Perhaps I could apologize before he dismissed me. Perhaps I could explain that I had been unwell, that I had been overly exhausted, that I took full responsibility for my inappropriate behavior and would beg on my knees if that is what he required to allow me to stay on as his assistant.
My companion purred at the idea, making my skin burn with embarrassment—and desire.
I stopped in the doorway of the dining room, stilling my nerves and banishing the thought.
Dr. Ambrose sat at the table, reading what appeared to be a medical journal, a cup of tea steaming gently at his elbow. He looked relaxed, absorbed in whatever he was reading, showing no signs of the tension I had expected.
Agnes moved about the room droning that same tuneless melody she always hummed, setting out breakfast dishes with a cheerful energy that suggested she, at least, had slept well. It grated at my nerves like a file against metal and made my companion grow restless in my mind. The sound burrowed into my skull, making my teeth clench and my breath release with something hot and uncomfortable.
It occurred to me that the sound would be much the same if her throat were full of her own blood.
I forced my attention away to the corner of the room. Standing with his characteristic stillness, was Hawthorne. He was whole and well. Whatever terrible thing I had imagined happened to him was proved incorrect. I had been wrong. Foolishly, ridiculously wrong. Agnes had likely been telling the truth. Hawthorne had been resting in the servants’ quarters, and Dr. Ambrose had not gone out into the raging storm to chase down a wayward servant as I had assumed.
“Good morning, Miss Reed,” Dr. Ambrose said without looking up from his journal. His tone was unexpectedly pleasant. There was not even a single thread of annoyance from the previous night, as though it had neveroccurred—and he had not cornered me against a wall and touched my face with devastating tenderness before turning away.
“Good morning,” I managed, moving cautiously toward the table.
He finally looked up, and the grin that spread across his lips sent sparks of heat through my veins. “Please, sit. I have a proposition for you.”
A proposition. He did not plan to dismiss me, then? I stared at him, expecting a lecture about appropriate behavior for young women in his employ at the very least, but it did not come.
I sat, accepting the tea Agnes poured, her cheeks rosy from the heat of the kitchen. The tension in my shoulders began to ease as Dr. Ambrose returned his attention to his journal, apparently content to let me settle myself before whatever conversation he intended to have.
We ate in silence for several minutes, and I found I was able to appreciate the quality of Agnes’s cooking without the distraction of wondering whether each bite would be my last in this house.
Finally, Dr. Ambrose set down his fork and fixed me with his full attention. “I am planning a visit to the university this morning to procure a specimen. I was wondering if you might like to accompany me?”
I nearly choked on my tea.
“You wish for me to come with you?” The question emerged with more surprise than I had intended.
He shrugged, the gesture casual and somehow more meaningful for it. “It was your idea after all—suggesting theBacopa monnierias a potential compound to work alongside the hemlock extractions. It only seems fair that you should be part of the process of acquiring it.”
Hope flared in my chest. He was going to let me participate in his research, and actually allow me to contribute to the experiments, to the work that might hold some answer to my memory loss.
“I would be honored,” I said, trying to keep the eagerness from my voice and failing spectacularly.
“Wonderful.” He smiled, and the warmth of it made my stomach flutter. “We will leave within the hour. Dr. Winthrop is expecting us. He is a colleague of mine at the university and has access to the botanical gardens where the Bacopa should be growing.”
“Dr. Winthrop,” I repeated, committing the name to memory. “Is he a botanist?”
“A professor of botanical sciences, among other things. He focuses primarily on the medicinal applications of plant compounds. His work is far more conventional than mine, but no less valuable for it.” Dr. Ambrose paused, something complicated passing across his features. “He is a good friend. One of the few who has remained so despite… well. Despite everything.”
There was weight in those last words, grief perhaps from his wife’s death, or some vague suggestion that not many other people respected his research. I did not press for clarification.
We finished breakfast with pleasant conversation about the properties of Bacopa and its historical uses. Dr. Ambrose seemed genuinely interested in my thoughts on the matter, asking questions and valuing my opinion as one would an equal.
The carriage ride to the university was both eternal and far too brief.
Dr. Ambrose sat across from me in the enclosed space, our knees occasionally brushing when the vehicle hit rougher patches of road. Each accidental contact sent awareness flooding through me that I struggled to suppress.
I kept my hands folded in my lap, my gaze fixed on the passing scenery beyond the window, and tried very hard not to think about how his fingers had felt against my cheek the previous night.
I failed miserably at that.
The memory returned with shocking vividness—his body caging mine against the wall, his thumb brushing across my lower lip, the heat in his eyes. The way I had ached to discover whether his mouth would taste as intoxicating as his touch.
I shifted in my seat, attempting to redirect my thoughts toward more appropriate topics.
