as he licked it in slow and leisurely fashion.
Her heart was beating like thunder; her blood seemed to hiss and boil and cascade through her, and she could not think of anything but the exquisite pleasure of his touch. Something deep inside her tried to warn her that it was wrong, that no great and everlasting love lay between them, that theirs was the heated and tempestuous passion forged from the hatred borne between sworn enemies.
But she did not hate him. Not at all…
She craved his touch with a basic, undeniable need. She felt the huge pulse o
f his passion, thundering against her, and she was sweetly excited, pleased that this time there would be no pain at all. She wanted to touch him. She wanted to explore his shoulders and run her fingers over his chest, and she even wanted to venture decadently downward, and touch with fascination the place from which his darkest desire sprung…
His lips moved over her, down to her belly. His tongue laved her with hot moisture, and his beard continued to caress her flesh and evoke a greater surge within her. She wanted him so desperately…
Suddenly he rose above her. His features were tight, but he smiled and he spoke lightly. "Good night, Shannon."
She stared at him in utter disbelief, then the color surged to her face and she tried to strike him in a raw fury. Once again, he secured her hands. He fell to her side and swept her against him. "We need to get some sleep."
"Sleep! I will never sleep with you, you Confederate snake! You rodent, you knave, scalawag! You bastard, you—"
"Enough, Shannon."
"Vulture, diseased rat! Rabid dog!"
"Enough!" He managed to land his hand on her derriere in a sharp slap. She swore again with the venom and expertise of a cowhand, and this time his hand landed over her mouth. "Darlin', let's go to sleep, or I will forget that I'm a gentleman."
"Gentleman!"
"A gentleman," he repeated. "You're the one who wants to be left alone," he reminded her gruffly.
She was quick and twisted around to see his face. His eyes were unreadable, his features taut, his jaw locked. And his eyes…he stared at her as if he hated her, and she found herself lowering her eyes in misery.
It was true. She had wanted to be left alone because…
"Oh, Malachi!" she said miserably, a sob catching in her throat. He was the one who had brought them to their present untenable position, but she had provoked him earlier. She had meant to stir him down in the store, and she had meant to provoke him over at the saloon. She had been sick, imagining him in the arms of the redhead…
"Malachi, I did love Robert," she whispered. "And if I did, then it can't be right, it just can't be right… I don't mean by Sunday-school morals, I mean in the soul, in the heart…"
She was near to tears. She couldn't possibly be speaking to Malachi this way, especially not when she lay naked in bed with him.
But something in his eyes softened, and his touch was very gentle as he drew her against him. "Shannon, I know that you loved him. You've taken nothing away from him by needing to feel warm again." He sighed. His beard brushed the top of her head. His hand lay against her midriff, but it was a tender touch, and not meant to seduce or capture. "Tell me about him."
"What?"
"Tell me about him. When did you meet? What was he like?"
She shook her head. She couldn't begin to imagine Malachi being interested in her deceased Yank fiance. But he whispered against her hair softly. "Talk to me. It may feel good. You met when the house in Kansas City fell down."
She nodded, absurdly content to lie there, held by him. "I was arrested along with Kristin—for my relationship with Cole. I was arrested for harboring bushwhackers!"
"The Slater men haven't done much for you, have they?" he murmured quietly.
"I didn't mind that. Cole saved us. I always liked Cole. From the first moment I saw him."
Just like she always hated me, Malachi thought. He smoothed back a strand of her hair. What the hell was he doing here? He'd never been that much of a gentleman. Why had he let her go when she was welcoming him against her? He sighed softly.
"It was awful," Shannon said, shivering. "They had so many of us, stuffed into that terrible decrepit building. When the roof collapsed…" She paused. "I thought I was going to die. I was just hanging through the roof when the rafters broke apart. I could hear everyone screaming. And then Robert was there. He and Kristin made me jump. And he caught me. He was so brave and wonderful—a hero. I'll never forget looking into his eyes then. And then…then we heard all the screams again. Five of the women were killed. So many were hurt badly… It was odd. We were friends then, all of us. The other girls knew where my sympathies really lay, and they understood. Josephine Anderson was my friend. When she died, her brother went mad. That's when he really became Bloody Bill, after she died. Oh, Malachi! So many people died!"
"It's all right," he said softly. She was crying. Not sobbing hysterically, just crying very quietly. "It's all right," he said again.
He kept stroking her hair. She didn't speak again, and he didn't speak, either. He closed his eyes, just holding her. It was too painful for any of them to think of the war. Northerner, Southerner, it was just too damned painful to look back. Great men, kind men, good men, all of them dead. Gallant men, alone and moldering in gallant graves. He sighed and closed his eyes. He couldn't let it go on any longer. He had to find some way to free Kristin.
