2. His Side of the Story
Chapter two
His Side of the Story
Everett crouched behind a towering monument, cursing his father’s insistence on this mission. Three physicians and a dozen nurses identified, yet the most intriguing remained elusive—a golden-haired nurse whose penchant for unconventional treatments had caught the Royal College’s attention.
The winter wind bit through his coat, but pride kept him from seeking shelter. A Moreland did not abandon his post, no matter how questionable the assignment. Still, he couldn’t help wondering if his surgical skills might be better employed in London rather than spying on country practitioners.
This philosophical musing proved his undoing. Lost in thought, his foot caught on an unseen obstacle, sending him tumbling headlong into the darkness. He landed with a bone-jarring thud atop something that definitely wasn’t earth, followed by a very human yelp of surprise.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light of an overturned lantern, Everett found himself face-to-face with three startled grave robbers. Of all the holes in all the cemeteries in England, he had to fall into the one occupied by resurrection men.
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he said, aiming for nonchalant despite his rather undignified position. “I don’t suppose we could pretend this encounter never happened?”
The glint of knives in the lantern-glow suggested otherwise.
What followed was a negotiation Everett would rather forget, ending with him stripped of both dignity and clothing. Now he found himself bound to a tree, desperately trying to maintain some semblance of composure as fists and boots found their mark.
Through the haze of pain, he heard a woman’s voice ring out with surprising authority. His addled mind registered details in fragments—golden hair catching lantern-light, a medical bag clutched in delicate hands, sharp eyes studying him with clinical detachment.
“That man is afflicted with leprosy,” she announced. The lie was so magnificently absurd that Everett almost laughed despite his predicament. Her delivery was flawless, the perfect blend of professional concern and grim warning.
He watched, increasingly impressed, as she manipulated his attackers’ fears with surgical precision. When she threatened to display her own leprous symptoms, he had to bite back a most ungentlemanly snort of amusement.
It wasn’t until the ruffians fled that his situation’s impropriety fully registered.
Here he stood, naked as the day he was born, before a lady of obvious education and refinement.
He attempted to hide his member from her view without being obvious about it, though dignity seemed rather a lost cause at this point.
“Thank you, Miss,” he managed, studying her properly now that he wasn’t fighting for his life.
She moved with a grace that suggested good breeding, yet her hands showed the calluses of practical work.
Most intriguingly, her medical bag contained instruments he recognised as far too sophisticated for a nurse.
“Whoever you are, know that I’m much more skilled with knives and ropes than those fools,” she said, her tone making it clear this wasn’t mere bravado. “Try anything untoward, and you will find chunks missing from your body.”
The threat should have concerned him. Instead, he found himself fascinated by the way she combined professional efficiency with subtle hints of dry humour. This must be the nurse he’d been seeking—though something told him ‘nurse’ was a rather inadequate description.
She drew closer with her lantern, and Everett found himself increasingly aware of his state of undress. Her clinical gaze travelled over his injuries with professional detachment, though he could have sworn her cheeks coloured slightly as she examined his torso.
“You’ll require a few stitches,” she announced, then paused, her eyes widening. “Remarkable. The definition of your serratus anterior is quite extraordinary.”
Despite his predicament, Everett felt a surge of masculine pride, followed immediately by an urgent need to shift his position. Her proximity and obvious appreciation of his physique was having a most inconvenient effect.
“I shall lose a limb in this cold,” he said, desperately trying to direct her attention away from his more…responsive areas.
Once freed, he found her coat thrust into his hands. The garment smelled faintly of lavender and something uniquely feminine that did nothing to help his current condition. As he fumbled to secure it around his waist, she stepped behind him to assist.
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.”