Then Evan made the mistake of reaching in his coat pocket to withdraw a derringer. Swiftly McCord’s hand brushed back the front flap of his buckskin overcoat to reveal the revolver strapped to his thigh.

Randolf froze as he eyed the Colt six-shooter.

“I wouldn’t try it.” McCord’s voice was low, deadly, while danger jumped and pulsed around him like fire. “Where I come from, a man doesn’t draw unless he’s willing to die. And he sure as blazes doesn’t manhandle a woman without her permission.”

Wisely Evan eased the weapon back into his pocket.

“Now … I suggest you take your leave before I forget I’m in the presence of a lady.”

Evan seemed to shake himself then. He appeared dazed, disoriented as he sat up. His gaze shifted slowly to Heather, where she still stood unsteadily by the hearth.

“Heather, my dear … forgive me… I never meant to hurt you.” He seemed honestly contrite.

She swallowed. It seemed incongruous for a man of Evan Randolf’s stature and elegance to be sprawling on a parlor floor in defeat. But he deserved worse after his unwarranted attack on her. Evan was no villain, but he had threatened to destroy her because she refused to become his wife. She would find that difficult to forgive or forget.

“Evan … I think it best if you leave.”

“Yes…”

She saw pain in his eyes, and shame. For the first time in her long relationship with him, she wondered if she might have mistaken his feelings for her. Perhaps Evan truly did feel a deeper attachment than possessiveness.

He climbed slowly to his feet. Giving her a long, last glance, he finally turned and quit the parlor, brushing past the young woman who was hovering in the doorway holding a tea tray.

“Oh, miss, are you all right?” Bridget asked faintly.

With a start, Heather realized the maid was watching the scene with wide-eyed dismay, and probably had witnessed the entire incident.

Heather raised a hand to her temple. The situation might have been farcical were it not so serious. It was fortunate she had already closed her school. She would never live down the scandal otherwise.

“Y-Yes… I’m fine. Thank you for the tea, Bridget. Will you set it on the table, please?”

The girl did as she was bid and bobbed a curtsy before withdrawing, leaving Heather alone with the fierce stranger.

Sweet heaven, her future husband.

The parlor seemed too small to hold him. He was more intimidating up close, the sense of hardness, of danger about him, overwhelming. Lean, muscular, and long-limbed, he radiated a vital intensity that made her feel fragile and acutely feminine.

Yet he had given her his protection. Twice. Surely he would not harm her?