The Apothecary's Curse (36 page)

Gaelan could not help himself, and he returned, looking over her shoulder at the image. “Surely you must be aware, Dr. Shawe, that you are projecting your own modern scientific training onto a work hundreds of years old.”

“But the question remains. Why that shape?”

“I rather more think,” he said, still annoyed, but unable to contain his interest, “it is an infinity symbol, and far more likely that the author was in some way seeking, as did most of his brethren, the answer to life itself. Did it lie in minerals—a philosopher's stone, as some would call it? Some alchemists, even apothecaries, spent their lives in search of it. Even Sir Isaac Newton was obsessed with the idea of solving the mystery of eternal life within the minerals found in plain sight on this earth. Why
not
an infinity symbol?”

Gaelan grinned, recalling the heated debates he'd had with Sir Isaac back home in the Apothecaries' Hall over the healing properties of one herb over another shortly before the man's scholarly pursuit turned to matters of mathematics and physics. But it had been Newton's insistence on contextualizing alchemy with the spiritual world—the occult—that rankled, causing a rift between them. Gaelan knew all too well that the physical ramifications of “life eternal” had little to do with God or the afterlife.

“But it is interesting,” Anne continued, pressing the issue, “that the symbol for ‘infinity' here so resembles what we now know to be the double helix of DNA. What a coincidence, given my research! Like it was somehow meant to be.” She blushed. “Forgive me. It's silly, I know. But somehow at this moment I can't help but feel that it was somehow my destiny to unearth this book.”

The passion with which she spoke and the inquisitiveness in her eyes kindled a spark he'd thought long dead. It both warmed and terrified him.

“And then there is you. A man who by all accounts has an inexplicable ability for wound repair, unheard of . . .”

Ah, there you are. Reality. What she's really after.
The book was a tangent. He was the prize.
Do not forget this simple fact.
Exactly what was needed to remind him of his mantra: professional distance.
Do not allow yourself to be sucked in.
“Just what are you suggesting?”

She scowled. “More coincidence . . . more destiny, that's all. You don't feel it?”

“Not at all, but point taken,” he said, coolly, hoping to redirect the arc of their debate. He dismissed her argument with feigned disinterest. “Getting back to the matter at hand, I think that connecting a medieval manuscript with a field that would not be discovered for centuries to come is more than a bit of a stretch.”

How could a text credited to Airmid—to mythology—incorporate sophisticated, modern, science? It was as impossible as . . . as what? An immortality formula? A recipe to cure plague?

Her cloak, before her father scattered it to the wind, contained upon it the secret to healing through herbs and minerals all of the ailments known and unknown to humankind.

What if this book was, for lack of a better term, Airmid's “backup copy,” and Lord Thomas of Erceldoune the convenient repository? Given to him to conceal from her father—to preserve it for all time?

Gaelan nervously raked a hand through his hair, contemplating his options, coming up nil. “I tell you what, Dr. Shawe. I will help you. But I would need it—need to borrow it—for some time. Perhaps two weeks, perhaps two months.” Perhaps forever. Gaelan was far from certain whether, once back in his possession, he could let anyone wrest it from him without violence.

“Why do I feel I would be doing you as much, if not more, a favor by letting you have at it?”

“I would be lying to tell you that I don't covet the thing—”

“After that admission, I insist we do this together or not at all. There is no way I shall let this book out of my sight. Surely you'd vanish with it, and I'd never see you
or
the book again!”

Perhaps it would not be so dreadful, after all, to have her nearby. Her expertise would be far from a hindrance, but he'd need to redouble his guard.

“The entire way!” she insisted. “I want to know what you are doing as you interpret the manuscript and your reasoning. I want to understand this legacy of mine—destiny or not—nearly as much as I am interested in your unusual regenerative abilities. I've not forgotten
that
, of course.”

Of course not. And he would do well to never forget it.

Her face was flushed with excitement and mirth. It would be a challenge not to be disarmed by her eagerness or the warmth of her smile, which had already eaten away the edges of his guard.

He would give nothing away, rebuff all questions, be ever vigilant.
Professional distance. Academic interest.
Repeat on the hour. Every hour
—as long as Dr. Anne Shawe was around. Gaelan nodded, his lips drawn tight. “Understood. But if I might have it overnight to get a head start, keep it in my possession whilst we work on it, I might make faster strides in deciphering it, do you not agree? I promise to keep not one fact, one idea, from you. I tend to work at odd hours. Even tonight. I . . . I seldom sleep, and I've a mind to get through this book quick as I can. And mind, I intend to move on from this area, and soon. I hate publicity, and I've had more than my share these past days. Soon as I've sold this property, I'm gone, so I'd best get to my task, do you not agree? Feel free to sleep upstairs in my flat if you'd like.”

She seemed to hesitate, consider the proposition. Gaelan hoped she would simply take him at his word and return to her hotel. “I am exhausted. I've not slept either . . . and my jet lag . . . I give up. Very well, but I shall be back tomorrow morning nine sharp. And you must promise to be ready for a day's work—together.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Good Lord. Look at the time! Okay, nine. Sharp. I'll bring coffee.”

Gaelan ushered her to the door and watched as she disappeared from sight. Finally alone with the book, he leapt upon it, heart pounding. He hugged it to his chest—a long-lost love. And he wept.

I do not know, my dear ancestors, what trick of fate has brought this manuscript back into my hands, but at long last I have the means to right a wrong and end my friend's life. It is all he desires in the world. And what of me? Shall I disappear and begin again, reborn? Or is it finally time to put an end to my own nightmares
? It struck Gaelan, harder than he thought possible, that with Simon gone, he would be truly and finally alone. And it terrified him.

