Intimate Strangers Affair Page 7

  No! This must stop. What was I doing? I punched him hard on the breastbone, then I jerked backwards with all my might. At the same time, he suddenly let me go. I fell backwards on the bed, my skirt and petticoats flying upwards. Hastily, I sat up again, then slid off the bed. Chest heaving, I stared at him. His chest was moving, too. His intercostals retracted and bulged between his ribs as if he’d been working them too hard, running ten miles uphill. And there were other parts of him that looked overworked, too. I quickly looked elsewhere. Up at his damnable mouth, slightly flushed and swollen. Still imperious as hell. It was for chewing, swallowing, breathing, and speaking. And Don Miguel sure didn’t use it much for talking, but now I knew how expressive it could really be. Far too expressive and too experienced for my liking.

  I remembered the girls at The Golden Catherine, their knowing looks and laughter, and a cold feeling congealed deep inside my belly. I was no better. Just the same as all the rest. How could I have lost my common sense so quickly, so completely? His kiss was like chloroform, totally knocking me out. And the side effects, the wooziness lingered no matter how much I tried to fight it. This frightened me. I fumbled with my ties, gave up, then haphazardly buttoned up my dress. I crammed my hair back into the snood. There. Forget the strand straggling against my neck. Forget the pins. I didn’t care how it looked. At least I was covered up again. Mostly. Sniffing, I said, “Don’t bother to apologize.”

  One brow lifted. “Wasn’t going to.”

  I ignored my part in this. I had never done something like this before. It was wrong, unprofessional. I was no better than those male doctors who took advantage of their patient’s vulnerability. Or maybe… My eyes narrowing, I considered. Maybe Don “Juan” Miguel had taken advantage of mine. Yes. He had. He’d used the closest weapon at hand, a lethal weapon. Him. I pointed an accusing finger at him. “You were trying to seduce me.”

  “Only trying?”

  Well, maybe he’d been more than trying, and maybe he’d almost succeeded, but I wasn’t going to admit that to him or myself. “Why were you trying to distract me? Afraid I would find something out? Well, I did.”

  Worry seemed to flash through his eyes. He settled back against his pillows, and readjusted his dressing gown so that he was completely contained once more.

  I made a great show of wiping my hand across my mouth. “Didn’t taste almonds and my lips didn’t tingle. So it wasn’t cyanide, arsenic, or even Spanish fly. And you didn’t taste sweet, so it wasn’t the morbid sugars. That’s not why you’ve been wasting away. You’ve lost weight, haven’t you? I can see it. So tell me, Don Miguel. Have you had any nausea? Vomiting? How about any change in your bowel movements?”

  “My…what? Cristo!” His vehement muttering sounded like a shout.

  “Come on, tell me. When did this start?” I opened my black bag and took out my stethoscope.

  He eyed my instrument as if it were a gun instead of a listening device. “Since our return,” he admitted reluctantly.

  “Don’t be a baby about this. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Remember, danger is no concern. That’s your motto, right? You’re one tough hombre. Well, how dangerous can one little bitty woman be to you?” Oh. That hit the mark. He looked stonily at me. Laughing silently, I walked to the bedside, put the tubes in my ears, and plopped the wooden cone on to his belly before he could move away. I looked away seeing nothing, concentrating on only the sounds. Big time grumbling. No bowel obstruction, then. Hungry and empty, by the sound of it. I straightened up, took the stethoscope out of my ears, and left it hanging around my neck. I tapped around his rib cage, moving downwards until I heard a dull thud. Then I repeated the same process from his belly moving towards his last rib. Another thud. Low, too low for that sound. His liver was enlarged. Why? Wondering, I gently pushed my hand into his belly, then moved deeper and upwards. I hit a soft rubbery edge somewhere inside him and he flinched. Evidently, tender too. So his liver was not only large, it was also inflamed. Something was very wrong here.

  “Any fevers or chills?” I watched his lips tighten. “Please, you must tell me. You travel where there’s malaria. Sometimes the fevers can affect your liver. It’s twice as large as it should be. Let’s do something. I have quinine. It would help.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “How do you know?”

