Forever in My Heart Read online

"It wouldn't do to leave fingerprints, would it?"

  Her smile was tentative. She appreciated his small attempt at humor to set her at ease.

  "I think you could use a drink."

  She felt her smile fading, her lips parting in surprise.

  "Medicinal purposes only."

  She relaxed. She knew a number of physicians who swore by the efficacy of warm whiskey and lemon for a sore throat, though it was not something she had ever tried. She saw him look around, then shrug.

  "Good thing I've come prepared." He crossed the room to where he had placed his black bag and retrieved a quarter-full bottle of Scotch. He turned, showing her the bottle. "Glasses?"

  She had no idea where they might be. She shook her head.

  "Then you'll have to tipple it right out of the bottle." He brought the bottle to the bed, sat down on the edge, and handed it to her. "It will make you feel better, I promise."

  It wasn't warm, it didn't have lemon in it, but she trusted him nonetheless. She uncapped the bottle and raised it slowly to her lips. He gave it a nudge, and she took a large swallow. He urged her again, this time challenging her with an amused look.

  "That's better," he said, grinning when she made a face. "Obviously you have no appreciation for good Scotch."

  The liquor eased the tightness in her throat. "I don't drink much." That was very close to the truth. A glass of sherry made her woozy. Two glasses and she could barely recall drinking the first. Since she prided herself on having control, she had never tested what damage could be done at three glasses.

  "I don't either—much."

  Without much prompting, she took another swallow. Perhaps Scotch had a different effect than sherry. At least it didn't taste nearly so bad this time.

  "It seems to agree with you rather quickly," he said, taking the bottle from her. He touched her cheek again with the back of his fingers. "But then that's what it's supposed to do. You're not so flushed." His hand slipped over her face. His knuckle touched her lips. "Show me your tongue."

  She opened her mouth wide and stuck out her tongue. "Aaaaahhhh." She was surprised when he laughed.

  "That wasn't quite what I had in mind, but it's a pretty tongue. Very pink. Nice teeth, too. And you've kept your tonsils." He nudged her jaw. "You can close now. I've seen quite enough. Another drink is definitely in order."

  Expecting him to pass her the bottle, she gave a little start when he took a long pull on it himself.

  He handed it to her and let her finish. "For someone who doesn't drink much, you've developed quite a taste for it."

  She offered him a crooked, somewhat sleepy smile. "I think I like good Scotch," she said. She certainly would never scoff at its value for easing a sore throat. "As medicine, of course."

  "Of course," he agreed dryly. He put the bottle over the side of the bed and made himself more comfortable. He leaned back against the walnut headboard and stuffed a loose pillow behind the small of his back. "Much better."

  A little wary of his efforts to stretch out beside her, she moved to the far side of the bed. Her action did not go unnoticed and brought his derision.

  "There was no need for you to move. I'm not going to attack you, but I can hardly reach you if you remain over there."

  There was sense in what he was saying, she reminded herself. He had already helped ease some of her pain. He could hardly conduct an examination if he couldn't touch her. She scooted toward him. He fluffed a pillow and put it behind her. Her knees bumped his and the strap of her nightshift slid over her left shoulder again. She tried to push it up but her movements were awkward. The liquor and laudanum were having an effect on more than just her throat.

  "We're a fine pair," he said.

  She frowned, looking at him oddly, not understanding.

  He leaned his head back, exposing the strong line of his throat, and closed his eyes. "I can't remember when I've had a longer day," he said, sighing.

  Looking at the gilded clock on the mantel, she saw it was past midnight. "New day."

  "I suppose it is. And it's starting just the same way. God, I'm tired."

  She had a tender heart and it went out to him. "Rest," she said softly.

  "It's a nice offer, but not the reason I came here. I should see to you. You've obviously been waiting."

  "I didn't mind." It was an effort to talk, but not precisely for the same reasons it had been earlier. Even to her own ears her words sounded slurred. "Mrs. Hall made me comfortable."

