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do
not
expect silk gowns—or anything else besides food and shelter.”
    When he remained silently doubtful, Heather asked tightly, “Once and for all, are you withdrawing your offer of marriage?”
    Feeling trapped, Sloan exhaled a breath of frustration. “No. I just want you to be damn sure about what you’re letting yourself in for. The work is not only backbreaking, but dangerous. There’s been a range war going on for decades.”
    “Caitlin told me something about the feud, but she said it had ended for the most part.”
    “Did she tell you about all the innocents who’ve died?”
    “She … told me about your wife.”
    The pain was swift and sharp. Sloan shut his eyes so that the duchess wouldn’t see his own private hell. He didn’t want another woman to get hurt the way Doe had been hurt. He couldn’t bear the guilt.Yet if Heather became his wife, the violence could touch her.
    She didn’t look the sort to cotton to violence—which might be an argument he could use in his favor.
    “I’m not blameless myself. I’ve killed when I had to, more men than I care to count. I have blood on my hands.”
    His frank admission disturbed her, yet she couldn’t believe he could kill indiscriminately. She looked down at his hands. They were not a gentleman’s hands. The hard fingers were work-roughened, the palms callused, injured— Heather winced as she saw the fresh blood welling there. The fingers of his left hand oozed red, while the palm was scraped raw.
    “You do indeed have blood on your hands,” she said somewhat tartly. “You must have hurt yourself when you climbed aboard that carriage. Those cuts should be dressed.”
    When she reached for his injured hand, though, Sloan pulled it back, keeping it out of reach. “I don’t need a nursemaid, any more than I need a duchess.”
    Her head snapped up at that, and he saw the flash of fire in her golden eyes. She looked as if she wanted to tell him to go to the devil but was too well-schooled in social niceties to be so blunt.
    Sloan pressed his argument. “You would do better with Randolf. He’s more your style.”
    “I believe,” she responded a bit testily, “that I am in a better position to decide what sort of husband Evan would make me.”
    Sloan shrugged his muscular shoulders. “Maybe so. But I know what sort
I
would make. You wouldn’t be happy with me.”
    Probably not,
Heather thought, although she grittedher teeth and restrained herself from saying so. Happiness was a dream she could no longer afford. As long as her debts remained, she would be obliged to settle for a marriage of convenience, with the chance to do some good in her life.
    She would not beg Sloan McCord to take her, though. Nor would she be the one to back out. If he meant to withdraw his offer, he would have to do so without help from her.
    “I am sorry,” she replied coolly, “if you traveled all this way merely to dissuade me from marrying you, but I haven’t changed my mind. The advantages to us both outweigh the drawbacks. Indeed, I see no reason we cannot have a relationship based on mutual respect and shared goals.”
    That seemed to stop him momentarily, but then his hard mouth curled.
    “Some ladies have misguided notions about love.” His bright eyes pinned her, challenging her. “I loved my wife, duchess. I’m not looking for anyone to take her place.”
    Her chin lifted again. “I would not
dream
of trying.”
    “And then, we haven’t even discussed the matter of carnal relations yet.” His tone held a faint hint of warning as he moved toward her.
    His closeness brought with it the animal heat of his body. Heather froze, her senses assailed by his potent male presence.
    When Sloan reached up to brush her lower lip again with his thumb, another strange, warm sensation jolted her. She had never had such a primal reaction to a man. He made her very aware of her femaleness. He made her feel as if her corset was laced too tight. As if she couldn’t take