  He sighed and looked away. Finally said, “No fever.”

  “Well, that’s good. How about your urine? Is it dark? You’re not going to make me look, are you?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he only folded his arms across his chest, and the sleeves fell back. His arms were marked with small circular bruises.

  “Who did that to you? Leeches,” I pointed to the round wounds and the many dried scabs all along his forearm. Half-inch lines. Precise. Ghastly. Cruel. “And someone lanced you. They did bloodletting. I can’t believe it, in this day and age.” I pushed back his sleeve and examined his armpit. Ugly bruises there, too. “My God, they cut your brachial artery. You could have bled to death.”

  Don Miguel smiled faintly. It wasn’t pretty or seductive. It was cold and certain. Dead certain. “I stopped him.”

  Frightened, I didn’t want to know how. “Who?”

  “Doctor Allen. Moore sent him. You are the third physician.”

  “And they said?”

  “No answers. Just more of the same.” Don Miguel looked bored, as if his patience was finally wearing thin. “So do it. Do it and go.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  His head turned listlessly towards me. He didn’t seem to care at all.

  “I won’t go, not until I figure this out. Not until I can help you. I know that you’re sick, sicker than you’ll admit. There’s only one thing to do. I’ll have to stay.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes, here. I’ll watch you, dog your every step, and I’ll get to the bottom of this. You can’t hide everything all the time. You will get better. I’ll make you.”

  “You’ll make me? You? Such a long time since anyone has made me do anything. You can try.” Don Miguel slowly closed his eyes. When he finally opened them again, he seemed almost amused. “On one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No one must know.”

  “We’ve already been through that. I won’t tell anyone. Not even Major Moore. My lips are buttoned tight.”

  “People will wonder. Ask. Why you are here? Speculation is bad.” Something rippled over his face. His hand rubbed his belly again.

  “Oh.” I hadn’t thought of that. I chewed my lip. “Well, I could be a servant, or…or a governess. Yes, that’s it. I saw those kids out there flying a kite. That little boy and the girl?”

  He looked me over from the top of my messy hair to the bottom of my rumpled skirts. One brow arched. He shook his head. “No governess, no one would believe it. No, niña. You must be mi querida.”

  I shrugged. “Sure, sure. What’s that? The housekeeper? I could do that.”

  A soft sound exploded from his chest. Alarmed, I started to rush closer to him, then remembered what had happened the last time. I kept a safe distance. Was he all right? I looked carefully. He was struggling not to laugh. I wanted to hit him, but you should never strike your patient, no matter how infuriating they may be.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Not housekeeper.”

  “Then what?” Dread slowly seeped through me as my suspicions grew.

  His lips quirked. “You must pretend to be my mistress.”

  My mouth opened, then closed again without making a single sound. I couldn’t have heard him correctly. He couldn’t have said that. “Mistress?!” To my dismay, the word wheezed out like an asthmatic cough. “Querida means mistress? Like a…a paramour? I can’t be your…I can’t do that. Just because Catherine’s my aunt doesn’t mean I’m a…I don’t…”

  His brows lifted. “Is there a problem? Do I disgust you? Please, be frank.”

  Disgust? I wished he did disg
ust me. I wished that Don Miguel were a wispy old man with a mouth full of rotten teeth, clammy hands, and horrible warts. But he wasn’t. He was far too appealing. It only made my job harder.

  “No,” I said slowly, walking to the chair. I picked up my bonnet by the ribbons and twisted them over and over in my hands. “You don’t disgust me, that’s not the problem. It’s just that…I’m not like that. And it’s no good pretending. I’m a lousy liar,” I added miserably, jamming my hat on. “Everyone says so. I wouldn’t know how.”

  “You think that’s a fault, niña? It’s not. Honesty is rare, rarer than gold.” He looked at me carefully, his gaze lingering over the places he had recently touched.

