Sinful

by Charlotte Featherstone

  “You must be utterly exhausted,” she said with concern. “You performed four surgeries last night.”

  Inglebright’s eyes flashed. “Your concern warms me,” he murmured in a deep voice that flustered her and made her look away. “No one cares about my needs like you do, Jane.”

  The statement felt far too familiar, and Jane, unsure of herself around men, did the only thing she could—she retreated behind her veil of coolness.

  “As you inquired, Lady Blackwood is very well,” she said, stumbling to get their conversation on a safe course. “That tincture you sent for her has helped immensely with her arthritis.”

  He smiled, making Jane wonder if he was laughing at her. “Good, good,” he mumbled, his gaze traveling over her face and the white apron she used to cover her gown with. “You do credit to her, Jane. I know of few lady’s companions who would deign to become a nurse.”

  “You give me too much credit, sir. You know very well I came to the hospital to work off my, as well as Lady Blackwood’s, mounting debt to your father.”

  His smile softened as he pressed in closer to her. “But you didn’t have to stay once it was repaid.”

  A little frisson of excitement snaked along her spine at his closeness. It was most improper how close they were standing. “I found I liked helping the ill. And what is closer to the truth, I saw it as a means for future employment. We both know that Lady Blackwood will not be with me forever. And where would I go? There is not another Lady Blackwood out there who would overlook my pedigree and bring me into her home to act as companion.”

  “There are many that would overlook your upbringing, Jane.” His smile was like a full kiss on the lips. Jane felt it in every cell of her being.

  “Doc, we’ve got somethin’ fer ye.”

  Irritation flickered in his eyes, and Jane held the lantern higher. The annoyance swiftly passed as he saw two burly night men carrying in the body of what looked to be an unconscious man. A rather large man, Jane thought.

  “’E’s bleedin’, he is. Head’s mashed to bits.”

  “My theatre,” Richard commanded, taking charge. “Jane, wash your hands and assist me.”

  “Yes,” she said, obeying him with a slight curtsy. She ran to the end of the ward where a porcelain sink and a pitcher of clean, soapy water awaited her.

  Pouring the now-tepid water over her hands, she rubbed her palms together, using friction to clean between her fingers and beneath her nails. Richard was fastidious about washing, a fact his father laughed about. But Jane had noticed over the months here that Richard’s patients had less wound infections than those of his father.

  Drying her hands on a clean towel, Jane walked briskly to the wooden doors that swung open. The hem of her black gown was swishing around her legs, the starched white apron itching against her neck, which had started to perspire. It was not fear that made her sweat, but excitement.

  “We have a significant head wound, Jane,” Richard announced as she entered the room where Richard performed his operations. “And perhaps some broken bones.”

  Richard’s hands, covered in blood, searched through the tumble of black hair on the man’s head.

  “’E’s a rich cove, ’e is,” the burliest of the night men said. “Look at ’is clothes and that waistcoat.”

  “Never mind that now,” Richard growled. “Help me to get him undressed so I can see if there is more damage. Jane, bring over the tray with the ether. I have a feeling when this giant awakes, he will not be in pleasant humor.”

  The two men began pulling off the bloodstained jacket and waistcoat. Jane turned her back, preparing the silver tray with the ether and an assortment of tools she thought Inglebright might need. For certain, this man would require needle and thread to close the gaping wound in his head.

  “Damn me, the man’s been through a rounder!”

  Whirling around, Jane caught sight of a very muscular chest and arms. On the man’s ribs were black smudges, which she knew were bruises.

  “Spleen and liver feel intact, and there isn’t any swelling or firmness,” Richard muttered as he palpated the man’s belly, which was etched in muscle. “His limbs seem to be intact, as well. I don’t know how he managed it, but he seems to have avoided breaking any bones. Bring a cloth and water, Jane. Let’s find out where all this blood is coming from.”

