“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.”