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that she couldn’t move, could only lie still, sucking in shallow gulps of air . . . while her mind shrieked in disbelief, each white flash of horror helping to dispel the lingering traces of sleep.
    Someone was in her bed in the darkness, some man, she knew it was a man, a man who had entered her room so stealthily he was certainly here to do her harm. And in a burst of complete outrage she knew who it was. Who it had to be, must be . . . and the fear receded a little, for her brain to explode in rage.
    She prepared to scream. But she had waited two seconds too late. A large and demanding hand clamped over the lower half of her face, with such force that her tongue was caught against it, and she tasted its salt. She gagged, her hands rising to push the grip away, but they were caught easily in another unbreakable vise. Then something hard and heavy dropped across her limbs, trapping them beneath the covers, and she realized in utter surprise that it was a body. His body! Covering hers. Why? How?
    Before her furious thinking progressed any further, she knew what Malone’s intentions were, although not the motives behind them.
    He released her bruised mouth for a brief instant, only to cover it again, before she could scream, with a cloth of some kind, as a gag. He worked efficiently in the darkness, knotting the cloth behind her head, over her hair - pulling it so tightly it hurt. Then he tied her hands over her head to the right bedpost. Her legs he left alone, thank God, although they were tangled uselessly in the covers.
    He spoke then, softly, his mouth close to the side of her face.
    “I don’t intend to hurt you, Señora, not as long as you lie here quietly. I’ll leave you alone in just a few minutes.”
    She felt the bed release his weight as he got up. He moved into the room, and after a brief pause there was light - from an old oil lamp that she vaguely recognized, which had come from the pantry. Then she watched without comprehension as he held the lamp aloft and glanced around the room. He seemed to be looking for something.
    He went to her dressing table. On its top, amongst the toiletries and perfume flasks, lay several scattered papers, work that she had again brought up from the study. Malone picked up each page and read it.
    What in the name of God was he looking for, she wondered. How had he escaped? How did he seem to be so healthy? And why hadn’t he immediately left her house after escaping the pantry, instead of coming up here, risking exposure, to rummage through her mail?
    None of her questions made sense. But at least the chilling fear was gone now, replaced with frustration and anger.
    She wiggled, testing her bonds. But the bed creaked, earning her a sharp warning glance from Malone’s narrowed gaze, before he went back to his reading.
    This was preposterous, she thought in rage. Malone was now opening her dresser drawers, his hands picking through their contents. His movements were careful, yet did not appear to favor his wounded shoulder at all. Was the man inhuman, to have healed so quickly? Yes, he was the devil.
    Malone finished searching her drawers, every drawer in the room, and then moved to the armoire. He rifled through it swiftly and turned, apparently without having found whatever it was he sought.
    He stood staring down at her on the bed. She slitted her eyes upwards, damning him silently for both his presence and his callous treatment. But she did not care at all for the grim speculation set in his bearded face, nor for the sense she had that even though his search might be over, he was not quite through.
    He was watching her. To lessen her own rising anxiety, she studied him in return.
    He was wearing dark clothes that she recognized from his saddlebags. So he had appropriated his belongings from her study! And, of course, his guns; one of them hung from his hips in a plain leather holster. Where were the others? Had he given them to someone else, someone who might have helped