  Jane set the silver tray down on a wooden table, and began dabbing at the wound. The scalp wound, while large, was not overly deep. More of a superficial gash, really. The blood was already starting to dry, and the wound no longer wept.

  Cleaning the cloth in the water, Jane wrung it out, watching the clear water turn red. She turned to his face, bending over him to work. He snarled, his white teeth bared like a rabid animal’s as he grabbed her wrist.

  “Givens and Smith, if you please,” Richard said, motioning to where the man held her.

  “None of that now, guv,” Givens said. “The chit is only tryin’ to help.”

  The man came off the table, swinging and hitting, as the night men struggled to hold him down.

  “Get off,” he cried. Like a madman, he swung at anything that moved. “Get the fuck off me, you whoreson!”

  “’E don’t talk like a gent,” Mr. Smith grunted as he twisted the man’s arm, forcing his torso back onto the table. “Talks like ’e was born in the rookery.”

  The man burst into a litany of profanity about being tied down. He struggled, his strength incredible considering his wounds.

  “Give him two drops of ether, Jane.”

  With a dropper, she administered two drops of the liquid onto a folded cloth and pressed it tightly against the man’s face.

  He struggled, roaring, but it was not a cry of rage, Jane thought as she watched him, it was one of terror. He tossed his head from side to side trying to dislodge the towel, but Jane held firm.

  “No,” he said, muffled beneath the cloth, his voice weakening, as was his strength. “Don’t do this. No binds…”

  Jesus Christ, not again. He was being held down, his body unclothed, hands, cool and damp, stroked his flesh. He retched, trying to fight through the fog that clouded his brain. Fumbling at his waist told him his trousers were being removed, and he gathered the last of his evaporating strength to fight off his assailant.

  The old fear seized him and he began to shake and breathe too fast.

  “Shh,” came a female voice. “You’re safe.”

  He stilled, going limp, then realized it was a trick. This was no angel in disguise.

  Violently he tossed his head, trying to fling off the cloth that was smothering him.

  “It’s all right,” came the softly spoken voice, directly in his ear. “Take a slow deep breath, and hold it. That’s right. Now let it go.”

  His body seemed to go languid. He felt hands in his hair. They were gentle and soothing. Not like the other hands that had always plagued his dreams. Hands that clawed and pinched. Hands that had awakened him many times in his sleep. Hands that had ruined him.

  “You’re bleeding, and we want only to help you,” the voice whispered again. “You’re safe here. I promise.”

  The world was blackening. He felt disembodied, weightless. Yet his hearing remained nearly perfect.

  “There,” she soothed, her breath caressing his cheek. “There is nothing to fear.” The cloth fell away from his mouth as his body stilled. “Sleep now,” she encouraged.

  “You truly are an angel, Jane,” came the voice of a male.

  Before the blackness settled in, his fingers reached for her wrist, which he sensed was near his hip. He grabbed her, holding on to her like an anchor clutches the sand at the bottom of the sea.

  “Be here,” he scratched out through his cracked lips and dry throat.

  She squeaked at the shock of knowing he was not asleep, but then she recovered swiftly. The tension in her hand lessened, and Matthew entwined his fingers with hers, holding on to the only thing that felt safe.

  “I’m
here,” she said, her voice like that of an angel.

  “No,” he growled. “Later. Be here…later.”

  “He’s out at last. Jane, hand me the scalpel.”

  Jane did as she was told. Thankfully, it was nearly automatic now, for she could not take her gaze off the stranger. He was beautiful, she realized, allowing her gaze to wander along the length of his unclothed body. He was very tall and broad. His were muscles honed and sculpted, reminding Jane of a diagram she had once studied while she learned anatomy. She tried to still her pulse as she ran through the anatomical terms. Pectoralis. His were large and firm, his nipples small and brown. On the left one, above his heart was a tattoo. A crest of some sort.

  Rectus abdominis. Stomach muscles. All six of his were prominently displayed. So too was a tantalizing trail of soft black hair that disappeared beneath the white sheet.

