"He…he won't," Shannon said.
"He could. I promise you, lots of folks wouldn't have paused like Papa and me. Fitz has power in these parts. Lots of it. He owns the mortgage on a dozen ranches, and he owns the ranchers, too. He owns the sheriff and he owns the deputies. So you tell me, what if Fitz gets his hands on this boy and kills him? What if you were free of us, and Fitz caught him and killed him anyway?"
"I don't…I don't understand what you're trying to say," Shannon protested.
"What if you're carrying that man's child and they hang him? What'll you tell your son or your daughter?"
Shannon felt herself growing pale, and she wasn't sure just what it was that Mrs. Haywood's grim words did to her. She had known all the while that they were entering into a dangerous world.
She knew that people died. She had been watching them die for years.
She felt ill and flushed and hot. Was she such a fool? Did everyone else think so rationally? The odds seemed so foolishly against them…
She still couldn't marry him. Not if she carried ten of his children, not if they were both about to be hanged in a matter of seconds. And suddenly she realized why.
She did feel for him. He had created a tempest deep within her heart, and it was with her always.
She didn't know how to put a name on the feeling. She didn't know if it was love or hatred or a combination of both. The thought of him with another woman had made her insanely jealous, and it had been humiliating to see how quickly he could still arouse her in the wake of her anger. Maybe their hatred had been mixed with love from the very beginning. Maybe circumstances were letting all her emotions explode here and now.
But she couldn't marry him.
She had heard herself. He didn't love her. And if he was forced into marrying, he would never forgive her. Not in this lifetime, or the next, and he would escape her as soon as he possibly could. She didn't want the misery for either of them.
If she was ever to have him, it had to be of his own free will.
"Mrs. Haywood, I can't—"
"Let's go into the next room. I hear voices. Papa must be in there with the preacher, and it's high time that we got on with the ceremony."
"Mrs. Haywood—"
The woman stopped and turned to her, her hands folded serenely before her. "Papa is not a patient man, young lady. And I'll wager he's got the shotgun aimed right at your Captain Slater's heart. Don't tarry, now. I don't want him getting nervous. The poor fellow might move in the wrong direction and Papa might decide to shoot him in the kneecap just to make sure that he sticks around."
With a smile she turned and opened the shelved door and proceeded into the parlor. Shannon hurried behind her. They didn't mean it. They wouldn't shoot Malachi, and they wouldn't hang him, either.
Would they?
She stopped short when she came to the entrance of the parlor.
Malachi was there. He was standing right in the center of the parlor.
Mr. Haywood had apparently decided to dress Malachi for the occasion, as well. He was wearing a ruffled white shirt and a pin-striped suit with a red satin vest and a black-lapelled frock coat. She'd never seen him dressed so elegantly, and her breath caught in her throat as she saw him. The beauty of his costume was offset by the raw menace in his eyes and the rugged twist of his jaw. She had never seen him so coldly furious, nor had his eyes ever touched upon hers with such glaring hatred and with such a raw promise of revenge.
For a moment she couldn't move farther. She couldn't breathe, and she believed that her heart had ceased to beat. Panic made her seize hold of the doorway, meeting the savage fury of his glare.
"Come in, come in!" Mr. Haywood called.
She still didn't move. Then she realized that the preacher was moving behind Malachi. He was a tall thin man with a stovepipe hat and black trousers and a black frock coat. He nodded to her grimly.
She heard a peculiar sound and looked at Malachi again…and saw that his wrists were shackled by a pair of handcuffs.
"Oh…really, please," she murmured. "Please, you all must understand…"
"Talk to her, captain. Talk to her quick," Mr. Haywood advised Malachi. He, too, was all spruced up in a silk shirt and brown trousers, which gave him a dignity he had lacked earlier. One arm was around his wife's shoulders; in the other, he carried the shotgun.
"Get over here!" Malachi snapped to Shannon.
The deep grate of his voice brought her temper surging to the fore. "Malachi, damn you, I am trying—"
She broke off with a gasp because he was striding her way with purpose and hostility. He might have been shackled but he managed to get a grip around her wrist, jerking her hard against him. She shivered as she felt the fire and tension and fury within him and felt his heated whisper against her cheeks.
"Get over here and marry me."
"Malachi, I don't believe them. I don't believe that they'll hang you if we don't marry."
He glared at her. "So you want to wait—and see?" he asked her slowly.
"I don't think—"
"You don't think! Do you want to wait until they tie the rope around my neck? Or maybe we should wait until I'm swinging in the breeze!"
"We could—"
"Shannon! Get over here and marry me now!"
"No! I will not—"
"You will, damn you!"
"I won't! Malachi, it wouldn't be right—"
"Right! You're talking about right? At a moment like this you're worried about right?"
"I don't love you!"
"And I don't love you, so maybe we're perfectly right!" His eyes narrowed to a razor's edge, raked hers with contempt. "They'll hang me, you bitch! Get over here and do it."
"What a wonderful way to ask!" she hissed sweetly.
His jaw twisted and set. "I'm not asking you, I'm telling you."
"And I'm afraid I'm not listening."
His fingers tightened around her wrist with such a vengeance that she cried out softly again.
"Captain Slater!" Martha Haywood protested, calling from the center of the parlor.
He didn't ease his hold. She found herself watching the pulse at the base of his throat with a deadly fascination. She felt weaker than she had ever felt in her life. She had thought she knew how to match her temper to his.
But maybe she didn't.
He pressed her up against the door frame, hard. "Shannon, you can get out of this later. You can say that you were coerced. But for the love of God, get over there now."
Some demon steamed inside her then, and she didn't know quite how to control it. All of her seemed awhirl in a tempest of hot blood and raw emotion. His anger fed her own. And for once, he was powerless against her.
"I don't like the way you're asking, captain," she told him icily.
He wasn't powerless, not in the least. With a swift turn on his heel, he dragged her along after him into the center of the room. She was stunned when he fell down on one knee, maintaining his firm grip on her before the preacher and the Haywoods. "Miss McCahy!" he hissed, the words dropping like sharp icicles from his mouth. "Dear Miss McCahy— beloved. Do me the honor this day of becoming my lawful wedded wife!"
"That wasn't exactly voiced the way I always thought that I'd hear the words!" Shannon retorted.
"Please, please, please, my beloved darlin'!" he said, rising swiftly, his eyes like knives that sliced through her. She was shaking, knowing that she pushed him. But he could have protested, too. He could have done more than he was doing.
"One more please, captain. And make it a good one."
"Please," he said. She had never heard anything that sounded less like an entreaty. He looked like some savage creature, and he didn't just want to chew her all up, he wanted to skin her alive first. But her demons told her they shouldn't be doing this.
He didn't wait for her answer, but turned to the reverend. "Go ahead, preacher man," he said dryly. "Get to it."