Morgan was not gallant, or courteous, or even handsome in the way of those men. He was bad-tempered, gruff, impolite, indifferent to propriety, and far too plain-spoken. It was rare that he considered the feelings of others as he ought… as she tried to do.
But his was a breadth of soul, a tormented devotion, a passionate loyalty that could not be bought but, once given, was eternal. He had decided soon after their first meeting that she belonged to his small circle of family and friends. She knew he would never let harm come to her, and that he would fight to the death on her behalf.
All that he gave, having nothing but himself. But he felt. He felt as deeply as anyone she had ever known.
How could she make sense of this emotion, this knowledge of what he meant to her? She saw how much she had taken from him, and was ashamed. She did not take without giving back.
She must give to Morgan—help, and succor, and healing, if she could. Even love, if there was any chance in the world that he might accept it. But there was a more immediate gift within her power to bestow. A small, temporary gift that mattered less to her than to her society, but might begin to repay the debt she owed him.
If she had the courage.
Morgan stroked her with gentle pulses, and she momentarily lost the power to consider such abstracts as courage and selfishness. Light-headed, she arched up, up, her spine curving as if to bring every inch of her body into contact with his. Higher, higher, unfurling wings to carry them both into the heavens.
It was coming, the moment of perfect freedom. No more chair, no more waiting, no bondage even to the earth. Just one more stroke, one more caress, and she would prove… prove to herself, and everyone…
Morgan stopped. Athena opened her eyes with a wordless protest, but the look on his face kept her silent. She heard the thump of footfalls running up the stairs a second after he did.
Niall. She barely had time to pull her nightdress over her knees before he burst through the door.
“My God,” he said hoarsely. “Athena.” His gaze fixed on Morgan. “You damned bastard—”
“Niall!”
Athena’s cry might as well have been a whisper. It did not penetrate Niall’s rage. He could see nothing but the man who had despoiled his sister.
Morgan Holt. The cur crouched over her on the bed—her bed—an ugly snarl on his face as if he would defend her against her own brother. Defend her, by God, when he had stolen what little of value she had left.
Niall clenched his fist and dove at his enemy. Morgan sprang up and met him in midstride. Niall felt his fist connect with flesh and bone, heard the satisfying grunt of pain as Morgan staggered and fell to his knees with the force of the blow.
But he did not remain down. He stood again, shaking blood from his split lip, and braced his legs apart. Niall obliged him with a second strike directly to the jaw. Morgan’s head snapped to one side.
“Niall, stop it!”
He was aware of the motion at the edge of his sight, a figure in pale linen lurching toward him with an awkward gait. Confusion stopped him from hitting again, though Morgan remained stubbornly on his feet. If one of the whoreson’s circus friends had come to help him…
A hand caught at his arm. Athena’s face swam into focus.
“Niall!”
Athena. He blinked. She could not be here. She was on the bed. But the bed was empty, coverlet and sheets rumpled but unstained. The hand that gripped his arm with such frantic strength was slender and feminine.
She was standing—leaning her weight against him, but on her own two feet. Shock reverberated through Niall. He had come into the room expecting the worst, and finding it… but he had not been prepared for this. Not Athena able to stand, to walk, to participate willingly in her own ruination.
He met her gaze, a strange, cold calm muting his rage to a dull throb behind his eyes. “How long?” he asked in a soft, reasonable voice. “How long have you been lying to me, Athena?”