  “Jane.”

  The sharp voice drew her attention and she blushed. Sliding her spectacles back on her nose where they belonged, Jane met Richard’s annoyed gaze. “Needle and thread,” he repeated.

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  She’d been caught staring. She was no better than the two new employees she had scolded a short time ago. But really, how could a woman possessed of a pulse not notice the man lying before her. He was stunningly masculine, and his face, while exceedingly handsome, held a beauty that was dark and sensual.

  She noticed his lips were cracked and smeared with blood. She went to wipe them. “Not now, Jane,” Richard commanded. “I need your hand.”

  In the light, he held a shining object between a pair of tweezers. “From a gin bottle most likely,” Richard murmured as he held the tweezers up to the light. “It was lodged in the corner of his eye. You’ll need to sew the outer lid back together. That is what is bleeding. You’ve a steady, delicate hand, Jane. You’ll leave less scarring if you do it.”

  “Yes, Dr. Inglebright.”

  Richard nodded and reached for the towel. His hands were drenched in blood to his wrists. “He’s an aristocrat,” he muttered as he tossed the towel into the wicker basket they used for laundering. “I don’t want him coming back displeased with me because I’ve bungled his looks.”

  Jane hid her smile. She knew Richard’s opinion of the titled populace. It was not gracious.

  Bending over her patient, she tried to forget that Richard was watching her, and that her patient’s face lay pressed against her ample bosom as she bent low over his eyes.

  Concentrating on steadying her hand, Jane tried to ignore the way the man’s warm breath caressed her exposed skin above the edge of her bodice. Never before had she been so discomposed to be sitting this close to a man. He was asleep from the ether, yet her body was as aware of him as if he were awake, caressing her with his gaze, his hands, his beautiful mouth.

  “He’ll need his head bandaged. We don’t want that gash to get putrid, or his eyes. You can see to that, can you, Jane?”

  “Yes.”

  “Givens and Smith will find a bed for him. I think it best if he stay the night here in my room. He doesn’t need to be out with the others. Whoever he is, he has money. I think he would be rather dismayed to find himself amongst the consumptives and typhoids.”

  Squeezing her shoulder, Richard passed behind her, studying her skill with the needle. “It’s unfortunate the college doesn’t allow women in, Jane. You’d be a superb surgeon. Lucky bastard, I doubt he’ll even have a scar.”

  That was praise, indeed. No other compliment could have meant more to Jane. It carried far more substance than one based on the superficialities of beauty and feminine wiles. She was not a beauty. She knew and accepted it. But she was smart, and eager to learn all she could. She was a woman of worth, and would continue to be so, despite her looks.

  “How do you do it?” Richard asked, peering over her shoulder. “Your stitches are so slight.”

  She laughed despite the closeness of Richard at her back, and the stranger’s face at her front. “Sometimes it pays to be a woman,” she whispered, smiling secretly to herself.

  “We’ll, you’ve a fine hand, and a quick mind, Jane. I’m glad I found you first.”

  3

  Warm water sluiced from the cloth over the large expanse of the man’s shoulders and chest. The water turned to rust, taking the remnants of dried blood away from his skin.

  His skin tone was darker than most, tanned almost, she mused as she dipped the cloth once more into the basin and squeezed it over his pectorals. The water shimmered over the blue ink of the tattoo, and she bent closer trying to see what the image was of.

  She still couldn’t make it out. Tracing it with her finger, she saw him flinch and she pulled away, afraid to waken him—afraid to touch him.

  Like a child caught stealing a sweet, Jane felt utterly guilty to be taking delight in washing this stranger.

  Even with his head and eyes bandaged, he was beautiful. His nose, straight and refined, told of his aristocratic breeding. His lips, however, full and soft yet masculine, were made for pleasure.