  And I warmed all over as if each memory were real and I could feel his hands right now. Damn him. He seemed to know. His eyes lightened to a leaf-green, his mouth tugged at one corner. Assessing, he tilted his head slightly. “But why lie? Why pretend? Real is better.”

  My mouth dried suddenly as his words echoed in my head. Real. Better. Why pretend? It was tempting, far too tempting for my liking. Desire fought with disbelief. “You can’t mean that.”

  “I do. The more real, the more convincing. You already know that. After all, you work for Moore.”

  No, I don’t. Not really. I’m a doctor, not a spy. But my protest stuck in my throat when I saw his cynical look. Perhaps he’d already heard about the French Ministry job. Don Miguel knew so much about me already. He knew everything, it seemed. Everything except the most important thing - the truth. He wasn’t going to believe me, and even if he did believe me, he wouldn’t trust me. What was the point?

  “I see. So you and me…this arrangement would only be for the mission, right? Nothing more than a job. After all, what else is there? There’s no other reason. Do you do this often?”

  His face betrayed no reaction. The clock ticked for a full minute. Another passed. “Whatever’s necessary,” he said eventually.

  “Necessary?” I almost choked on the word, feeling suddenly sick inside. Cold passion, served up for the sake of duty. Now that disgusted me, made my stomach ache just like the plate of jellied eels I once ate in Brighton. I didn’t understand it. If I didn’t care, why did his business proposal hurt me so badly? It didn’t make any sense at all to me.

  Glaring, I added, “Well, it’s not necessary for me. Forget it, that’s despicable. I won’t. I’ll find out what’s wrong with you, I’ll even go along with this charade of yours. I’ll try to pretend, I’ll do my best. But that’s it. I won’t go any farther than that.”

  “Your choice, niña.”

  And somehow the way he said it made me feel as if I’d made the wrong choice. Maybe for all the right reasons, but the wrong choice all the same. My throat suddenly felt all tight and hot as if I’d gulped down hot coffee that went down the wrong way. Even my windpipe hurt. “That’s right, my choice. And you better not forget it either. Now when do we start this…arrangement? Tomorrow?” I gathered my black bag and cloak.

  “Now.”

  “But my things. I need to pack some things, then…”

  “Clothes?” He looked at my hair, half inside the hairnet, half straggling down my back, my crumpled blue skirts, the old shoes that even a new coat of polish couldn’t quite fix up. The corners of his lips flexed downward in a brief look of distaste. He barely shook his head. “No. No need. Perhaps something more appropriate.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my dress,” I said hotly. “Catherine picked it out for me.”

  “Catherine? That explains it. Too plain. The mistress of a Don would never…” he spared a pained look at my bodice.

  “Fine, that’s not important. Do whatever you want. I don’t care about that stuff. I’ll wear a flour sack if you want me to, even a chandelier on top of my head. That’s not what I was talking about, I meant my equipment. I need to go back to the house and get it. Catherine has it all, my apothecary chest, distillery, the surgery kit. The things I really need.” I walked to the door and reached for the knob. “Until later, Don Miguel. We’ll finish this later.” There. Finally, I’d gotten in the last word. My hand grabbed the knob and twisted.

  “No, we start now,” he said softly. “This moment, inside this room. It begins now. And you must begin by calling me Miguel.”

  My lips formed his name, but no sound came out. It felt wrong to say it. My mouth burned as if guilty, his name as forbidden as a kiss. Too intimate. Uncomfortable, I wanted to leave, willed myself to turn the knob, open the door, walk out. I should be able to. It would be so easy, but somehow, I couldn’t.

  “Look at me, querida.”

  From across the room, his endearment reached me. It sounded so real, so warm that I could almost believe he meant it. Almost. And yet, some foolish part of me believed it, because ripples were washing over me even though I steeled myself against them. Just a word, I told myself. Just a silly word, just a job. It meant nothing. Perhaps even less than that.

  “Look at me.”

  I felt hypnotized by the sound of his voice and found myself obeying him, even though I told myself not to. My head turned slowly over my shoulder, then back toward the bed where he sat.

  He reached towards me, palm up. His gown parted to the waist. “Say my name.”

