Kneebones’s mouth set in a grim line, and without another word, he stalked out.
Gwendolyn met Hoskins’s quiet gaze.
“I don’t know the dosage,” he said. “All I know is what the bottle looks like—and there’s more than one.”
DORIAN AWOKE FROM a restless, nightmare-plagued sleep to nightmarish pain.
His head pounded relentlessly. His insides churned, raw with bile.
Slowly, carefully, he inched up to a sitting position and reached for the bottle on the nightstand. He put it to his lips.
Empty.
Already? he wondered dully. Had he finished it off in a single night? Or had several nights passed in the oppressive haze of pain and opiates?
It didn’t matter.
He had seen the silvery wraiths again. Today, they’d slowly closed in from the peripheries and shimmered everywhere he looked. He had watched the wedding preparations through sparkling ripples undulating in the air like waves in a ghostly sea.
Then, finally, the silver shards had vanished from his vision and sliced into his skull like white-hot blades.
Now he understood why his mother had claimed the “ghosts” had vicious talons, and why she’d screamed and torn at her hair. She had been trying to rip the wicked claws away.
Even he had trouble reminding himself there were neither ghosts nor claws, that it was all a sick fancy.
He wondered how much longer he would be able to distinguish between sick fancy and reality, how long before he began confusing those about him with ghosts and demons—and attacked them in mindless rage.
But he would not, he told himself. Kneebones had promised that the laudanum would quiet him, quelling the delusions along with the pain.
Dorian edged closer to the nightstand and opened the door. He reached in and found the porcelain cylinder.
He took it onto his lap and pried off the lid.
The narrow bottle, nestled in a woolen cloth, lay within.
The elixir of peace . . . perhaps eternal.
He took it out and with trembling hands set the cylinder upon the nightstand.
Then he hesitated, but it was not the prospect of eternity that gave him pause. No, he was too shallow and base for that. It was the witch he thought of, and her soft mouth and slimly curved body. And that image was enough to set his mind to fabricating noble reasons for avoiding laudanum’s risks: if he died before the marriage was consummated, it might be annulled, and she would not get her hospital . . . and it was his duty, besides, to get an heir.
But her hospital and the end of the Camoys would not matter to him when he was dead, Dorian reminded himself. Nor would she. He would be gone, and good riddance, and God forbid he should leave a child behind. With his luck, his offspring would inherit the same defective brain and live—briefly—and die in the same mortifying way.
He unstopped the bottle.
“I should be careful, if I were you,” came a quiet, familiar voice out of the darkness. “You are married to a witch. What if I’ve turned it into a love potion?”
The room was black as Hades. He couldn’t see her—couldn’t focus past the throbbing anyhow—but he could smell her. The oddly exotic scent stole through the thundering sea of pain like ghostly fingers and lifted him up to consciousness.
“It might even be a potion to turn you into a cat,” she said.
He could not hear her approach past the relentless hammering in his head, but he could smell it, the faint scent growing richer, more potent. Jasmine?
Slim, warm fingers closed over his icy ones.
He tried to speak. He moved his lips, but no sound came out. Pain slammed his skull. His stomach lurched. The bottle slipped from his hands.
“Sick,” he gasped. “Christ, I—”
He broke off as something else, cold and round and smooth, pressed into his hands. A basin.
His body shuddered violently. Then all he could do was hold on to the basin, his head bowed, and give himself up to spasm after spasm after spasm, uncontrollable.
Retching. Endlessly. Helplessly.
All the while, he felt her warm hands upon him, holding him. He heard her soft murmurs above him.
“Yes, that’s right. It can’t be helped. It’s a sick headache, I know. Beastly thing, isn’t it? Hours and hours. Then it won’t go quietly, will it? Instead, it must rip out of you and take your insides with it. I don’t doubt it seems that way, but you shall feel better in a moment. There. You’re done.”
It was not a moment, but an eternity, and Dorian didn’t know whether he was done or dead. His body had stopped the spasmodic heaving, but he couldn’t lift his head.
She caught him before he could sink into the revolting mess in the basin. She raised his head and put a cup to his lips. He smelled mint—and something else. He didn’t know what it was.
“Rinse your mouth,” she commanded quietly.
Too weak to fight, he obeyed. The tangy draught cleansed the foul taste from his mouth.
When he was done, she gently guided him back onto the pillows.
He lay there, exhausted, aware of movement. The basin disappeared, and its stench with it.
In a little while, a cool, wet cloth touched his face. Gentle, quick, efficient—cleansing and cooling him. He knew he should protest—he wasn’t a babe. He couldn’t summon the strength.
Then she was gone again, an everlasting time, and the pain rolled in during her absence. Though it was not so ferocious as before, it was there still, pounding at him.
This time, when the scent returned, light came with it, a single candle. He watched her shadowy form approach. He winced at the light. She moved away toward the fireplace and set the candle on the mantel.
She returned to the bed. “You are still in discomfort, it seems,” she said very softly. “I don’t know whether that’s the original headache or the aftereffects of laudanum.”
