"You speak German!" Johanna rose, offering her hand.
He took it in a firm clasp that did not condescend to her gender. "Sagten Sie nicht, Sie hätten in Deutschland studiert, Herr Doktor?"
"Ja, in der Tat." He switched back to English, still smiling. "I have made it my business to learn everything possible about your work, and your father's. I have been looking forward to our meeting with great anticipation."
"As have I." She returned his. smile, feeling foolishs for no good reason. "There is so much I have been unable to discuss with others of like mind."
He extended his arm. "I think you will find me very much of a mind with you and your father, Dr. Schell. It was because of my interest in hypnosis that I first encountered the elder Dr. Schell's work, and realized that much I had been considering had already been taken up by you. I hope you do not mind my familiarity; I feel as if I know you."
"I am not one to stand upon formality," she answered. "To the contrary, it is excessive dedication to useless convention that all too often stands in the way of true progress."
"Ah! A woman after my own heart. I can already see that we think alike." He briefly rested his hand on her fingers.
"We both believe that what some consider irregular methods are often the only ones that bring results."
He led her to a small private room off the main dining salon, where he offered her a seat and ordered refreshments. "It is some hours until dinner, but I thought we might occupy them with no difficulty." He took the seat beside her. "I hope you brought some of your case notes and observations, Dr. Schell. I've heard something of the Haven since I arrived in town."
"I'm sure you didn't judge us on the rumors circulating here," she said, concealing her unexpected anxiety. "Many people have an unreasoning fear of madness, when so few of the insane pose any danger whatsoever."
"As you say. I am sure what you do here is the work of a pioneer who deserves far more recognition than she has received."
Johanna blushed as she hadn't done with anyone but" Quentin. "You give me too much credit, Herr Doktor—"
"You will call me Feodor. No formalities, verstehen sie?"
"Yes." She sat forward in her chair. "I am not pursuing this work with an interest in fame. It was my father's hope that we might develop new techniques to ease the burden of insanity. I believe we have made real progress, and I am more than happy to share what we've discovered. If you have worked with hypnosis, I have no doubt that there is much I can learn from you… particularly if you have recently been in Europe. We are so out of touch, here."
"I hope to remedy that situation," he said. "I've brought texts from Germany and France, as well as some of my own notes." His smile warmed. "I feel sure this will not be our only meeting."
Johanna resisted the urge to clear her throat nervously. It was much too soon to bring up Quentin's case, but Feodor Bolkonsky seemed a most extraordinary man. He might very well be what she'd been hoping for.
"Will you be staying long?" she asked.
"I am currently residing in San Francisco, which is why it was possible for me to seek you out. To my great good fortune."
"I was recently in San Francisco for a lecture," she said, flattered by his compliment. "I don't recall seeing you there—"
"Sadly, I was out of town at the time." He lifted a brown leather satchel resting against the side of his chair and set it on the small table between them. He opened the satchel and pulled out a pair of new books. "I hope you'll accept these as a token of my esteem, Dr. Schell."
She touched the covers reverently. Both were texts by well-regarded neurologists in Europe whose works she had been unable to obtain in America. "Thank you… Feodor. You must call me Johanna."
"I will, with pleasure."
They spent a few more minutes in small talk, on subjects ranging from the comparative weather in San Francisco and the Napa Valley to the latest play Feodor had seen in the city. But then the real discussion began. Johanna swiftly lost track of time as they exchanged opinions on such fascinating topics as Wundt's Principles of Physiological Psychology and Charcot's theories on hysteria.
Feodor's knowledge of hypnosis was more thorough than that of any other doctor Johanna had met, even in the East. He agreed with her belief that insanity was not merely the result of lesions of the brain, but often stemmed from purely emotional causes. He shared her hope that hypnosis might prove an invaluable method to cure many types of madness, and possibly a number of physical illnesses as well. She couldn't wait to hear his thoughts on her theory that taking patients into their pasts, in search of inciting causes of insanity, was highly beneficial.
