Secret of the Wolf (6 page)

a simple style at the back of her head. Her brows were straight, without the provocative

arch that might have lent her greater feminine allure. Her lips were, at the moment, set

in a prim line, though they might be full enough when relaxed. Her nose was quite

ordinary. And her eyes—her eyes were blue, the brightest thing about her, sharp with

intelligence and purpose
.

The eyes alone made her attractive. That, and the way she carried herself. Like a

queen. Rather like his own twin sister Rowena, in fact

except that this doctor was

human, and Quentin doubted she carried an ounce of aristocratic blood in that sturdy

frame
.

She strode into the room and closed the door behind her
.

"You should not be out of bed," she said immediately. "Sit down, please.”

Quentin obeyed. Her voice—low, a little husky, with just the trace of an accent—

demanded instant obedience, and he found himself intrigued. More intrigued by a

human being than he'd been in a very long time
.

She pulled the chair up beside the bed and laid her palm on his forehead. It was the

touch he remembered—that his body remembered. He shivered as if with fever, the

tremor radiating south from her hand to his extremities like an electric current. The

charge gathered in his groin and lingered there, even when she withdrew her hand. His

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arousal was immediate and formidable. She might as well have bared her luxurious

breasts, within such easy reach of his hands, and offered them up to his exploration
.

He swallowed and closed his eyes. His mind was conjuring up these visions because he

literally couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a woman to his bed. He was burning

up with lust, and he was afraid
.

"You aren't warm," Johanna said, as if to herself. She bent to her black bag and

removed a gauze packet, unwrapping a glass thermometer. "Please open your mouth—

”

If you'll open yours, he thought. Yes; make a joke out of it. That had always saved him

before. "Don't you think we ought to be properly introduced before engaging in such

intimacies?" he asked with a grin
.

She paused as if genuinely surprised, her thermometer suspended in midair
.

"My name," he said with a slight bow from the waist, "is Quentin Forster. You must be

the famous Doctor Johanna. I understand that I have you to thank for my presence in

this very comfortable bed.”

She raised one straight eyebrow. "I am Doctor Schell," she said. "I am pleased to see

that you remember who you are.”

Quentin started. Did she know about his lapses in memory? Had he been here long

enough for her to learn so much?

She set down the thermometer and placed her thumb and forefinger above and below

his right eye, pulling open his lids. "Very good," she said. "Do you remember how you

came to be here?”

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He considered lying. No, not with this one. And why bother? He'd be gone soon enough
.

"Unfortunately, I do not," he said. "I wish I did, considering the state in which I found

myself when I woke up.”

She must have understood his intimation, but her expression remained tranquil. It was

really quite striking, that face—or would be, if it could be made to smile. Without any

good reason at all, Quentin wanted to make her smile
.

Maybe then she'd actually see him. Remind him that something of the old Quentin was

still within him, unsullied—the devil-may-care rogue beloved by the Prince's set in

England, the gambler, the jokester who never took anything seriously
.

"Your state," she said, "was extremely poor when we brought you here. You're very

lucky to be alive, young man.”

Young man? He was entering his third decade, and she couldn't be so much as a year

older than he was, if that. He laughed. It hurt his chest, but he let it go with abandon
.

"Do you find that amusing, Mr. Forster?" she said coolly
.

"I'm not an infant, Doctor, and you aren't a grandmother yet, unless I'm very much

mistaken." He grabbed her hand and turned it palm up. The hand was lightly callused

and strong, but her fingers were tapered and graceful. The fingers of an artist. Fingers

that would heal a wound or stroke naked skin with equal skill

"Ah, yes," he intoned with an air of dramatic mystery. "I see that you have a long life

ahead of you. You let nothing get in the way of your ambitions. But unexpected

adventure awaits. A great challenge. And romance." He drew his finger over the

creases in her palm. "A man has come into your life.”

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She reclaimed her hand without haste. "If that is the best you can do, Mr. Forster, you

need additional instruction in fortune-telling.”

Was that a twinkle in her blue eyes? Did she have a sense of humor, after all?

"Alas, the gypsies who raised me are far away.”

"Then you'd do better to read your own palm, Mr. Forster. You came very near death.”

"I doubt it, Doctor. I'm not easy to kill.”

Her face grew even more serious, and her voice reminded him of a professor at Oxford

who he'd regarded as a personal gadfly. "The effects of inebriety are cumulative," she

said. "How long have you been drinking?”

He hid a wince. It wasn't a subject he cared to discuss. "How long have you been a

doctor?”

She gazed into his eyes, holding him with sheer will as another werewolf might do. "I do

not think you understand, Mr. Forster. You were suffering from acute delirium tremens,

a condition that is often fatal. You have been with us for four days, most of which time

you have been unconscious or raving. I am frankly amazed to see you capable of

rational communication.”

Raving. "I suppose I made a nuisance of myself," he said. "What did I rave about?”

"Most of your words were incomprehensible." She cocked her head. "But there was a

pattern. When I first found you in a field about a mile from here, you tried to speak to

me. You warned me of some evil, that I was in danger.”

