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.
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.
He walked over to the bed and lay down, folding his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Iris would come back, and then he would have a better idea of what to do next. Cole must have heard what was happening by now. Jamie, too. And once they had heard about Kristin, they would have started moving this way.
He and Shannon had to start moving again. They had to cease the battle and come to a truce and worry about their personal problems later.
It was the only logical move…the only reasonable one.
He gritted his teeth hard against the fever and tremor that seized him again. He steeled himself against thoughts of her. He wanted her so badly…he could see her. He could see her as she had been in his dream, rising from the water, glimmering drops sluicing down her full, full breasts… water running sleek down the slimness of her flanks, down her thighs…
He could see her eyes, dusky blue, beautiful as they met his in the mists of passion. He could almost feel her moving against him, sweetly rhythmic. He could hear her whispering to him…whimpering, crying out softly and stirring him to a greater flame, a greater hunger…
Logical, reasonable. This was insane.
He was a gentleman, he reminded himself. He had been raised to be a Southern gentleman; he had fought a war to preserve the Southern way of life, perhaps the great Southern myth. He didn't know. But he had been taught certain things. He loved his brother; he would always honor his brother's wife. He believed in the sanctity of honor, and that in the stark horror of defeat, a man could still find honor.
Logic…reason. When the morning came, he would defy the very fires within him. She would not be able to ask for a more perfect gentleman. As long as she didn't touch him, he would be all right.
