It was a good thing that the knife had yet to touch his flesh. He caught her wrist again, pinning it, drawing her eyes to his once more. "Sometime, darlin', I just might let you find out."
She jerked away. "Darlin', don't even dream of it. Not in your wildest thoughts."
"Couldn't handle it, huh?"
"I'll handle it right now, if you're not careful, Captain Slater."
"Is that a promise, Miss McCahy?"
"No, a threat."
"Your hands better move with the skill of an angel, got that, Miss McCahy?"
His grip on her wrist was tight. But it wasn't the pain that gave her pause. It was his agony, for all that he concealed it so well.
She nodded. "Give me the bottle."
"What for?"
"To clean the scalpel." She doused the small sharp knife with the alcohol, and then he took the bottle back from her. He swallowed heartily. "Ready?" Shannon asked him.
"You are eager to take a blade against me," he said.
"Right."
"I can't wait to take one against you." His speech was slurred just a bit. When she glanced his way, she saw his grin, lopsided, heartstopping. She closed her eyes tightly against it, against the searing cobalt of his eyes, and the charisma of that smile. He was making her tremble tonight, and she couldn't falter.
She brought the scalpel against his flesh, holding his thigh to keep it steady. He didn't start or move at the swift penetration of the knife, but she felt his muscles jump and contract, and the power was startling.
He didn't make a sound. He just closed his eyes and clamped down on his jaw, and for a moment she wondered if he was conscious, and then she hoped that he was not. She quickly finished her cut, and brought the small forceps out. She had cut well. She quickly secured the ball and dug it from his flesh, then liberally poured whiskey over the wound and began to bind it with linen bandages. There weren't enough to finish the job. She glanced at his face, then lifted her skirt and tore her petticoat.
One of his eyes opened and he looked at her. "Thanks, darlin'." He wasn't unconscious.
"I don't want you getting Cole killed," she said flatly. She came up on her knees, and wrapped the linen around his thigh, moving higher and higher. Both his eyes were open now. She wished that her elegant bodice weren't cut quite so low. He was staring straight at her cleavage, and he was making no gentlemanly move to look away.
"Quit that," she ordered him.
"Why?"
"You're supposed to be a Southern gentleman," she reminded him.
He smiled, but the smile held pain. "The South is dead, haven't you heard? And so are Southern gentlemen. And you be careful right now, Miss McCahy. You're moving real, real close."
She was. She pulled her fingers back as if she had been burned.
"You did a good job," he told her, tying off the bandage.
"Because everything is intact?" she said caustically.
"I do appreciate that. But then, you wouldn't have dared do me injury, I'm certain."
"Don't be so certain."
A soft, husky chuckle escaped him. "Some day, I promise, I'll make it all worth your while."
"What does that mean?"
"Why, we'll have to wait and see, won't we?"
"Don't hold your breath, Captain Slater. And besides—" she widened her eyes with a feigned and sizzling innocence "—I'm just a child, remember? The McCahy brat."
She started to turn away. He caught her arm and pulled her back. She almost protested, but he moved with a curious gentleness, lifting a fallen tendril of hair, smoothing it. And his eyes moved over her again, over the rise of her breasts beneath the lace of her bodice, to her flushed cheeks, to the curve of her form where she knelt by his feet.
"Well, brat, it was a long war. I think that, maybe, you've begun to grow up."
"I had no choice," she said, and she was suddenly afraid that she would start to cry. She gritted her teeth and swallowed the tears harshly. She felt his eyes upon her, reading her thoughts and her mind and her heart.
"I was very sorry about your Captain Ellsworth, Shannon," he said. "I know what it did to you. But be careful. If you're not, you'll have scars on your soul, like Cole did when the jayhawkers killed his wife."
"Malachi, don't—"
"All right, Miss McCahy, I won't talk about sacred territory." He smiled, a devilish smile, taunting her, leading her away from the memory of pain. "You are maturing, and nicely. Thank you, Shannon." He paused, his eyes searching her, his smile deepening with a sensual curve to his lips. She thought that he was going to say something else, but he repeated himself. "Thank you, you did a good job. Your touch was gentle, nearly tender."
"I told you—"
His knuckles brushed her cheek. "Definitely growing up," he murmured softly.
She didn't know what to say. It should have been something scathing, yet she didn't feel that way at all, not at that moment. She just felt, curiously, as if she wanted to be held. As if she wanted to burst into tears and be assured that yes, indeed, the war was over, and peace had come. She wanted to feel his arms around her, the heat of his whisper as he caressed her tenderly and assured her that all was well.
But she had no chance to respond at all.
For at that moment, the quiet of the night beyond the stables was shattered. The thunder of hoofbeats sounded just outside, loud, staccato, a drumroll that promised some new portent of danger. Even through the closed door, she could feel the beat she knew well.
Shannon rose quickly, the blood draining from her face.
"Riders, Malachi! Riders coming to the house!"
As if in answer to her worried exclamation, she heard a faint scream of horror from the house. Shannon ran to the door, wrenching it open. The scream came again. Shrill now, then higher and higher.
"Kristin!" Shannon cried. "It's—it's Kristin! Oh, my God, it's Kristin!"
"Wait!" Malachi called.
Shannon barely heard him. Horses had come galloping down upon the ranch again. Numerous horses. The sound of those hoofbeats told her that the uneasy peace that had so briefly settled over the ranch would now be shattered once again.
She started to run.
"Shannon!" Malachi thundered.
She ignored him, unaware that he was behind her, swearing, raging that she should stop.
"Damned fool brat!" he called. "Wait!"
She didn't wait. She burst into the night, staring at the house. In the glow of the light from the house she could see twenty or so horses ranged before the porch. Most of them still carried their riders. Only a few of the men had dismounted.
"No!" Shannon breathed, but even as she ran, she saw her sister. A tall husky man with unruly dark whiskers was coming out of the house with Kristin tossed over his shoulder.
Kristin was dressed for dinner, too, in a soft blue brocade that matched the color of her eyes. Her hair had been pinned in a neat coil, but now it streamed down the giant's back, like a lost ray of sunshine.
Stunned, Shannon stopped and stared in horror.
"I've got her!" the man said sharply. "Let's get the hell out of here!"
"What about Slater?" someone asked.
Shannon couldn't hear the reply, but her heart seemed to freeze over. If Cole wasn't gone, then he was dead. If there was a single breath left in his body, the burly man wouldn't have his hands on Kristin.
Kristin was screaming and fighting furiously as the man walked hurriedly to his horse. Kristin bit him, hard.
He slapped her in return, harder. Swearing. Then he tossed a dazed Kristin onto his horse, and mounted behind her.
"No!" Shannon shrieked, and she started to run in a panic toward the house once again. She leaped one of the paddock fences in a shortcut to the house. She had to stop them. She had to save her sister.
Her feet flew over the Missouri dust, and her heart thundered. She had no thought but to reach the man before he could ride away with her sister. In terror, she thought only to throw herself at the man in a whirlwind of fury.