by Eloisa James
“This is not worthy of you. You are making a terrible mistake, Gabrielle.”
“I could have caught cholera myself, entering your home. I could have died bringing Johore the medicine.” Her voice was stony.
She waited, hand outstretched.
The old man’s eyes dropped. He reached into the small red bag and took out a bottle.
“It will be my choice,” Gabby said. “Quill will almost certainly leave me when he learns what I have done. But I will know that I tried everything I could to save him from pain. At any rate, I will have to leave him if there is no cure. We cannot continue like this.”
“It seems you are your father’s child after all,” Sudhakar said sadly. “Did you know that your father married his first wife in order to save her soul? He had had no success converting the villagers to Christianity, so he married poor little Bala, knowing he could command her religion as her husband.”
“I did know that,” Gabby said. “But—”
“It didn’t work.” Sudhakar’s voice was meditative. “When Bala’s child, your half-brother, died, she killed herself rather than live without him. That was when your father turned to exporting goods rather than saving souls.”
The words pierced Gabby’s heart, but she kept her voice steady. “The story casts a poor light on my father’s judgment. But I am as much your child as my father’s, Sudhakar. If I know how to love Quill, it is because you and Johore loved me. When Johore was suffering, you tried every possible remedy, regardless of his opinion. I am acting in your shadow, Sudhakar. You are doing me an injustice.”
A heavy silence fell over the room.
“Perhaps you are right,” Sudhakar admitted. “It is true that your motives are always charitable. Ever since you were a child, you have loved too deeply and too quickly for comfort.” He handed her the bottle. “This bottle contains two doses calibrated for a grown man. You must measure exactly half the bottle. The medicine has no ill effects at the right dose, but at an incorrect dose, it may well kill the patient. Try the second dose forty-eight hours after the first, only if it is absolutely clear that the medicine did not work.”
“I give the second dose only if the first doesn’t work,” Gabby repeated. “How will I know when the dose has worn off?”
“In general, a patient will become extremely lethargic shortly after taking this medicine and remain so for twelve to twenty-four hours. There is no danger as long as the patient does not fall asleep in the first two to three hours. I have tried this cure only twice, Gabrielle. On one occasion it was effective, and on the other it was not. The patient must engage in the activity that leads to headaches while under the drug’s influence.” He looked her straight in the eyes. “Do you understand, Gabrielle?”
She nodded, looking at the small bottle. “What is in it?”
Sudhakar shrugged. “As I said, it is a poison. This particular poison is created by a tree frog, who puts his victims into a deep sleep. For some reason, in a very small dose it seems to put injured parts of a human brain to sleep, and certain movements become tolerable once again. I gave it to a young man who had fallen from a tree. After the injury, he could not bend his head lower than his waist without bringing on a severe headache. In that case, the medicine worked.”
Gabby swallowed, trying not to imagine how Quill would view the possibility of having parts of his brain put to sleep. At least that settled the question of whether she should ask him again to take the medicine. He would never touch it.
“Please, Sudhakar, will you remain in London for at least a week? My husband has a migraine; he will be ill for the next few days, but I would like you to know the man I have married.”
“I will gladly make a short visit, if you promise me that you will reconsider this decision, Gabrielle.”
She bowed her head. “I am grateful, Sudhakar, for your forbearance. And I am truly sorry that you think I am acting like my father.”
Sudhakar noted that she had avoided his request, and sighed. “I would be proud to call you my daughter,” he said. “You are the dhtu of my heart. What stems from evil in your father stems from love in you. Now, let me have some rest, Gabrielle. My old legs still think I’m at sea.”
Gabby kissed him on the forehead and slipped from the room, the tiny bottle clutched in her hand.
QUILL WAS HAVING a gloriously sensual dream. He was lying on the bed, and Gabby was undressing him. She was bathed in a rosy light. But the light wasn’t coming from behind her; it radiated from her skin, as if she were glowing.