And then he had to find his brothers.
And run.
He opened his eyes. The candles were burning low. He had drifted to sleep. The room was cast in very soft shadows, and the light was pale and ethereal.
He wondered why he had awakened. Then he knew.
Her fingers were moving over his chest. Her nails lightly raked his flesh, and her hair fell over him like a brush with angel's wings. She traced tentative, soft patterns over him, exploring his rib cage and breast and collarbone.
He lay still. He kept his eyes open a slit, watching her. She rose slightly, watching him, watching the movement of her fingers. Her breasts peeked out from the golden glory of her long hair, and as she watched her fingers moving over him, she lightly moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.
I'll be damned if I'll be a gentleman, he thought. Even cavaliers and knights of old surely had their needs.
He reached out, catching her hand where it lay over his heart. Her eyes darted to his in alarm.
"Go on. Touch me," he whispered.
"I—I didn't mean to wake you," she stuttered. They were both whispering. She must have known that he could not let her go, not this time. She was exquisite in the light, her breasts full and firm and ripe and her skin silky, shining in the candles' pale glow. Her eyes were so very blue…
"I'm awake," he told her.
"I've disturbed you—"
"Disturb me further, darlin'…please." His eyes remained locked with hers. He drew her hand along the length of his body. He heard her breath go ragged in her throat and her eyes followed the motion of their hands with a deadly fascination. Her fingers trailed over his flesh, over the soft hair that nestled around his sex. She tensed, and he felt her trembling. He sensed a certain fear within her, but he held her tight. She curved her hand around it hesitantly.
Rockets seemed to burst within his head and into his body. She gasped softly as she felt him swell huge and hard. She cried out softly. He reached up, slipping his hand around her neck to cup her head. He rose up on an elbow and kissed her slowly and fully, taking her lips, releasing them, hovering over them again just to brush them with the taste of his mouth and the seductive jut of his tongue.
Then he laid her flat and crawled aggressively over her. He kissed her again, easing away her hesitance.
He felt her fingers upon his shoulders again. Her body found a slow undulation beneath his. He set his hand upon her breast, and followed his touch with his kiss. He stroked her thighs and invaded her intimately with his touch.
With raw purpose he moved his body in a slow, bold sweep down the length of hers. He kept his eyes hard upon hers until he came to the juncture of her thighs, when he replaced his intimate touch there with the searing violation of his tongue.
She called out his name in a gasp as he brought her to the very edge of ecstasy, then withdrew. He found her eyes once more and she choked out incomprehensible words, reaching for him. She pulled him to her, seeking his shoulders with her lips and teeth. He pushed away again, demanding that she meet his eyes as he parted her thighs with the wedge of his knee and thrust deep and swiftly inside her.
She shuddered and whispered his name again.
That night, he gave little heed to finesse, and passion rose like a tempest within him. He caught her lips again with a savage passion, and as their bodies arched in an urgent rhythm, he caressed her with rough and demanding hunger.
Her legs wrapped high around him and her kisses fell upon him as she tasted the textures of his face and his throat. Her fingers trailed down his back to knot into the rigid muscles of his buttocks. At the end he cast back his head as a fierce shudder gripped his body, a hoarse cry escaping his lips. She sobbed out in turn, barely aware of the night, of time or place, barely conscious of reality.
Seconds later, she felt his touch, so absurdly gentle once again. Their harsh breathing could still be heard, and they were both covered in a soft sheen. "Malachi—"
"It's all right," he said gently. "You don't have to say anything." He lay back, bringing her down beside him. He whispered softly against her ear. "Just don't think to hop up and leave me. Don't deny me."
She lay there in silence. The darkness closed around them as the last of the candles burned out.
Much later, they crawled beneath the sheet. Shannon knew a moment of panic at this new intimacy, but then she relaxed again. There was nothing left to fear for that night. She hadn't meant what had happened. At least she didn't think that she did. She had thought he slept soundly, and she had not been able to resist temptation.
And temptation had definitely led to sin, she thought.
With his arms closed around her, she felt as if she might start crying again, because it felt so good. His arms offered warmth and security and a steel-hard strength, and she found she loved that. Just as she was coming to love the slant of his grin. And the way he would never let a man—or a woman—down. He had his code of honor.
And in his sweeping way, he was a cavalier.
She loved his courage, and his daring, just as she was coming to love the bronzed power of his arms, holding her close now. Just as she was coming to love the breadth of his golden-matted chest, and the hard, muscled length of his thighs…
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