  "This isn't much," he said.

  She was as aware of the Spartan conditions of the room as he, yet she said with quiet conviction, "My experience says it's better than the streets."

  He opened his eyes and looked at her now. "I suppose it is."

  She held his gaze for a long time before breaking away. Her own forthrightness embarrassed her.

  "You're flushed again."

  She realized that she was, though not for the reasons he thought—at least she hoped he would assume it was because of her illness. She let him take the pulse in her throat.

  "Your heart's racing."

  She nodded.

  "Why don't you drop that cover and let me have a look."

  She called herself all manner of fool for hesitating when he was being nothing but matter-of-fact. She felt him nudge the blanket with the heel of his hand. She was being so stupid, she thought.

  "How am I supposed to examine you if I can't see you?"

  Of course he was right, yet she couldn't seem to move. Those dark eyes of his were searching hers.

  He added, "You have some expectations, I assume."

  She was no longer certain what she expected from him. "Not many." As if to prove her point he gave a shout of laughter.

  "Oh, you have been treated poorly! That doesn't speak well for men like myself."

  She supposed he was referring to physicians in general, but she didn't ask for clarification. He was pushing aside the comforter. His fingers slid along the neckline of her shift and rested lightly on the uppermost button. She put a hand over his and shook her head. "I'll do it." It was easier to talk now, but the husky quality of her voice had not improved. Again she hoped it was not mistaken for anything but a symptom of her illness.

  "You're not a chatterbox."

  His observation was one that had been made before. It was her experience that it bothered most people. "No," she said quietly. "I'm not." She finished undoing the top button.

  "Another," he said.

  She glanced at him, not understanding.

  He pointed to her hand. "Another button, please."

  She undid it with fingers made clumsy by the liquor and laudanum. She stared down at his hand as it hovered near her heart.

  "That flush of yours starts about here," he said. His fingertips touched her skin just above her heartbeat. "There's nothing wrong with your heart." He opened another button of her gown. "Come closer," he said. When she didn't move immediately his hands slipped around her rib cage to urge her nearer. He laid one hand on her back near her shoulder blade.

  His confident, impersonal touch relieved her, but her heart was hammering and her head was muzzy.

  "Take a deep breath," he said. "That's it. Hold it." His hand rubbed her back. "Let it out slowly."

  She did. Her heart steadied and her breathing slowed.

  "Better," he said. "There for a moment I thought you might faint."

  "So did I," she said with grave honesty. "I'm a little dizzy."

  He released her. "Why don't you lie down?"

  It was his best suggestion, she thought. "All right." She stretched out on her side, bringing the pillow under her head.

  "I don't have much success with patients," he said, touching her cheek again.

  She wondered at his admission until she remembered his comment on the kind of day it had been. Perhaps he was not so arrogant after all; perhaps he had been humbled by an earlier failure. She felt as if their positions were suddenly reversed and she was being called upon to be
the healer. Her smile was gentle. "I think you're doing fine," she said.

  He blinked, his eyes darkening. "Why, thank you," he said. "It's good of you to encourage me."

  Her smile deepened as her eyelashes lowered sleepily. It was her most heartfelt desire to be part of his profession. She decided to tell him. "I hope to do so one fine day."

  "So you admit you have something to learn?"

  She nodded emphatically. How could he think otherwise? She yawned widely and stretched, slipping one arm under the pillow as she turned on her side.

  "So you're willing to learn a thing or two from me?"

  "I'd like that very much." And she meant it. His manner not withstanding, she was impressed with his dedication. He may not have appreciated the interruption of his social evening, but he had come nonetheless.

  "You're something of a surprise," he said. "Not what I expected when I walked in here this evening."

  It seemed everyone, except Harlan Porter perhaps, realized she didn't belong in a brothel. Too tired to think why that might be, or if it were a good or bad thing, she snuggled deeper into the pillow. "Hmm."

  "Are you going to fall asleep?"

