Eve Silver (13 page)

She was mortified. Painfully embarrassed. Secretly thrilled.

Uncertain of herself, she stared past his shoulder at the back wall of the house. There was a movement in one of the upper windows, a flutter that she caught from the corner of her eye. There it was again. The curtain twitched.

They had been seen. By Mary? Oh, dear. Not by Poole. It would be terrible to have been seen by Poole.

“Damien.” Her tone betrayed both her confusion and her unease.

As if recalled to himself, he jerked away at the sound of his name, his hands hanging by his sides in a way that Darcie could only describe as forlorn. What an odd thought. Why would he be forlorn?

She watched the passion fade from his expression. No, not fade. It was as if he forced it away, hid it behind a mask.

“My apologies,” he said stiffly. “It seems I have overstepped once more.” So cold. So distant. So controlled. His protective armor was a wall of cool cordiality.

Darcie glanced up at the window where she had seen movement earlier. Now all was still.

Damien ran his finger along the curve of her cheek. Her heart stuttered.

Abruptly, he turned from her and led the way back to the laboratory. Only once did he pause on the stair to glance back at her, his expression unreadable, reflecting neither the heat of passion nor the warmth of affection.

“A wolf in sheep's clothing,” he said softly before continuing his ascent.

She had no idea what he meant. Did he mean to imply that she was the wolf hiding in the guise of a sheep? Or was he the wolf, waiting to pounce and devour her? With the taste of him still on her lips and the memory of his body pressed to hers, she found the thought of being devoured by him strangely alluring.

Climbing the narrow staircase behind him, Darcie stared up at Damien's broad back. She was bereft over the loss of the strange affinity that had overcome them, confused by his abrupt withdrawal. And in some distant recess of her mind she recognized the signs of danger.

Hide in the shadows. Run, girl. Run.
She could hear him. Steppy. Smell the scent of spilled liquor and rancid sweat. She saw the glint of the knife. Felt the pain of betrayal. Every instinct screamed of danger. She was scored by the eternal, terrible memory of Steppy, a man who became something other than what he had always seemed, other than what he should have been. On its heels came the memory of Damien the first time she had taken him a tray. She could see the half empty glass, smell the rich scent of the brandy.

Darcie blinked. The images receded, leaving her standing in the entry of the laboratory, staring at the glistening human heart that lay severed and naked on the odd narrow table in the center of the room.

Chapter Seven

Determined to carry out her duties, Darcie began to arrange her artist's supplies, secretively glancing at Damien through lowered lashes. He set out his sharp surgeon's tools with careful precision, his studied manner so intense as to make her wonder if he had been as affected by their encounter as she.

Her gaze slid back to the heart. She would do this because she must. Having committed herself to act as Damien's hands, she would not evince cowardice now that she was faced with this daunting task. Avoiding an unpleasant situation would not make it disappear. In fact, the problem was likely to amplify and expand until it grew out of control.

Selecting a bit of charcoal to begin her preliminary sketch, Darcie quickly became immersed in her work. She forgot to be appalled by the subject matter, and instead began to see a strange beauty in the chambers of the heart.

“These two upper chambers are the atria.” Damien sliced and spread the wall of the heart neatly so she could see the inside. His meticulous movements gave no indication of the fiery passion he had shown her only moments ago. He walled off his emotions so effectively that he almost seemed like two separate people.

“Do you see the thin-walled, smooth posterior portion? Have you drawn it thus?” He moved his head to look at her drawing.

Darcie nodded mutely, moving her charcoal with rapid strokes.

“Good. Now label this. The
sinus venarum.
”

She labeled the structure he indicated.

“And here. The rough anterior part. These are muscular ridges. The
musculi pectinati.
”

“What is this?” Darcie asked, indicating a small pouch that projected from the heart. “It looks like a dog's ear.”

“It does, indeed.” Damien glanced at her, his expression contemplative. “It is called an
auricle.
The word
auris
means ear.”

