“Tell me more about Dr. Winthrop,” I said, proud of how steady my voice sounded. “What should I expect when meeting him?”
Dr. Ambrose’s expression softened with genuine affection. “James is one of the most brilliant men I have ever had the privilege of knowing. Hisunderstanding of plant chemistry is exceptional, and his ability to identify potential medicinal applications borders on genius. He has published extensively on the subject.”
“He sounds formidable,” I said, the first flutter of nervousness beating around my stomach. What would such a man think of me—a woman with massive gaps in her education, hired as an assistant based on fragmentary knowledge?
“He can be intimidating upon first meeting,” Dr. Ambrose admitted. “But he is kind beneath the academic exterior, and he has always been…” He paused, choosing his words with care. “He has always been supportive of my more unconventional choices.”
I wondered what constituted an unconventional choice in Dr. Ambrose’s estimation. Hiring a female assistant, perhaps? Working with toxic plants with intentions of giving patients poisons that might cure them as long as they did not kill them first?
“Will he think it strange that you have hired a woman?” I asked, voicing the concern that had been building since the invitation was extended.
“Strange? No.” He grinned. “James has long advocated for broader inclusion in the sciences. He believes that limiting participation based on arbitrary characteristics rather than capability squanders what the sciences might otherwise gain. He will be far more interested in your botanical knowledge than your gender.”
The reassurance helped, though anxiety still coiled in my chest. “And if my knowledge proves insufficient?”
“I doubt that will be the case.” Dr. Ambrose leaned forward slightly. “Besides, I would never allow anyone to speak down to you, James included. Even if you arrive speaking complete nonsense about botanical matters, he will treat you with courtesy and respect.”
I stared at him, noting the seriousness in his eyes that countered the lightness of his tone. I had no doubt he meant every word, and the realization sent a flood of warmth through me.
The carriage hit a rougher section of road, and I lurched forward. Dr. Ambrose’s hands shot out to steady me, catching around my waist before I fell. For a moment we were very close, his face mere inches from mine, his grip firm and scorching through the fabric of my dress.
The memory of the night before rose in my mind again, how his thumb had felt brushing across my lower lip, how his breath had felt against my neck when he leaned close to speak.
His gaze dropped to my mouth, and the air between us pulsed—charged with the same tension that had filled his bedchamber the previous night, weighted with possibilities.
I ached to press my cold flesh against his warmth, grafting to him like two incompatible specimens forced into union—my putrefied roots spreading through his golden heat, drawing sustenance from his blood until there was nothing left of him but withered husk and brittle bone. I would consume him, drain him, and leave him hollow and discarded, all his vitality transferred into the rotting garden of my body.
I blinked, my lungs refusing to accept the oxygen offered as I sucked in a breath.
His hands tightened on my waist, fingers digging into the flesh beneath my dress.
“Camellia,” he said, my name arriving from somewhere deep in his chest, breath caressing my lips. “It appears you have a habit of getting caught in my arms, and while I confess I rather enjoy it, I must also warn you that I am not immune to the feel of your body pressed to mine.”
Heat rose through my skin, seeping into my cheeks. Before I could even consider a reply, my companion announced itself, pressing another image against my vision. The ruthlessness from which it came was so brutal that I winced.
The ghost. Her bloodied mouth opening impossibly wide. Vines spilling from her throat in a terribly beautiful profusion, wrapping around her neck, claiming her from the inside out.
His wife. His wife, whose husband I was mere inches from tasting. His wife who he still mourned.
Or murdered, the voice whispered.
I jerked back, the spell broken, and Dr. Ambrose released me immediately, his composure returning to its place with ease as he leaned back against the seat.
I returned my attention to the window, to anything that might distract me from his proximity—from the urge to break open his bones and bury myself within the marrow.
I stared out at the landscape as it passed, watching as the scenery twisted into the shape of a lifeless face with hollow, angry eyes that stared back at me accusingly.
The ghost had not been real. I had imagined her.
I had imagined her.
There was no reason for the voice to keep insisting otherwise, no purpose in dwelling on hallucinations that meant nothing. There was no credit in what my companion continued to sow within my mind. Dr. Ambrose had not killed his wife. I had seen the hurt—the pain in his eyes—at the mention of her. Grief was not so easily faked.
He had loved her. He still loved her.
Are you sure?The voice replied, querying me hungrily, but I did not dare acknowledge it.
The silence in the carriage stretched, the tension thick and laden with things neither of us would say.
