Secret of the Wolf (7 page)

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Johanna reminded him that he was lonely. She and her healer's touch
.

"I am the last man to judge another's madness," he said at last, meeting her eyes. "You

may trust me in that, if in nothing else.”

"That sounds like a warning.”

"Yes." He smiled crookedly. "But I shan't be the one to prove how unwise it is to bring

strange, besotted men home as you would a wee lost puppy.”

"I would bet that you are not a puppy, Quentin Forster.”

"Ah, do you gamble?”

"Only when I have no other choice." She gathered her skirts and began to rise
.

He stopped her, laying his hand on her knee. She had a perfect right to slap him for his

forwardness. She went very still. Their gazes locked. He was a gambling man, and he

would have wagered all his winnings that she felt his touch the way he felt hers
.

Not that any such effect would show on that carefully schooled face
.

"What is your opinion, Doctor?" he asked. "Can you help me?”

"If you refer to your dipsomania

it is possible, if you wish to change," she said. "If you

do not, no one can help you.”

"Can I expect a lecture on the evils of drink?”

"There are plenty of reformatory societies for that purpose. I have other techniques.”

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"I'm fascinated." He let his hand slide just a fraction of an inch. The muscles in her thigh

tensed. "Just what are these techniques?”

"They were developed by my father, using the science of hypnosis he learned in

Europe, where he was educated as a neurologist. Hypnosis enables a doctor to

communicate with that part of the mind that is hidden from a patient's own conscious

thoughts. Using this method, a trained physician can help the patient to fight mistaken

ideas that create many of his problems." She made a gesture with her hands—

controlled, but revealing her enthusiasm as much as her eyes and voice. "In your case,

this would be the desire for strong drink. My father's method has proven most effective

in a number of cases, where insanity is not too far advanced.”

"I've heard of this hypnosis," Quentin said. "It's something like mesmerism—”

"Mesmerism became little more than superstitious nonsense, rejected by men of

science. Hypnosis, as we employ it, is far more advanced, yet misconceptions remain.

My father—" She stopped. Quentin noticed that one of her fists had clenched. She

caught his glance and relaxed her fingers. "This is hardly the time for a lecture.”

"Your father must be an interesting gentleman," Quentin said, watching her face. "I

confess that I'm a bit surprised that he sent you to deal with a strange male patient.”

The zealous light went out of her eyes. "My father is no longer seeing patients. I

received a full medical education in the United States and Europe; you need have no

fears about my competence.”

"I'm not afraid." He let his lashes drop over his eyes and lowered his voice to a

seductive purr. "I shan't mind your company in the least, fair Valkyrie.”

She flinched. "Why do you call me that?”

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Well, well, well. Something else she was sensitive about, along with her patients, and

her father. Had she been mocked for her height and hardy frame in the past? What

blind fools men could be
.

"Because you remind me of those ancient Teutonic warrior maids," he said. "Girded for

battle and prepared to sweep the wounded from the field. I suppose your hair ought to

be blonde, but I quite like it just as it is.”

She actually blushed. It was the first typically female behavior he'd seen in her
.

"That was my father's pet name for me," she whispered. Was, as if her father were

dead, though she'd said he was here
.

"It suits you," he said. "I mean that as a compliment.”

She scraped back her chair and stood, shaking off his hand. "If I am to be your

physician, Mr. Forster, you had best realize that our relationship must remain strictly

professional.”

He feigned surprise. "Naturally. If I am to be your patient.”

"We shall discuss that possibility at a more appropriate time," she said. "You will stay in

bed for the remainder of the day; I shall bring you a healthy breakfast to restore your

constitution. And put from your mind any thought of drinking while you remain in this

house.”

The mere thought of alcohol made Quentin's gorge rise. He crossed his heart. "I

promise I'll be good.”

That almost imperceptible smile flickered at the corners of her mouth. "I wonder." She

turned briskly for the door
.

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"Doctor—Johanna—”

She stopped, hand on the doorknob
.

"Thank you," he said, meaning it. "Thank you for helping me.”

"I, too, took the Hippocratic oath," she said. "Rest well, Mr. Forster.”

Quentin was very tempted to test her composure by inviting her to join him under the

covers, but long training as a gentleman quelled the impulse. Her dignity was not

impregnable, but there was no point in wasting all his ammunition at once
.

"Until later, then," he said
.

He remained seated at the edge of the bed long after she'd left, working out the

thoughts and feelings she had provoked in him. They were a mass of uncomfortable

contradictions—the very sort of thing he'd avoided by moving on before there was the

slightest chance of developing a relationship with anyone, or feeling much of anything at

all
.

Reflecting deeply on his own emotions was hardly the sort of game at which he was

expert. It led him too close to the shadows, like drink. He was more than a little alarmed

at the intensity of his reaction to Johanna Schell
.

