8. Danger #2
“Mary-Anne,” he remembered calling out in his delirium. The name of his dead sister had haunted his fever dreams, mixing with Emma’s steady presence until he wasn’t sure which woman had comforted him through the darkness.
He tried to shift position and had to bite back a groan at how weak his muscles felt. The movement caused Emma to stir, her nose wrinkling adorably before she snapped upright, instantly alert.
“Mr Hughes!” Her professional mask was firmly in place, though he caught the relief in her eyes. “How long have you been awake?”
“Not long.” His voice emerged as a croak. “How many days?”
“Three.” She pressed a cool hand to his forehead, and he had to stop himself from leaning into her touch. “Your fever broke just before dawn.”
Three days. Three days of her tending to him, neglecting her own rest. Three days of vulnerability during which he might have revealed anything. The thought should have terrified him more than it did.
“You stayed,” he murmured, searching her face.
A hint of colour touched her cheeks. “Of course. You are my patient.”
Patient. The word shouldn’t have disappointed him so much.
“I remember…” He paused, watching her carefully. “Someone singing. An old lullaby about blackbirds.”
Emma’s blush deepened. “You were delirious. The fever—”
“It was beautiful.”
She busied herself straightening the bedclothes, but he caught the pleased curve of her lips. “Yes, well, music seems to soothe the ailing ones. A purely medical decision.”
“Of course.” He smiled despite his exhaustion. “And did medical science also require you to sleep at my bedside?”
“I was monitoring your breathing.” But she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You had me quite worried for a while.”
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For saving my life. Again.”
“I only did what I was trained to do. I’m sure any nurse would have—”
“Emma.” Her Christian name stopped her nervous chatter. “You did far more than that, and I thank you for it.”
She looked at him then, really looked, and Everett felt stripped bare by those remarkable eyes. What did she see? A patient? A supposed prostitute? Or something more treacherous, the man beneath his lies?
“I should fetch you some broth,” she said, gathering her professional dignity around her like armour. “You’ll need to rebuild your strength.”
But as she turned to leave, he caught her wrist. Her pulse fluttered beneath his fingers like a trapped bird.
“Did I…” He swallowed hard. “Did I do anything inappropriate? During the fever?”
Emma went very still. “You were delirious,” she said carefully. “Nothing that happened could be considered…inappropriate.”
So, he had kissed her. The confirmation sent heat through him.
Emma gently extracted her wrist from his grip. “Earlier, during your fever,” she began carefully, watching his expression, “you called out for someone. Mary-Anne. You seemed quite distressed.” She saw the change instantly—how his shoulders tensed, how shadows gathered in his dark eyes.
“My sister,” he said quietly. His voice carried the weight of old grief and made Emma’s heart clench, followed by relief he wasn’t calling out for his lover.
“How old were you when she died?”
“I was twelve. She died of dysentery.”
The clinical part of Emma’s mind immediately conjured images of the disease’s progression, but she pushed them aside, focusing instead on the raw pain in his voice. “I’m so sorry,” she said softly.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, warming his features.
“She was four years older, but she never treated me as a nuisance. Always included me in her games, read to me, protected me from Father’s moods after Mother died when I was six.
” His voice grew coarse with memory. “My sister was the one who first showed me how to do handstands in the garden. Started my love of gymnastics.”
Emma found herself leaning forward, drawn by this glimpse of the boy he had been. “That explains your fever dreams,” she said gently. “You begged her not to leave you. The pain in your voice…” she trailed off, remembering how his anguish had torn at her heart.
“Did I?” He looked down at his glass, his fingers white-knuckled around it. “The fever must have brought back memories of watching her suffer. I was too young to understand why I couldn’t see her, why the doctors wouldn’t let me say goodbye.”
The sister in Emma railed against such cruelty, a child barred from his dying sister’s bedside. But the physician in her understood the need to prevent the disease’s spread. Still, looking at Everett now, she saw how that moment had shaped him.
“Rest, Mr Hughes. I shall bring you some sustenance.”
Everett felt a profound disappointment and longing wash over him as she quit the room.
Alone, he stared at the ceiling, cataloguing his body’s weakness with a physician’s detachment. Three days of fever should have burned away this inconvenient attraction. Instead, he felt more drawn to her than ever.
The memory of her singing tugged at him. Not the practiced scales of a lady’s education, but something rougher, more honest. Like everything about Emma Brown, it defied his expectations and made him question his purpose here.
He was supposed to be gathering evidence against her. Instead, he found himself gathering precious fragments of the woman beneath her stern facade, her gentle hands, her hidden smile, the way she gave herself completely to caring for others.
Sleep pulled at him again, but he fought it, trying to sort fever dreams from reality. Had she really pressed his hand to her cheek in the darkest hours? Had she whispered, “Come back to me,” when his fever peaked?
Most importantly, why did those memories matter more than his mission?