He began to move very carefully. Slowly he entered fully within her, and just as slowly he withdrew. Then he plunged again, slowly…slowly.

Minutes later she cried out, straining high against him.

Innately, she seemed to know the craft of womanly art Supplely, exquisitely, she moved beneath him. He matched his rhythm to hers, to the soft magic of the evening. The breeze rustled the leaves and silently caressed them. Birds cried out, and the water rippled and dazzled still. Malachi cried out hoarsely, giving himself free rein at long last, burying himself again and again with speed and fever within the moist and welcoming nest of her body.

The pressure built in him explosively, and still he held himself in a certain control, whispering to her, touching her bare flesh with kisses, urging her ever onward.

She cried out, straining hard against him, collapsing.

He allowed his own climax to come, and when it seized him it was sweet and violent; he shuddered as wave after little wave of pleasure shook him, and rippled anew. When he had finished at last he gazed down at her.

Her eyes were closed again, her lips were parted, and her breath still came swiftly…and he felt the little tremors that touched her. She seemed white, very pale.

"Shannon?" He stroked her hair, smoothing damp tendrils from her face. She moved, trying to free herself from the burden of his body. He shifted his weight, and she curled against him.

"Shannon—"

"Don't. Please, don't…not yet," she whispered.

While the twilight darkened, he held her, staring at the trees and watching the silhouette of the leaves against the sky until it was too dark to see them.

Then suddenly, in silence, she pushed away from him. She rose, and her hair fell over her eyes, obscuring them. She walked quickly to the water, and did not pause at the edge, but hurried to where it was deep, and ducked beneath it. Malachi watched her pensively, thinking that the action wasn't much different than the one she had taken that morning when she washed her hands and face as if to wash away the scent and memory of Justin.

He rose and followed her into the water. "Shannon!" She ignored him, and he caught her arm, turning her around. She jerked away from him.

"Shannon, what are you doing now?"

"Nothing."

"Then why won't you talk to me?"

"I don't want to talk."

"Shannon, what just happened—"

"Shouldn't have happened. It shouldn't have happened!" she repeated fiercely. She sat in the water, pursing her lips, scrubbing her thighs and behaving now as chastely as a nun. She sank even lower into the water until the surface rippled against her breasts, and for some reason, the sight irritated him more than her perverse denial.

"Shannon—"

"Malachi, damn you! Could you at least have the decency to leave me alone now?"

"Could I have the decency?" He caught her elbow, pulling her to her feet. He was furious and she was distant. And yet, something was irrevocably and forever changed between them. It seemed natural now to hold her this way, to have her against him sleek and bare and intimate. She couldn't make love the way that she had and pretend that the moments hadn't existed.

"Decency?" he asked sarcastically. "Oh, I see. It was all my fault—"

"I didn't say that."

"It's what you mean."

"Well, you're just one hell of a Southern gentleman! You know something? That's what Kristin always called you. You were the perfect Southern knight, the hero, the magnificent cavalier! Riding to a lady in distress! Well, she's wrong; you're no gentleman. You may have seen me bathing, but you might have turned your back."

"Oh? And you, I suppose, were the perfect lady? Naked as a jay and strutting like a dance-hall girl out there—"

"You could have turned around. I thought that you were a gentleman!"

"Don't ever think, Shannon. Every time you do, someone gets into trouble. And don't you ever deny me, or—"

"Malachi, it was your fault."

"My fault. Right I didn't exactly drag you screaming from the water."

She lowered her head.

He caught her chin, lifting it. "You just wanted to indulge in a little fantasy. You never made it into bed with the Yank when he was alive, so now you're willing to take on a Rebel captain just to see what it might have been like—"

She struck out at him like lightning, slapping his cheek with a stinging blow, then ducked, afraid that he would extract retribution. Every time she had touched Malachi in anger before, he had repaid her in some way.

But that night, he did not. He touched his cheek, then spun around. "You're right, Shannon. It never should have happened."

He sloshed through the water to the shore and, ignoring her completely, dressed at his leisure. He heard her, though. He would always hear her, he realized. Hear her, and imagine her. Her eyes like the sky. Her grace and energy, her supple beauty. He would hear her, and imagine her, clothed and… unclothed.

He heard her coining to the shore, and imagined her slipping into her thin cotton pantalets and beautiful corset with the pink roses sewn into the lace. He sneaked a glance, and saw she had plunged into her jeans, and now sat on her bedroll pulling on her boots.

He dug into his saddlebags and found a clean checked cotton shirt. He tossed it to her.

"Thank you. I don't—"

"Put it on. If you ride around in that corset thing, every man jack we run into will fall under the illusion that you're ready and willing, too."

She slid the sleeves of the shirt over her arms and began to work on the buttons. Her head was high. "I wasn't going to refuse the shirt, Captain Slater. I was going to suggest that you should wear something similar. That Confederate coat of yours is pretty distinctive."

Malachi didn't reply. He turned around to pack up his bedroll, setting his greatcoat and jacket in with his blanket. His trousers were gray, but his shirt was plain blue cotton.

He couldn't quite part with his hat yet, so he set it atop his head, and stared at Shannon, waiting. When she had buttoned her shirt, she dug into her bag for a comb. She started trying to untangle the long strands of her hair.