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He shivered. He didn't remember it. He didn't want to. "I'm sorry," he said. "I must have

sounded quite mad.”

"You have no recollection of this.”

He shook his head. "Unfortunately not.”

"What is the last thing you do remember?”

"I was staying in San Francisco. I won a bit of money in a game. I was planning to catch

the ferry to Oakland.”

"You are now near the town of Silverado Springs, in the Napa Valley, some miles north

of either San Francisco or Oakland," she said. "Do you often experience these periods

of amnesia?”

"Sometimes." What did they say about confession being good for the soul? It certainly

seemed to be helping now. "Generally when I have a bit too much to drink." And half the

time I don't even remember the drinking
.

"It seems I owe you a great deal," he said, smiling to charm her away from more

questions. "It was kind of you to take me in and look after me. At least I can pay you for

your care." He reached for the drawer
.

"We can discuss fees later, Mr. Forster.”

"Quentin, please.”

"Quentin," she said, in that schoolmistress tone. "Make an attempt to grasp that you

have been suffering a severe condition for nearly a week, that you have apparently lost

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any memory of a portion of your life, and that you may not survive another bout. Such a

state is not to be taken lightly—”

"Do you take anything lightly, Johanna?”

"Not where a life is concerned. And you are fortunate I do not, or I should have left you

in the field.”

Beneath her dogged assertiveness he detected the one thing she didn't want him to

see—a woman's inevitably soft heart. The sort of heart that had caused her to take in a

drunken stranger and care for him with no promise of reward
.

And he knew his own strength. If he'd been raving, he might have become dangerous.

Dangerous to her and anyone around her
.

Perhaps, this time, he'd been lucky
.

"Is that why you call this place the Haven?" he asked, gesturing at the room. "You

scrape unfortunate sots like me off the floor and minister to them until they're well

again?”

"Not as a rule," she said with a twitch of her lips. Humor again—hidden, but there. "You

are something of an exception.”

He placed his hand over his heart. "I'm honored. But if this is not a Haven for

vagabonds such as myself, who does it shelter besides a skilled and lovely lady

doctor?”

His compliment seemed to go right over her head. "You have met Oscar," she said. "He

is one of the patients here.”

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"Patients?”

"You might as well know where you are, Mr. Forster, since you are likely to be spending

a few more days with us.”

"But I'm well, I assure you—”

"I shall be the judge of that." Before he could speak another word, she picked up the

thermometer and pushed it into his mouth. His teeth clicked on the glass
.

"The Haven," she said, "is what I call our little farm. There are seven of us in residence:

myself, my father, Doctor Wilhelm Schell, and five patients. We came to this valley two

years ago, when we found it necessary to close our private asylum in Pennsylvania.”

"Your—" Quentin tried to speak around the thermometer. Johanna snatched it from his

mouth, examined it, and shook her head. "You are a very lucky man, Mr. Forster.”

"Quentin," he reminded her. "Yes, I'm exceedingly lucky." He laughed under his breath.

"Is this by any chance a madhouse?”

"We do not use that name here. The Haven is different. Our residents are only a few of

those we treated in Pennsylvania. Those it seemed best to bring with us." Her voice

softened. "They have become very much like family. This is what I want you to

understand, Mr.—Quentin. You will be meeting them, and I do not wish you to disrupt

our routines out of ignorance." She searched his face. "Does insanity frighten you?

Does it disgust you? You will see behavior you may consider peculiar—”

"More peculiar than mine?”

"—and if you cannot treat the residents with the dignity they require, I shall have to

make other arrangements for your care.”

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Yes, there was fire in Johanna Schell. It sparked in her eyes when she spoke of her

"residents," with all the ferocity of a lioness guarding her cubs. Passion existed in that

curvaceous frame

not for romance and the usual women's fancies, but to protect

those in her care. A woman who took on great responsibility, and relished it
.

In that way she was the complete opposite of Quentin himself. Johanna Schell was not

like the demimondaines he'd tended to run into during the past several years, nor did

she bear any resemblance to the proper and well-bred aristocrats of England. She was

something new to him—honest, straightforward, unselfish, with hidden emotions yet to

be discovered. He couldn't assign her to a category and dismiss her as unimportant, as

he did the other men and women he met briefly in his wanderings. That was what

intrigued him most
.

Ordinarily, he wouldn't linger long enough to indulge his curiosity. But he found himself

admiring this cool, stern, and utterly sensible goddess. Not merely admiring—he was

drawn to her, and by more than the erotic promise of her touch
.

If she'd been loup-garou, the explanation would have been simple enough. There was

always the possibility of a sudden and unbreakable bond forming between two of

werewolf blood. But, even though he lacked his brother's broad mental powers and

flawless ability to recognize others of their kind, he knew that Johanna was

unmistakably human
.

No matter. He couldn't trust himself to remain here longer than strictly necessary. His

safety—his sanity—lay in constant motion. And if his worst, half-acknowledged fears

were correct

if he left turmoil behind each and every time he lost his memory in

drink

Guilt was one of the emotions he'd learn to outran. Sadness was another. And

loneliness
.