And then he noticed that she wasn’t wearing any clothing. He watched her breasts as she unbuttoned his shirt. He considered touching them, but it was enjoyable to simply lie and watch her.
“Mmmm, Gabby,” he murmured. His voice rolled out of his mouth like thick molasses.
“Yes?” She was wrestling with his wristbands.
“Why are you so rosy?”
“What did you say?” His dream wife seemed a little irritated. Her breasts bobbed as she tugged at his sleeve.
“You look like a medieval saint,” he said, and then giggled. A more rational part of his mind noted that he hadn’t giggled since he was a boy. “I’m married to a saint—a medieval saint. I rather like that idea.” His voice trailed off. “Of course, medieval saints wore clothing, at least in the pictures I’ve seen.”
A warm hand cupped his cheek and Gabby’s face swam into view. “Quill, are you feeling all right? You’re not making a good deal of sense.” Her beautiful eyes looked concerned.
“Course I am,” he said. “I’m having one of the best dreams of my life. Are you going to keep doing that, Gabby love? Or should I call you Gabby o’ Dreams? Or Dream Gabby?” He giggled again.
Gabby’s face disappeared and he heard a pop. She had managed to loosen his sleeve. She startled wrestling with his other cuff, just as he was thinking that he really had to touch her luscious breasts. Slowly he dragged his free arm up and placed it at the curve of one breast.
This is one of those slower-than-molasses dreams, he thought. One could only hope that he would stay asleep long enough to experience whatever Dream Gabby was planning. He let his hand slide down her smooth side, enchanted by the way rosy light peeked through his fingers.
She had managed to get his other sleeve undone. Quill let her wrestle him out of the shirt.
“Oh, dream maiden,” he called.
“What?” Her face swung back into his range of view.
“This being a dream,” he confessed, “I don’t seem to be able to move very well.”
She looked taken aback. “Why don’t I unbutton your trousers, and we’ll see how you feel then?” she suggested.
“Excellent suggestion,” Quill murmured. At least part of him seemed to be functioning properly. Thank goodness. This was his dream, after all, and it would be a nightmare if his whole body had turned as lazy as his arms.
A few minutes later he was completely naked. And Dream Gabby was naked as well. “This is most enjoyable,” he muttered.
She wasn’t as relaxed as he was, he could tell that. She stared into his eyes and then said, “Quill, I’m going to kiss you now.”
“All right,” he agreed.
And she did. He enjoyed it too. He even managed to get a hand up on her shoulder and stroke down over the curve of her back and her exquisite bottom.
“Since this is my dream,” he said languidly, “I wish I had a bit more ginger in me. A bit more momentum.”
“I can’t do anything about that,” Dream Gabby said, her eyes anxious again. “Do you think that if you were on top of me, you might feel more energetic?”
Quill thought about that. “I like the way you think,” he said generously. “If I wasn’t so much in love with the real Gabby, I might take you up seriously.”
At that she giggled. “I’m very glad to hear you’re in love.” Her eyes were a warm golden color, just the color of the real Gabby’s. And she kissed him…. She was an excellent kisser. It was enough to
make a man feel a twinge of guilt about his real wife.
“I wasn’t in love with her at first,” he said.
Her eyes grew round and startled. “You weren’t?”
“Oh, no.” Quill shook his head, but for some reason the motion made him feel a bit dizzy. “Would you mind rubbing your breasts against me again?”
She was frowning at him. “Tell me more about not being in love,” she ordered.
“Not unless you do as I ask. This is my dream, after all.”
Dream Gabby seemed a bit huffy, but she plopped down on top of him.
“Not like that,” Quill protested. “Oh…well, that feels good. Did you know that your eyes go all brandy-colored when you’re excited? It’s funny. You look as annoyed as my real wife. But you don’t act like her. If I stopped in the middle of an argument, for example …” he said dreamily, letting his fingers wander down between her legs. For a moment he lost track of what he was saying. “If I stopped in the middle of an argument with the real Gabby, and I asked her to rub her breasts against my chest, do you think she would do it?” He shook his head again. “Oh, no. She’d likely throw the chamber pot at me.”
