Yet when he entered her, holding himself back and desperate not to hurt her, he knew how pitiful had been his greatest expectations.
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.
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 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.
Chapter 21
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?"
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."
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?"
"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?"
"He is not an ordinary man. Did you make quite sure that you'd killed him?"
The thought struck him hard between the eyes. "He was dead. I shot him twice."
"He once told me that his kind heal very fast. Didn't you ever notice that about your sister? The way she was able to walk so quickly after she began to try again?"
He had noticed. But he had chosen to ignore what Athena's rapid progress might mean. If Caitlin was correct…
Tears flooded his eyes. It was a shameful thing for a man to weep, worse still when he did not comprehend the reasons: anger and frustration that he might not have succeeded. Relief that he had not become a murderer himself. And fear—that worst of all.
He prayed that Caitlin hadn't seen his weakness. "You should not have suggested that possibility," he said harshly. "Now I will have to find him and make certain."
"You're crazy!" She limped forward, forcing him to avert his face. "I refuse to believe that you would hunt him down again, when you have a chance to atone for your mistake!"
"By giving my sister to him? You have no right to ask that of me. No right."
"But I do." Her silence compelled him to look up. She had stopped a few feet away, skin flushed and eyes very bright. "You gave me that right. Damn you, Niall Munroe, is it that you cannot see what love is?" She lifted one small, graceful hand. "Or can it be that you don't believe yourself worthy of love and forgiveness?"
"I ask no forgiveness."
"But you want it, just the same." She came closer, lips parted. "Maybe my forgiveness doesn't matter much, but I forgive you, Niall. You have not lost all your chances. You can choose to let Athena make her own life. You can change yours."
He laughed bitterly. "For the sake of love?"
"I have faith in you. You wanted me once, as your mistress. If you still do… it is not too late for us."
His legs had become paralyzed with more than cold and weariness. They kept him still as she put her roughened fingertips to his face, holding him prisoner with eyes incapable of deception.
"I will go with you, Niall—wherever and however you wish." She lifted her face to his and kissed him.
Need surged within him, scattering every other thought. He lifted her supple weight in his arms and returned the kiss with interest, devouring that full, tender mouth with all the violence of unrequited lust. She did not recoil. In her little body was a whirlwind of passion every bit a match for his. She leaned into him, small breasts tucked into the hollow of his shoulders. Her warmth dissipated the last of the cold, a source of heat more effective than any fire could have been.
Heat, and desire. His body hungered for her the way a man near death hungered for life. She was life. If he took what she offered, he would choose a path he had never considered before, one that led to beginnings and not endings. He would not be weak, but strong—everything a man was meant to be.
A few steps up the stairs and they'd be at his bedchamber. Already the wiry muscles in her thighs clasped him about the hips, inviting him inside. He knew he could take her again and again and never be satisfied. She'd buck and writhe beneath him, astride him, in every imaginable way a woman could accept a man. Her eyes told him that no pleasure, no erotic wish, was to be denied.
Breathing hard, he clasped her to him and carried her to his bed. Already she was undoing the hooks and buttons of her bodice, baring the light chemise that was her only concession to modesty. He could not shed the layers of his clothing swiftly enough. In frenzied impatience she helped him, tearing at fastenings and pulling sleeves.
She was the first to be naked, her petite form unmarred save for a few small bruises. Her cast had been removed, and her leg seemed whole and sound save for her slight limp. She was not like Athena, and yet…
Before he could complete the thought, her hands were upon his trousers, tugging and caressing at the same time. The torment was almost intolerable. Somehow she came to be astride him, her clever fingers teasing him free of all restraint. A whisper touch danced over his hot, aching flesh.
"Ah," she whispered. "What a grand mount it is. Let me ride, my stallion. Let me ride as I've never ridden before."
Niall stood at the center of one last moment of sanity, one final chance to take control. Must get back to Denver, the cold part of his brain muttered. If Morgan isn't dead... if Athena …
Then rational thought ceased, because he was being enveloped in heat and warmth, and Caitlin's mouth was on his. She rode just as she had promised, fulfilling the wildest fantasies he had ever entertained as boy or man. He thrust hard, and she fell upon him with cries and groans, her head flung back and her hair aglow as if from a thousand tiny sparks.
He came as quickly as an untried boy. Caitlin collapsed across his chest, refusing to set him free. And he found, much to his amazement, that his body was not finished with her. Not nearly finished.
She gave a little cry as he rolled her beneath him. He held himself above her, gazing into her heavy-lidded eyes.
"Do you think you've won?" he asked softly. "Do you think you've had the better of me, Caitlin?" He cupped her cheek in his palm, the first gentle caress he had given her since their joining. "No woman masters me. Not even you."
She squirmed, the motions of her body arousing him all over again. "Niall, it isn't what you—"
He thrust his tongue into her mouth, absorbing her protest. In a heartbeat her arms were linked behind his neck. He reached back and caught her wrists, pulled them one by one to the pillow above her head.
"Now it is
my turn," he said, and held her hands trapped with one of his while his other slid between her thighs. He sought and found the moist, sensitive part of her that had clasped him so boldly and stroked with a fingertip. She released a low, satisfying moan.
He took his time with her, as he never had with the easy women he'd known in the past—teasing, caressing, watching her face as it altered from surprise to pleasure to mindless ecstasy. So she didn't think he could be a lover, to give as well as take?
Let her realize just how wrong she was. Keeping his own lust in check, he kissed her from forehead to the tips of her toes, lingering at her breasts, finely formed and winsome—those he'd once considered so small—and the intimate place he had made ready with his touch. She tasted of sunshine and exotic spices, simple and complex all at once.
Caitlin Hughes was no virgin. She was a sorceress of ancient carnal rites made to entrap a man—innocent and wanton, sweet and sinful, naive and wise beyond her years. Yet now she was his, and he possessed her as fully as she had seduced him. Her thighs were already parted for his entrance. As he thrust inside her, he began to understand why reasonable men would risk everything, give up the world itself, for the sake of a woman.
"Caitlin," he whispered. "Damn you, Caitlin."
She only locked her ankles behind his waist and pulled him deeper. This time she was the one who reached the peak first, shuddering with rhythmic pulses of abandoned joy. He followed a moment later and felt his seed pour into her body.
He should have slept then, or left the room without a backward glance as he had done with the other nameless women who had given themselves for something far more concrete than love. But Caitlin looked up at him with gentle wisdom, inviting him into a place that went beyond mere bodies and brushed the soul with velvet wings.
She had opened the gates too wide, and through them he saw terrible visions of all he had been and done. The sheets upon which Caitlin lay were stained with blood. Morgan's blood. And beside the bed, looking on with mocking eyes, was Gwenyth Desbois.
TO CATCH A WOLF Page 30
