Charlotte Featherstone - Sinful

No, she could not repay Dr. Inglebright or Lady Blackwood by sullying her name, her profession or the hospital.

Standing up, Jane retrieved her basin of water and determinedly stepped back into the ward, resolute to rid her patient of his fever and survive the long night ahead without further thinking on how much she wanted to lie on top of him and feel him thrusting that beautiful phallus deep inside her.

The tepid water trickled over his skin as Jane changed the cloth that she had folded on his forehead. His fever was higher, despite the hours of sitting at his bedside, bathing him.

“I don’t understand it,” Richard mumbled behind her. “Where is this fever coming from?”

“I do not know,” she whispered, worry clouding her thoughts. “He’s so strong and healthy, I don’t know why it holds him.”

“He smelled of spirits when he arrived. Perhaps he is a chronic drinker. I’ve seen the fever in the gin addicts when they don’t have it.”

Jane glanced at Matthew’s face, which was drawn tight. Occasionally he would frown, as if he was being plagued by dreams. Taking her fingers and dipping them in the basin, she brushed them over his cracked lips, while Richard continued to pace behind her, deep in thought.

“Perhaps it is the head trauma that is causing it. The body’s natural response to pain and injury.”

Jane did not respond. She knew no answer was necessary. This was Richard trying to solve a medical puzzle. Instead, she continued to bathe Matthew, studying the way his body felt taut with tension.

“Don’t touch me,” he suddenly cried, and thrashed in the bed, his arms flaying wide, nearly hitting her in the head. “Jesus Christ, get off me.”

He knocked her off the bed with a blow to her shoulder. With a thunk, she landed on the floor, and the ceramic basin smashed to bits around her.

Richard ran to her and helped her up. “Are you cut?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she muttered as she looked at her shaking hands then back at Matthew. “He rages with fever. He didn’t mean it.”

Richard looked at her skeptically. “From now on I will assign another nurse to care for him.”

“No!” The rebuttal was out of her mouth before she could stop it. Richard looked startled, then his gaze slipped past her shoulder to where Matthew lay still on the bed.

“No?”

Jane swallowed hard. She could not bear the thought of another woman sitting beside him. He was hers—her patient. The thought that perhaps he was already married or engaged did not enter her thoughts. For Jane, he was hers. It was the last remnant of growing up in the East End that still clung to her. She had grown up with nothing, not even a decent parent. As a result, anything that was hers, she held steadfastly on to with a selfish single-mindedness. Matthew was something she knew she had to keep hold of, if only for this night.

“Very well, then, Jane. But only because you are my most skilled nurse, and he is a man of good breeding.”

Jane nodded. “Have you any idea of his identity?”

“My father thinks he knows. He’s gone to Mayfair tonight after learning a few things at his club this afternoon.”

“I see.”

“Well then, I will let you tend to him, but I will be back,” Richard murmured as he ran his palms down her shoulders. He squeezed her arms gently before leaving. He didn’t say anything to her, but the look in his eyes said it all. He knew. Somehow Richard had discovered her fascination with Matthew.

Someone was touching him, but it was not that filthy lover in his past whose hands were covering his body. It was Jane. Amazing how he had the wherewithal to discern such a thing. Yet he knew it was not the other.

The other one had come, though, for a visit in a dream. He loathed those dreams and the way his body felt after them. But it was Jane’s body here with him now.

“Jane?” he asked, croaking through his dry lips and raw throat.

“Here,” she whispered, “take a sip, slowly.”

The cool water that slipped down his throat felt so good that he could not sip, but only gulp, despite her warnings. When he sat back, he felt weak and exhausted. He recalled what they had done, and the effects on his body still pleasantly lingered.

“You must rest,” she ordered, her voice now cool and detached.

“I have slept enough.”

“Sleep is the body’s best medicine.”

“No, Jane. You are the tonic I need.”

Silence blanketed the room, and Matthew cursed himself for his loose tongue. He was not a talker, not unless he was cutting someone off at the knees, but tonight, with Jane, he couldn’t seem to hold his tongue, or hide the strange emotions that bubbled beneath his skin. In truth, he had no idea if he desired to or not. His brain knew he should lie in silence and leave her to her work. But his body cried out for her presence at his bedside, her voice in the quiet, her hands on his flesh. He refused to wonder if it was the fever provoking these thoughts, or some deeply hidden need he had never known that lurked within him. Neither reason mattered now, the only thing that mattered was getting Jane back close to him, drawing her into him.

“Will you not sit with me?”

“No. There are other patients who require care.” She brushed past him. He heard her stiff skirts brush the sheet and he reached out, grasping for anything that he could hold.

“I wish I could see you,” he whispered. “Here, help me to, Jane.” He held his hand out in the air, waiting for her to take it.

“Matthew,” she said in a voice full of pleading, “please don’t.”

Despite his blindness he found her hand and pulled her down so that she was sitting beside him on the bed.

“If you are in pain, or in need of something—”

“I am in need of you.” Their fingers entwined and he ordered her to bring their hands to her face.

“I don’t understand what this will prove.”

“I want to paint you in my mind.”

He found the soft curve of her chin, and traced his trembling fingertips over the downy skin. In his mind he saw unblemished peaches-and-cream skin. His fingertips skated over the bridge of her nose down to her lush mouth. She turned her head when he reached the corner of her lips. Despite his coaxing words, she held herself away from his touch.

“Let me touch your mouth.”

“No.” She tried to move away, but he held her to him and brought her forward, capturing her mouth with his. It was a soft, lingering kiss, just lips brushing, and his soul stirred.

She pulled away, his lips kissing the air. “We can’t do this, Matthew.”

“Why? Is there another?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?”

He smiled and reached for her once again. “No, it really doesn’t.”

“Matthew, stop.”

“What color is your hair?”

There was hesitation before she answered, “What does it matter what color it is?”

“Because I want to know what color to visualize when I’m dreaming of you and your hair spilling over me.”

“Please,” she whispered, “do not say such things.”

“Why?” he asked, the fog from his fever lifting, giving increasing clarity to his thoughts. “Did I shame you by forcing your hand to pleasure me?”

“You did not force me.”

“But I did shame you?”

The accusation hung heavy and he heard Jane leave the bed and walk to the corner of the room, her heels clicking against the floorboards.

“Why do you run, Jane?”

“I do not run.”

“Aye, you do. Every time the rope that is wrapped between us pulls you closer to me, you pull away, untangling us.”

“There is no us, Matthew. You’re confused. Febrile.”

“There could be an us,” he replied, hating the desperation he suddenly felt flare in his breast. “Jane,” he whispered, “come away with me.”