Secret of the Wolf (17 page)

he had wakened in such a compromising position, he was too much the gentleman to

say so. He showed no indication of repeating his previous behavior, or any

consciousness of his most amazing claims
.

"Yes," she said, smoothing her bodice. "The groundwork has been laid. I understand

more clearly how I might help you.”

Unease appeared briefly in his eyes. "Just what did I say?”

"I am your doctor. All you said is held in confidence. I shall not judge you, Quentin.”

"Then there was something to judge." He sighed. "I know my life has hardly been a

model of rectitude

”

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She was on firm ground again. "Sit down, Quentin. There is one thing I do wish to

discuss. You must tell me if the subject distresses you.”

He braced himself with his hands on the edge of the chaise. "Go on. I'm ready.”

"Have you ever heard the word

lycanthropy?”

He burst into a laugh, and kept laughing for a full half-minute
.

"Forgive me," he said, wiping tears from his eyes. "What exactly did I tell you?”

"You told me that you are a loup-garou. A werewolf.”

He caught his laugh before it could break free again. "How very amusing. I appear to be

quite imaginative while hypnotized. Do you think I missed my calling as a writer of

Gothic tales for hot-blooded young ladies?”

Johanna stood and paced to her desk, as if movement alone could calm her racing

thoughts. In her experience, subjects under hypnosis could not easily lie. Whatever her

doubts about his state after Harper's interruption, she knew he'd been deeply entranced

during the first period of questioning. His admission had been real

then
.

Was this the delusion that led him to drink—one that consumed his unconscious but did

not reach his waking mind? How had such a thing come about? What had brought so

strange a belief into existence?

"What do you know of lycanthropy?" she asked, swinging to face him
.

"As much as anyone, I suppose." He shrugged. "Tales of Gypsy curses and witches

donning wolf skins." His eyes twinkled. "Do you wish to search my person for a wolf

skin, Johanna?”

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No, he certainly was not aware of what he'd said while hypnotized. The issue must be

explored in future sessions. She felt sure it was important. Most important
.

Legends of werewolves were filled with blood and death. Quentin was incapable of

violence, but the image of the beast must have great symbolic meaning, the root of

everything that troubled him
.

"That will not be necessary," she said. "I believe our meeting is over for today, and I

wish to consider the results of this session." Including my own behavior. "I did not deal

directly with your desire for alcohol. Do you feel any need to drink?”

"Not unless it be from your sweet lips.”

Was this simply more trifling gallantry, or had he some memory of his recent advances?

She was not prepared to face the consequences of confronting him on the subject. Not

while she was still so rattled by the experience. And so ashamed
.

"Well, then," she said, ignoring his comment. "You may do as you like until luncheon.

Harper requires my attention—”

"Is something wrong with him?”

"His illness may have entered a new phase, and I have neglected him." Because of you
.

"Then I won't keep you.”

The moment he was out of the room, Johanna let her rubbery legs give way and sat

down, hard. She touched her lips. They still throbbed from Quentin's kisses. Her whole

body throbbed. In spite of her thorough knowledge of the biological processes involved,

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she wouldn't soon be able to dismiss the experience as a mere consequence of her

profession
.

All the theorizing in the world, all the calm admissions of physical attraction, were no

match for the reality
.

She had violated the unwritten rules pronouncing that a physician must not become

involved with a patient. She could easily have taken control by pushing him away and

ending the session—making him understand that such contact between them was

entirely inappropriate
.

Instead, she'd learned something about herself that was difficult to face, a sign of

personal weakness she couldn't afford
.

Her disciplined mind had failed her. She'd given in to the desires of her body, as witless

as any callow girl
.

She rested her head in her hands. How ironic. For Quentin, who must find this sort of

thing so easy, the dalliance was forgotten in posthypnotic amnesia. While she, who had

abandoned all thought of courtship or love, found herself plunged into the maelstrom all

over again
.

She picked up her pen with a shaking hand and realized it was the one Quentin had

broken. One edge was sharp enough to cut. She swept the pieces to the side of her

desk, located another pen in a drawer, and laid out Quentin's casebook
.

Initial observations after first hypnotic session: Patient suffers from delusions of

lycanthropy: consequence of former experience in army and childhood? Prognosis:

Her fingers ached from her fierce grip on the pen. She let it fall. No amount of staring at

what she'd written could make Quentin Forster fit neatly between the lines
.

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Only curing him would bring an end to this

this madness. But cure him she must, no

matter how long it took
.

Only then could she cure herself
.

Quentin slipped out of the house on silent feet, bound for the forest on the hill
.

He passed through the garden and jumped the low whitewashed fence without meeting

any of the other patients. For that he was grateful; his mouth felt as empty of words as a

spring gone dry of water. The only thing it was good for now was kissing Johanna
.

And that had been a mistake
.

The land rose abruptly from the Haven's little niche of the Napa Valley. Live oaks and

pines marched up the hills and into low mountains, another kind of haven for the wild

creatures that made this sylvan paradise their home
.