Darcie felt strangely pleased at his warm tone, as though her observation had somehow elevated her in his esteem. Or perhaps it elevated her in her own. The thought made her blink. But now was not the time to delve into her opinion of herself. She pushed the thought aside and focused on her work.

“Now look here,” Damien made a neat cut through the lower portion of the heart. “These are the two lower chambers, the ventricles. Notice that the right one is thinner walled than the left.” He fell silent, allowing Darcie to sketch what she saw.

At length she asked, “Why is the right one thinner walled than the left?”

“The heart is like a pump. In fact, you can think of it as two pumps. From the right side, the blood flows to this vessel, the pulmonary trunk, and from there to the lungs, which sit on either side of the heart. From the left side the blood flows to this vessel, the aorta, and then on to the body.”

Darcie pondered this for a moment, and smiled. “So the left side is thicker because it must work harder, pumping the blood to the entire body. While the right side can be lazy for it only pumps the blood to the lungs, which are close by. Hence the discrepancy in the thickness of the walls,” she finished triumphantly.

“Precisely,” he said. She heard no surprise in his tone, and she realized in that instant that he had
expected
her to understand. “Do you know, Darcie, that it takes a good deal of thought for some medical students to reach that conclusion?”

“There are no women in medical school.” The observation slipped out before she had time to question the wisdom of opening such a Pandora's box.

“No, there are not.”

Their gazes met and held. Darcie sensed something in his expression. As he continued to watch her, she felt a warm wave ripple through her, a feeling of pleasure and confidence that blossomed and grew.

“There are no women in medical school,” Damien repeated. “Yet.”

The thought made Darcie give an incredulous snort of laughter. “Yet? You mean to say that you think some day there might be female physicians?”

Damien nodded. “Female physicians. Female surgeons. Do you know what one of my esteemed colleagues said the other day?”

Darcie shook her head.

“He said that women were not suited for higher education because it would redirect the blood away from their female organs and render them unable to bear children.”

Darcie wondered at the intelligence of the colleague that Damien described. “What utter rot,” she muttered, and then nearly clapped her hand over her mouth when she realized she had voiced the sentiment out loud.

“Go on,” Damien said.

Darcie hesitated, and then continued. “Well, I mean, I find the thought ridiculous. There were women I saw in Whitechapel...good women who had fallen on hard times. They worked, tended to their families, and some had enough education that they taught their own brood, or even the neighborhood children to read and write.” Realizing that she had been uncharacteristically outspoken—perhaps too outspoken—she dropped her gaze and stared at the sketch she had made.

“Go on,” Damien said again.

“I only meant that I think there are women who do many things, brave things, necessary things. Those women bear children.”

“And?” He moved across the room, poured fresh water and scrubbed his hands.

She glanced up and found him watching her intently, his steel gray eyes questioning, probing.

“And I think your colleague was wrong. I think women are capable of many things.”

Darcie swallowed as she waited for his wrath, wondering if at last she had found the limit of his patience. Her transgression would draw the anger of most men. She had openly challenged the widely accepted belief that a woman was a thing of little intelligence, a vessel for the comfort of her husband and the bearing of his children. For a moment, she wondered exactly where her outspoken notions had come from.

She jumped as Damien's warm hand closed over hers, stilling the nervous movement of her fingers. Her head jerked back and she found him standing close beside her, his expression hard and tense, the firm lines of his lips pulled taut.

Slowly, he raised one hand and moved a stray curl from her cheek.

“What were you fleeing the night my carriage nearly ran you down in the street?” His soft tone made the question no less of a demand.

She hesitated, startled by the abrupt change of topic. “Mrs. Feather's house,” Darcie replied. “I fled my sister's house and the fate that awaited me there.”

“And Mrs. Feather sent you to me.”

Darcie swallowed. “Yes.”

Tracing his fingers along the curve of her cheek, Damien smiled, though there was neither humor nor mirth in the expression. The smile was more a cold curving of his lips, as though they were pulled tight by tension and self-derision.

“She sent you to me in order to save you.” He snorted softly. “Did she not consider that Mrs. Feather's house might be infinitely preferable to Damien Cole's?”

