The devil doctor *Completed*

On the river

*Wicky*

I sit in the rowboat, my pelisse wrapped tightly around me, fascinated as Billy rows with a steady rhythm, gliding smoothly over the water. I checked on Ethan before leaving; he was sleeping soundly. I ordered the governess yesterday to leave the door to his apartments open so I could hear him if anything was amiss. Nothing seems to be, though. The scent of caraway seeds has faded, and I question whether it was ever really there.

Forcing away my worries, I concentrate on enjoying this outing. Wisps of fog along the bank are burning off as the sky lightens from black to gray. The scent of last night’s rain is still heavy in the air.

Once I was settled, Billy removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, took the oars, and set off… no leisurely rowing this. His forearms are corded with muscle; I understand now the breadth of his shoulders, the firmness of his chest.

“Whatever possessed you to take up this sport?” I ask.

“One of the queens advisors begins his day similarly, and mentioned it to me. I’ve discovered an hour of strenuous activity clears my mind. Sometimes, when faced with a medical problem or dilemma, the solution comes to me out here. I become lost in the exertion, and it frees my mind.”

He stops rowing; we coast to a stop. I become aware of the quiet, the solitude… absolute solitude as I’ve never experienced it.

Sliding from the bench, he sits with his back to it and extends a hand. “Come here, sit with your back to me. Just move carefully so you don’t tip us over.”

The boat wobbles as I slowly ease down and turn, nestling between his legs, my back pressed to his chest. He slides his arms around me, holding me close, and the heat of his body seeps through my clothes, creating marvelous radiating warmth.

“Watch the sky,” he says in a low voice near my ear.

Leaning against him, tilting my head back slightly, I’m acutely aware of his cheek resting against mine. Above the trees lining the banks, the sky is deep orange and pink with dark blue swirling through it. The clouds seem luminescent.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sunrise,” I whisper with reverence.

He chuckles softly, “It’s my understanding that most ranked she-wolves stay abed until late morning.”

“It does seem to be our habit. Oh, it’s beautiful, isn’t it? Magnificent.”

We gaze in silence for several long moments. I relish his nearness, his holding me. I’ve never been held simply for the pleasure of being held. There’s comfort in it, an easing of loneliness without words. It’s so peaceful. I’m glad he stopped. My soul needs these moments.

“It rather fills me with wonder,” I tell him. “It’s a lovely way to begin the day. Have you always enjoyed the sunrise?”

“When I was on my own, before I crossed paths with Feagan, I was a mudlark.”

While I’ve only seen them from afar, I know the term applies to children who scrounged through the muddy banks of the river searching for washed-up items to sell. It seems a rather bleak existence. But I hear no plea for sympathy in his voice. He speaks of his past as though it’s truly in his past, as though it no longer influences his life, and I wonder how he achieved that. I suspect Riverdale and his treatment of me will always have some hold over me.

“I would go out while it was still dark,” he continues, “hoping to beat the other children to the prize collections for the day. The sky would begin to lighten, the fog would dissipate, and the sun would start to make its presence known. I would look up and think, ‘How can there be such beauty up there, when everything down here is so gray?’ It gave me hope that I would find something better someday.”

“Have you?”

“I have no right to complain when I deal with the sick and infirmed, and am constantly reminded that I have a great deal for which to be thankful.” He nuzzles my neck. “But sometimes, I do find myself wishing for more.”

Turning me slightly, he takes my mouth, his tongue delving deeply, his hand cradling the back of my head, his arm bracing my spine as he leans me over. Even knowing he holds me secure, that he won’t let me fall, I clutch at his shirt, knotting my fingers around the cloth. In the distance, I’m aware of the day beginning for many… the rattle of carriage wheels, the yells of those doing business out in the open… yet I give no thought to someone seeing me in this precarious position. I should mind that he brazenly kisses me out here where all the world could see, but no one I know would be about. Ranked she-wolves and most gentlemen are still abed. They miss the sunrise, they miss the peace and quiet of the morning starting anew. They miss the passion that ignites so quickly and fiercely between Billy and me.

I wonder if he brought me here because he knew where things might end up if he kissed me in my bedchamber, in my bed. Nothing beyond a kiss will happen in this small boat rocking on the Thames, nothing will happen in the open where curious eyes could note improper behavior.

Even with my pelisse wrapped around me, I was quite cool earlier, but now I burn with a fever raging only for him, for his touch, his nearness. His kiss seems to encompass more than my lips; I feel it through my entire quivering body… lovely warmth, and flaming passion. His mouth greedily devours mine, but I have no desire for him to stop. I'm coming to life, my nerve endings rejoicing with the sensations he so easily awakens.

Resting my palm against his jaw, I delight in the bristles. He hasn’t tidied up before bringing me out here, and it adds an element of improperness to what we’re doing. I, who strived so hard to do everything properly, am suddenly carried along on a stream of wickedness.

Dragging his mouth from mine, he dips it into the curve of my neck, and I think surely he’ll leave a mark everyone will see. I can hardly care.

“Wicky,” he rasps, his breathing as harsh and heavy as mine.

What else he might say is lost as the soft slap of oars on water has us both drawing back. A man rows by; a quick salute. No one I recognize, so my reputation is unlikely to be torn to tatters.

Carefully, Billy eases me upright. In his eyes, I see desire smoldering. It’s a heady rush to realize how much he wants me. Even more astonishing is realizing I desperately yearn for him, that I don’t fear what might pass between us, but anticipate it.

Suddenly, without warning, the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and I have the overwhelming sense of being watched, of someone discerning my thoughts. Jerking my head around, I scour the banks.

“What is it?” he asks.

A shiver races through me. “Someone’s watching.”

He looks at the trees and brush lining the water’s edge. “The man who just rowed by us, perhaps.”