Quentin removed his shoes and stockings a few yards into the woods. He sighed as his

feet sank into the soil, made up of the memories of countless autumns and the richly

scented dust of pine. He smelled some small animal nearby, a rabbit frozen in fear of a

potential hunter. At the base of a massive, red-barked conifer, a larger animal had left

its clawed mark
.

Life was all around him—life other than human. A life he'd all but left behind. He needed

to be reminded of it now
.

He started up the steep hillside, drinking in the forest through his feet and with every

breath. This country wasn't like Northumberland, with its bare, broad moors and patches

of ancient woodland. But it would do. It would more than suffice
.

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If he could find the courage to Change
.

A faint path stretched out before him, worn into the prosperous, sun-dappled earth.

Deliberately he left it, breaking into a lope that was as natural to him as superhuman

senses. He leaped a small, deep ravine that carried the scent of recent moisture. The

steep incline beyond challenged him to a faster pace, and he went up and up until his

muscles burned and his clothing was damp with perspiration
.

At the top of the hill he paused. The Valley spread out below, a patchwork of vineyards

and fields with another range of hills on the opposite side, dominated by the crag-

topped Mount St. Helena. Civilization held in the arms of the wilderness
.

The image made him groan. His mind was full of similar comparisons, every one having

to do with tangled bodies and naked flesh
.

His flesh. Johanna's body. A body made for loving. And a mouth

Bloody hell. He still wasn't sure what had made him do it. The decision to kiss Johanna

had been spur of the moment, sprung fully grown from a source unbound by reason. He

tried to remember his chain of thought beforehand: had he meant it as a joke on the too-

serious doctor, a pleasant experiment to test the full extent of his interest in her

and

hers in him? To see just how far the Valkyrie would melt when she thought she was

safe?

That he'd been in a trance for some time he had no doubt. But something had snapped

him out of it, and he'd wakened to find Johanna gone. That was when the compulsion

struck him, as if he'd temporarily become someone else. Someone who didn't let moral

compunction stand in the way of his desires
.

The mere recollection of what followed made him ache with wanting. She hadn't pushed

him away. She'd responded. God, how she'd responded. And he might have pursued

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the encounter to its inevitable conclusion if his sense, and hers, hadn't returned just in

time
.

So he'd grabbed the way out she offered, pretending to be unaware of what he'd done.

And she'd acted the same

except for the flush in her cheeks, the hesitation in her

speech. And the ambrosial scent of a woman aroused
.

Quentin pulled his hand through his hair. He'd never been one for celibacy, but getting

close to a woman—to anyone—was dangerous the way his life was now. He felt it; he

knew it, with all the instincts nature had provided his kind
.

He'd gotten himself hopelessly tangled up in Johanna's world. No matter how readily

she responded to him, she wouldn't take physical involvement lightly, even if her morals

permitted it. She'd buried her own desires so that she could cater, undistracted, to the

needs of others. For all her intellect, she was half-blind to the power of her femininity
.

And that made her vulnerable
.

He knew he could seduce her, awaken the sensual woman under the Valkyrie's armor.

He was very good at seduction. She didn't have werewolf senses to give her a fighting

chance—only the frank, unwavering gaze that so clearly saw everyone but herself
.

But these fantasies that passed through his mind were constructions of air. He still clung

to the shredded facade of a gentleman. There could be no passing relationship with

Doctor Johanna Schell: Either she remained his doctor, or she became something

more. Something no one, human or werewolf, had ever been to him. Could never be, as

long as he didn't remember
.

You got yourself into this, he thought. You chose to stay and accept her help. You can

just as easily get yourself out again
.

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By moving on
.

He closed his eyes and fought for a sliver of fortitude. He hadn't Changed in many

months, at least not that he remembered. Even the thought of Changing awakened

vague fears of those blank periods that sent him scurrying from one saloon to another,

one town to the next. Always wondering what he might have done. Carrying with him

only a foul taste of menace, and violence, and darkness
.

He'd told Johanna, under hypnosis, that he was a werewolf. She, logical creature that

she was, would safely assume that the outlandish claim was just another symptom of

his illness
.

She wouldn't believe that he was more than human
.

Had he ceased to believe it himself?

Time to find out
.

He unbuttoned his borrowed shirt and stripped it off, placing it neatly on a flat rock

where it would remain unsoiled. A warm summer breeze caressed his skin, teasing the

short hairs on his chest. Already he felt the old sense of blessed freedom that came with

the Change
.

His trousers were next, folded and laid atop the shirt, and then his drawers. Naked, he

stretched until his spine cracked and his hands extended toward the sun as if to borrow

its vast energy
.

But a different kind of energy filled him, and he imagined Johanna there on the hill.

Watching him. Waiting for evidence that he was not entirely mad
.

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His manhood leapt to life again, stirring with sexual hunger. It was all too easy to picture