To Catch a Wolf (47 page)

"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?”

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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.”

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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.

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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.”

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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.”

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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.

You will never be free of us, she whispered. Never.

Niall pushed away from Caitlin and jumped to the floor. Morgan and Desbois vanished.

Caitlin sat up, reaching after him. Beckoning him to return to the bed he had made for

himself.

"Niall?”

He snatched up his shirt and trousers. "I must go to Denver.”

He expected her to make some claim upon him, subtle feminine blackmail for the

privilege of enjoying her favors, or a storm of tears to awaken his guilt. He should have

known better. She swung her legs over the bed and stood before him, hands on hips as

if they had never shared a lovers' bed.

"Don't be a fool," she said. "There are things more powerful than all your wealth and

influence. This is a battle you cannot win.”

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He turned his back on her and buttoned his shirt with shaking fingers. "You should not

stand against me, Caitlin. I would very much regret it should any harm come to you.”

She laughed. "Is that your fine declaration of love, Niall Munroe?”

"Love?" He faced her again, ignoring the blatant lure of her body. "Is that what you

thought we shared? I am sorry to disappoint you, but I trust you will accept

reimbursement for your time, even if it is only in the paltry form of money.”

She caught her breath. He saw how well he had struck, and hated himself for it. Hated

her more for having made him feel guilt, and tenderness, and shame. For having made

him feel.

"Damn you," he said. "Damn you and all your kind—”

An explosion of pain ended his curse. Fireworks burst in his head, and then he was

falling, falling endlessly into the pit reserved especially for men destroyed by love.

"What have you done?”

Caitlin snatched the branch from Tamar and tossed it aside. It thudded against the wall

and came to lie at the foot of the bed that she and Niall had so recently shared.

She dropped to her knees beside Niall and touched his forehead. Her fingers came

away bloody. She pressed her ear to his chest, numb with terror, and heard the muted

beat of his heart. His breaths were shallow but steady.

Still alive. Thank the gods, still alive.

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Working quickly, she snatched a pillow from the bed and gently rested Niall's head upon

it. She dipped a towel in water from the washbasin and dabbed at the wound. It was not

a large cut, though the swelling had already begun. She devised a makeshift bandage

of pieces torn from the bedsheet and wrapped it about Niall's head. Knowing she hadn't

the strength to lift him, she covered him with a blanket and tucked it close.

Only then, when her ministrations were complete, did she turn on the snake charmer

with all the fury at her command.

"Why?" she demanded. "Why, Tamar?”

"You ask why?" Tamar showed her small, slightly pointed teeth in an unrepentant smile.

"He killed my Morgan. He deserves to die.”

Caitlin closed her eyes and prayed for fortitude. "You are an idiot, Tamar.”

"And you are a traitor and a whore to lie with him who murdered my love!”

Caitlin became aware of her nakedness and draped herself in the torn sheet. "Morgan

was never your love," she said, forcing herself to calm. "And he is not dead. I was

making sure that he had a chance to recover and get away before Niall realized that

fact.”

Tamar's vicious mask crumbled into bewilderment. "How is he not dead? Tell me!”

"I think that is something we would all like to know.”

Harry and Ulysses walked into the room, eyes carefully avoiding the disheveled bed and

Caitlin's state of undress. Ulysses crouched beside Niall, and Harry took Tamar's arm in

a firm grip.

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"Munroe said he had shot Morgan," Ulysses said, inspecting Caitlin's bandage. "Do you

believe that he was lying?”

"No." Caitlin shivered and sat on the edge of the bed, watching Niall's quiet face. It was

the first time she had ever seen him at peace, even for a moment. "Will Niall be all

right?”

Ulysses sighed and sat back on his heels. "A man who remains unconscious too long

may not recover. You must hope that he wakes soon.”

How coldly he spoke, as if Niall's life or death didn't matter. But he still regarded Niall as