  “Miguel,” I barely whispered. His outstretched hand suddenly fisted as if he’d caught my word. And he smiled.

  ***

  I am not a cowardly woman, nor a foolish one. Yet, I felt like both when I walked out of his bedroom after that. If I had only been stronger, I would have stayed and danced in his fire. If I had only been more sensible, I would have left that house and never returned, my poor brother be damned. But I didn’t. Duty made me stay. Yet duty, I feared, had nothing to do with the rest. Was it wrong to enjoy myself? Because I did. No man had ever treated me this way before; as a woman, a whole woman, instead of a mannish freak. It was heady, exhilarating, it made me feel lightheaded like riding on whitewater or chewing coca leaf. I felt alive in his company. I had never felt more alive. Alive and sinful. Don Miguel embodied at least two of the deadly sins. More and more, Major Moore seemed like the very devil to be offering this to me. He’d said nothing about this temptation, only that I was to diagnose and treat their most important agent who’d been stricken with a mysterious illness. Only Don Miguel countered the Confederacy’s threat to the West. Without him, the gold and munitions would continue to be stolen and channeled to the Rebel cause. So the fate of California and the Union rested in his hands. It was impossible to replace him now. At a moment’s notice, he needed to be well and available for action. Well, he seemed available all right, but not for what Major Moore had in mind. What Miguel wanted was another kind of action all together. He had made that quite plain in the bedroom.

  As plain as he acted ordinary at dinner. He was charming. Nothing overt, no groping under the table between courses or leering at my bosom while he leaned over and refilled my glass. Nothing as lecherous as that. I felt as if I’d hallucinated the whole thing; the kiss, just a dizzy concoction of my imagination. Miguel didn’t even seem sick. He acted well. His manner was quiet, alert, not lethargic or fatigued, and he ate with spare, but good appetite.

  “Try this.” He offered me something that looked like a cluster of dark green roses on a platter. It was one of those things that you could never tell if it was food or garnish. Which was it? Edible or not? It was hard to say.

  I watched him peel off a petal, dip it into butter, then scrape his neat white teeth along its tip to bottom. I imitated him. Not bad. A little strange and muddy, but overall okay. Well, anything tasted better with butter, even the bristly part at the top. I must have chewed on it for at least a minute. I swallowed the lump, then I hurried to sip some wine. “What was that? A thistle?”

  “Artichoke.” His finger traced the bottom. “Eat only this part.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “It’s worth it,” he murmured. “Once you get past the prickly parts.”

  I ign
ored him and ate my soup instead. The consommé was light and delicious, the French bread sour and chewy. I passed on the dish that looked like pieces of chopped black rubber. “Truffles?” I asked suspiciously.

  He nodded.

  “Ah.” I set down the serving spoon.

  “They’re very good. Périgord from France. I brought it back on the last voyage.”

  “I can’t, I’m allergic to mushrooms. Besides, I don’t like eating things that have been found by an inspired pig.”

  His fork paused mid-air. He looked puzzled. “Inspired?”

  “Yeah, inspired. You know. Hot-to-trot, spring fever. There’s something in those truffles that inspires pigs. Really makes them excited when they find them. Snorting, rooting, shaking.”

  “Wild.”

  “That bothers me, I’m funny that way.”

  “I see.” He chewed his last mouthful very slowly, then swallowed even slower as if struggling with something. There was a strange light in his eye that I couldn’t decipher. Maybe Miguel was on the verge of laughing. He dabbed the napkin against his lips, and when he returned it to his lap, his face was solemn again without any hint of humor. Maybe I’d imagined the whole thing.

  He pointed to another dish. “Perhaps the lima beans. They have no untoward effects.”

  The lima beans, as it turned out, were just fine. And over the wild rice and fish, we discussed Paris. Evening strolls along the banks of the Seine, the salons, the smell of spring rain. It seems we’d both been to Café Moulin Rouge, but at different times, barely a month apart. The coffee had been superb, the conversation even better, we agreed. Miguel had listened to Flaubert there. He’d liked it.