Darcie frowned, uncertain of his meaning. There was something peculiar and frightening in his gaze, and she shivered as icy wisps of wariness crawled over her skin, raising goose flesh on her arms.

“How can you ask that, knowing the fate that awaited me there?” she asked. “You have shown me nothing but kindness.” She searched for the right words, and finally finished lamely, “I am happy here.”

“Happy?” Damien's fingers slid down to the column of her throat, lying flat and warm against her fluttering pulse.

She could feel her blood pounding. Faster. Harder.

Their eyes met and held.

She gasped and tried to move away, but he caught her wrist and held her, watching her with a kind of wild desperation that arrowed to her core, sending heated rivulets of molten desire knifing through her, mingling with a nameless unease that ate at the edges of her thoughts.

“I am dangerous to you, Darcie. Run away from this place.” His words were at odds with his actions, for he yet held her wrist, preventing her from moving away. It did not matter, for even if he let go his hold, she would stay.

“I cannot,” she whispered. She could not leave him. To be ripped from him would be to tear her soul asunder. Somehow, he had come to mean more to her than anyone or anything else ever had. And she had no idea how it had happened. “I cannot leave you.”

“I will send you away.” The words were harshly spoken.

She stared at him in silence. He would force her to leave.

Abruptly, he turned from her. She could read the tension in the muscles of his back and shoulders as he spoke.

“Or I shall leave. I have a house in the country. You do not understand the danger you court. I am not the man for you, Darcie.”

She felt bitter disappointment, then anger at herself for letting her heart open even a little. He would leave her, desert her, just as Abigail had left, and Mama and Steppy.

“I can help you,” she said at last.

“Help me?” His voice was strangled. “I am beyond help, Darcie. You can help me with my work, but you cannot help what I have become.” The sound of his ragged breathing filled the room.

“Because you drink harsh spirits?” There. She had said it. “You can choose to stop.”

He did not turn, and her question hung between them, unanswered.

“I shall help you with your work,” she insisted.

Slowly, he turned to face her once more, his expression calm. He had mastered his emotions, as he always did. “Did Mrs. Feather tell you aught about me?”

Darcie shook her head even as her sister's words fluttered insidiously through her thoughts.
Have a care of him. Dr. Cole. He is a man to fear. Stay out of his way. Stay clear of his work. And keep your nose out of his secrets.

Secrets. A vision of his bloodied shirt—burned now to ashes—fluttered before her. Memories of other things she had seen assailed her—the men, the chest, the way that Damien disappeared in the shadows, blending with the darkness of the night. She could not deny that there was something faintly sinister hovering about this house. Only a fool would refute what she experienced with her own eyes and ears. Still, there was nothing in what she had seen that would condemn Damien, nothing that made a clear case against him on any level.

Staring at his face, as perfect as any sculpture, Darcie quelled her misgivings. All her dealings with him had only served to elevate him in her esteem. She did not want to believe ill of him.

He had shown her only kindness.

Her eyes met his and she saw the flame of desire flicker there, banked but not squelched.

He had shown her only kindness, she reiterated silently, kindness and the barely leashed power of his desire.

o0o

Late in the night, a noise, soft and muffled, dragged Darcie from the depths of a dreamless sleep. Blinking, she squinted into the darkness. It was the sound of misery, heart-wrenching in its desperation.

“Mary,” she whispered, easing from beneath her warm covers. Her toes recoiled as they touched the cold wood floor.

The sobbing stopped abruptly, only to restart seconds later.

As she crossed the room, Darcie could see the dark outline of Mary's bed. Gingerly, she perched on the edge of the mattress, stretching out one hand to caress the other girl's heaving back.

“Are you ill?”

Her question seemed to send Mary to a new level of despair. The sobs grew louder, harsher, tearing at Darcie's heart.

Moving her hand in slow, soothing circles, Darcie tried to lend the other girl sympathy and support. Her ministrations were met by renewed cries, though Mary tried to muffle them by pressing her face to the pillow.