He remembered, then, the bottle she’d stolen from him. “Laudanum,” he choked out. “Give me the bottle, witch.”
“Maybe later,” she said. “At present, I have to work a spell. Do you think you can climb into the cauldron unaided, or shall I summon Hoskins to help?”
THE WITCH’S “CAULDRON” was alleged to be a steaming bath, and the spell appeared to involve her holding an ice bag on his head while she boiled the rest of him.
That, at least, was the sense Dorian made of her explanation.
He had no trouble deciding that the last thing on earth he wanted to do was climb out of his bed and stagger down to the ground-floor bath chamber.
He changed his mind when he learned his servants were prepared to carry him. He couldn’t bear to be carried by anyone, anywhere.
“Your extremities are icy cold,” she said as she handed him a dressing gown. She looked away while he angrily struggled into it. “Above the neck, you are much too hot. Your system is unbalanced, you see. We must correct it.”
Dorian didn’t care if he was unbalanced. On the other hand, he could not bear her seeing him lying helpless and trembling like an infant.
And so he dragged himself from the bed and stumbled across the room and through the door. Rejecting her helping hand, he made his way out of the room and down the stairs.
He found the small, tiled room filled with lavender-scented steam. Candles flickered in the narrow wall niches.
The scented mist, the warmth, the gentle light enveloped him and drew him in. Entranced, he walked to the edge of the sunken bath. Towels had been laid on the bottom and draped over the sides.
His impotent rage dissipated in the sweet warmth and quiet.
He flung off his dressing gown and climbed in, groaning as he slid into the steaming water and the heat stole into his aching muscles.
A moment later, a small pillow slid behind his neck. His eyes flew open.
Mes
merized by the delicious warmth, the inviting water, he had forgotten about the witch . . . and he was stark, screaming naked.
“All you need to do is soak,” she said. “Lean back on the cushion. I’ll do the rest.”
He couldn’t remember what the rest was and winced when the soft, icy bag settled onto his head.
“I’ll hold it in place,” she said. “You needn’t worry about it slipping off.”
The ice bag was the least of his concerns.
He looked down into the water. The sunken tub was not the deepest one in the world. He could see his masculine possessions all too distinctly.
Though it was too late for modesty, he drew a bit of towel over the place and set his hand over it to keep it from floating up.
He heard a faint sound, suspiciously like a giggle. He refused to look up.
“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” the witch said. “Admittedly, the others were live babies or adult corpses, but the equipment is essentially the same in all males.”
Something stirred in his sluggish mind. He laid his head back and closed his eyes, trying to collect the elusive bits and pieces. The hospital . . . definite ideas and . . . principles. Her relatives’ puzzling obedience. Her lack of fear. The basin in his hands the instant he needed it . . . the quiet efficiency.
He began to understand, but not altogether. Many women had nursing experience, and yet . . .
He returned to the last piece of news. He could understand about the babies. Plenty of women saw infants naked—but adult male . . . corpses?
“How many deathbeds have you attended, Miss Adams?” He kept his eyes closed. It was easier to think without trying to see at the same time. His eyes still hurt. Though the pain was easing, it was still there.
“I am not Miss Adams any longer,” she said. “We are wed now. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”
“Ah, yes. It slipped my mind for a moment. Because of the . . . dead bodies. I am vastly interested in your corpses, Lady Rawnsley.”
“So was I,” she said. “But you will not believe the difficulties I encountered. Admittedly, fresh corpses are not so easy to come by. Still, that is no excuse for medical men to be so selfish about them. How is one to learn, I ask you, if one is not permitted even to witness a dissection?”
“I haven’t the least idea.”
“It is ridiculous,” she said. “I finally had to resort to challenging one of Mr. Knightly’s students. The condescending coxcomb claimed I would lose my breakfast and swoon and fall on the stone floor and get a severe concussion. I bet him ten pounds I wouldn’t.” She paused. “As it turned out, he was the one who went to pieces.” Her voice held a quiet note of triumph. “After I’d dragged his unconscious body out of the way—I did not wish to step on him by accident—I continued the dissection myself. It was most enlightening. You cannot learn a fraction as much from a living person. You can’t see anything.”
“How frustrating,” he murmured.
“It is. You’d think that proving myself once would be sufficient, but no. It was the one and only time I had the instruments in my hand and a corpse all to myself. All I won was permission to observe, and that must remain a dark secret, lest my family get wind of it. Even with the patients—the living ones—it was no good proving my competence to anybody. As long as Mr. Knightly was in charge, I might only assist, discreetly. He must rule absolutely, and mere females must obey orders, even when they are based upon the most antiquated theories.”
Behind his closed eyes, Dorian saw the answer now, with stunning clarity.
A day earlier, the insight would have had him leaping from the bath and running hell for leather for the nearest available mire.
At present, a part of his mind suggested that fleeing was not an altogether bad idea.
But he was so comfortable, his muscles relaxing in the steaming water, his tormented head pleasantly cool.
And so he said, very mildly, “Small wonder, then, that you should leap at the chance to have a patient of your very own.”
