Page 31 of Prescription for Sin

"Several, Miss Brown." His bitter laugh sent shivers down her spine. "One of which is rather prominently displayed. Shall I catalogue them all? For your research, of course."

Emma’s cheeks burned as she cleaned his wound, all too aware of his proximity, of how easily she could slide her hands higher up his thigh. “That won’t be necessary.”

“No?” His voice dropped lower. “But isn’t thorough documentation essential? For instance, when you touch me here…” He shifted slightly, bringing her fingers in contact with unmarked skin on his thigh. “My breath catches. When you lean closer, I can smell lavender and antiseptic, an oddly arousing combination. And when I remember how you looked during our last lesson, eyes closed, lips parted—”

“Stop.” Her voice emerged breathless. “This is inappropriate.”

“More inappropriate than conducting private research with Dr Kincaid until late at night?”

“Michael is a colleague.”

“Is that all?” His hand covered hers where it rested on his thigh, not moving, just burning against her skin. “Tell me, does he affect you like this? Does his voice make you tremble? Does his touch make your breath quicken?”

“You’re being ridiculous.” But she couldn’t seem to pull her hand away. “What Michael and I do is purely professional.”

“Professional?” His thumb stroked her palm, sending sparks up her arm. “Like our lessons?”

“That’s different.” She was breathless now.

“How?” He sat up slowly, bringing their faces inches apart. “Because he’s a respectable physician?”

“Because he doesn’t make me forget myself!” The confession burst out before she could stop it. “Because his touch doesn’t haunt my dreams. Because when he speaks of medical theory, I don’t imagine his voice whispering darker things in my ear.”

Silence fell, charged with the weight of her admission. Everett’s eyes had darkened to nearly black, his breath coming quick and shallow.

“Emma…” His free hand rose to her face, hovering just shy of touching. “Tell me to stop.”

She should. God help her, she should push him away, remember all the reasons this was madness. Instead, she heard herself whisper, “I can’t.”

His thumb brushed her bottom lip as a shudder ran through her. "God help me, Emma... If I start touching you now, I won't be able to stop. I won't want to stop."

But she was already swaying toward him, drawn by the heat in his eyes, the promise in his touch.

A thunderous bang rattled the front door. They froze, the tension between them electric. Another bang, followed by an urgent voice.

“Doctor! Come quick! It’s Mr Thorpe. He’s fallen from the old oak!”

Emma rushed to the door, with Everett trailing close behind. She opened the door to a familiar face, an old farmhand, who said the good-natured farmer was unconscious.

“I must go to Mr Thorpe,” Emma said while retrieving her medical bag.

“I’ll come with you in case you need a hand.” Everett donned a pair of old boots, grimacing at the thought Kincaid’s feet were bigger than his. They headed to the rickety wagon awaiting them.

In the moonless night, a bitter December wind whipped across the farmyard as Emma rushed toward the prone figure of the farmer. Her cheeks still burned from her interrupted intimacy with Everett, but her mind had already shifted to the clinical precision required of a physician. Lanterns cast ghostly shadows across the frost-dusted ground, their weak light barely illuminating the ghastly scene before them.

Mrs Thorpe—Sarah, Emma recalled, who had lost two babes to fever last winter—stood wringing her raw-knuckled hands in her apron. The man lay motionless in the mud, a massive contusion distorting one side of his head, dark blood matting his greying hair.

“What happened?” Emma demanded, her skirts rustling as she knelt beside the unconscious farmer, ignoring the bite of frozen earth through her layers.

“The old oak, Doctor,” Sarah stammered, her voice thin with terror. “He was trimming before the storm comes. I heard the crash and—” She broke off, choking back a sob.

Emma’s fingers probed gently around the swollen skull. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she felt the telltale signs of increasing pressure. “No obvious external bleeding, but there’s significant swelling inside. We need to relieve the pressure immediately.”

Everett limped closer, his own professional demeanour firmly in place despite his injuries. “What do you propose, Dr Brown?”

The formal address and clinical tone she would typically hear during rounds didn’t escape her notice. Unease washed over her.

Emma hesitated only a moment, meeting his eyes. In that brief glance, she saw understanding. She felt disoriented by the sudden shift in reality.