Ecstasy Wears Emeralds (16 page)

She'd listened to heartbeats, set a broken wrist, and even incised an infected heel.

And at every turn, there was Rowan. She'd forgotten her vows after they'd kissed not to smile at him and to keep a reserved distance from him at all times.

It was difficult not to warm to a man who peered at you under tables and let you spend a day learning how all those mysterious Latin phrases could come to life with a patient standing before you.

“Here we are, Miss Renshaw!” Theo gave her a bemused look as he opened the carriage door. She'd been so deep in her thoughts of Rowan and the day that she'd missed the ride altogether and was now shocked to realize that they'd stopped in front of the apothecary's.

“Ah! So we are!” She stepped down lightly. “Thank you, Theo. This shouldn't take very long.”

Theo nodded. “Mr. Fitzroy prides himself on being quick with orders, so no worries there! I'll wait with the carriage for you.”

“You're very kind.” She smoothed the line of her coat over her skirts and headed into the shop. It was a long, narrow space with a counter along one side and behind it were hundreds of small wooden drawers of every cunning size and shape imaginable.

A portly man with spectacles came over to her, addressing her from his side of counter. “Can I help you, miss?”

“Yes, I—”

“Miss Renshaw!” Peter James hailed her from a doorway in the back, his arms full of a large wooden crate. “I apologize for interrupting, but it's such a surprise to see you here!”

“You know this young lady?” the older man asked archly.

“Yes, Mr. Fitzroy. This is Miss Gayle Renshaw. She is working with Dr. West.”

“I am his assistant.” It was pride that made her blurt it out, but she'd said as much to Peter James when they'd met, and Gayle didn't see the harm in underscoring her position—especially with a dour man like Fitzroy. “I am very interested in the medical arts.”

Mr. Fitzroy adjusted his spectacles. “I'd thought Mr. James was spewing nonsense when he told me that Dr. West had a woman helping him in his laboratory. I've known Dr. West for too long to think he would even consider such a thing.”

Gayle held out the list, as if Mr. Fitzroy hadn't spoken. “Dr. West asked me to give you this list and bring back the items on it. Naturally, if there's anything you can't provide, please let me know.”

Mr. Fitzroy took the paper from her as cautiously as a man reaching for an asp. He glanced at the list, then back up at her. “I'll send along the order later this afternoon.”

“I'll wait. Dr. West expressed some need for the items as soon as possible and I have the carriage outside.”

Mr. James put down the crate he was holding to set it aside. “I can pull the order, Mr. Fitzroy. I don't—”

“No! Don't be a fool!” Mr. Fitzroy huffed. “
You
can see to it that Miss Renshaw, who has expressed an
interest in medical arts
, doesn't go poking about my inventory in my absence! I shall pull this order personally!” And with that, he set about pulling powders and striding around his shop before stomping into the back of the store out of sight.

She was embarrassed for Peter at being spoken to so rudely in her presence. But also for herself for being treated like a wayward child who needed a minder. “Mr. Fitzroy is . . .”

Peter leaned forward, keeping his voice low. “He's all bluster. Don't worry.” He led her over to a display of small brown glass bottles toward the front of the shop as far away from the doorway Mr. Fitzroy had gone through as possible. “Here, we'll pretend to look at smelling salts and enjoy our wait, despite him. What say you?”

She nodded, picking up a tiny jar labeled “Licoricespiced Ammonia,” and played along. “I never knew there were so many varieties.”

“As many as the ladies who practice swooning, I like to think!”

She laughed. Peter had such a relaxed air about him.

Peter picked up a different bottle. “Not to pry, but I'm sure you have an easier time with your employer. Not once have I heard of West barking at anyone. He's got quite a good reputation—though his staff never talk much—so maybe secretly he's even meaner than Fitzroy.”

She shook her head. “He's very kind. And his staff never talk because he treats them like family.”

“A world traveler, though! How envious I am of a man who can set out and see the exotic wonders of the world! My uncle once went to Scotland, and my family fussed over him as if he'd been to the ends of the earth, can you imagine? But none of them have ever left London, so who's to say what impresses one man and not another!” He opened up a small jar as if to sample it. “Dr. West went to India, didn't he?”

“Yes.” She crinkled her nose as a scent like wet dog wafted over. “For medical research.”

“Has he told you about it? India, I meant.” He capped the offending vial. “He was ill there, terribly ill from what Mr. Fitzroy said. Dr. West was all skeleton thin and looked a bit haunted when he returned—not at all like the man who left London.”

“Ill? Was he?”

Peter nodded. “He'd never say, so it's a bit of a mystery. But he went off with a bounce in his step. We heard he'd stopped to visit friends in the Lake District and picked himself up a wife on his way out of the country. Lost her though before he reached Bombay. Maybe it was grief that took the starch out of him.” Peter shrugged. “He was gone for almost two years, but you wouldn't have recognized him.”

“Travel and experience can change a man. But you—you think he was ill?”

“Who can say? It wasn't just his appearance that was different. He had all these new friends that no one seemed to know. Have you met his gentleman friends?”

Something in her tightened defensively as their friendly chatter strayed into what felt like Rowan's very personal business. But before she could express her dismay, Mr. James went on as cheerfully as a lark. “I have! Mr. Blackwell is my favorite. Recently married, much to everyone's surprise, to some American girl. An actress in Piccadilly attempted suicide when she heard, they say—he was so popular with the ladies! If ever a man was destined to die a bachelor . . .”