  Jane didn’t dare touch them. She had wanted to, but had not allowed herself the wicked pleasure of such a thing. He was her patient. It was wrong. Had she not long ago given her two new charges the devil for their misconduct? Moral responsibility, Jane reminded herself. Respectability.

  Yet Jane could not stop thinking of how hard he felt beneath her fingertips and how her body seemed to soften as her hands gently touched him. She had never once been physically affected by a patient. She had never felt the slow deep burn inside her, the vague tightening of her loins and her womb. Not even Richard had this effect on her. She knew the words that made her feel this way, but was at loss to explain why they suddenly consumed her.

  Desire. Attraction—compulsion. Desire and attraction were what she felt at this precise moment. Compulsion was what she was trying so diligently to fight.

  Her gaze fixed on his chest, watching how slowly his chest rose and fell. She allowed her hands to traverse the width of his torso under the pretence of counting his respirations. She heard the breath enter his lungs, felt his heart beating slow and steady against her palm. Saw his lips part as the air escaped through them.

  Even when she was certain he was breathing easy, she could not push away. Her hands simply would not let go of him.

  It was wrong to be this close to him, to sit on the edge of his small cot, to be leaning over him as she watched him sleep. He was clean now, yet still she bathed him, refusing to take her hands off his body.

  He stirred against her, the bandages hiding his brow and facial expressions. Every once in a while, he would tremble, and his mouth would move as if he was trying to speak. His head would then begin thrashing, his body tensing despite the deep sleep produced by the ether.

  What demon gripped him? She knew it was something evil that held him now. He should be peaceful from the ether, not grimacing and tensing, as if he was trying to fight.

  Perhaps he was dreaming of his attack.

  He cried out, his head arching back as his torso and buttocks lifted from the cot. The white sheet slid down, exposing the line of fine black hair that continually captured her attention.

  “Shh,” she soothed, pushing him gently back with her hands on his shoulders. “You’re safe here.”

  He settled easily, falling back into the slow, even breathing of before. His body was still. His muscles quiet.

  As Jane sat back and watched him, she allowed herself to take her fill of his naked chest. She had never seen a man like this before. One who was so large and muscled. One whose shaving soap and cologne still clung to his skin.

  His chest was smooth and hairless, all except for the line of onyx down that swirled around his navel and worked its way lower. Without thinking, Jane ran her forefinger along the pathway of hair, marveling at the softness and the steely muscles beneath his skin. It was a contradiction, how something could feel so soft and innocent, yet just beneath so hard and unyielding.

 
She was utterly captivated by him, by the secrecy of his identity, not to mention the mysteries to be found on his body. Like a child with a new doll, she could not stop looking at him, or prevent herself from running her hand along his chest.

  What would it feel like to have his length atop her? To be encased by his strong arms? To lay her head on his chest and listen to the steady cadence of his heart beating as she traced the outline of his tattoo?

  What would it be like, she wondered, to have a man this handsome and virile buried deep within her?

  As if he could discern her wayward thoughts, the sheet moved as his penis began to swell, the outline of which was pressed urgently against the thin, graying cotton.

  Jane was not an innocent. She did not smother a cry of horror and launch herself from the bed. Instead, she allowed herself to pull the sheet down, slowly exposing the man to her curious eyes.

  He was as large and beautiful there as he was everywhere else.

  His erection continued to fill, and Jane watched, mesmerized as the pink rod filled with blood. He was long and thick. The foreskin pulling back, revealing a heavily veined staff and engorged head.

  She was consumed by the thought of feeling him, touching the hardness that still grew. The devil whispered in her ear, and she obeyed, reaching out to skim her fingertip along the veined shaft.

  He moaned, and hastily Jane pulled the sheet up, ashamed by her actions. She had no idea what had gotten into her. She had seen many male patients naked before, and never once had she been tempted to touch them, to learn whether or not the skin was as smooth and velvety as it looked.

  Perhaps she had her mother’s harlot blood after all, for that could be the only reason for these new thoughts that suddenly began to cloud her thinking and judgment.