To Catch a Wolf (46 page)

She lifted her hand to cover his mouth as he had done hers, silencing him, feeling her

wetness on his lips. Then he was inside her, as she had imagined, only a thousand

times better. There was no pain, only the fullness of him stretching, filling, completing.

Morgan had known, the moment he had held Athena naked in his arms, the moment he

had tasted her, that their joining would be unlike any he had felt before. It wasn't only

the many years of enforced celibacy. It wasn't that his one time with Tamar had been so

cold and bereft of emotion. No, it was so much more than that, more even than the

desire he had felt for Athena almost from the day they had met.

Athena was his. He would be the first to possess her, to take the virginity she willingly

conceded to him. She gave herself without reluctance or false modesty. The scent of

wanting wreathed the cave, and the intoxicating flavor of his desire still lingered on his

tongue.

He knew that this act of love was a gift of the moment.

After it was over, the questions would still be there—the questions and the doubts and

the fears. And he didn't care. For now there was only one reality, and both wolf and man

cried out to seize it for the first and last time. For a while he and Athena would grasp

salvation in both hands.

Yet when he entered her, holding himself back and desperate not to hurt her, he knew

how pitiful had been his greatest expectations.

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She was slick, hot, and tight around him, and as he moved deeper she pushed her

fingers into the carpet of leaves under her back and moaned sweetly. The small barrier

gave easily, and still he held back until she reached up and grasped his shoulders in

urgent demand.

With a groan of relief he thrust hard and true. It was like coming back to a home long

lost. She arched into him, lifting her hips, drawing him deeper still. He cupped her firm

buttocks in his hands to hold her steady as he withdrew and thrust again more swiftly.

Her gasps came in time to his movements, the very beat of life itself.

But she was too far away. He drew her up so that she straddled his lap and her nipples

pressed into his ribs. Her eyes were closed, her skin flushed, her lips parted in an

expression of ecstasy.

He wanted to see her eyes, watch them looking into his as he rocked her again and

again.

"Look at me," he demanded. "Look at me, Athena.”

She did as he commanded. Her lashes fluttered open, revealing changeable eyes

almost swallowed up by the black of her pupils. Her gaze held his as if they could join

minds as well as bodies, and he remembered the time in Denver when he had felt her

all the way to her soul.

She gave her soul to him now, holding his gaze as he carried her to completion. Her

little gasps became a long sigh of wonder. He had a moment to savor his triumph, and

then he was borne away to that same perfect place.

Athena fell against him, panting, and he held her trembling body close. They were still

as one in every way. But separation would come, as inevitable as sunrise, and all he

would have was the memory of her silken heat and the rapture in her eyes.

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Silence claimed the cave, but it was not the peaceful quiet of rest after vigorous loving.

Morgan had no hope for such a reward, and he felt, in Athena's stubborn grip on his

body, that she had not found it either. The one thing he could give her had lasted but a

few, mindless moments.

Yet when she finally withdrew, it was all he could do to keep from pulling her back and

beginning again. His body should not be capable of wanting her, but it did. He did. He

leaned his head back on the cool stone wall and closed his eyes.

Go, he wished her. For your sake, Athena. Go.

He cursed when he felt her breath on his cheek, but even curses deserted him as her

hands moved to cup him below. So slight a touch made him full and firm as if he hadn't

just taken her.

"This is so new to me," she murmured. Her fingers traced up and down his length,

lingering at the velvet tip. "You don't mind?”

He groaned. "Mind? Athena—”

"What you did

was so wonderful. I want to do the same for you.”

The same? He had never imagined she might touch him, explore him the way he had

done with her. She was a sheltered lady, ignorant of the ways of the flesh until he had

taught her. But her hands moved again, and he was compelled to admit that she had

learned very quickly indeed.

But that was not the final surprise. Just as he had resigned himself to suffering the

exquisite torture of her caresses, her hands left him, and her mouth continued the work

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they had begun. He held on to sanity with fraying resolve. She wanted to give,

unselfishly as always, but he would not be in her debt. Not even in this.

With implacable gentleness he grasped her shoulders and pulled her up. Her eyes

reflected puzzlement, even hurt. He kissed her mouth and lay back on the blanket of

leaves, stretching her out across the length of his body. He eased her legs on either

side of his hips to straddle him.

She looked down at him and understood. He gave her control, mastery over what they

did together—together, sharing pleasure and fulfillment. Morgan became her willing

prisoner, and she did not fail to accept his invitation.

Tiny movements of her thighs and hips teased and tormented him as she found just the

right position. She eased down, down, taking him in, and then finished with a heady

plunge. It was she who controlled the rhythm, who smiled with amazed satisfaction as

he became helpless in her power. Her hair swept across his chest in time to her

motions. Her small, even teeth nipped at his shoulders.

Neither of them could control the inevitable finish. Morgan was as inept as a boy with

his first woman. And yet, by some marvel of the magic they made together, they found

the heavens in flawless harmony.

Athena lay with her head tucked beneath his chin, her heartbeat slowing with his.

