Sinful (5 page)

Leaving Maggie, she walked down the long corridor that led to Dr. Inglebright’s private room. She heard Richard’s voice through the wood.

“Damn you, if you don’t cooperate, you’ll get the ether.”

“Sod off,” came the deep reply. “I’ll break your goddamn hand if you come near me.”

“May I be of some help?”

The door swung closed behind her, and the two men froze in place. Richard was looking at her, a pair of scissors in one hand and a roll of fresh bandages in the other. Her patient was lying on the bed, thrashing his limbs as the two night men tried to hold him down. His chin lifted and he quieted. She saw his
nostrils flare, as if he was smelling something, and then his head turned in her direction.

“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?”

“Yes, of course. It is my job, after all.”

“Is that the only reason you are here?”

She glanced away, despite the fact he could not see that her eyes were busy taking in every inch of his body. No, she thought in silent answer. It was not her job that brought her to his bedside, but some other invisible force that pulled her to him.

He licked his cracked lips. “I dreamed of you today.”

The cloth she was lifting from the basin sloshed back into the water, spilling over the rim and onto the table. She struggled for composure and reached for the rag once more, ringing it out, focusing on the task ahead of her.
I dreamed of you today….
She let the words echo in her mind, savoring the feeling they gave her. The words were like a soft caress along her body, intimate, alluring, slightly unnerving.

Jane’s hand trembled as she brought the cloth to his face and carefully wiped his cheeks and lips with it. He caught a drop of water with his tongue as it landed on his mouth, and Jane watched, mesmerized, thinking it the most erotic thing she had ever seen.

“I heard your voice speaking to me,” he continued as she moved the cloth down his neck. “It brought me comfort.”

She swallowed and allowed him to talk as she cooled the cloth once more in the water. “Did you dream of me, Jane?”

“No,” she lied as she watched her hand smooth the cool material down his chest, toward his navel.

“Then why did you scent your breasts?”

She paused, glanced up at his face and saw the devilish grin on his lips. How could he have known?

“Last night you smelled of soap, tonight you smell of perfume.”

“Is it not a woman’s prerogative to use perfume?”

“Yes, but why waste something so expensive if not for a certain purpose? Especially here, in a hospital full of the ill and dying?”

“Perhaps it has nothing to do with you, or any other man.”

He laughed, and Jane felt herself flush. He knew. Knew she had thought of him, desired him.

“Lower, Jane,” he rasped as she washed his abdomen. “I’m burning all over.”

She absolutely refused to dip her hand beneath the edge of the sheet, but he reached for her wrist and stilled her. With the merest pressure, he pulled her down so that her ear was to his lips.

“I want to touch you, Jane. To learn you with my hands and mouth. I want to paint you in my mind.”

Her breathing became much too heavy as her corset pressed and squeezed her chest even tighter. “My lord, you rage with fever.”

“Yes,” he replied, the sound husky and deeply male. The maleness was what made her body answer with feminine response.

“You do not know what you are saying, sir,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

His hand left her wrist to touch her throat. With a gentle glide, his hot fingers swept up and down the column of her neck. “Swallow, Jane,” he whispered. When she did, he kept his fingertips pressed against her, feeling the action of her throat moving sensuously up and down. He made a sound, a strange, guttural noise, and she tried to break free, but his arm came around her waist, holding her.

“I can see you, taking me in your mouth, swallowing me down. My cock has ached for it all day.”

Shocked, aroused by his honesty, Jane pulled away, off-centered by the fleeting visual of her, bending over his body and taking him between her lips.

“Stay,” he commanded. The fingers that were pressed against her throat were now skating down to gently caress the quivering flesh of her breasts. The arm that was wrapped around her rose up, his hand perilously close to the underside of her breast.

“My lord,” she gasped.

“Let me touch you, Jane. You’re such a novelty. I can’t un
derstand it, this need I have to feel you, to share myself with you. I never share, Jane—
never.
”

He cupped her, his hot palm holding her breast, squeezing and molding until she squirmed in his hold. Despite his wounds and the fever that ravaged his body, he was strong, too strong for Jane to fight off, if she had wanted to defend against him. A small voice whispered that she should, that she must, but a larger voice, a dominant one, told her to accept his touch, encouraged her to enjoy it, explore it,
return it.

While she warred with herself, Matthew had somehow loosened the top three buttons on the front of her gown. Cool air kissed her bosom as his burning hand reached into her corset and pulled her breast free of the whalebone and linen.

She gasped as he moaned when her breast fell into his palm. She was startled by the sight of her pale breast being held in his tanned hand. The pink nipple, hardening, was stroked by the tip of his thumb.

Jane could hardly breathe for the pleasure that flooded her. As he fondled her, she grew languid. Her core seeping with wetness seemed to open—open to him.

“How wonderfully proportioned you are. I can see you in my mind, and what a treat it is. I can see myself doing all kinds of very wicked things to these breasts, Jane.”

He freed her other breast, and now both were hanging out over her corset, the nipples hard and pointing. He pulled her forward, his hands spanning the expanse of her ribs, her waist, then down to her hips.

“I can see you, naked, lips parted in anticipation. Do you know in anticipation of what, Jane?”

“I can’t imagine,” she said breathlessly.

He held her waist tightly, his fingers pressing into her skin through the layers of her gown and chemise and corset. Her breasts bobbed as she leaned over him.

“Please,” she whimpered. But was it a plea for him to stop, or to ignore her protest? She didn’t know. She only knew her body was trembling everywhere.

His hot palm pressed into the soft flesh of her breast as he rubbed the flat of his hand along her nipple, sending it straining against his smooth skin.

“So beautiful,” he whispered. “Ripe, succulent, waiting for my mouth and tongue.” It unnerved her, all that passion she heard. Yet it made her soul soar to hear his praise.

Unable to stand the torture, she looked down and saw how he used his fingertip to trace the circle of her nipple; her areola puckered in response to the featherlight caress. Sharp stabs shot through her, straight to her belly, as he rolled both nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, lengthening them as he gently tugged and plucked. Suddenly she was wet between her thighs, restless with the need to curl her fingers in his hair and guide his mouth to her breast.

When he brought her close enough so that he could brush his chin and lips over them, she cried out and reached for his shoulders, anchoring herself onto him.

He nuzzled her, burying his face between the valley of her breasts. He brushed his chin and cheeks and damp lips over the mounds, before holding her up by the waist, her pointed nipples hovering over his mouth.

Jane watched his tongue snake out between his lips, flicking one engorged tip now a dark shade of pink. She moaned and shifted so that he could take it deep into his mouth, but he refused, and instead amused himself by flicking and licking her nipples with the tip, and sometimes the flat of his tongue.