Her eyes were hazy. At least she responded exactly as his wife did to certain touches. “I’d like to hear about not being in love,” she said, with a little shiver and a gasp.
“Oh, that.” Quill could feel strength returning to his legs as he continued to caress his wife, his dream wife, that is. “I had to marry her, you see,” he said offhandedly, experimenting with a slightly rougher movement.
Dream Gabby cried out and clutched his shoulders. There was a moment of silence. But then his comment seemed to sink in.
“What do you mean, you had to marry her?”
There was a bite to her tone. Quill raised his head and peered, getting her face into focus. She had little golden streaks in her rosy halo now. “You know, medieval saints don’t have halos that go around their whole bodies,” he said genially. “You have the biggest, best halo I’ve ever seen. Maybe you are an angel. Have I died?”
“No, I’m not an angel.” Her tone was quite fierce. “And you’re not dead, Quill.”
“Well, any self-respecting angel would be jealous of that halo,” he assured her. Then he remembered what he’d been doing. He was definitely gaining some strength. He even managed to get his other hand on her hip.
“Quill,” said his angel in a rather stern voice, “I want to hear about your marriage.”
“Of course,” he said. Every time he stroked her, little golden sparks flew off her halo. They were practically blinding. He closed his eyes. “Well, we were married by my father’s deathbed. Not very romantic, that.”
“Oh, that’s what you meant about having to get married!” Her tone was definitely relieved. But Quill felt he really should be completely honest. If you started lying to your dream wife, well, that was akin to lying to oneself.
“No, that wasn’t what I meant,” he said. His hands wandered over to clasp her bottom. He made a little experimental thrust upward. Yes, his legs seemed to be regaining strength. “I had to marry her because Peter wouldn’t do it. Peter is my brother. Do you think that I could try having you underneath me now?” he added.
Dream Gabby didn’t protest, so he rolled her over in slow motion. It took so much effort that he just lay on top of her for a moment. Luckily he didn’t have to worry about whether he was squashing all the air out of her, because she was just a dream. It felt uncommonly good.
Except that she was still asking pesky questions.
“Peter thought she was fat and clumsy,” he explained. “I told him he should do it anyway, because my wife is an heiress, you know. I don’t need money, but Peter does.” He had his face tucked into her neck, so he couldn’t see her expression. But she started to wiggle under him in a way that told him that dream women reacted similarly to real women when called plump and clumsy.
“I didn’t agree with him.” He raised his head with a great effort. “I thought she had a luscious body, right from the start.” He didn’t want his dream wife to leave in a huff. Not when things were going so well.
She seemed a little more relaxed and even opened her lips to his. They kissed until Dream Gabby’s halo had more gold in it than red. Quill closed his eyes again and let his head fall onto her shoulder. “I can’t do everything at once,” he said in a cheerfully complaining way. “I’m awfully tired. But this is quite the best dream I’ve ever had. I wouldn’t want you to think that I’m being unreasonable.”
“What did you mean by saying that you weren’t in love?”
Only one part of Quill’s body was fully awake. “I’d like to be inside you now, Gabby my girl. Do you think you could take care of it?”
Dream Gabby seemed as unprepared in these matters as his real wife. She fumbled about with her little hands until she finally guided him to the spot. Quill gathered all his strength and plunged in. Sweat broke out on his back.
“Damn,” he muttered. “Dream or no dream, you feel better than any woman I’ve ever been with—except the real Gabby, of course. You feel the same as her,” he said thoughtfully, “and she’s the very best.”
Dream Gabby looked a little happier. “Quill, would you like me to move?” she asked. Then she looked as if she remembered something. “Actually, dream women can’t do the moving,” she said silkily. She walked her fingers down his spine.