Malachi saddled the horses, and she was still struggling. He walked over to her impatiently, snatching the comb from her fingers. "Get down on your knees," he told her gruffly.

"I won't—"

"It's the only way that I can handle this mane!"

She complied in silence. He quickly found the tangles, and eased them out. When he was done, he thrust the comb back to her. "May we go now, Miss McCahy?"

She nodded, lowering her head. They mounted and started out.

Malachi rode ahead of her, silent as death, wrapped up with his own demons. He felt as if they had been on the road for hours when she finally tried to catch up with him, calling to him softly.

"Malachi?"

"What?"

"I—I want to explain."

"Explain what?"

"What I said. I didn't mean to deny—"

"That's good. Because I won't let you deny the truth."

"That's not what I meant I want to explain—"

She was still behind him. He couldn't see her face, and he was glad. It was easier to be cynical and cool that way. "Shannon," he said, with a grate to his voice, "you don't have to explain anything."

"But you don't understand—"

"Yes, I know. I never do."

"Malachi, before the war, I was always a lady—"

"Shannon, before, during and after the war, you always were a hellion."

"Malachi, damn you! I just meant that…I never would have done…what I did. I shouldn't have…"

He hesitated, listening to her fumbling for words. He could sense tears in her voice again, and though he ached for her, he was bitter, too. He didn't like playing substitute for a ghost. He might have forced her to admit that she had desired him, but the thought of her Yankee fiance enraged him.

The ghost had never had what he had had, he reminded himself. He cooled slightly. "The war has changed lots of people," he said softly to her. "And you are a lady, brat. Still, I'm sorry."

"I don't want you to be sorry, Malachi. I just—it shouldn't have happened. Not now. Not between us."

"A Yank and a Reb. It would never do," he said bitterly.

She cantered up beside him, veering into his horse so that he was forced to look at her. She was soft and feminine now, her beautiful features and golden hair just brushed and kissed by the pale dusky moonlight.

"Malachi, please, I didn't mean that."

"I hope you meant something," he told her earnestly. "Shannon, you changed yourself tonight. Forever. You cast away something that some men deem very precious. You can't just pretend this didn't happen."

Even in the dim light he saw her flush. She lowered her face. "I know that. But that's not at all what I meant. What I meant is that…" She hesitated.

"Shannon, I did not drag you down, I did not force you into my arms. I seduced, maybe, but not without your ready cooperation."

He thought she might hit him. She didn't move. Only the breeze stirred her hair. They had both stopped, he realized.

She looked up at him, smiling painfully. Tears glazed her eyes. "I did want you, Malachi. I shouldn't have. I knew it was you, and I wanted you…and I shouldn't have. Because I did love Robert, with all of my heart. And it hasn't even been a year. I…" She shook her head. "I…I'm the one who is sorry."

She moved ahead of him. He suddenly felt exhausted, tired and torn to shreds.

He had never imagined, never, through hellfire, war and his meager taste of peace, that Shannon McCahy could come to brew this tempest in him. Anger, yes, she had always elicited his anger…

But maybe, just maybe, she had always aroused this fever in his loins, too. And maybe he was just beginning to see it now.

She was searing swiftly into his heart, too.

Maybe they could be friends. Maybe every war deserved a truce now and then.

"Shannon."

She reined in and looked to him.

"Let's camp here and get some sleep. We'll move more westerly tomorrow night, away from the water, so let's take advantage of it now."

He thought she raised her eyebrows, and he remembered clearly just what advantages the water had given them. "To drink and bathe," he told her dryly.

She nodded and dismounted, removing her saddle. He would have helped her, but she had grown up on a ranch and knew what she was doing, so he decided to leave her alone. They both needed some privacy right now.

He unsaddled his horse, set her to graze, and hesitated. At last he decided it was safe, and he moved close to the water to build a small fire. Shannon watched him as the flames caught. He looked at her. "I need some small rocks. I've got a pan; we'll have coffee." And brandy, he added to himself. Lots of it.

He was the one who needed to keep away from her. This was going to be hard, damned hard now. He couldn't look at her, have her near, and not imagine her in his arms again. Maybe if she hadn't known how to move and arch and undulate and please a man, all by instinct…

She came back with the rocks, and he arranged them around his fire and set the pan so that the water would boil without putting out the flame. He stared at the water while she undid the bedrolls, setting them up for the remainder of the night.

The coffee was soon done; Shannon laid out bread and cheese and smoked meat. They barely spoke to one another as they ate, and when they were done, silence fell around them again.

"Why don't you go to bed," he told her.

She nodded. "Yes. I guess that I will." She rose and started for their bedrolls, then paused, looking at him.

She seemed angelic then. Soft and slim and wistfully and painfully feminine. She smiled at him awkwardly. "Malachi?"

"What?"

"Does it matter to you?"

"Does what matter to me?"

"A—er—a woman's…"

"Virginity?" He offered.

She flushed, and shook her head. "Never mind—"

"Shannon—"

"Never mind. Forget it. Sometimes I forget consequences and…"

He took a long sip of coffee, watching her over the rim of his cup. "Have you forgotten them this time?"

"What?" she murmured. It was her turn to be confused.

He stood and walked over to her. Malachi was irritated by the touch of malicious mischief in his own heart. He would set her to thinking and worrying for days, he thought.