And before very long, a corpse of her very own, he added inwardly. Not that it mattered. If she wished to dissect his remains, he would hardly be in a position to object.
She did not respond immediately. Dorian kept his eyes closed, savoring the scented mist drifting about him. Her scent was there as well, rich and deep, coiling with the lavender. He did not know whether it was the scent or his ailment that made him feel so lightheaded.
“I was not implying that all members of the medical profession are imbeciles,” she said at last. “But I could not trust Abonville to distinguish among them. Bertie would be worse. He’d be sure to send for experts from London and Edinburgh, and he has such a knack for blundering.”
“I understand,” he said. “You came to . . . save me.”
“From medical bedlam,” she said hastily. “I am not a miracle worker, and I know precious few brain diseases are curable. Not that I know much about yours,” she added with a trace of irritation. “Mr. Kneebones is as obstinately closemouthed as Mr. Knightly was. I knew it was a waste of breath to argue with him. Words are rarely of any use. I shall have to prove myself, as usual.”
Dorian recalled her brisk, unruffled mode of freeing him from the mire. He recalled the cool steadiness with which she’d met his attempt to frighten her away. He recalled her calm, efficient ministrations of a little while ago, when he’d been so disgustingly sick.
He considered his present comfortable state. He had not felt so tranquil in months. He couldn’t remember, in fact, when he’d last felt so much at peace. Had he ever?
He couldn’t recall a time when he hadn’t been angry with himself for his weaknesses and seething with resentment of his grandfather, who, like the doctors she spoke of, insisted on ruling absolutely.
He opened his eyes and slowly turned his head to look up at her. She kept the ice bag in place while her cool green gaze shifted to meet his.
He wondered whether the cool detachment came naturally, or if she’d had to train herself to suppress emotion, in order to survive in a world that didn’t trust or want her. He knew what that was like, and what the training cost.
“The damp does strange things to your hair,” he said gruffly. “All the little curls and corkscrews sprout up every which way, making a fuzzy red cloud. Even in dry air, it seems alive, trying to do whatever it is bent on doing. ‘What on earth is her hair doing?’ the medical men must ask themselves. One can’t be surprised at their failing to attend closely to what you say.”
“They should not allow themselves to be distracted,” she said. “It is unprofessional.”
“As a group, men are not very intelligent,” he said. “Not in a steady way, at least. We have our moments of lucidity, but we are easily distracted.”
He was—oh, so easily.
The room’s steamy fog had settled upon her. A fine dew glistened on her porcelain skin. Damp curls clustered about her ears. He thought of pushing the curls away and tracing the delicate shape with his tongue. He thought of where his mouth and tongue would go if he let them . . . along the moist flesh of her neck to the hollow of her throat.
His gaze skimmed down to her neckline, then lower, to where the damp fabric clung to the curve of her breasts.
Mine, he thought. And then he could not think about the future. He could scarcely think at all,
“Some men can be distracting,” she said. “At times. You, especially.”
If he had not been so keenly, yearningly aware of her, he would not have caught the faint, unsteady thread in her voice.
“Ah, well, I’m mad.” What he felt might as well be madness. Beneath the concealing corner of the towel, the part of him that never needed reason stirred from its slumbers.
“This treatment is supposed to have a soporific effect,” she said, frowning as she studied his face.
Sh
e did not appear anxious but puzzled, which would have amused him if he had been capable of detached observation. That was impossible.
She sat near his shoulder, at the edge of the sunken tub, her legs curled up under her gown, and his base mind was fixed upon what lay beneath. He brought his hand up out of the water and rested it on the tub’s curved rim, inches from the hem of her gown.
“Treatment?” he said. “I thought this was supposed to be a spell.”
“Yes, well, I must not have added enough eye of newt. It is supposed to induce a pleasant drowsiness.”
“My brain is becoming somnolent.” His fingers touched the ruffled muslin . . . and closed upon it.
Her frowning attention shifted to his hand. “You have a headache,” she said.
He toyed with the ruffle. “That does not seem terribly important at the moment.”
Though the pain lingered, it no longer mattered. What mattered was his treacherous recollection of what lay under the muslin. He drew it back.
Soft kid slippers . . . a few inches of prettily turned ankle . . . and no stockings. “No stockings,” he said, his voice as foggy as his mind. “Where are your stockings, Lady Rawnsley?”
“I took them off before,” she said. “They were frightfully expensive—from Paris—and I hated to risk catching them on a splinter when I climbed in your window.”
He grasped her ankle. “You climbed in the window.” He did not look up from the imprisoned limb.
“To get into your room. I was worried you would take too much laudanum. Not an idle anxiety, as it turns out. The solution in that bottle of yours had not been properly diluted.”
She had said she couldn’t let him die before the ceremony, he recalled. Apparently, she dared not let him die before the marriage was consummated, either.
And he didn’t want to die before then, either, rot his black soul.
“You had to save me,” he said.
“I had to do something. I know nothing about picking locks, and breaking down the door would have made a ghastly row, so I took the window route. Isn’t your hand growing cold again, my lord?”
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