They hadn't yet reached the subject of specific cases when Feodor pulled out his watch and made a sound of surprise. "How quickly the hours have flown. I see it's time for dinner. I've arranged a private meal for us here. It will allow us to continue our talk."
"That sounds excellent." When he turned away to summon a waiter, she touched her cheek, wondering if it looked as warm as it felt. Her mouth was dry from the long conversation.
"A little wine before dinner?" Feodor asked. A waiter had already cleared and set the table, and was presenting a bottle of wine in a silver cooler.
"Please," Johanna said. The waiter poured, and Feodor tasted his wine with a connoisseur's deliberation.
"It will do." He signaled the waiter to pour for Johanna. In spite of her desire to be cautious, thirst made her take a much larger sip of the wine than was prudent.
"Bring water, as well," Feodor ordered the waiter, who hurried off. He leaned back in his chair and watched Johanna. She set down her glass, still strangely flustered at being the focus of his attention.
"I hope," she said, "that after our meal I may have an opportunity to consult with you about a particular patient. The situation is rather delicate—"
"You may, of course, rely on my complete discretion. I will be most interested to hear the details." He sipped his wine. "You said that you have four patients, I believe?"
"Five, now—I have a new case as of two weeks ago. And one of the original four is really not a patient in the strictest sense of the word. He, like the others, had few choices about where to go."
"But you and your father took all of them in."
"We have benefited as much as they have."
Feodor leaned toward her. "You are too modest, Johanna. These people are not merely medical subjects to you."
She couldn't argue with him in that. She wondered how well she would do in any argument with such a man.
And yet she wasn't disturbed at the idea of having met her equal, a male doctor who neither condescended to her nor betrayed resentment at her accomplishments.
He captured her gaze, drawing her out as surely as the summer sun brought the Valley's grapes to ripeness. "Who is your most intriguing patient, Johanna?"
"Quentin Forster," she answered, without thinking. She'd meant to discuss her cases in general terms before revealing names, and then only if she felt comfortable in doing so.
"Is he your newest one?" he asked.
Now that the subject was broached, her feelings were decidedly mixed. She was inclined to trust Bolkonsky, and he definitely had the necessary skills and approach to treat someone like Quentin. But to speak candidly about Quentin was going to be more difficult than she had imagined.
"Yes," she said. "A case of dipsomania, complicated by… delusions of lycanthropy."
"Fascinating." Feodor stroked his lower lip. "Was he brought to you by family members?"
"No. He found us."
"And have you had success in treating his condition?"
"I am… presently considering my options."
"Tell me about him," Bolkonsky said. "Perhaps you can benefit by a second opinion."
She took another quick sip of wine. "I was not being accurate when I said that Quentin was my most intriguing patient. Irene DuBois is also a considerable challenge—"
"Irene DuBois? The actress? I saw her once
on Broadway. Very… interesting."
Surprised, Johanna glanced at his face and caught a faint shift in expression, as if he'd blurted out something he hadn't intended to say.
"My apologies for interrupting," he said, recovering smoothly. "You were speaking of Quentin Forster—?"
"Actually, my greatest progress has been with a former soldier in the War, who has suffered intermittent mania and long periods of catalepsy and melancholy. Let me tell you a bit about him, instead."
Feodor listened, but she could have sworn that a flash of displeasure darkened his ice-blue eyes. That, she decided, must be the work of her overly sensitized imagination.
Soon enough dinner arrived to rescue her, and they ate in relative silence. The food was delicious, exquisitely prepared, and nothing like Mrs. Daugherty's plain but nutritious cooking. Johanna enjoyed it less than she'd expected. She deliberately avoided finishing her wine, even when Feodor offered more.
But after-dinner conversation returned to easier channels. She rose to leave, several hours later, in good charity with Feodor Bolkonsky and somewhat bemused by her earlier disquiet.