LONDON, 1842

CHAPTER 43

“Well, Erceldoune, tomorrow is an eventful day for you,” Simon declared as he took his leave for the night. More than a week had passed, and Gaelan was finally fit for his voyage across the sea. As much as he knew he needed to vanish, part of him longed to stay here, with Eleanor. But with every passing day, the risk of discovery increased.

The murder of Lord Richard Braithwaite was a notorious crime, and it would not do for the executed murderer to turn up living. There was little choice
but
to leave. He presented no viable future for Eleanor. She should remarry, forget the horror of Lord Braithwaite, enjoy the inheritance of his riches, and never give another thought to the apothecary Gaelan Erceldoune.

“I have booked you first-class passage to New York, and you head for those exciting shores with a full bank account and our deepest gratitude. I am heading up to my rooms, so I will bid you both a good night.”

“The money, Bell, is wholly unnecessary; I did this for myself, as much as for your sister, as you are aware. I should have killed him when he first walked into your home—”

“But it is necessary.” He pulled Gaelan out of Eleanor's hearing. “I full well expect that you will use at least some of those funds to locate that book. I hold you to it, and to restoring me to my more mortal self. Do not, therefore, think of it as either a gift or charity.”

“Then you have my thanks—and my word. If I find the book, you shall be the first to know of it.”

Simon embraced his sister and left the two of them alone in the drawing room. A peaceable silence surrounded them as they now sat alone opposite each other. “We really must say good-bye so soon? You cannot stay, even for one more—”

“We have spoken of this already, Eleanor. Would it be any easier if it was next week? Next month?”

She shook her head. “I cannot tell you, Gaelan . . . Your bravery . . . There are no words can be found in any lexicon that—”

“Hush, don't let us waste what little time we have on trivialities. Come sit with me in the garden? It is a beautiful night, and the sky is lit only with a crescent; the stars will be out in spectacular display. And it shall be the last time I see the skies from these shores.” Gaelan rose from the settee and extended his good hand, bowing deeply.

A breeze cooled the unusually balmy August night, sending a shiver through Eleanor. Gaelan stood behind her, hands on her shoulders, directing her gaze upward into the heavens.

“Mars is out tonight, do you see it, Gaelan?”

“Aye, the red planet, and do you see there . . . ?” He held her arm, caressing it as he oriented her. “Do you see, there, nearly straight above our heads? That is the Corona Borealis, Ariadne's Crown. If you keep looking, you will see the points of it. You, my dear, dear Eleanor, are so like her, the courageous Ariadne. Do you know the story?” He turned her in his arms so he might behold the stars captured in her eyes.

She nodded, reciting, a schoolgirl before her tutor. “Ariadne aided Theseus in slaying the Minotaur, and they fled to Naxos, where he left her only later to be found by Dionysus, who wed her. But Theseus was cruel to Ariadne; you have not been—just the opposite—although it is true you have slain the Minotaur.”

“Well, to speak true, it was you that slayed the Minotaur. But like Theseus, I must abandon you, and for that I am sorry. But I swear you shall find your Dionysus, who shall treat you with tenderness and love and cause you to forget both Braithwaite and me for all the children and grandchildren that shall surround you all your days. With me, there would be only sadness and regret. You
know
what I am.”

Eleanor pulled back slightly, regarding him, emotion overflowing. “I know.” She brushed aside a lock of his hair, reaching up to kiss his temple.

Gaelan sighed, overwhelmed. He captured her mouth, devouring it before moving to her jawline and down to her breast as his hands followed, caressing, touching. He could not get enough of the taste of her. He grasped her hand in both of his, kissing each of her fingers, desire and emotion engulfing him like a tidal wave. There was nothing to do but give in to it, savor every moment he had remaining with her and engrave them all in his memory for eternity.

Eleanor tugged at his hand, leading him into the house. “Come, my love, let us go upstairs.”

Morning broke, and light poured in through the window, bathing Eleanor's bed in warmth and sun. She awoke, wrapped in Gaelan's arms, the ecstasy of the past night still enveloping her. She turned, facing him as he slept beside her peacefully. A single sunbeam illuminated his hair, painting it red-gold. She kissed the spot just in front of his ear, her breath a whisper. “Good morning, my darling.”

He awoke, stretching, and his arm curled tighter around Eleanor as he drew her closer. The drowsy warmth of his smile did not conceal his melancholy. “Morning, love. What time is it?”

“Just past six.”

He frowned, nodding tightly, the reality of his leaving dawning upon his angular features. “I must arise soon, my love; I've a journey ahead, you know.” He looked away, not quite able to conceal his regret from her.

“We have a little time, do we not?” She put to use her best coquette's smile. The events of the past weeks had faded to an ache, except for Gaelan's departure. She did not want to say her fare-thee-well, not yet. Not ever. But she had no choice. Yes, she could follow him to New York, but what then? He was right; there was nothing to be done but let him go. But not quite yet.

She ran her toe along his flank, eliciting a low purr.

“So you aim to give me a proper good-bye then, lass?” He quirked an eyebrow, dipping his head to kiss her, a frenzy of sensation pooling across every inch of her skin.

Gooseflesh arose along her arms and legs as he tasted her, his tongue darting along her collarbone to her breast and lower still until she thought she might swoon from it. He grew hard along her thigh, and she only wanted to feel him inside her again. She needed him in that spot, which last night had sent her into spasms of delight and left her boneless and spent. She had never known that feeling, and she would die should he not bring her to it before he was gone for good.

“Ah, my love, there, yes . . . ” she hissed as he entered her, showering her again with kisses light as butterfly wings, driving her mad with desire until she shattered into fragments of light and color, holding onto him as he followed her, breathless and bathed in sweat.