He fell back on the bed, pillowing his head on crossed arms. The ceiling above was a

soothing, blank white, luring him toward oblivion. Why not sleep, as the doctor

recommended?

But sleep had never been his most reliable mistress—unless he was drunk. His

thoughts chased round and round like a wolf after its own tail
.

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Why did she attract him, unlike so many other women? It wasn't merely her curvaceous

body; he'd sampled plenty of those in his time. No; the physical was only a small part of

it
.

It was her strength—not so much of body as mind and purpose. She carried herself with

all the confidence of a man, but no one could mistake her for anything but a woman.

She knew who she was and lived in herself without shame or doubt. He couldn't

imagine her confounded by any of the fears or petty cares that afflicted so many

average lives
.

Perhaps she wouldn't be daunted by his demons—those demons he could never quite

see, who hovered at the very edges of his consciousness. The ones who reduced him

to a pathetic coward, terrified to look too deeply inside himself for fear of what he'd find.

Was Doctor Johanna Schell strong enough to match them? Could her science of

hypnosis bring him to the end of his perpetual flight?

That was it. That was the heart of the subject, and of his sudden and half-unwelcome

hope. Johanna Schell was like this place, this Haven

a sanctuary in the storm his life

had become. Her touch not only moved and aroused him, it anchored him, drew him

into a quiet place where his demons had no power
.

He closed his eyes. God, how he longed for such a place. But to take the risk, to ask for

her help and everything that might entail

had he any right? Even if she offered, with

all her poise and faith in herself

what if that weren't enough?

Better to run. Better to spend one last day to be sure of his recovery, and leave this

transient peace behind
.

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He laughed, as he always did on those rare occasions when his ruminations led him to

a state of such maudlin self-pity. Laughter kept the tears at bay, and there was enough

of an English gentleman left in him to disdain the ephemeral solace of weeping
.

He wasn't that kind of drunk. He wished that he were. He wished that he could reconcile

himself to a permanent ending
.

But that was another thing a proper English gentleman simply didn't do. Not until there

was no other choice
.

Quentin covered his face with the soft feather pillow and laughed until no listener would

have any doubt at all that he was quite insane
.

Whenever she was troubled, Johanna had always gone to her father
.

In their life together, since her mother's death, she had been the sensible one. She'd

kept the books and most of the asylum records, saw to her own handful of patients,

reminded Papa to eat and helped him dress—each and every task carried out with the

same single-minded efficiency
.

Wilhelm Schell, for all his brilliance, had been the one with the touch of mischief, the

ability to laugh even at the most serious moments. He could be annoyingly impractical.

His mind made strange, unfathomable leaps from one concept to another, seemingly

without logic. And he was the one who could explain and reassure on those rare

occasions when her emotions got themselves in a tangle
.

As they were now, due to Mr. Quentin Forster
.

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Despite all that had changed, Papa's presence still gave her comfort. She went directly

from the guest room to her father's room, opening the door a crack to gauge his

condition
.

He was asleep. If she woke him, he'd only be more confused, and her trivial needs

came a distant second to his. She closed the door. The patients had already eaten and

were either outside, working in the garden, vineyard, or orchard, or resting in their

rooms. She'd have time to make notes on the new patient
.

Her office seemed very quiet as she sat down at her desk and took out a notebook.

Quentin Forster must have his own set of notes and records of treatments and

progress, to join the others neatly stacked in the desk drawer. This record, like May's,

would be written entirely in her own hand, without any contribution from her father. The

feel of the pen in her hand never failed to calm her thoughts on those rare occasions

when they spun too fast for her to discipline
.

Her heart gradually slowed from the rapid pace it had set ever since he touched her.

Dipping her pen in the inkwell, she made a cool assessment of her new patient, point by

logical point
.

Quentin Forster. Age, estimated thirty years. Of English descent, probably aristocratic

by his accent and general mien. Apparently in good health, in spite of his recent bout of

delirium tremens. Clearly he was not the sort who drank constantly, or he could not be

in such excellent condition
.

In all likelihood he was here in the United States because he was the younger son of

some wealthy landowning family, sent to make his fortune conveniently far from

England. Such young men were hardly more than parasites, like the idle children of

aristocrats everywhere
.

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Did he drink because he was in exile, or due to some personal weakness in his nature?

No need to speculate; she'd learn that soon enough, during one of their first sessions of

hypnosis. If she decided to take his case
.

That was the question. He might very easily disrupt what they had here. Disturb the

others
.

Disturb her
.

His laughing cinnamon eyes flashed in her mind. He was charming and handsome, of

that there was no doubt. Intelligent, too. Proficient at reasonable conversation, if one

discounted his jesting
.

How long had it been since she'd had a truly rational conversation? One that lasted

more than a few minutes and didn't leap wildly from subject to subject, or drift off into

silence? She'd spoken to a few fellow doctors during the lecture in San Francisco, but

they were apt to condescend to her because of her gender, if they paid any attention at

all
.