Page 4 of Prescription for Sin

Her fingers, so sure and clinical moments ago, seemed to tremble slightly as she tied the sleeves. He felt her pause, heard her sharp intake of breath, and realised she was studying his back with rather more than professional interest.

If he weren’t trying so desperately to maintain his cover—and his modesty—he might have enjoyed her obvious appreciation more thoroughly.

Miss Brown kept pace beside him, close enough that he caught the faint scent of antiseptic. Her shoulders barely trembled against the cold, betraying a strength that both impressed and unsettled him.

They reached a modest house, shadowed by ancient oaks. Inside, Miss Brown’s fingers brushed his arm as she guided him to a chair. The brief contact made his chilled skin tingle. She disappeared momentarily, returning with slippers and a quilt.

“Sit,” she commanded, her voice low and steady. “That leg needs attention before you attempt the stairs.”

Everett gripped the chair’s edge, acutely aware of his state of undress beneath the coat. Before he could speak, her hands were at his back, untying the knot. They worked with practiced precision, yet he couldn’t help but notice how they lingered for just a heartbeat too long. The quilt settled around his shoulders as the coat fell away, and he drew in a sharp breath as alcohol met his wound.

“Ow!” The pain drew a hiss through his clenched teeth.

Without a word, she pressed a glass of brandy into his hand, her fingers grazing his. He drained it gratefully, watching over the rim as she knelt before him. Her movements were clinical but somehow intimate as she worked, creating stitches so fine they seemed at odds with her brusque manner. The proximity of her hands to his manhood made him shift uncomfortably in his seat.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she cleaned the stitches one more time. His muscles tensed beneath her touch, and he took a sharp intake of breath. He told himself it was pain causing his reaction, not the intimacy of her hands on his skin. Yet when she glanced up to check his expression, the intensity in her blue eyes and parted lips made his member twitch with awareness.

“There,” she murmured, her voice softer than before, warm breath ghosting across his thigh. She looked up at him through thick lashes, and for a moment, neither moved. “Clean up, then knock when you’re ready for me to examine your back.”

Everett nodded, suddenly aware of a different kind of hunger. He decided to voice the acceptable one only. “Might I trouble you for some food?”

“Ham and eggs will be waiting,” she replied, already moving toward the stairs.

He followed, clutching the quilt, transfixed by the sway of her dark skirts. Each step revealed tantalising glimpses of a well-turned ankle, the curve of her calf mesmerising in the dim light. Stop it, Moreland, he chided himself. The woman’s just patched you up. You’re supposed to be investigating her, not imagining what lies beneath those sensible skirts.

Yet as she reached the landing, his gaze traced the elegant line of her back, the way her shoulders moved with unconscious grace beneath her bodice. She turned, catching him watching, and a flush crept up his neck. Her eyes lingered on his bare chest for a heartbeat, then she gestured to a door at the corridor’s end.

The room she led him to was spartan but clean, dominated by a wooden bed with a grey counterpane. His mind traitorously wondered if she’d ever shared it with another patient.

“The bathing closet,” she said, opening a door. Her voice had grown husky. “I’ll add salt to the water. It will sting.” Their fingers brushed as she handed him a towel, and neither pulled away immediately. “Keep your leg wound dry. I’ll return with clothes.”

Her crisp efficiency both aroused and frustrated him. He had never met any woman like her before. Something about her made him yearn to crack that professional veneer, to discover the woman beneath the starched collar and precise movements. As if sensing his thoughts, she hesitated at the doorway, her lips parting as if to speak. But she simply nodded and withdrew, leaving him with the lingering scent of lavender and his own dangerous thoughts.

Emma ascended the stairs, her former lover’s clothes under her arm, her hands trembling slightly as they gripped the meal tray. What madness had possessed her to harbour a strange man in her home? Patient or not, the raw masculinity of him threatened to shatter her carefully maintained composure. However, she could hardly ask him to leave now. She would maintain her distance until he can walk without splitting open his stitches. With a renewed determination, she re-entered the room.

Her breath caught as she saw him sitting in quiet repose, his shoulders glistening wet, the towel barely preserving his modesty. Though marred by violence, his torso spoke of power carefully leashed—broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips, muscles shifting beneath skin as he reached for the tray she offered.

“Your back appears largely unscathed,” she murmured, forcing clinical detachment to her voice. His skin glistened orange in the candlelight, muscles tensing at her scrutiny.

He paused with ham halfway to his lips. “I am thoroughly in your debt, Miss Brown.”

She settled beside him to examine his arm, trying to ignore how the towel had slipped dangerously low on his hips. “Who were your assailants?”

“Grave robbers. Wrong place, wrong time.” His eyes followed her hands as they worked.

“Indeed.” She leaned closer, checking a bruise on his ribs. “From whence do you hail?”

“London.”

“If you are fleeing the law, as you say, why were you lurking in the cemetery so late at night?”

Everett shifted uncomfortably. “I was…meeting a patron.”

Her head snapped up to look at him, her mind whirling with possible dangers. “What sort of patron?”

“Um…” He seemed to suddenly find her wallpaper irresistible. “The kind related to sodomy.”

Emma let out a gasp despite trying to suppress her surprise. She hurriedly busied herself with examination to cover up her unease. His breath hitched as her fingers probed a tender spot.