The Apothecary's Curse (43 page)

Gaelan moved, awakening, finally with a catlike, languorous stretch, rolling to his side, facing her now, his long hair a veil across his eyes. Another stretch, followed by a yawn. He blinked and switched on a bedside lamp.

“Hey,” he whispered, yawning again, looking puzzled, but not annoyed, a sleepy smile crossing his face. “You're still here? What time is it?”

“Half five,” she responded softly. “Hope you don't mind. I was lonely, and your sitting room is a bloody mess. Thought it might use a woman's touch.” She smiled down at him. “I wanted to be here when you awakened. Much, much has happened since you fell to sleep.”

“Not quite awakened.” He yawned. “
Too
bloody early.” He pulled the duvet over his shoulder. “Nearly four hours without waking, though, a new record for me, I think. Thank you.”

“What for?”

“You must be the reason.” His voice was soft, still floating between sleep and wakefulness. The smile turned playful. And still more than a little stoned, she guessed.

“I—”

He lifted an arm, inviting her in.

“Gaelan, we have much to talk about—”

“Can it not wait?”

She
had
, after all, planned on giving him until dawn to sleep, and he was quite persuasive. Anne could think of far worse things than to snuggle beneath the blankets. And he seemed in no mood to discuss much of anything.
Fine.
Settling in closer, she allowed Gaelan to draw her near; he was warm, cozy, and it felt spectacularly comfortable and right.
No more than half an hour!

“You seem to be doing better.”

“I am. No monsters in the closet this time. Perhaps I
do
have you to thank—”

“And whatever it was you smoked in that bowl.” She gestured to his nightstand.

He shrugged sheepishly. “I do what I have to do. But it is rather good hash.”

“Do you have them often? The dreams?”

He gently kissed the corner of her eye—the first of a pattern, a trail that led down her jawline to her neck and shoulder. His hand followed, deft, delicate—she wondered if he was not actually touching her, but transmitting pure sensation as his fingertips floated above her skin. All other thought was being pushed from her mind by the feathery tingle of Gaelan's hands and lips.

“Gaelan—”

“Shh. Can you not see, lass, I'm quite occupied?” His voice was dreamy; it flared through her every nerve ending.

Her brain protested that this was not a good idea, but her body refused to listen, seduced by Gaelan's tender, slow, insistent ministrations. They had no time for it. What if he was unable to . . . and it made matters worse? What if . . . ? Her questions went unanswered as he popped the buttons of her blouse, punctuating each pop with his devastating mouth, each kiss sending a kick of pleasure through her core.

He paused suddenly, confronted with her brassiere, as if uncertain how to free her from it. Abandoning any thought of resistance, she assisted, demonstrating the art of unclasping the garment while on her back.

“Ah!” He smiled, observing, taking it from her, examining it as if it were a novel plaything, before tossing it aside to wrestle with her jeans and panties.

Had he never seen a bra before? Another clue in the puzzle that was Gaelan Erceldoune. She shook off the idea as Gaelan continued his exploration of her body. She surrendered all rational thought as his tongue found every sensitive spot.

She danced on the edge of ecstasy, aching and pulsing with desire. He hesitated a moment, sitting back on his knees, looking at her. He was beautiful as he sat poised between her knees, aroused, his pupils black, and dilated with desire. Yet he seemed to falter. He was unquestionably ready, but there was clearly something on his mind.

“Are you okay?”

He nodded. “Sorry. It has been a long time for me, not counting . . . earlier, and I don't know that I can—”

“Here, let me.” She reached for him, and he inhaled deeply as he let her guide him, as if he were a virgin. She gasped as he filled her, and she felt whole in a way she'd never felt with Paul. Their rhythm built to a crescendo as he took her to the edge, then pulled her back and left her in delighted frustration until finally they fell together, not into a black void, but into the warmth of light buoyed by each other.

They were both panting, drenched in sweat and each other as he rolled to his side, propping himself on an elbow. He curled his hand through her hair, drawing her into a last, deep kiss. “Good morning,” he said finally.

