Ecstasy Wears Emeralds (28 page)

“Is that all that's bothering you?”

“Not entirely.” He hesitated but then turned to her to whisper his worst fears. “A violent miscarriage with excessive hemorrhage—the real tragedy may be that there may never be another child. Time might prove me wrong, but . . .” Rowan sighed, lifting one of Gayle's hands to slowly kiss her palm. It was an unguarded gesture. He wanted nothing more than to feel the comfort of her touch. He freed her hand reluctantly but didn't want to embarrass her if Ashe returned suddenly. “I'll say nothing of it, Gayle. They have enough to grieve and recover from for now.”

He knew Caroline was as independent and strong a woman as any, but this would be a difficult blow for her. She and Ashe were just beginning their lives together, and he didn't want to be the one to deliver the cruel news that not all their dreams were possible.

The loss of the baby had an even more immediate effect that he didn't discuss with Gayle. Whatever enemy the Jaded had at their heels, the time for defensively waiting for the next attack was over.

The danger would be keeping Ashe from going after them single-handedly once the dust had settled. He knew Blackwell too well—and the others.

It was almost four in the morning, and a quiet calm had overtaken the room. Ashe was asleep in the chair by the fire, having given in to exhaustion at last. Gayle surveyed the scene and sighed. It had been a long, horrible day, but a life had been saved and she was still in awe of Rowan's command of the drama that had unfolded.

Rowan was working at the writing desk against the wall, going over a medical text on gastric conditions, and making notes. He'd yet to rest, but Gayle knew better than to ask him to stop.

She turned her attention back to Mrs. Blackwell to change the cool cloth on her forehead, only to realize that Caroline was wide awake and making a similar survey of the room and its occupants.

“You should rest,” Gayle whispered.

“I'm too tired to rest,” Caroline whispered back with a weak smile. “Would you keep me company and distract me for a time?”

“Of course.” Gayle lay the cloth aside, clandestinely checking her patient's temperature with the brush of her hand. “I only hope I'm good company. I can't remember the last time I had the leisure of just visiting with another woman so I may have forgotten how. Here, let me warm your hands.”

“You are . . . just as Ashe described you.”

“Am I? Oh, dear!”

“Is it true you wish to become a physician?”

Gayle nodded. “Even more now than when I first started, I'm afraid. I never realized it would all be so . . . challenging. I am determined to hold my own. Dr. West has been a very good mentor.”

“You care for Rowan, don't you?”

“No!” The protest came too quickly, and she knew it. “I mean it isn't possible to care for him. I am his assistant and nothing more.”

“I see. It's a bit of an ethical dilemma, then.” She put a hand over her eyes. “Not that the heart ever listens to lectures about the rules.”

“Rowan is . . .” Gayle took a deep breath before she could continue in a whisper that wouldn't carry beyond her patient's hearing. “I don't know why I keep expecting him to disappoint me or hurt me, but I don't think he ever would. If it were possible to love, it would be him.”

“I'm not sure I believe that love is ever impossible. Dreams, even ones of independence, have a way of including our passions.” She looked over at her husband, her large brown eyes glowing with affection at the sight of him. “You don't lose your dreams. They just expand to include so much more.”

“You are a romantic, Mrs. Blackwell.” Gayle smiled.

Caroline shook her head. “I am extremely practical and cannot understand why my husband thinks I need so many bonnets.”

Gayle laughed softly. “I'm even more practical and cannot understand why anyone thinks I need a husband at all. Bonnets are far more manageable and less trouble.”

“You are
not
a romantic, Miss Renshaw.”

“And never will be! I will never marry.”

Gayle stole a glance at Rowan, who looked a bit uncomfortable with his long legs bent with his knees against the bottom of Caroline's ladies' writing desk. His hand cradled his head as he worked, and his hair was mussed. She realized that his dark physician's coat was missing a button from the cuff and it saddened her. She'd always assumed that Mrs. Evans and the others took care of him, and perhaps they did. But there was so much more that he deserved.

It was hard not to imagine how sweet it would be to have his keeping and permission to fuss as his wife over his buttons and coats. A wife could push the hair from his eyes or see to his headaches and soothe the worries of the day from his brow—and never feel guilty about wanting to be ordinary for doing so.

