Oscar galloped out to meet them when they arrived at the Haven, and immediately took charge of Daisy. Johanna saw May to her room and made sure she was calm and comfortable, then visited her father and Harper. She made an appointment to talk with Irene and Lewis before dinner, and then took Mrs. Daugherty aside where they could not be overheard.
It was not a great leap of faith to trust the older woman with vital secrets, and Mrs. Daugherty was canny enough to have understood something of May’s reasons for being at the Haven. She listened to Johanna’s brief explanations with a furrowed brow and an increasingly dark expression.
“You were right to come to me,” she said. “I know just what to do. I’ve a cousin over in Sacramento—she’s got girls near May’s age, and she’d take her in if I asked. Warm-hearted woman who never turned down a body in need.”
“Like you,” Johanna said, clasping Bridget’s hands. “I have reason to believe that May’s mother could return for her soon. If we can keep her safe until then—”
“How fast d’ we have to get her away?”
“I think I’ve bought us a week. Time enough for a letter to reach your cousin.”
“Then let me get to writin’ it, an’ I’ll get it out in tomorrow’s post.”
Grateful and relieved, Johanna wandered about the house aimlessly for half an hour and finally found herself standing in front of Quentin’s door.
Her feet had carried her there without her brain’s participation. She knew why. Her mind was bursting with a thousand concerns she wanted to share with someone who would understand, her worries for May chief among them. She went to Quentin instinctively, as once she’d gone to her father.
He wasn’t her father. How could she even consider it, after the events of two nights ago? If she couldn’t treat him as a patient, far less could she confide in him as a peer. To do so would put them both in jeopardy.
Nor dared she tell him what had happened at the hotel, given his closeness to May. It was a grave shortcoming that she felt the need to confess her fears to him.
To what purpose? So that he might put his arms around her and tell her it would be all right, as she’d so glibly told May?
So that he might kiss her?
She shivered and rested her forehead against the wood of the door.
Johanna stood just outside. Quentin could smell her, hear her breathing, sense her agitation through the flimsy barrier of wood. It was the first and only time she’d sought him out since he’d gone to her room the night before; he’d made himself scarce, and she’d been busy with May.
Visiting with that new male doctor in town.
The hair rose on the back of his neck, and he smoothed it down with one hand.
Jealousy. Wasn’t that what had sent him to invade Johanna’s most private sanctum? Johanna had returned from town that day with a spring in her step and eyes alight with pleasure. Quentin had watched her, reluctant to go too near because of the potency of his feelings. Afraid to trust himself around her.
Jealousy. Oh, he’d denied it vehemently to himself. He knew nothing of this Bolkonsky beyond his name and what little Mrs. Daugherty had told him. He was no physician to share Johanna’s professional life and interests. He had no claim on her—none that extended beyond his imagination. But he had entered her room, uninvited, as no gentleman would do. That was where the memories became confused.
Just like before, as if some outside force had snatched control of his mind and body, he could recall only scraps of conversation—enough to know that he’d behaved badly. Enough to send him slinking from her room in shame, and avoid her thereafter.
What he remembered with painful intensity was arousal—overwhelming, single-minded lust—and the sight of Johanna’s naked body.
All it took was that one memory, and he felt as he had then. He spread his hand against the door as if he could touch her flesh. Mold it between his hands. Kiss it in a thousand ways and a thousand places.