Morgan closed his eyes. If she remained here long enough, her flesh would become his

flesh, her bones his bones, her very being an inseparable part of him. But he held her

there until she slept and the sun's steep angle cast the cave into twilight.

Darkness let him conceal the thing he could admit in his heart but would never speak.

I love you, he whispered into the fragrance of her hair. I love you. But love is never

enough.

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The sun was a copper hall in a clear blue sky when Niall reached the ranch. He saw the

circus wagons massed at the side of the second barn, half buried in snow that glistened

like bright new trappings.

Morgan had told the truth. Caitlin was safe.

Niall dragged his feet the last few steps to the house, up the stairs and onto the

veranda. He had long since ceased to notice his weariness. His heart had dissolved a

little more with each step away from the murder, melting like an ice block to pool in his

legs and freeze anew.

Many other feet had trod this way in the past few hours. Caitlin would be with the others.

Her friends, her family, the people she trusted. They would all hear what he had to say.

It didn't matter what they thought of him. No one else's judgment could affect him now.

He didn't bother to wipe his boots as he entered the hall. A blast of warmth buffeted his

face, sending rivulets of water from his hat and his snow-crusted clothing.

The hearth in the parlor blazed with an immense fire, hungrily consuming the heavy

branches upon which it fed. To one side stood a table laid out with the remains of a

meal and several steaming pots of coffee. The space in front of the fire was crowded

with people, among them many faces Niall had come to know well: Harry French, the

dwarf Ulysses, Tamar the snake charmer

and Caitlin. Caitlin, who looked up as he

paused on the threshold.

"Niall!" she cried. She started toward him. Her gaze fastened on the closed door at his

back and returned to his face. Her footsteps slowed and stopped.

"Morgan went out to find you," she said. "Where is he?”

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So that was to be his greeting. Did she know he had been the first to go after her and

her companions? Did she care that he had returned unharmed?

If she did not, it was no more than he deserved.

All of them were staring at him now. Their faces told him what they expected to hear.

He pulled off his gloves and let them fall to the floor. "I heard that you tried to leave in

the storm. I am

glad that you returned safely." Taking his time, he went to the table

and poured himself a mug of coffee. It was still hot, and very bitter.

"Where is Morgan?" That was Ulysses, the dwarf, behaving as if he were three times

his height. Niall saw something of the old Southern aristocracy in his face, the

indomitable stubborn will that could not be entirely broken by any misfortune.

Harry French gripped the back of an armchair and gazed at him through watery blue

eyes. The snake charmer glared. The other circus folk, the ones he had never bothered

to identify, held an unnatural silence.

Niall set down the mug. "Morgan Holt is dead. I killed him.”

The long-case clock at the other end of the room tripped out its steady, imperturbable

beat. No one spoke. Ulysses clenched his fists and started toward Niall. Harry held him

back.

Caitlin only stared.

Niall turned to French. "You may remain at Long Park as long as necessary—all winter,

if you choose." He flexed his fingers. They were coming back to life, as his heart was

not. "I will not be here to disturb you.”

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Harry shook his head. A tear tracked its way down one seamed cheek. Ulysses rested

his small hand on the old man's arm.

There was no warning of the attack when it came. Tamar burst out from among the

other troupers and charged at Niall, her mouth open on a wordless scream. He put up

his hands to stop her, but she carried him back with the weight of her body and sent

them both tumbling to the floor.

Niall felt her nails score her cheek and her poisonous breath in his face. His own body

was paralyzed. Disembodied voices cried alarm, and hands reached down to restrain

his assailant. She struggled, not like a wild cat with tooth and claw, but like a serpent,

hissing and darting her head from side to side.

"Murderer," she whispered as troupers pulled her away from him. "I curse you!”

Two brawny men carried Tamar away. The others fled the room as if they could not

bear to breathe the same anas the cursed Niall Munroe. Even Harry French left, and

Ulysses.

Only Caitlin remained. She had not spoken another word.

This was to be his just punishment.

"It is true, Caitlin," he said. "I killed him.”

She swayed, and he had to lock the muscles in his legs to prevent them from carrying

him to her side.

"Are you going to tell me

that you had no choice?" she whispered. "When he went to

save you?”

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"No." He stared into the black, round pit of coffee in the mug on the table, imagining it

the gateway to hell. "I did it to save my sister." With an effort he met her gaze. "It's not

the first time I have done something like this. You should know the whole truth.”

"You have—" She choked, swallowed. "Murdered before?”

He picked up the mug and drained the lukewarm coffee. "When I was twelve years old, I

drove Athena's mother away. She stole my father from my mother and made Athena

what she is. A beast, like Holt. She never came back. She chose her own life over her

daughter and the man she claimed to love." He held the mug to his lips long after it was

empty. "I did it for my family. I don't regret it.”

They said that confession was good for the soul, but his felt no less black. "I don't ask

you to understand. As I said, I will not be troubling you further. I'm returning to Athena

immediately. She will be leaving for New York as soon as I can arrange it.”

"So that she can forget?”

Niall set down the mug so sharply that it cracked, and a last drop of dark liquid leaked

onto the table. "Yes.”

"And what if Morgan isn't dead?”

Her words cut through his calm facade. "What?”