“No, this feels almost sinister.”

“Wicky, there’s no one about.”

‘He’s hiding,’ I want to tell him. ‘He means us harm,’ but I’d sound mad. I can’t see anyone, and who would want to hurt me? Riverdale is the only one who ever has. Everyone else treats me kindly. I release a self-conscious laugh. “I’m sorry, I’m ruining our lovely morning.”

“You don’t need to apologize, and you’re not ruining anything.” He studies me with concern that makes me feel silly for raising an alarm. I have absolutely no reason to feel threatened and yet I do. It’s almost as though Riverdale’s gaze bores a hole through my back. He had such an intense stare I felt it at the most crowded balls, no matter where he was in the room.

“I think perhaps remnants of last night are lingering,” he says, taking strands of my hair the wind tugged free of my braid and tucking them behind my ear. How can such a simple act of putting me back together feel so remarkably intimate, set me right in so many ways? All my fears dissipate as gently as the fog.

I nod, “Yes, I think you’re right. I thought I was over the fright from last night.”

“How would you like to row us back?” he asks.

“I don’t believe I’d have the strength.”

“I’m relatively certain you’re stronger than you realize. I’ll sit behind you and guide you until you have the hang of it.” Pushing himself up, careful not to rock the boat too much, he sits on the bench and assists me into position, so I’m sitting between his thighs. When I take hold of the oars, he folds his hands over mine. “You can’t make any mistakes here.”

His faith in me causes my chest to tighten. I once became accustomed to not doing anything correctly. It’s quite liberating to know Billy isn’t awaiting an opportunity to scold me.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he says, and I think I’ve never been more ready to take on a task.

As I move the oars, I’m acutely aware of his strength guiding me. I feel the muscles of his powerful chest tightening and loosening against my back, the ropy muscles of his arms bunching and undulating with his movements. We move in tandem, rocking forward, leaning back, working together to skim over the water. I think anything he does with me will mirror this togetherness, this partnership. I imagine what a fortunate she-wolf his mate would be.

“Why have you never married?” I ask.

“I fear it would take a very special she-wolf to be content with the life I can offer her, leaving her bed at all hours, arriving for dinner after the food has cooled, or having the meal interrupted when she is in the midst of telling me about her day. My schedule is seldom governed by the clock.”

“That sounds rather like something you would say at social affairs when meddling mothers are trying to foist their daughters off on you.”

His low chuckle tickles my soul. “Quite right.”

While I consider questioning him further, I decide to let it pass. His reasons are obviously personal, or he would have shared them without my having to pull the answer from him. If I could characterize our relationship at all, I would use the term ‘completely honest.’ He’s never lied to me, never deceived me. I can be myself with him without fear of judgment, and I accept him as he is. It’s quite freeing, to have that amount of trust with someone.

Oh, I certainly trust Evangeline, but my trust of Billy is more complete, more firm. It’s the bedrock upon which a foundation of something deeper could be built. He gives me confidence in myself that has been sorely lacking before. He allows me to trust myself.

My muscles begin to burn with the relentless rowing, but I take satisfaction in it. Then I realize that his hands are no longer folded over mine, but merely resting atop them, that he’s moving with me but his muscles aren’t knotting with effort.

“I’m doing this on my own, aren’t I?” I ask.

“I was wondering when you might notice.”

“You make me believe I can do anything, that I truly have nothing to fear.”

“You can do anything,” he says quietly. “I truly believe that.”

We are nearing our destination, the small dock where boats are stored and rented.

“I’ll guide us in,” he says. “It can get tricky.”

As much as I don’t want to, I accept the wisdom of his words. I’m still a novice, but I feel invincible. While he takes over the oars, I fold my hands in my lap.

“I need to face my demons,” I say succinctly. “I think all these strange occurrences that have been happening are tied in with Riverdale.”

He stills, the oars out of the water, droplets dripping into the Thames. “Why would you think that?”

“Because I never truly let him go. I’ve allowed him to maintain a hold over me. If I’m not going mad, then something has to be moving those objects around, causing all those unexplainable things to be happening. I think his spirit might be haunting me. Even out here, the strange sensation I had of being watched, I think I can attribute it to him.”

“You think he’s visiting you along the lines of Marley’s ghost?”

I don’t blame him for the skepticism. It sounds rather ludicrous to me, but I can think of no other explanation. Easing over to the other bench, I face him. “I have an old aunt who swears she’s communed with her dead husband. The medium she used… I believe her name was Mrs. Ponsby… was able to serve as a vessel so my aunt could ask her husband where he had hidden her jewels. Before he died, he’d gone quite off his rocker, hiding all sorts of things. He thought everyone was trying to steal from him. Anyway, through Mrs. Ponsby, he told my aunt where in the garden she’d find her jewels. They were exactly where they were supposed to be. I think Mrs. Ponsby could assist me in speaking with Riverdale. I want him to know that I won’t put up with this nonsense. He must move on.”

He shakes his head, “Wicky, I fear it’ll be a waste of your coin.”

“It’s my coin to waste. But after my aunt’s experience, I’m quite confident in the medium’s ability to speak with the dead. I don’t know why I didn’t think of calling on her before. It’s as you said earlier, being out here frees up the mind to all sorts of possibilities. If I can make him see that I’m not the she-wolf I was, that he can’t push me around, that I don’t frighten as easily, perhaps he’ll let me be. That’s the thing of it. He took joy from my cowering. I know that I reacted rather badly last night, but that’s because I thought I was going mad. If it’s Riverdale, then I need to have a word with him.”

“I just don’t think you’ll accomplish anything.” With a final dip and push of the oars, he has the boat gliding alongside the deck.

I sigh, “I think it’s worth a try. If you’d rather not be there…”

“I’ll be there.”