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a healing two-inch scar beside the neat dimple of his belly button, and she could see another one lower down, half covered by the waist of his faded denim pants.
    “How did this happen?” she asked.
    Declan flinched but said nothing. She repeated her question. She could tell the tension that had seized him from the way his muscles grew taut beneath her cautious exploration.
    At length he said, “That red haired deputy.”
    The image of the freckle-faced bully formed in Victoria’s mind. He had the strength of a lumbering beast—and the clumsiness of one. Although leaner, Declan was almost as strong, and as agile as a mountain lion.
    Startled, she looked up at his face. “Mick O’Malley did this to you?”
    Icy anger flashed in the blue eyes. “He got me alone in the jail the night before the hanging. My hands were tied behind my back and the rope was lashed to the iron bars.” His expression grew grim. “I was no more able to fight back than a punching bag.”
    Victoria bit her lip, thinking how hard her father had been driving Declan. “It must hurt…to chop up firewood…to lift heavy things.” She kept up her inspection of the marks of violence on his body. She’d been horrified at the cut on his face and the swollen eye and the bruised lips, but those were superficial injuries, perhaps signs that he might have resisted capture, and they were well on their way to healing by now. This was worse. Far worse. The marks on his body were evidence of a calculated, cruel beating for the sole purpose of inflicting pain.
    “What are these circular cuts?” she asked, pointing at his collarbone.
    Declan hesitated. He gave a small shrug and spoke in a casual, who-cares-anyway tone. “That big silver ring he wears. I was lucky he didn’t have it on when they arrested me and he crashed his fist into my face. I could have lost an eye before he sheriff intervened and made him stop.”
    Dear God. Horror welled up inside Victoria.  She inched one hand up his ribcage, testing for broken bones. “Tell me if it hurts,” she said as she pressed down on each narrow ridge and groove.
    Declan spoke very softly. “It hurts just to breathe.”
    Startled by his candid response, Victoria looked up. His eyes were intent on her. The cold fury had gone, replaced by the vulnerable sheen of yearning. She stilled, her fingertips resting against his naked chest. She could feel a shiver ripple through him. Could hear the sudden catch in his breath.
    “Stop,” Declan said in a rough murmur.
    A wildness seized her. Surely, this was the time to reach for the happiness that might lay hidden in the hazy mists of a future yet to unfold. “Stop what?” she asked. “This?” Her eyes held his as her fingers made a small, caressing motion on his skin. “Or this?” Slowly, she flattened her palm against his chest. She could feel his heart thundering beneath, could feel the heat that radiated from his body—heat and raw power and a faint quivering that hinted at masculine instincts barely held under control.
    The shirt fluttered to the ground as Declan loosened his grip on it. He lifted one hand. Steely fingers curled around her wrist. “It’s not a good idea,” he said. He paused, and then he made a sound of scorn, although to Victoria’s ears it sounded false. “What did you come here for?” His hold on her wrist tightened. “To taunt me with what the law gives me the right to claim but honor stops me from taking?” His eyes narrowed on her. The swelling had almost gone down, and now twin beams of blue bored into her. “Is that it?” he demanded. “Are you amusing yourself by testing your feminine powers on me?”
    “No!” Furious at the accusation, Victoria tried to jerk her arm free. “I came to take your measurements. You need new clothes.” She poked the toe of her boot into his shirt that lay in a heap on the sawdust covered floor. “This one’s going to disintegrate in the next wash.” She used her free hand to