Relief flooded through her.
I'd forgotten how well he knew the house! Naturally he would know of Rowan's circle—better than I would.
“His wife is an American?”

Mr. James put back a bottle he'd been taking, his expression sobering. “I was being rude, wasn't I? I feel so comfortable with you, Miss Renshaw, that you have me rambling on like an old woman. Forgive me, I am tied so often to my workbench that I spend most of my time in the social company of delivery boys, cart vendors, and servants. It makes for wonderful stories, but I get carried away.”

“There's no need to apologize.” She waved off the trespass. “I've done the same, telling you more of myself than I should have at our last meeting! And with Dr. West's fascinating friends like the Jaded, who could blame you for wishing to share a good story?”

Peter's eyes flashed at her mention of the Jaded, but before he could let her in on the cause—

“Mr. James!” Mr. Fitzroy's clipped call brought both of them instantly around. “Carry this package out to Miss Renshaw's carriage and then see that you're downstairs finishing sorting away those deliveries. It's my time and money you're wasting, sir!” He set the bag down on the counter. “Please thank Dr. West for his patronage, Miss Renshaw, and let him know that I can have anything he needs run over—
without
troubling you.”

“I will, Mr. Fitzroy and it's no trouble. No trouble, at all.” She walked out nearly blinded with fury at the apothecary's tone with Peter behind her.

“All bluster, remember?” Peter whispered behind her, then hailed Theo. “Here's the box, sir. Shall I put it inside the carriage?”

“I'll take it.” Theo took the good-size box from him, tucking it safely under one of the carriage seats. “We'd best be back. Thanks for the hand, Mr. James.”

“Anytime!” He tipped his hat to Gayle. “It really was a pleasure to see you again, miss. A real pleasure!”

She climbed back inside, and the carriage pulled away smoothly into the traffic on the street. Gayle was grateful to have her errand behind her and cheered to have seen a familiar face.
Poor Peter! The next time I am tempted to kick Rowan in the shins, I'll have to remember how fortunate I am that he is nothing like Fitzroy.

She looked at the brown paper-wrapped box underneath the seat across from her and a new thought robbed her of some of her mirth.

Gayle sat up straighter and leaned back against the cushioned seat. “I'm just going to ask him,” she spoke aloud. “I told him I'd do my best to reach my own informed opinions, and I'm going to stop letting my imagination run riot about jungle fevers and ask the man.”

By the time she'd returned, it was late in the afternoon, the last of his patients had apparently been seen, and the house was quiet. Carter pointed her to Rowan's ground-floor office, and Gayle pushed the door open only to discover the man asleep behind his desk. Rowan's long legs were stretched out to rest unceremoniously on his leather doctor's bag, using it as a footrest, and he leaned back against the wooden back of his desk chair, his head tilted over to one side in precarious balance.

Gayle smiled at the sight. He hardly looked comfortable, but he was slumbering so soundly, she couldn't imagine disturbing him. Instead, she realized it was a rare opportunity to look at him unabated and without any repercussions.

He was a handsome man by any assessment, but Gayle marveled that it was the sum of his parts that gave him such charm and not even one thing in particular. There was a rugged quality to his chiseled features, so that the clean lines and classic beauty to his face were unmistakably masculine without being coarse. He was unfashionably clean-shaven, but Gayle liked it on him since it made him seem younger and more accessible to her.

Asleep he looked almost boyish, with the soft curls of his dark auburn hair with its mahogany streaks set back from his face. His lashes were as thick and lush as the prettiest maiden's, and she smiled remembering how her mother had once lamented that men never paid a single thought their entire lives to the bounty of grand eyelashes they'd been blessed with but admired them on ladies and spurred women to unknown torture to achieve the same effect.

Rowan would never be mistaken for a man of leisure. His frame was muscular and athletic, with his broad shoulders and narrow hips. His hands were clasped lightly to rest on the flat of his stomach, and the wool cloth of his trousers clung to his thighs and outlined the shape of his legs.

She'd studied more of the male form than she'd ever anticipated, and a hundred scientific terms jangled through her head as she surveyed him. But still, the potency of Dr. Rowan West was impossible to dismiss in terms of sinew, muscle, or bone.

The wicked ability to stare at him unchecked was heady, and the longer she acted the voyeur, the more a strange heat in her blood began to grow. She took two steps closer, near enough to lean over and drink in the details of the beauty of his hands and wrists, the pulse at his neck, and the faint smell of cedar and spices from the soap that he used.

She tried to conjure an image of Rowan without the layers of respectable clothes and was almost breathless by the mental exercise. The top buttons of his shirt had come loose and there was the smallest hint of a shadow of hair peeking out.
Is he covered in hair like that? Is it soft or coarse to the touch? What would it be like to lie up against the flesh of a man—so alien but so alike at the same time?

“Excuse me, Miss Renshaw.” Carter came up behind her and Gayle nearly jumped out of her shoes. “Sorry to disturb you, doctor.”

Gayle put her fingertips over her mouth to keep from screaming when she was equally startled by Rowan's prompt and level reply. The sable brown eyelashes she'd admired barely flickered to betray his alertness. Rowan didn't bother moving a muscle, except to smile. “Not at all, I was just resting my eyes.”