"Thank you so much for the dinner, and the excellent company," she said.
"You will come back tomorrow?" Feodor asked as he escorted her to the stable, where they waited for the stable boy to harness Daisy. "I realize that you have your own business to attend to, but I should very much like to continue our discussion of this intriguing patient of yours."
"Harper?"
"Quentin Forster. A lycanthrope is something I've never encountered before. And it's precisely the kind of case I feel is best suited to my particular skills."
How could she continue to demur, when Bolkonsky was so eager to help? She couldn't have been given a more advantageous opportunity.
"I look forward to it." She gave the well-fed horse a pat on the withers and accepted Feodor's help into the buggy. "Is two o'clock satisfactory?"
He took her hand and kissed the air above it. "More than satisfactory."
"Until tomorrow, then. Auf Wiedersehen."
"Auf Wedersehen, my dear doctor."
Johanna hurried Daisy into a trot, following the path by the last light of day. Something like elation hummed through her body and filled her mind with a hundred new ideas. How much she'd missed, living here in the country! But surely there were few like Dr. Bolkonsky, who could understand and match the flow of her thoughts so perfectly.
Mrs. Daugherty was waiting up for her, concern evident in the set of her mouth. "Thought you'd never get back," she said. "My girl's gone home."
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have stayed away so long." She had a powerful urge to hug Mrs. Daugherty, which would doubtless startle the old woman into believing she had run mad herself.
"I take it yer meetin' went well?"
"Very well, thank you." She caught the smells of leftover dinner in the kitchen. "Everyone has retired?"
"Far as I know. Since you weren't here, they all went to bed early. I checked up on your pa, but young Quentin has been takin' right good care of him."
"Yes." Her heart did a somersault at the thought of seeing him again. She felt so much hope.
And a very strong need for a long, hot soak. "I know it's late, Bridget, but could you help me prepare a bath?"
"I always keep water heatin' on the stove." The older woman squinted at Johanna and slowly smiled. "Well, well. You're in the mood for luxuriatin', I can see that. He is a handsome sort, your doctor."
Johanna pretended not to hear the innuendo. "If you're sure you don't mind—"
"Not at all. You just go to your room and I'll take care of the rest."
Tripping lightly down the hall, Johanna paused to listen, hearing only the quiet of a settled household. Papa was asleep. She went to her room and threw open the windows to the evening breeze.
Her bathtub, separate from the hip bath used by the others in the pantry off the kitchen, was set in a corner of her room behind a screen. It was a small, personal indulgence she wasn't able to use nearly often enough.
She hummed under her breath as she undressed. Mrs. Daugherty came in with a bucket of steaming water and emptied it into the tub, then brought in two more buckets of cool water to mix in. It made for a very shallow and lukewarm bath, but Johanna wasn't about to complain. She stepped behind the screen and shed the rest of her clothing.
"Will you take my dress for cleaning and brushing, Mrs. Daugherty? I may need it again soon."
"I will indeed."
"Also, can you bring your girl tomorrow? I may have another appointment in town."
The older woman chuckled. "Will you, now. Well, I s'pose my daughter can spare me an extra day or two this week. Good night, Doc Jo."
"And you." She waited until Mrs. Daugherty had closed the door, and sank into the tub. If only she had that wine now…
"Johanna."
She sat bolt upright in the tub, sending water splashing over the edge.
Quentin.
Chapter 14
She was quite naked. Quentin knew that, had known before he walked through the door. The scent of her skin had carried into the hallway, a perfume of bare flesh tinged with the minerals in the water and a trace of perspiration that carried the unmistakable signature of arousal.
Not blatantly sexual, perhaps. But arousal just the same. And it had drawn Quentin to her with the force of a deadly compulsion.
He stopped at the sound of her indrawn breath. He'd given her warning. She was safe behind the screen. But he wasn't safe. He wasn't safe at all.
