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know that. McLain had a reputation for being rough and hasty with women. Nor was he particular in his choices, though this time, it seemed, he’d gotten himself a lady. Bad luck for the lady.
    Roper realized he didn’t like the idea of McLainrutting on her. It made him furious with himself, but there it was. McLain wouldn’t appreciate her pale delicacy, nor would he take the time to give her pleasure. She was too fine for the bastard. She had guts. Damn few men had ever stared at him like that, challenging him with a look. People usually didn’t want to look at his face, for some reason; they would only glance at him, and quickly look away. But this pale, slender woman had stood as steadfast as a rock and matched him look for look. She had acted as if she were a queen and he the lowest of her subjects. The thought of it caused a spurt of anger that surprised him. Roper seldom let himself feel any emotion, and he especially didn’t want to feel any for McLain’s wife.
    But there it was. Anger. Respect. Desire. God, yes, desire. He shouldn’t feel any of it, he couldn’t afford to feel any of it. He’d have to do something about her, sooner or later, and he didn’t need his mind clouded by all these unwanted thoughts and emotions. He couldn’t let himself soften at all, not now.
    Deliberately he looked at the little sister. She was undeniably lovely, and the expression in her dark blue eyes was both sweet and happy, though there was an elusive quality about her he didn’t understand. Maybe she was simpleminded. Not stupid, just simple. She was just a beautiful child.
    But looking for a distraction didn’t help. He turned back to McLain’s wife, and the images of hate rose up again in his mind, though he kept his face carefully blank. McLain, murdering his father. McLain, raping his mother and then putting a bullet in her brain. McLain, stealing the land that had been in his mother’s family for over a hundred years. McLain, sending the young killer, Garnet, out to hunt down and kill two boys, and damn near succeeding. McLain, living in the cool, gracious house where Roper had been born, back when this whole valley had been called Sarratt’s Kingdom.
    Jacob Roper Sarratt had returned. He’d come to kill McLain and take back the valley. Until today, that was all he wanted.
    Now he wanted McLain’s wife, too.
    Victoria sat propped against the pillows, clad in her long-sleeved, high-necked white nightgown. She was cold, deathly cold, all the way down to her bones, but she couldn’t shiver. Her body felt heavy, incapable of even that tiny movement. Her heart was beating in a slow, ponderous rhythm that threatened to choke her.
    Emma had wanted her to leave her hair down, but Victoria had insisted on braiding it as usual, explaining that the tangles were horrendous if she left it loose. The truth was, Victoria didn’t want to look too attractive to the Major. It was a small defense, but one she felt would help her in spirit if not in fact.
    The bedcurtains were drawn back and tied to the four posters. The room was illuminated by three candles set in the graceful silver candelabra on the dresser, and Victoria wondered why the room was lit with candles instead of an oil lamp, which gave off more light. There had been lamps downstairs. She would ask Carmita tomorrow.
    Tonight, though, perhaps it was best that the room wasn’t brightly lit. Perhaps she should even snuff the candles. She considered it, and was about to throw the covers back when the connecting door opened and the Major entered her room.
    She froze. He was wearing a dark robe, but below the hem his legs were hairy and bare. His bull neck and thick shoulders looked even more odd in contrast to the spindly size of his calves.
    But it was his face that most terrified her. He wore such an open expression of gloating anticipation that she wanted to die. Dear God, what was he going to do to