She'd been sincere talking to Caroline, but not as candid as she could have been. Love wasn't some impossible thing to be kept at bay. She was already in the throes of it and struggling not to lose too much of herself. Because one day, she would complete her education and the choice would come. He would have to let her go.

He'd started to offer her marriage, but she'd stopped him. Even then, with her knees still trembling and the glorious wet between her thighs from their passion, she'd feared the compromises that would come with marriage and the loss of her freedom.

She stared down at her hands covering Caroline's pale fingers and knew the answer.
If I keep my feelings to myself, he'll have no choice. He must never know that I love him.

“It isn't possible to care for him. I am his assistant.”
Rowan allowed the words to echo in his head, as he pretended to be engrossed in the pages of his textbook. And then the worst of the conversation.
“I will never marry.”

Chapter
22

It was early Monday morning before Rowan indicated that he felt completely confident to leave. Mrs. Clark had brought in enough fresh milk to supply an orphanage so that her mistress could follow her doctor's strict instructions. Godwin had done everything in his power to demonstrate his gratitude for their services, and every member of Ashe's household had made an effort to seek them out to say as much. Like Rowan, Ashe treated his staff like family, and their love of the new Mrs. Blackwell was evident.

Gayle finished buttoning her coat and waited while the men spoke privately on the stairs above, out of her hearing. They were so different, she noted. Ashe was like a gilt lion, all polish and power, but Rowan was the one she couldn't stop staring at. There was something humble but princely about him. He was elegant, without posing, and she loved the way he was so very still whenever others were speaking.

He drew a woman's eyes with his effortless good looks; his russet hair was longer in the back than fashion dictated, but it gave him a wild edge that made her heart beat faster. For all his intellectual pursuits, he held himself like a warrior. Even exhausted, there was a latent energy in the way he moved—as if ready to leap at the next call for help.

At last, he came down to join her, hat in hand, and they left to find Theo at the ready outside. Without a word, Rowan tossed in his bag and then helped her up before climbing inside the carriage to settle back with a ragged sigh.

“What a night!” He stretched his long, lean legs out but carefully kept them off her skirts. “I think I aged ten years. Hell with that! I'm sure of it.”

“Who would poison Mrs. Blackwell? Why?”

“They'll be found and made to pay—whoever they are.”

“He truly loves her.” Gayle's whisper was quiet but captured his attention completely in the dim confines of the carriage. “I don't think I've ever seen that kind of love before. Not until tonight. Not until—” She stopped herself, horrified to think she'd almost said
you.

“Gayle, I—”

“Please don't say anything, Rowan. Just kiss me and make me forget everything.” She left her seat, shifting over into his arms. Her knees were already trembling from exhaustion, but no lack of rest could inhibit her need for him at that moment. Her fingers framed his face, and she kissed him without waiting for his reply. His cheeks were rough underneath the palms of her hands, the differences between them all the sweeter as they gave her the friction she craved.

As the kiss deepened, there was an emotional edge to it that made her wonder if she'd lost her mind.

She sought a touch that would heal, but demanded no tenderness, drawing his tongue into her mouth and suckling him, as if he alone could give her the sustenance she needed to survive. Bruising kisses flowed into a frantic dance that brought tears to her eyes.

There was not enough time in the ride home to lose any clothing—not enough room to maneuver—and it made every second more potent and strange. She was so tired that her own body felt like an alien machine to be directed but not necessarily controlled.

“Don't be gentle. I need to feel, Rowan.”

She wanted to be grounded, tethered to the land of the living and shaken out of the icy lethargy that gripped her heart. Grief and death had dulled her senses. She didn't want to remain in a fog of loss and melancholy.

The heat of his lips to hers was a hint of the purifying fire that Rowan offered.

His hands moved to frame her face, trying to push her tenderly back and slow down the onslaught, but she fought him, biting the sensitive juncture behind his ear, and he stiffened beneath her.

It was a rush. This was like a battle of wills, but Rowan wasn't sure where the lines had been drawn. He knew only that Gayle was desperately in need and his own body had thickened without bothering to debate the why or the right or wrong of it. There wasn't time to argue as her fingers slipped under his coat and began digging at his shirt to free it from his pants.