Secret of the Wolf (16 page)

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"He—" His throat closed up again. "He was the earl.”

"Did you get along well with your brother and sister?”

"Ro—we were twins. Very close. She could tell

what I was feeling, sometimes." He

recalled Rowena's fair, piquant face and plunged into a profound sense of loss. "Ah,

Rowena—”

"And Braden?”

"He was my elder brother. He did his best, even when he didn't know—”

Seething darkness descended like a curtain over his thoughts, cutting off words,

intention, memory.
.

"Didn't know what, Quentin?”

No. No. The answer wouldn't come. He caught at the first safe thing that came into his

head
.

"There's something you don't know about me," he said. "A secret.”

"Can you tell me that secret, Quentin?”

"Of course. I trust you." He felt himself float up from the chaise and circle her chair like a

disembodied spirit. "Have you ever heard of

werewolves?”

"Do you mean a

man who becomes a wolf?”

"Yes. Running about on all fours. Howling at the moon." He hummed under his breath.

"That's exactly what I am. A werewolf.”

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Johanna had thought that she was prepared for just about any sort of revelation. She

certainly should have been; as she'd told Quentin, the human mind was an organ of

great complexity, capable of almost anything the imagination could devise
.

Even of believing its owner to be a creature out of myth and legend. A shape-shifter.

A

werewolf
.

The word she'd heard used for the delusion was lycanthropy, but she'd never

encountered it herself, nor read of any contemporary doctor or neurologist who had

done so
.

Suppressing her reaction, she took stock of Quentin. He was still relaxed, in a deep

trance. He'd responded to hypnotism with relative ease—one of those rare men who

required virtually no groundwork. He'd already given her much to work with
.

But this

this she truly hadn't expected
.

"Let me make sure I understand," she said. "You are a werewolf.”

"Or loup-garou. Some of us

prefer the French.”

"Us?”

"You don't think I'm the only one, do you?”

"I see." She leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers under her chin. "Then

Braden and your sister are also of these loups-garous?”

"It

runs in families.”

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He spoke with complete confidence, at ease with his "secret" identity. If his belief in

lycanthropy lay at the root of his drinking and other fears, he showed no indication of it
.

The temptation was very great to pursue this extraordinary turn of events to its natural

conclusion. What would he do, if asked to actually become a wolf? She'd read of men

and women, under hypnosis, reacting to suggestions that they were something other

than human, mimicking the sounds and actions of various animals. Would he do the

same, howling and growling, perhaps turning savage?

She couldn't imagine such a thing. But it would be the height of folly to provoke Quentin

now. His illness was not merely dipsomania, possibly derived from experiences in the

army. His response when she'd asked about his childhood suggested memories he

wished to avoid. And now this

"As you say, Quentin," she said, postponing further speculation. "I think we've done

enough for one meeting. We shall explore these claims tomorrow, after—”

A shrieking wail came from somewhere beyond the door, rising into a bellow and falling

abruptly silent. Johanna shot up from her chair
.

"Harper," she whispered. "Quentin, please continue to rest. I'll return shortly.”

He didn't answer. She opened the door and strode out into the hallway. Irene, Oscar,

and Mrs. Daugherty stood at one end, staring toward Harper's room. Lewis poked his

head out from his own room and ducked in again, carefully shutting the door
.

"It will be all right," Johanna said. "Mrs. Daugherty, please take Oscar and Irene into the

parlor.”

With the same care she'd use approaching a wild animal, Johanna opened Harper's

door
.

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He was in his usual place by the window, as if nothing had happened. The only change

was that he no longer sat still, but rocked gently, forward and back, with his hands

clasped between his knees. She moved closer to study his face. A scream such as

she'd heard normally meant he was entering a period of violent mania, as he'd done

three times since coming to her and Papa
.

If that was the case, handling him would become much more difficult. But he continued

to rock, ignoring her. It seemed safe to leave him just long enough to bring Quentin from

his trance and send him to luncheon with the others
.

Quentin had consumed entirely too many of her thoughts since his arrival. It was almost

a relief to have another patient take precedence
.

But Quentin wasn't finished with her. When she reentered her office, he was sitting on

the edge of the chaise, staring up at the ceiling. He looked toward her, his cinnamon

eyes glazed and unfocused, as if still in the trance. Harper's cry hadn't brought him out

as she would have expected
.

"I like this room," he said dreamily. "It smells good. Like you.”

It was definitely time to finish. "Quentin, listen to the sound of my voice. In a few

moments I shall be bringing you out of your hypnotic state. Do you want to remember

what we have discussed today?”

He swung his feet to the floor and strolled toward her. "I want to remember you." He

lifted his hand to brush her face. "Johanna.”

His touch was intimate. She felt a physical pang, as if he'd penetrated her flesh
.

Her first impression was incorrect. Surely he was awake now. Pretending to be

otherwise, though why he should wish—

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"I like being with you," he said. "More than any other woman.”

"That is enough. Our session is finished, and—”

"You like me, Johanna," he said, circling the pad of his thumb around her chin. "More

than any other man.”

