TO CATCH A WOLF By Susan Krinard

“That a man who trusts anyone but himself is a fool.”

“Perhaps. But to be a fool is better than to be without hope.”

“The way you cling to the hope that your family will take you back?”

Such small cruelties were usually enough to stop anyone fool enough to demand amiable fellowship from Morgan Holt. Ulysses was made of stronger stuff.

“Touché,” he said. “Pope said that fools rush in where angels fear to tread, and neither of us is an angel.” He turned to go, just as the applause of the crowd marked the end of Caitlin’s act.

Cursing himself, Morgan stepped in front of the little man. “Damn you,” he said softly. “You should leave me alone, Professor.”

Ulysses gave him one of his rare and wistful smiles. “Even wise men can be fools in friendship. Alas, notwithstanding my family’s disappointment in me, they raised me to be a gentleman.”

“And I am not. I belong with the wolves. Not here.”

“We all, at one time or another, doubt where we belong. If you will excuse me—”

“I am—” Morgan still had not learned how to apologize without the words sticking in his throat. “I was too harsh.”

Ulysses bowed. “It is no matter. And now I have letters to write.”

“Your family?”

“A gentleman’s duty, I fear.”

“Even though they never answer.”

“They are family,” Ulysses said. “One will do much for family that one will not for a stranger.”

The old pain could sometimes catch Morgan unaware, as it did now. “I prefer to remain a stranger.”

“Sometimes that choice is made for you, regardless of your inclinations. But if you choose to leave us tonight, do not forget us.”

This time Morgan let him go. He had never yet won a debate with Ulysses Marcus Aurelius Wakefield.

“He has feelings also, you know.”

Caitlin walked up beside him, dabbing at her face with a cloth. Her bare arms, neck, and face were moist with perspiration, and tendrils of her hair clung to her cheek. The barking of Vico’s trick dogs in the ring signaled the beginning of the next act.

Morgan watched the canines’ antics with faint contempt, remembering how Vico had tried to convince him to play tame wolf among the curs. “The Professor can take care of himself.”

“Is that why you always stick to him like a burr whenever we go among the townies?”

“The Professor is right. Your imagination does run away with you.”

“You are a terrible liar. You’d rather die than admit you care for anyone, or anything.”

“And why should he admit that to you?” As silent as her serpents, Tamar appeared beside them. “You try to change him into something he is not.” The snake charmer’s heavy-lidded eyes swept over Morgan. “It is not a mistake I make.”

Morgan took a careful step back. Tamar had a unique power of her own—to fascinate nearly every man who came within her grasp. She was tall, lithe, and beautiful, despite the coldness of her eyes. The lilt of her exotic accent worked like venom mixed in honeyed wine. No towny knew that the luxurious wig of raven-black tresses concealed a head as smooth as snakeskin. Most of her suitors would not have cared. They were smitten.

But all of them, towny or trouper, she ignored… save Morgan. He avoided her, and so she pursued all the more relentlessly.

She slid close to him, running her supple hand the length of his arm. “You are weary, my friend. Leave these who do not understand. Come to my tent, and I will soothe your brow with scented oils and sing ancient songs of love.”

Only a dead man could fail to be aware of the sexuality Tamar exuded with every whispered word, every motion. The circus folk were no Puritans, but he ignored the few invitations he received. To take a trouper as a lover, even casually, meant stronger ties with the circus. He preferred the anonymity of women who sold their services for a price.

Even so, he was tempted. His body was hungry for the release it had been denied so long. Sex was touching without true intimacy, pleasure without commitment—not as it was among the wolves. Tamar might be satisfied to know she had conquered him, if only for a night.

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