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back!"
    Though furious, she realized the practicality of his order and obeyed, until he clamped her nostrils together. With frantic distress noises at being suffocated, she clawed at the towel over her mouth. He muttered an oath and, lifting the towel, swabbed at her cut lip with a corner of the cloth while she gulped for air. Gradually, the bleeding stopped as he roughly cleaned her face. She looked more peaked than ever when he finished, but her eyes were still mutinous. Tensely, she watched as he wrung out the towel in the basin, his strong hands easily twisting the heavy cloth. With a slight shiver, she remembered his remark about throttling her.
    He quickly folded the towel, then dropped it on the marble-topped commode. Wearing a determined look that boded ill, he crossed the bold Moorish rug to a magnificently carved bed hung in oyster velvet. Sitting on the end of it, he leaned back on his elbows, spread his legs, and said, "Come here."
    Her mouth went dry, but she did not budge.
    "Do you require another box to clear your ears, girl?"
    Catherine debated a retort, but bit her lip and went to stand just out of reach. To give him an excuse to batter her again was pointless. She could do little to stop him from doing as he pleased, but sooner or later he would drop his guard.
    He thrust out a boot. "Take them off." She stared at him, a comical mixture of relief and outrage warring for a moment on her face. Then, with a look of complete disdain, she turned her back on him, hiked her skirts slightly, and with the boot between her skirted knees began to tug, only to straighten with a snort when he planted his other foot on her bottom and braced himself. "You'll do well to keep your head up or you'll start your nose bleeding again."
    Catherine dropped the first boot with a deliberate crash and began working on the other one, thinking with what wicked joy she would crown him once she got her hands on the candlestick by the basin. As the other boot hit the floor, she squirreled out from between his knees, expecting him to lunge for her, but he simply lay back on the bed and locked his hands behind his head. With one good kick I could ruin the smug bastard, she thought grimly as she turned to face him.
    Sean had just begun to think she might be tractable after all when he caught the gleam in her eye. "Try it." His voice was quiet but his eyes glinted like shards of green glass.
    "Ladies who present no surprises are rather tedious, don't you think?" she replied wickedly.
    "You've unladylike notions; but then, you couldn't look less like a lady now, and I've rarely met one capable of surprising me. There's clean water in the pitcher. Wash your face. You may hang your jacket on the chair."
    Catherine turned on her heel and stalked to the chair, hung her jacket as directed, then carried the basin of darkish pink water to the commode. She emptied it with a heavy splash and refilled it. Stealing a glance in the mirror as she poured, she saw her features already swelling in a pale moon ringed in dirt and bruises. Her nose, neck, and jaw ached; her cut underlip was still bleeding. It's no thanks to that lout my nose isn't broken, she thought angrily, wincing as she soaked her face. His voice came over her shoulder, "You may as. well take off the dress. Your dirty neck is showing and you might not have another bath for some time."
    She kept the padded cloth clamped to her nose and retorted nasally, "You said I rated no better than an Irish pig; you can hardly object to my looking the part."
    She missed his faint smile. "If you think a swinish appearance will discourage my men, you'd better know they're not in the least particular, but I am. Take off the dress. I'll have it off soon enough, in any case."
    Damp hair sticking to her face, she grabbed the candlestick with both hands and whirled. "If you touch me, I'll kill you!" Her voice was low, but utterly determined.
    Sean Culhane slipped off the bed in one fluid movement, and belatedly,