Anne sat up. She ran her thumb down his face, temple to cheek, cupping his jaw. A final kiss. “That was . . .” From the corner of her eye she could see the faintest light begin to seep through the blinds into the room. “We have to talk.” She sat up cross-legged, running her fingers through her hair shakily. “A very lot happened, my darling, whilst you were sleeping.”

He pulled on his T-shirt, his gaze no longer dreamy, attention focused on Anne.

What to say first? She wanted desperately to know about the photograph, but she needed to warn him about Paul. Maybe he could get away, go somewhere . . . something. Even if Paul's—now very much plausible—theory was wrong, it didn't matter. Gaelan's regenerative abilities were so unusual that he would never be allowed to escape examination. If he was right . . . “Two things, one urgent, the other, a coincidence so strange you will never believe it.” She located their clothing tangled beneath the blanket at the foot of the bed. She tossed his clothes to him, and dressed quickly.

“Urgent. What is it?” She watched the blood drain from his face, as if he had some inkling. He was about to stand; she stilled him.

“First the urgent. My ex. Paul Gilles—”

“Yes. The chap with the diaries.”

“He's to arrive from Heathrow in only a few hours.”

“Why? And what does that have to do with me? Do you think he'll challenge me to a duel?” Gaelan reached for her, but she batted his hand away.

“My darling, this is more serious than anything you might imagine.” It was clear from his worried expression that he quite understood. Probably more than he intended to let on. “He has a photograph—an old photograph found with those Bedlam diaries, and the man appeared to be . . . Well, according to Paul, it appeared to be . . . you.” She said it quickly, as if to do so would make it easier. It did not.

“I see.”

His mouth opened into an O, as if he intended to say something more. He looked away.

“There's more.”

No reaction at all. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall. There was no easy way to do this. Out with it—for all its ghoulishness. “He also discovered tissue samples. Preserved, apparently quite expertly for the time.” She rose and moved, crouching in front of him so he could not avoid her gaze. “One finger, left hand. The samples match a journal entry made . . . the final clinical entry by the doctor of record. . . .”

Gaelan closed his eyes for a moment, his face ashen. He stood, steadying himself on the bedpost, and silently finished dressing. Ignoring Anne, he went wordlessly into the bathroom, closing the door quietly, as if to slam it would break the silence now surrounding them.

“You have to leave before he lands.” No response. “I know this is a shit hand. Even if you are not the man in the diaries, the simple fact of . . . your recovery from the accident . . .” She went to the bathroom door and knocked shouting his name. No response. She tried the knob; the door was unlocked.

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the claw-foot tub, elbows propped on his knees, head in his hands. He seemed unaware she'd come into the room. After putting down the lid on the toilet, she sat close to him.

“I saw in your library a book autographed by Arthur Conan Doyle. ‘For strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the imagination,' it said. Are you the improbable truth that remains after I have eliminated all else? Can you possibly be that man described in the Bedlam diaries? Did Conan Doyle inscribe that to you? With you in mind?”

No response. He simply stared ahead, withdrawn into someplace deep inside himself.

Anne slid to the tile and lifted his chin, looking deep into his eyes.

He nodded slowly and sighed; her heart broke as she saw the defeat in his expression. The game was no longer afoot; it was up. And he believed he'd lost, running out of places to hide. “Handley,” he said simply.

Anne shook her head, not understanding.

“His name was Handley. Francis Handley, mad doctor of Bedlam.” He was speaking as if to himself.

“You must get out of here—”

“Wait. You mentioned there was something else?” His voice was unsteady, as if processing that there was something, perhaps even more unimaginable, she'd not yet said.

She took his hand, and he allowed her to lead him back to the bedroom. “There's something I need to ask you.”

His eyebrows arched as he shook his head. “More?”

Anne wondered how much more he could handle. He looked shell-shocked, like a bombing victim trying desperately to make sense of his surroundings. “You'll see.” Would it be too much to show him the photograph of Eleanor Douglass? Her medical training—and her heart—told her he was teetering upon a razor-thin cliff, but would the connection draw him away from that dangerous place or push him over the edge? She wasn't sure.