  She shook her head slowly, feeling the frayed edges of sleep curl around her thoughts. She felt him move off the bed. She slept.

  * * *

  The heat of his body woke her. She was astonished to discover she was touching him everywhere... then more astonished that she wasn't drawing back. He was pressed against her, his hands in her hair, his mouth at the curve of her ear. His breath was hot and sweet. He was whispering, and the vibration of it against her skin sent a shiver down her spine. Delicious sensation rocked her body. Her hands slid over his rib cage. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and across his chest, anchoring her against him. She laid her head in the curve of his shoulder. Her mouth brushed his skin.

  His warmth enveloped her. She snuggled against him, liking the strength and heat of him. His fingers brushed the soft underside of her elbow. It was the most natural thing in the world to press a smile against his skin. She felt his nipple harden as her mouth grazed him. Her breasts swelled and she drew a shaky breath. He drew out unfamiliar responses when he touched her, wherever he touched her.

  At first it wasn't enough, then it was too much. Almost, she amended as she curled against him, almost too much.

  He was moving against her, groaning. His hands slid between their bodies and over hers.

  She wondered how to touch him, then he showed her, moving her hand for her, moving it over him. Her legs tangled with his as he twisted and rolled her onto her back. His knee separated her thighs. She whimpered, partly in wanting, partly in surprise. He covered her mouth with his. It was hard and hungry across hers. She could feel the edge of his tongue. She moved restlessly, pushing, arching, but the weight of him secured her. His chest was a wall against her tender breasts. His legs were pressed against the length of hers.

  For a moment she was frightened by what she felt and what he was making her feel. She meant to grab his hair but her fingers curled in the dark strands at his nape. She tried to scratch him and caught the outer edge of his ear instead. When he reared back she smiled uncertainly.

  His gaze darkened and he lowered his head. Mesmerized by those eyes, it was only then that she arched, turning her head at the exact moment his mouth would have fused with hers. His lips scraped her cheek, her jaw line, and then finally the curve of her neck. She pushed at his back, pressing the heels of her hands against the bunched muscles as he moved over her.

  He whispered in her ear. She heard the words and barely comprehended their meaning. His hands were massaging her, teasing her with sensation that flitted over her skin. She couldn't think. His mouth was on hers, his tongue circling hers, pushing, probing, doing all things that his hips were doing at the cradle of her thighs.

  Suddenly he pulled away from her. The loss of him took her breath, made her shake. She reached out to steady herself and he smiled as if he understood her need. He brushed aside her hand as he knelt between her thighs. He pushed back her raised knees and raised her buttocks and plunged into her.

  She cried out. The pain was unexpected. Before she could catch her breath, he withdrew and thrust again. This time she grasped his forearms and held on. She arched and felt him deep inside her. Pleasure stirred again at the urging of his body. He filled her, and a certain empty aching was gone.

  She accepted the force of his thrusts, the rhythm of the joining. Her head moved from side to side and no sound emerged from her parted lips. He left her nothing to do but feel. As the sweep of sensation demanded her surrender, her struggle ceased. His breathing was harsh. She could only take in air in small sips. She felt his taut muscles as need drove him into her again and again.

  Her pleasure shattered as he cried out.

  He collapsed against her and slept almost immediately. In spite of her desire to do otherwise, she followed him, nesting in the curve of his body.

  There was no pain the second time.

  It was much later that she eased out of bed, wobbly on her feet at first. She steadied herself by holding onto the post at the end of the bed, studiously avoiding looking at the bed itself or the man lying across it. When she could trust herself to move without stumbling she went to the dressing screen. The water in the bath was cool but she used it to tend to the ache between her thighs. She went through the motions, unable to think clearly about what she was doing or why she was doing it. Her movements were clumsy and awkward and that fact registered with more clarity than any other.

