Edward had been furious when he found out. Martin had been... something else. Impressed, perhaps. Or concerned. Or some complicated mixture of both that he had not wished to examine too closely.
The boot came free at last, revealing a slender ankle wrapped in fine silk. The swelling was worse than he had feared as the joint was puffy and discoloured, already turning an ugly shade of purple that spoke of damaged tissue beneath.
"Can you move it?" he asked.
Vanessa tried, wincing. "A little. It hurts, but I can move it."
"Then it is likely a sprain, not a break. That is good news." He should stop there. He should replace her boot and help her to her feet and pretend this had never happened. The examination was complete. The injury was assessed. There was no medical reason to continue touching her.
And yet.
He found himself reaching out slowly, giving her every opportunity to pull away and placing his fingers against her ankle.
Her skin was warm beneath the silk, impossibly soft. He could feel the delicate bones beneath, the swell of the injured tissue, the rapid flutter of her pulse against his fingertips. His own pulse was scarcely slower.
"Does this hurt?" He pressed gently against the swollen tissue, professional concern warring with something far less professional.
"A little." Her voice was strange…breathless, unsteady. "It is... tender."
"And this?" He rotated her foot slightly, checking the range of motion. His thumb traced the curve of her ankle, mapping the injury.
That was what he told himself he was doing. Mapping the injury and being thorough.
She gasped, and he stilled immediately. "Forgive me. I did not mean to cause you pain."
"It is not…" She stopped, swallowing hard. Her cheeks had flushed a deep rose, and when she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. "It does not hurt. Not precisely."
Their eyes met.
The moment stretched between them, fragile as spun glass. Martin was suddenly, acutely aware of everything,the warmth of her skin beneath his palm, the rapid rise and fall of her breath, the way her lips had parted slightly, the flush that had spread from her cheeks down to the collar of her habit.
He had touched women before. He had conducted affairs, taken lovers, engaged in all manner of physical intimacy. None of it had ever felt like this.
His hand was on her ankle, and yet it felt as though he were touching something far more intimate, far more forbidden.
He should release her. He should stand up and step away and restore the proper distance between them.
He did not move.
"Martin." Her voice was barely a whisper. "What are you doing?"
It was a reasonable question. He wished he had a reasonable answer.
"Examining your ankle," he said, though they both knew that was not what she had meant.
"You have examined it quite thoroughly, I believe."
"I wished to be certain."
"And are you? Certain?"
He looked at her and saw the uncertainty in her eyes, the hope she was trying so hard to conceal, the flush on her skin that had nothing to do with pain or embarrassment.
She felt it too. Whatever this was between them, this charge in the air, this tension that made the simple act of touching her ankle feel like the most significant thing he had ever done and she felt it too.
"I am certain of very little these days," he admitted. "I find my thoughts... disordered. My judgement compromised."
"By what cause?"
