10. Sound #2
When silence finally fell, Everett found himself straining to track footsteps. The front door opened and closed, followed by one set moving toward Emma’s chamber. He exhaled with relief.
Questions plagued him until dawn. Not just about Emma’s relationship with Michael, but about her connections to London medical circles. What game was she playing? And why did he care more about her than his duty?
When Emma entered his room the next morning, Everett was already sitting up, watching her with stormy intensity that made her fingers tremble as she set down her medical bag.
"Your evening's research must have been fascinating." His voice carried an edge she'd never heard before. "To keep you and Dr Kincaid occupied until such late hours."
"Lie back," she commanded, ignoring the bite in his tone.
As she reached for his bandage, his hand caught her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Tell me, do you often entertain gentlemen in your study after midnight?"
Heat flooded her cheeks as anger sparked within her. "That's hardly your concern, Mr Hughes. Or shall we discuss your own encounters?"
"My past encounters mean nothing." His grip softened, thumb tracing her jawline. "They never have."
Her pulse skittered traitorously at his words. "No matter. Seven lessons. That's all we promised each other. Then you return to your patrons and I to my patients."
Instead of answering, he released her and lay back, the movement causing his shirt to ride up his thigh. Emma's mouth went dry at the sight of his arousal, unmistakable beneath his trousers.
"Your gaze is rather...ardent," he murmured, his voice hoarse.
"You are delirious." She turned away sharply, hearing the rustle of fabric as he adjusted his clothing.
When she faced him again, his shirt had been strategically arranged.
She began unwrapping his bandage with deliberate precision, though every brush of her fingers against his warm skin felt like playing with fire.
"Am I?" His muscles tensed beneath her touch. "Is that why the thought of you alone with Kincaid makes me want to—" He cut himself off abruptly.
"Want to what?" The words emerged hesitantly. She was uncertain if she wanted to know.
"Nothing." But his voice had dropped to a tone that made her skin prickle with awareness.
"Interesting symptoms," she mocked. "Memory loss, inability to complete sentences. Are you experiencing any other...effects?"
"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.
He knew what needed to be done.
“Trepanation,” she announced, collecting herself and turning to Sarah. “We’ll need boiling water and clean linen, Mrs Thorpe. I must cut a hole in his skull to drain the fluid. It’s the only way to save him.”
Mrs Thorpe gasped, crossing herself before hurrying toward the house, her feet leaving dark prints in the frost.
Emma reached for her medical bag with steady hands, withdrawing her prized hand trephine, a T-shaped instrument with a circular saw at one end. The silver gleamed dully in the light.
“Allow me to assist,” Everett offered, his voice carrying the quiet authority she was beginning to recognise as his true nature. As suspected moments ago, a physician stood before her, his eyes sharp with focus.
Pieces of the puzzle that was Everett Hughes fell into place, and she nodded in acknowledgement. “Very well,” she said, ignoring the questions gnawing at her.
When Mrs Thorpe returned with steaming water and linens, Everett asked in a low voice, “Where do you plan to make the incision?”
Studying the skull, she pointed to a spot. “Here. Away from major blood vessels.”
Everett nodded in approval but pointed his finger slightly to her right. “Here is better. Optimal drainage.”
“And how do you know?” Her voice was sharp with suspicion. She knew nothing of him, after all.
“I’ve done it a dozen times. You?”
“Twice.”
Emma carefully washed her hands and ordered Everett to do the same.
She then shaved a portion of the farmer’s scalp where Everett had indicated, her straight razor gliding through hair and frost alike.
Their breath formed small clouds in the cold air as they worked.
She applied a tincture of opium to the area, though the farmer’s unconscious state made it largely unnecessary.
With steady hands that belied his recent injuries, Everett took the trephine and began the delicate process of cutting through bone.
Emma watched, fascinated by his technique—unmistakably that of a highly trained surgeon, not the nobleman’s son playing at medicine as was typical.
His movements were efficient, practiced, betraying years of experience.
As the circular piece of bone was carefully removed, a small amount of blood and fluid drained from the opening. The farmer’s breathing, which had been shallow and laboured, began to even out almost immediately. Sarah’s cry of relief pierced the tense silence.
“Remarkable,” Emma breathed, her professional admiration warring with personal feelings of suspicion, anger, fear. Their eyes met briefly over their patient, Emma’s countenance stone cold and his that of guilt.