  She found her clothes in the wardrobe. Stripping out of her shift, she tossed it over the screen and dressed slowly, making certain she did nothing to attract any unwanted attention from the bed. When she was finished she sat at the vanity and brushed out her hair. Her strokes were deliberate, long, and almost punishing. She did not watch herself in the mirror. Instead her eyes were fixed on the nightshift she had worn and the stain of blood near its hem.

  It had ridden up near her thighs when he...

  She blinked and pulled herself back to the present. Moving by rote, with barely any conscious thought of her intent, she picked up the nightshift and rolled it into a ball. She wanted no trace of herself left in the room. Once she was gone it would be as if nothing had happened. Nothing.

  She did not want to carry the nightgown where anyone could see it. She slipped on her coat and tried hiding it there. It was too lumpy. That was when her eyes alighted on the black leather bag just inside the door. Hesitating only a moment she picked it up, opened it a crack, and stuffed her nightshift inside.

  She glanced around the room to make certain she hadn't forgotten anything. Odd, she thought, how that expression came to mind when what she wanted to do was forget everything.

  She opened the door carefully and listened for sounds in the hallway. It was quiet above stairs. Music drifted up from below. Without a backward glance she stepped into the hall and headed for the back stairs. Her flight was uneventful. No one met her on the stairs. The kitchen was empty.

  She paused again at the back door. Thoughts of what she might face outside were as frightening as what she would face upstairs. Her hand trembled on the handle. She gripped it tightly.

  Sucking in her breath, she twisted the handle and pushed open the door. Then she ran, knowing everything about who she was and what she wanted to be depended upon never looking back.

  * * *

  A hansom cab took her the entire way up Broadway to 48th Street. Even at night the thoroughfare was busy. Peddlers were setting out their wares for the early-morning crowd and the last of the late-night revelers. Milk wagons were making deliveries to the boardinghouses while restaurants were ejecting their most stubborn customers. Not interested in the noise or the activity, she curled in one corner of the cab, her head turned away from the window. She paid the driver quickly, her head bowed so she would not be recognized, and walked the last two blocks alone once the cab was out of sight.

&nb
sp; The house at the intersection of Broadway and 50th Street was only slightly smaller than the palatial French country home on which it was modeled. Rose bushes edged the foundation of smooth gray stone and morning glories climbed a trellis on the southern side. She entered the yard at the front, pushing aside the iron rail gate, and then went around back to the delivery entrance. There was a key above the doorjamb. She stood on tiptoe to get it.

  The house was quiet. It surprised her. She had expected that someone would be waiting up for her, but apparently no one had lost any sleep worrying. That could only mean her sister had fabricated a story that credibly explained her absence.

  She took off her shoes and carried them. It wasn't necessary to light a lamp—she knew the way to her room in the dark. She slipped inside her bedchamber and put down the shoes and the black leather bag. She started a fire in the grate and stripped off her clothes and threw them on the fire, stoking it so the material wouldn't smother it. She added the nightshift, and then shoved the doctor's bag under her bed. After scrubbing at the basin she crawled into her bed.

  It was astonishingly easy to fall asleep.

  * * *

  A rough hand on her shoulder nudged her awake. At the windows, the curtains had been pulled back and morning spilled into the room. Even with her eyes closed she could feel the press of light and heat from the sunshine. She opened her eyes slowly and found herself staring into the strained and worried face of her younger sister.

  "Do you have any idea how frightened I've been since you disappeared?" she demanded in a harsh whisper. "What time did you get in? I was in and out of the house most of the night looking for you! And it was no easy feat with Mother and Jay Mac playing cards in the parlor until midnight. I know it wasn't fair of me to leave with Daniel, but it was a poorer trick you played me." She frowned, tears gathering in her eyes. "It was a trick, wasn't it? Oh, Maggie, I'm so sorry, but I've got to know that you're all right. Please tell me where you've been all this time."

  Mary Margaret Dennehy blinked once. She sat up slowly and felt her sister's hand drop away. "Do you know, Skye," she said carefully. "I haven't the faintest idea."