All day long he'd chopped at the fallen tree, trying to sweat her out of his system. It hadn't worked. Harper's words rang in his head with each blow of the axe, and he'd paced and listened and smelled the air for the first hint of her return to the Haven.
Now she was here, and he couldn't wait any longer.
"Quentin?" Her usually steady voice carried a quiver. "This is not a good time. I will speak with you in the morning—"
"You were gone all day." His words sounded harsh even to his own ears.
"Please leave," she said. He heard the splashing of water, imagined her covering her full breasts with her arms in an instinctively protective gesture. He wet his lips.
"I won't hurt you." An absurd statement. Of course he wouldn't hurt her, wouldn't rush around the screen and scoop her from the water and lay her on the bed and ravish her…
"I would appreciate some privacy," she said.
So would I. With you. He struggled to rein in his unruly imagination. His mind was spinning wanton images of him and Johanna cavorting in her bed, of her uninhibited cries as he entered and rode her, of her skin flushed with passion.
He could see far more than just her face if he stepped around the screen. He wildly considered going back out to the yard, amid the stacks of newmade firewood, and resuming his attack on the fallen oak he had yet to defeat.
It wouldn't help. Nothing helped.
"Mrs. Daugherty told me you went to meet a doctor," he said. A male doctor.
"That is not your concern," she said sharply. Johanna was seldom angry.
Her indignation did nothing to quell his own helpless arousal. Nor did the heavy scent of a man's expensive cologne on her clothing, in the room—and underlying it, too faint to identify, the smell of a strange male.
He moved to her bed, where she'd laid out her undergarments. They smelled only of her. The chemise was of material too coarse to be of the best quality, but he stroked it against his face as if it were made of the finest silk. He inhaled her.
"What are you doing?" she demanded. "This is not appropriate behavior. Leave at once."
She spoke as if to a child. Or a madman. He laughed hoarsely. "What are you afraid of, Johanna? I just came in to say good-night."
Do what she asks, he told himself. Leave.
Why should you? another part answered. Harper said she wants you. Make her admit it.
He sat down on the edge of Johanna's bed, trapped between two c
onflicting forces. His mind was the battleground. He couldn't get a grip on his thoughts, let alone make them obey his will.
"Quentin?"
He didn't trust himself to answer. The ugly, lustful propensity within him ruled his voice. Another Quentin spoke in his mind, a second self, mocking his restraint—twisting in his brain until the agony made him reach for a bottle that wasn't there.
"I know you're still here, Quentin," Johanna said. Her voice had calmed, becoming that of the impersonal physician once more. Quentin nearly hated her for that self-possession.
He was consumed by darker compulsions.
Obsessed.
"I am getting out now," she said.
He could almost see her rising naked from the water. Lifting one long leg and then the other, water streaming over her soft, fair skin. Breasts glistening, each erect nipple crowned by clinging drops. Belly slightly rounded, full hips made to cradle a man's body, strong thighs with a secret thatch of brown curls between.
Quentin thrust his fingers into the bedcover, grabbing fistfuls of quilted cloth.
Johanna walked out from behind the screen. She didn't cower or try to cover herself, though she must have seen at once that he hadn't averted his gaze. She stood tall and defiant, her arms at her sides, only the rapid rise and fall of her breasts revealing her emotion.
"Is this what you wished to see?" she asked. "Look, then."
Oblivious to shame, Quentin complied. He devoured her with his eyes. Her face was flushed, as he'd imagined it; her hair fell in wanton disarray about her shoulders, an errant lock trailing over one full breast.
Her breasts were magnificent. Firm, lush, begging to be suckled. Her shoulders were broad enough to support them in perfect proportion. Her waist narrowed beneath them, flaring out into generous hips. She held her legs close together, but he glimpsed the blush of her sex behind the screen of curls.
And he smelled her. That body, such fertile ground for a man's seed, revealed her true desires, the ones she dared not show with her fearless blue gaze.
SECRET OF THE WOLF Page 19
