Page 11 of Prescription for Sin

“It was like magic,” she admitted, a hint of that childhood awe creeping into her voice. “But it also showed me how powerful medicine could be—for good or ill. I wanted to understand it all.”

Everett felt a deep kinship with the lonely child she must have been, watching her father’s transformation with such careful attention. It reminded him of himself after Mary-Anne died, how he’d thrown himself into studying anatomy, desperate to understand what had taken his sister.

“My father banned all mention of my mother and sister after they died,” he found himself saying. “As if speaking of them might summon more tragedy.” He hadn’t shared this with anyone in years, yet something about Emma’s quiet understanding made the words flow freely.

“That must have been terribly isolating,” she said, her blue eyes full of such genuine sympathy that his chest tightened.

“It was. Even now, I rarely speak of them.” He studied his brandy, avoiding her gaze.

“Tell me about them?” Emma asked.

The simple question, asked with such sincere interest, touched him. Here was someone who understood loss, who had watched helplessly as illness stole loved ones away. Someone who had transformed that pain into compassion.

Looking at her in that moment, this remarkable woman who combined medical precision with such deep compassion, Everett felt his commitment to his father’s mission begin to crumble. How could he maintain his deception when she offered such honest understanding?

“They both loved to dance,” he found himself saying, his voice rough with emotion. “Even in the rain. Especially in the rain…”

And as he began to share memories he’d locked away for decades, Everett realised with growing certainty that Miss Emma Brown could not just be a mission.

Chapter five

Emma’s Proposal

After spending away the evening hours in intimate discourse of family and childhood remembrances, Emma insisted upon another saltwater bath to ward off infection in Everett's wounds. Though she was grateful for his offer of assistance, she hastily declined, choosing instead to avoid the risk of loosening his stitches.

She then retreated to gather her composure, for his presence had quite undone her. His penetrating eyes, the tender devotion with which he spoke of his family, and those elegant fingers that promised to awaken sensations she scarcely dared name. What she had intended as but a few moments' respite stretched longer, until at last, she mustered the courage to return to his bedchamber.

Emma pushed open the door, fresh towels in hand, expecting to find Everett still soaking in the copper tub. Instead, she froze at the sight before her—Everett standing nude by the window, his back turned to her, candlelight playing across his muscled form. She had examined him clinically when he first arrived, but this was different. Without the mask of a physician, the pure masculine beauty of him stole her breath.

Moonlight silvered the elegant sweep of his shoulders, highlighting the perfect symmetry of his musculature. Her eyes traced the graceful line of his spine, the powerful latissimus dorsi tapering to a narrow waist, the flowing curves of his gluteal muscles that would have made Michelangelo weep. Each muscle was perfectly defined, speaking of disciplined training.

When he turned, Emma quickly averted her gaze, heat flooding her cheeks. “I… I apologise,” she stammered. She was hopelessly melting into liquid before this man. “I thought you would still be bathing. I brought fresh towels.”

“Thank you,” he said, wrapping the old towel around his waist. His footsteps approached, and she forced herself to maintain her professional demeanour despite the warmth radiating from his bare chest mere inches away.

“You can look, you know,” he said softly, a hint of challenge in his voice. “I believe you were quite thorough in your initial examination.”

Emma’s fingers tightened on the towels she held. “That was different. Clinical.”

“And now?” There was something in his tone that made her pulse quicken.

Gathering her courage, she raised her eyes to his face, then allowed her gaze to drift lower. The candlelight carved shadows beneath each muscle, highlighting the extraordinary definition of his chest, the elegant lines of his collarbones, the tantalising trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the towel.

“Well?” He was watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

“You’re…” She wet her lips, medical vocabulary failing her for once. “You’re quite a remarkable specimen. The symmetry of your trapezius muscles alone…” she trailed off, realising how she sounded.

“Is that the physician speaking?” His voice had dropped lower, sending shivers down her spine. “Or the woman?”

Emma met his dark eyes, feeling the dangerous pull between them. “Both, perhaps,” she admitted softly. “Though I find myself rather less clinical in my observations than usual.”

His slow smile made her heart stutter. She should leave, maintain proper distance. He sold his body for coins, she reminded herself. Instead, she found herself cataloguing new details—the slight curl of his damp hair, the way water droplets traced paths down his chest, the subtle shift of muscles as he breathed.

She opened her mouth to give voice to the incessant thought she’d had since making her list. The proposal was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak of it.

“Your assessment, Doctor?” he murmured, and she realised she’d been staring.

“I…” She squared her shoulders, trying to reclaim her professional demeanour even as her body hummed with awareness. “I should go. These towels…”