The Apothecary's Curse (44 page)

“I know you loved her, Erceldoune,” Simon had acknowledged finally. “And I suspect that, though she has never confessed it to me, her eldest child—Ariadne—might well be yours. I know the two of you . . . At any rate, she was born in March the year following your departure.”

The sweet, sad memory faded to a blur of dull grief as Gaelan noted Anne now standing by his side, her hands on the railing. “The sky is beautiful at this time of day, Gaelan. Remarkable, the clouds, the sun just breaking the horizon. What an amazing view to greet you every morning.”

“How is it you came by this photograph, Anne?” He tried his best to keep the chaos raging inside him from seeping into his voice.

Anne quirked an eyebrow. “Why don't we go in and sit a minute? But we've not much time.”

He nodded, again allowing her to take his hand.

“This photograph,” she began, “is of my great-grandmother's great-grandmother's grandmother Lady Eleanor Douglass.”

Anne's ancestor, Eleanor? But how?

“But why do
you
have her photograph?” she asked.

“It is a very long story, Anne, and I am not certain we have time.” He was still riveted to the image, so clear—much clearer than his battered old photo, stolen from Simon's study the morning he'd left for America. “Suffice to say, I loved her, and I had a daughter with her, born in 1843.” There. He'd said it. Honestly as he knew how. “Had I told you a week ago, you'd have thought me quite delusional. Bloody hell, you might yet.”

A horrifying thought crossed Gaelan's mind as he paced from the settee to the window and back, refusing to look at Anne. Finally, he came to a halt in front of her. Horrified.

“No! No, no, no. This cannot be. I understand that you are
her
descendent, but is it possible you are mine as well? My God!”
What a cruel, cruel irony that would be!
After nearly two hundred years in the desert, to be falling in love with a woman quite possibly his great-great . . . however many greats-granddaughter? He scrubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to comprehend it all. It was impossible.

“Gaelan. Come back to me. Focus. The book. Is that connected to all of this, somehow, do you think? Is that why it's been in my family—because of this strange connection? Paul believes there is mention of it in those diaries. A magic book of some sort.”

Finally, he laughed harshly, shaking his head. The final piece of the puzzle had set in place for her at last. “Ah, the book. I am certain that somewhere in the diaries there is mention of it. But so much of everything that happened during those five years is a blur.”

He blinked away an image of Handley's face as it slithered into his vision. “Yes, the book is, in fact, mine; it went missing immediately not long before my . . . my captivity. It was 1837. But I cannot say how it ended up in your cousin's attic. I have been seeking it myself for nearly two centuries, both here in North America and in the UK, but never found it. It is why I became a rare books dealer in the first place. I'd always held out a hope, but never, ever a clue, a valid lead . . . to the one manuscript in the world that really means anything to me.”

“A moment.” Anne grabbed her messenger bag, taking from it a sealed envelope. “This was tucked into the book when I first discovered it. It was sealed, and I felt . . . I had no right to open it. But my heart tells me you are the intended recipient.”

Gaelan took the envelope with trembling hands, his heart racing. He ran his thumb over the words “To Papa,” but he couldn't manage opening it. He was shaking too badly.
Ariadne.
“Would you . . . ?”

She opened the envelope, handing it back to him before turning toward the bedroom.

“Anne, stay. You've every right to know what is in this letter.” He scanned the page, his eyes too filled with longing and emotion to make out the words. “Would you . . . ?”

Anne took the paper, stained with age and tears. “Of course.” She read, stopping several times, the words choked in her throat:

“My dearest Papa, I do not know if this book shall ever find its way into your hands. I came upon it three years after my mother's death. She had long ago told me who you are, and what you did for her. For us. But she refused to divulge how I might find you—not even your name. Mama told me that you must dwell in secret.

