Page 23 of Prescription for Sin

As Everett sank back into unconsciousness, Emma touched her fingers to her lips, her once carefully constructed stoicism finally stripped away completely. She chastised herself. The only reason she felt these stirrings was because he was handsome. And the only reason he had kissed her was because he was delirious. He had kissed Mary-Anne.

“Stop being an imbecile,” she whispered to herself, attempting to regain her composure as a physician. As she gazed at Everett’s face, peaceful for the first time in days, she reminded herself that in all likelihood, he was a man of no substance, who sold his body to earn an income and harboured no further ambitions.

Just before dawn on the fourth day, Everett’s fever finally broke. His breathing eased, and his restless movements stilled. As she felt his cooler brow, Emma sighed in relief, allowing herself a small smile of triumph.

Clasping his hand in both of hers and pressing it to her cheek, she whispered, “Welcome back, Mr Hughes.”

As the sun rose, painting the room in soft hues of pink and gold, Emma settled into the chair beside his bed and rested her head next to him on her folded arms. Soon, she fell into the sweet oblivion of sleep.

Everett emerged from the darkness slowly, his thoughts fragmented like shards of broken glass. The first thing he registered was the weight of something warm against his arm. Then came scent: lavender and antiseptic, familiar yet out of place in his fevered memories.

He forced his heavy eyelids open, blinking against the wan morning light. The room gradually came into focus: unfamiliar wallpaper, medical supplies scattered across every surface, and—his breath caught—Emma Brown asleep at his bedside, her golden head pillowed on folded arms near his hand.

Had she been here all night? Her usually immaculate hair tumbled free around her shoulders, and her collar was askew, revealing the delicate line of her throat. Dark shadows beneath her eyes spoke of sleepless nights watching over him, he realised with shame and something warmer, more hazardous.

Fragments of fever dreams filtered back. Cool hands on his burning skin, a gentle voice urging him to drink bitter concoctions, the press of soft lips against his own… That last memory jolted him fully awake. Surely, he hadn’t actually kissed her? But even as he dismissed it as fever-induced fantasy, his lips tingled with the phantom sensation.

“Mary-Anne,” he remembered calling out in his delirium. The name of his dead sister had haunted his fever dreams, mixing with Emma’s steady presence until he wasn’t sure which woman had comforted him through the darkness.

He tried to shift position and had to bite back a groan at how weak his muscles felt. The movement caused Emma to stir, her nose wrinkling adorably before she snapped upright, instantly alert.

“Mr Hughes!” Her professional mask was firmly in place, though he caught the relief in her eyes. “How long have you been awake?”

“Not long.” His voice emerged as a croak. “How many days?”

“Three.” She pressed a cool hand to his forehead, and he had to stop himself from leaning into her touch. “Your fever broke just before dawn.”

Three days. Three days of her tending to him, neglecting her own rest. Three days of vulnerability during which he might have revealed anything. The thought should have terrified him more than it did.

“You stayed,” he murmured, searching her face.

A hint of colour touched her cheeks. “Of course. You are my patient.”

Patient. The word shouldn’t have disappointed him so much.

“I remember…” He paused, watching her carefully. “Someone singing. An old lullaby about blackbirds.”

Emma’s blush deepened. “You were delirious. The fever—”

“It was beautiful.”

She busied herself straightening the bedclothes, but he caught the pleased curve of her lips. “Yes, well, music seems to soothe the ailing ones. A purely medical decision.”

“Of course.” He smiled despite his exhaustion. “And did medical science also require you to sleep at my bedside?”

“I was monitoring your breathing.” But she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You had me quite worried for a while.”

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For saving my life. Again.”

“I only did what I was trained to do. I’m sure any nurse would have—”

“Emma.” Her Christian name stopped her nervous chatter. “You did far more than that, and I thank you for it.”

She looked at him then, really looked, and Everett felt stripped bare by those remarkable eyes. What did she see? A patient? A supposed prostitute? Or something more treacherous, the man beneath his lies?

“I should fetch you some broth,” she said, gathering her professional dignity around her like armour. “You’ll need to rebuild your strength.”

But as she turned to leave, he caught her wrist. Her pulse fluttered beneath his fingers like a trapped bird.