Anne left and came back into the room with the two photographs of Eleanor Douglass. Sitting on the bed, she grasped his right hand, carefully entwining their fingers. “Who is she?”

He glanced at the daguerreotype before him, quickly looking away. He answered simply, as if from a dream. “Someone from another lifetime.”

Anne held her breath, taking the other image from her lap and placing it on his. “Is this the same woman?”

CHAPTER 51

In the photograph, Eleanor Bell Braithwaite stood between Simon and a man Gaelan did not recognize. She wore an exquisite wedding gown; her eyes, so sad and beautiful, seemed distant for so happy an occasion. She held in her arms an infant, draped in white lace.

Gaelan blinked back tears as he touched the screen of Anne's phone, caressing the image of Eleanor. He walked away, out of the room, after taking the phone from her hand, his gaze never leaving the screen. Opening the glass doors, he went out on his terrace, staring into the dawn sky, overwhelmed. He knew he had to say something, but had not a clue where to begin.

He heard Anne step out onto the small balcony. He cast a backward glance to see her standing on the threshold observing him with solemn eyes, such a beautiful deep, dark blue. He turned back, gazing east toward the lake, at the low-hanging clouds, ominous, yet magnificent in the early-morning light: dark purples and greens, pinks and reds.

“Who are you?” she asked quietly, now at his shoulder, her hand resting upon his arm. There was no accusation in her voice, only compassion.

He had answered that question only twice before, once to Simon and the other to Eleanor. The world was more sophisticated than it had been in 1625, when people merely ran away frightened. Or threw you on the pyre to burn. But now, as then, the urge to pick apart and study anyone who was “different” overpowered men's good judgment and nobility, no matter that the object of curiosity was a flesh-and-blood human being.

Some would call his condition—and Simon's condition—a gift from God. And some would yet risk all, would steal or murder—or torture—to obtain the faintest clue. The holy grail. The philosopher's stone. The Elixir of Life. It had so many, many names. To him, to Simon, it was a curse—an existence in limbo.

For Gaelan, the curse was to live without love, without family. His compensation, though meager at best, was to experience the joy and delight of discovering in each successive generation the evolution of science and technology: electricity, flight, space exploration, movies, computers, etc. The incredible advances he'd witnessed had been enough to lighten the burden of a life lived too long. But it had not filled the void of a heart empty for well over a century. Since the day Eleanor died. . . .

She had been ninety, and Galan had not seen her in sixty years. Simon was angry he'd shown up then—1902—when there had been no word from him in all those years, not even a note. Had Simon not realized, even then, that Gaelan was in a hell that not even Dante might have imagined? Cut off, isolated, apart from everything and everyone he cared about, even his own daughter? He was supposed to be dead, and he needed to stay that way. What else might he have done?

“Do you think this has been easy?” He'd argued bitterly with Simon upon his arrival. “Look at me! I look the age of her grandchildren. How would that have gone with her, I ask you, hmm? I need to see her!”

Simon grasped Gaelan by both his arms gently, imploring, “Leave her be, Gaelan. Leave her to die in peace.”

Gaelan swallowed hard, looking up into Simon's cold eyes. “You think I've not had regrets?” He held up a hand, calmer now, and Simon released him. “How many times,” he confessed, tears gathering, “how many times I booked passage . . . only to turn back at the last moment. But I could not let her go to her rest without seeing her
one last time
. I need to tell her . . . How can I let her die without telling her not a day has gone by when I've not thought of her, gone to sleep with her face in my dreams?”

Simon nodded. He sat next to Gaelan, placing a comforting hand on his back. “She's upstairs in her old room.”

He returned to the drawing room an hour later shaken, as if his heart had been ripped to shreds. “She's gone,” he said finally, voice hoarse and choked. “She's gone,” he repeated, falling into the arms of the sofa, his body shaking with sobs, inconsolable.