“Recently, I learned of a half brother, here in my old age. Your son, he told me. Iain he is called. Lord Iain Kinston. And it is from him I acquired this manuscript, your book. He said it was given him by a man you knew who wished only to return it to you from his safekeeping. I tried to explain to Lord Iain that I did not know you. But he told me how his family had badly wronged you, and that he did not deserve to keep so precious a gift. And so I hold fast to this book, and although I am now past seventy, and a great-grandmother, I cannot help but wonder at times if you are nearby or if I only dream it.

“I leave this letter for you in hopes that, should this book someday find you, you shall understand you were cherished and loved—and sore missed. With love and affection, Your Ariadne.”

“My son, Iain . . . but he died. I was told . . . I was certain of it. But how is it possible?”

Gaelan remembered the day he'd returned to Kinston's estate. He'd found Caitrin's grave easily enough, but never Iain's. Then Kinston's lackeys came, and the arrest and all else happened in such quick succession he'd never given it any more thought. He'd assumed the worst, of course, that Iain had been disowned and thrown into a pauper's grave, never thinking that Kinston would raise him as his heir. Then it came back to him in a flash of memory. The family watching him being led off the Kinston estate. He'd thought it odd they'd include a servant to enjoy the spectacle, but there she'd been, and holding a baby in her arms. Might that have been his Iain?

His son . . . an earl? This was unbelievable. And Iain and Ariadne had met. It warmed him to know that. But of course they were now long, long in their graves. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the grief of sons and daughters, grandchildren, great-grandchildren all dead. None of whom he'd ever known. He wept for them all.

Anne interrupted his thoughts. “Gaelan, we must go, and soon.”

He nodded slightly, allowing her to brush away his tears.

“You say the book is yours,” she said, “and I gladly return it to you. But I must ask the question, given what we've discovered about it. Is there a connection between the book . . . and your condition?”

Gaelan explained how he'd used the book—and how it had changed him, never mentioning Simon. No need to involve him in this mess.

The telephone interrupted, and Gaelan jumped, startled by the jarring sound. He fell upon it to answer before it rang a second time.

“It's Simon.” There was something not right about his voice. “We have to talk. Now.”

“I'm not alone,” Gaelan whispered. “Hang on.” He placed his hand over the mouthpiece of the portable phone. “Anne, I have to take this call in private.”

She nodded and went back out to the veranda, closing the glass doors behind her. Gaelan went into his room, his eyes on the bedroom door. “What is it?”

“Transdiff Genomics.”

“The firm researching the diaries. Anne . . . Dr. Shawe, she—”

“Yeah. Her. She bloody works for them. Have you any idea what they're up to?” Gaelan noted a rising panic in Simon's voice he had never before heard.

“I do. I was going to ring you up as soon as the hour was decent and I was sure you weren't going to throttle me for waking you.”

“I've been researching my new novel, and I came across something disturbing enough, but I've only just come across another . . . This firm . . . they're actively engaged in medical experimentation on humans. Without consent. Children stolen from their beds, purchased from desperate parents trapped in distressed countries. Injected with infectious cocktails . . . I am sending you a link to the site now. Check your e-mail. And you must get as far away from this Anne Shawe as you can. . . .”

Gaelan hung up and padded into the sitting room. He opened Simon's link, eyes widening as he read a blog, dated three years ago. Had Anne known the sorts of atrocities committed by her firm in the name of science? He refused to believe it.

But it made no difference if Transdiff was on its way to Chicago.
Fuck it all!
The connections all clicked into place. He pushed open the veranda doors, a decision made.

Anne turned. “Are you all right? Who was on the phone?”

“Anne, the ouroboros book cannot fall into Transdiff's hands—under any circumstances, given what you've told me of them, especially. It should not fall into anyone's hands. It must, in fact, be destroyed.”

“Destroyed? Who was that on the phone?” she asked again, and a frisson of suspicion swept up Gaelan's spine.

“It doesn't matter. A friend . . . an associate.” He sucked in a breath. “What do you know of Transdiff dabbling in human medical experimentation?” Gaelan sought her eyes for the truth.

