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.”
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.
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.
“Munroe said he had shot Morgan,” Ulysses said, inspecting Caitlin’s bandage. “Do you believe that he was lying?”