“Let’s just lie here for a moment,” he suggested. He let his eyelids close again. The most active part of his body was sending all kinds of angry signals his way. He managed to thrust forward a few times, just enough to turn his dream wife’s halo practically gold. Then he slumped again.
Now she was running her fingers all over his back and kissing his shoulder. “I would really like to know what you meant about not being in love,” she coaxed, running a hand between their bodies.
“When you do that, I can deny you nothing,” Quill said grandly. What she was doing sent a surge of energy through his body, and he found himself on his knees, actually making love in a seminormal fashion. With each stroke, Dream Gabby’s halo grew more and more golden. Quill watched in fascination. She had her head arched back, eyes closed, and little guttural moans broke from her mouth each time he thrust into her.
He was still caught in the slow web of his dream, so he had far more rational control than he would have had in normal life, with real Gabby. By now he would have been completely lost. But since it was a dream, part of his mind was just lazily observing what was happening. He slipped his hands under Gabby’s hips and pulled her up a few inches. She started shrieking, and sparks flew off her body in all directions. He thrust into her again and again, feeling the delicious tightening deep inside her and the way her fingers were clutching his shoulders. And then she literally turned into a blaze of light.
“Damn,” Quill said quietly. “I’m making love to an angel. This is quite a dream. Or else I am in heaven.”
Dream Gabby’s hair was damp, and curls were stuck to her forehead. But she opened her eyes, her beautiful eyes, and looked at him. “I’m not an angel,” she whispered.
“Next thing to it,” Quill remarked. “After all, you’re the one with the halo.” He was still deep inside her. He decided to try another experiment, now that he had regained a fair amount of strength. Not to mention self-control.
Deftly, he turned her over on her knees and sank deep inside again. Her protests had a hysterical edge that reminded him of the real Gabby’s. “This is my dream,” he had to remind her. “Many women love this position. You will too. That is, if I dream about you again.” A little twinge of guilt colored his statement. He didn’t want the dream to be too good. It wouldn’t be loyal to Gabby.
He was definitely having more trouble with his self-control. But Gabby’s halo was still rosy and just starting to streak a little gold. And he wanted her with him. “I wasn’t in love with Gabby in the beginning,” he said, panting but trying to keep his mind clear. “Though I told
her I loved her, of course.”
“You lied to her? Why did you do that?”
“Had to,” he said. “Gabby is a romantic. I knew she’d fall for it if I told her that I fell in love at first sight. You know, sweetheart, I’m not sure I can keep this up much longer. In many senses of the word.” He was appalled to hear himself giggle again. “Perhaps I got drunk before going to bed,” he murmured. “Maybe I died while drunk. Too much champagne …”
Dream Gabby’s shoulders were tense, and her halo looked more blazing red than dreamy gold. “I think we should talk a little more about the lies you told me,” she said accusingly.
“I’d rather not,” Quill said with great patience. “And this is my dream.” He shrugged to himself. After all, she was only a creation of his imagination. He slipped his hands under her body and caressed her breasts. She panted, little ladylike pants.
“You’re rather wonderful, Gabby o’ my Dreams,” Quill murmured. He was having trouble talking. But he wanted to hold on to the moment—to the dream. His dream wife was inexpertly moving against him. “Although you’re just as clumsy as my wife,” he told her.
“Be still,” he growled, and he grabbed her hips so hard that his fingers left white marks. He thrust forward hard. He let himself get swept away. She gave a faint scream, and little gold flames jumped from her body.
He closed his eyes at the end, afraid that she would blind him, his angel wife.
QUILL WOKE UP with a raging thirst and a most unpleasant taste in his mouth. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, walked to the table, and poured a glass of water. In mid-gulp, the details of his dream flooded back into his mind. He paused for a second and then grinned in silent appreciation of his own imagination. No wonder he was so thirsty. He poured another glass of water and savored it like fine wine.
