Sinful. Charlotte Featherstone

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      “Jane,” the two men said simultaneously. The sound of the patient’s voice, deep and seductive, made her tremble, and she was grateful for Dr. Inglebright’s stern voice, for it made it easier for her to hide her response to Matthew’s hushed whispering of her name.

      “He burns with fever and rages like a lunatic. I need to check beneath the bandages, but he lashes out.”

      “How long has he had the fever?”

      Jane came closer to the bed and watched as Matthew’s head turned, as if he was following her path. He could not see, yet somehow he knew where to find her.

      “All day, and I’m afraid the wound is full of putrefaction.”

      Jane could not smell anything that might lead her to believe the wound was festering, but there was a shadowing of old blood and yellow fluid beneath the layer of binding, which could be pus. The fact he burned with fever was sign enough.

      Richard caught her gaze, his eyes pleading silently for her assistance. His gaze said it all, the patient was an aristocrat, and Richard could ill afford the man’s death on his hands.

      “Will you not let the doctor look?” she asked as she came to stand beside Matthew’s bed.

      “No,” came the hoarse voice, “but I will allow you to look, Jane.”

      Richard arched his brow, staring at her in stunned silence before he handed her the scissors. “I will need to cut off the binding. Be still for a minute,” she said.

      Bending over him, she gently cut the white bandage and slowly began to unwind it. When she got to the back, she cupped his head in her palm and lifted, allowing the wrapping to come free. His mouth was close to her bosom and she felt the incredible heat rising from his body, as well as the dry warmth from his breath as it caressed her décolletage.

      “Jane,” Matthew murmured, and she heard him inhale the scented valley of her breasts. “Help me,” he whispered.

      “I am. I will,” she replied as she lowered his head onto the pillow. Dr. Inglebright was watching her with scrutiny, and her fingers nervously fluttered against the white cloth.

      “There,” she murmured, pulling the long strip of binding away from his eyes. Inglebright stepped closer and reached out to examine Matthew’s head, when his hand shot out and captured Richard’s throat. “I want Jane,” he growled. “Only Jane.”

      “Very well,” Richard gasped as he pried off the fingers that held him. “Jane will look.”

      The hand fell away, and Jane pressed in, allowing her fingertips to gingerly part the clumped strands of hair that covered the cut. Blood had dried to his hair and scalp, making it difficult to visualize the wound. From what she could see, there was naught but redness. When she shook her head, telling the doctor that the fever did not stem from the head wound, he ordered her to peel back the dressing over Matthew’s left eye.

      “I want to remove the bandage over your eye, but I’ll need to wet it to loosen it. Will you let me?”

      He nodded and Jane rinsed the cloth that sat in the basin on the table beside his bed. Carefully, she wet the bandage, saturating it and dissolving the bits of dried blood that stuck to it. As she pulled, she felt him stiffen, and she whispered soothing, encouraging words to him. He responded to her voice, and settled deep into the bed, allowing her to pull the bandage free and probe his swollen eyelids. Both lids were grossly distended and bruised, and Matthew was unable to open his eyes. Standing back, Jane looked at him, studying the face that was still so beautiful despite the bruising and swelling.

      “His eyes look fine,” Richard grumbled behind her. “I’ve no idea why he has developed the fever.”

      “Perhaps it is the body’s response to all he’s been through.”

      “Maybe,” Richard mumbled. “He’s safe enough from his wounds, but if this fever continues to rage unchecked, it could be disastrous.”

      “I will get the fever down,” she replied.

      “If he allows it.”

      “He will.”

      Richard reached for her hand when she retrieved the cloth from the basin. With a squeeze, he forced her to look up at him. “I don’t like the thought of leaving you alone with him. He’s violent.”

      Jane glanced at Matthew, and something in her seemed to liquefy and soften. “He will not hurt me.”

      Richard stared at her curiously, as if he would see inside her, discovering for himself the tempest of emotion that stormed within her. She was at a loss to explain it, or to understand how it had happened—this connection she sensed she shared with Matthew.

      “I will return, Jane, to check on you.” Richard’s gaze traveled along her body, before it once more rested on her face. “You will have a care, won’t you, Jane? I’d truly hate it were anything to happen to you.”

      “You needn’t worry.”

      “Ah, but I do, Jane. And never more since he has arrived. I will return to make sure you are safe.”

      As Jane watched Richard leave with the two night men in tow, she realized that it was not a statement from Richard, but rather a warning. He was coming back to check on her, to make sure that she was behaving as she should. Were her thoughts so transparent? Could Richard have any idea?

      She turned to Matthew and pulled a chair close to his bed. He was sweating, and the sheet that covered him was damp. His hair was mussed, and black stubble covered his upper lip and angular jaw. He was everything that was beautiful and masculine, and Jane could not look away from him, or the tiny rivulet of sweat that trickled between his pectorals.

      “Jane,” he murmured, then cried her name again, his voice rising when she did not immediately answer him.

      “I am here.” She covered his hand with hers and was astonished by the heat of it. “You burn.”

      He swallowed, then turned his head toward her voice. “I can’t see you.”

      “Your eyes are swollen shut. The one is still stitched closed, but the thread will come out in the next day or two. In a few days, you’ll be on your way, right as rain.”

      He scowled, changing his face from that of a beautiful angel, to demon. “I waited for you, all day. Where did you go?”

      “Home. And I’ve only been gone the morning and afternoon. ’Tis early evening yet.”

      “It felt like a lifetime, waiting for you to return to me.”

      Her traitorous heart skipped a beat. She had never had anyone speak to her in such a fashion, let alone a man who looked like this.

      “Will you stay, Jane?” he asked as he curled his fingers between hers. “Will you sit at my beside and nurse me through the long, dark hours of the night?”

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