She sighed, turning her back to him. “I learnt of a project, supposedly defunded three years ago, a year before I joined the firm. Two months ago, I was copied on something I shouldn't have been. Saw files not meant for my eyes. No one at Transdiff knows I had any inkling. I tried to tell you. . . . It was why I asked to be detailed to the Salk Institute. I—”

Rage and revulsion grabbed Gaelan by his stomach and twisted. He was nauseous. “But you said
nothing
?” he managed to sputter. “Do you not know that inaction is as much—” He punctuated each word with all the outrage he could muster. “That silence is complicity? Have you any idea what those children . . . those parents . . . ? Dear God, the suffering.” Any tender feelings he had for Anne evaporated into scorn. She had stood by and allowed it to continue. Looked the other way when she had the power to stop it!

She looked beaten.
Good.
“Gaelan, you must go! Before Paul arrives.”

“Leave. Now. Before I—”

“Listen to me. There is so little time. But I cannot allow you to think that I would perpetuate . . . If they find out, my life is over. Destroyed. They will kill me, quite literally.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I have been leaking information to Physicians for Humanity for weeks. I've not been allowed to tell anyone—for my own safety as well as to protect the information. The posting at Salk was my way out, so I would be away before their report was issued.”

She clasped his hand; he yanked it from her. “You can verify my story. I'll give you my contacts with the organization. But only after you are safe from Transdiff. Until then, you don't have to trust me, but please believe that you are in grave danger. But not from me.”

Gaelan wanted so much to believe her . . . to trust her, but . . . Suddenly, she was close by his side. He searched her eyes, and saw himself reflected back. He nodded, the anger dissipated. She was right about the danger.

“I need to destroy that book. They cannot be allowed to get their hands on it—or me. There is too much at stake. Too much they can exploit.”

“But the science in that manuscript . . . the medicine. Who knows what else is in it? Cures for cancer? Diabetes? For new diseases, even those yet to be discovered? It is an incredible find, a discovery that could do so much good in the world—in the right hands. What beyond our knowledge of medicine—of genetics, perhaps—lies within it?”

“Good, yes. It could do that. But in Transdiff's hands? Or any others of their sort with an agenda less beneficent than greedy? This book bestows humans the ability to become immortal—or to create an immortal being, impervious to physical injury. Can you imagine the price some would pay for the merest slice of tissue? Much less, the formula to create endless variations? Imagine an army of soldiers who could be sent into battle again and again, never mind the incalculable injuries to their minds and spirits—a fate so much worse than death.

“What havoc could be wreaked on the world by an unscrupulous government with the key to creating an entire race of such beings? How long would it be before the entire planet devolved into a war-torn wasteland?”

Gaelan realized he was ranting, but this scenario was one he had feared for centuries. “I have seen the sort of cruelty over my lifetime that no one should. We are not ready as a society for this book to see the light of day, no matter how much good it might do humankind.” He was spent and breathless, his rage fueled by exhaustion and the now very real possibility he might become party to this . . . grotesque and brutal game.

“Then what? You'll destroy it, this book you've sought for all these years? Now that it's finally restored to you?”

“Do you think I want to destroy it? Destroy myself, now that finally I have found . . . you? But what choice have I? You tell me your colleague is en route now, and he means to learn whatever secrets my physiology possesses. If they are as ruthless as you suggest, the book, the knowledge, the secret to what I am are all in danger of the most despicable exploitation. I will not be part of it!”

Gaelan kneeled before her, imploring her to understand. She looked stricken. He realized she'd not yet considered the necessity that he, like the book, must be destroyed. “You know I cannot go on living, my darling. And this book, finally and most providentially, provides me the means to end it. It was never something I'd intended to do, for despite it all, I've rather enjoyed this century. And then meeting you . . .”

He cradled her face with his good hand, his thumb caressing the edge of her cheekbone. “It is ironic, but I really have little choice, and just when I again feel so much like living. There is something I must do first before I put an end to this. I have to create a toxin . . . an irreversible antidote to immortality.” There were clues in the book that would guide his hand. A centuries-old burden began to lift from his shoulders.