She opened her mouth to deny it and caught her breath. "Go back to the chaise,

Quentin." If he were under hypnosis, he would do as she asked, and if he were

deceiving her, he'd do the same or be forced to surrender his pretense. "Sit down.”

He dropped his hand, began to obey and then stopped, clutching at his head. "You

despise me," he said. He started clumsily for the far wall, banged his hip into her desk,

and stumbled as if he hadn't seen the obstacle
.

Somnambulism. Even he would not take the game so far. And if he were still entranced,

he and his mind were at their most vulnerable
.

She clenched her fists at her sides. "I do not despise you, Quentin.”

He turned about, his gaze moving this way and that as if he couldn't find her. "You

said

you would help me.”

"I will. Have no fear, Quentin. I will.”

He smiled, like a glorious sunrise. "Yes." He came to her slowly. His hand found its way

to her shoulder, slid around to cup the back of her neck. "My Valkyrie," he said, staring

at her mouth. "You're so beautiful.”

Mein Gott. He must imagine that he saw someone else
.

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"Quentin," she said, trying to control the shaking in her voice. "I shall count backward

from five to one. As I count, you will become more and more awake, until—”

He leaned so close that his breath caressed her lips. "If I'm asleep, don't wake me." He

pulled her into his arms, the motion rife with purpose
.

Suddenly she felt small and fragile in a way she hadn't since childhood. Not weak, not

disadvantaged, but somehow protected
.

How could a man like Quentin protect anyone, least of all her? And from what? Her

analytical mind, always so ready to examine a problem from all angles, fell strangely

mute on the subject
.

But it wasn't completely silent. She was still able to make a concise mental roster of her

body's reactions to Quentin's embrace
.

Heart pounding. Breath short. Skin sensitive to the slightest pressure. Spine thrumming

as Quentin's hands stroked her back. Nipples hardening where they met Quentin's

chest. And in the vicinity of her reproductive organs

an indescribable warmth she

hadn't experienced in many, many years
.

All the symptoms of physical desire
.

There was no doubt of Quentin's
.

His lips began the endless descent to meet hers. They made contact. Pressed.

Demanded a response
.

Her body answered, pushing intellect aside. She opened her mouth and felt Quentin's

tongue tease the inner velvet of her lips. An urgent spike of need drove down into her

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womb. She wrapped her arms around Quentin's waist and let him bend her back as he

deepened the kiss, as if she were the veriest, most insubstantial nymph
.

A nymph with a bacchante's appetites. And all the while it seemed that Quentin was

somnambulating—acting upon the desires his conscious mind kept in check
.

She had no such excuse. She kissed him in return, touching her tongue to his, savoring

the purely erotic sensations she'd known but once before. Her seat and then her back

came to rest on the chaise. Quentin's hand found its way to the aching swell of her

breasts, scorched her flesh even through the sturdy, sensible cotton
.

"Quentin," she half-protested
.

"Johanna," he paused to answer, resuming his kisses on the soft skin under her jaw. "I

want you.”

His weight came down beside her on the chaise. His erection—quite considerable in

size, her dazed mind calculated—pressed into her hip. She generally wore a minimum

of petticoats; they hampered her movements and were unhealthily restrictive. What she

did wear was hardly a barrier for a determined male
.

She was the only barrier. Her will. Her sense of professional ethics. Her reliable

common sense, which had somehow fled
.

It was definitely time to call it back
.

"I will now count backward," she repeated breathlessly. "You will forget all that has

happened since we began this hypnotic session. When I reach one, you will wake, alert

and refreshed.”

He licked the tip of her ear. "Hmmmm.”

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"Five.”

He drew her earlobe into his mouth and suckled it
.

"F-four.”

His hand settled on the skirts bunched around her calves and began to push up
.

"Th

" She gulped. "Three.”

He searched out the buttons at the top of her high collar
.

"Two—”

The first three buttons came undone in swift succession
.

"One.”

She held her breath. His fingers paused in their relentless work. His lips released her

earlobe. He drew back
.

The glazed look fell away from his eyes, replaced by complete awareness

and

confusion. He jumped from the chaise and shook his head like a dog casting water from

its coat
.

"What happened?" he demanded
.

She sat up and unobtrusively rearranged her skirts. "You don't remember?”

"You were about to hypnotize me, weren't you?”

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She rose unsteadily from the chaise, leaving the buttons at her collar undone. She was

sure she didn't have the fine manual control necessary to do the job
.

"I did hypnotize you," she said. "The session went very well.”

"I'll be damned—your pardon." He gave her the by-now familiar wry grin. "We're already

finished?”

"We are, for today." She had recovered enough to hide her relief. "Have you any idea at

all of what took place?”

He frowned. "Was I talking? I seem to remember talking. The subject quite escapes me.

I hope I wasn't too much of a bore?”

"Not at all. You were an excellent subject. Limited amnesia is not rare in such cases."

She noted that her words emerged without the quaver she'd feared. If he wondered how