Page 75 of Prescription for Sin

“God help me, I do.” And then she was kissing him back with equal desperation, her clever fingers making quick work of his cravat, his coat.

They stumbled toward her bedroom, leaving a trail of discarded clothing. When he finally had her bare beneath him, her skin glowing in the candlelight, Everett took his time relearning every inch of her. Each kiss was an apology, each caress a promise, each shared breath a reminder of what they’d lost, and what they might still save.

Emma’s hands traced patterns on his skin that felt like forgiveness, even as her teeth marked him with lingering anger. When he finally slid inside her, they both gasped at the perfection of it; the connection that transcended betrayal and lies and all the pain between them.

“I’ve missed you,” he breathed against her throat as they moved together in perfect rhythm. “Every day, every night.”

She answered with a kiss that tasted of tears, her body arching into his as pleasure built between them. When release finally came, it felt like absolution, though they both knew the morning would bring back all their complications.

After, as she lay curled against his chest, Everett stroked her hair and wished they could stay in this moment forever. But reality pressed in with the approaching dawn.

“You need to hide,” he said softly. “Just for a few days, until everything is in place. Please, Emma. Trust me this one last time.”

She was quiet for so long he thought she’d fallen asleep. Finally, she raised her head to meet his eyes. “I am sorry, but I won’t run. Whatever comes, I’ll face it here, doing what I was meant to do.”

Everett closed his eyes, knowing he couldn’t change her mind. Knowing her fearless dedication was part of why he loved her, even as it terrified him.

As he dressed in the grey pre-dawn light, he tried one last time. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“Promise me you’ll stop trying to protect me from the truth.”

Neither of them made those promises. Neither of them could.

Chapter twenty-two

Betrayal’s Price

Everett felt the heart pendant at his throat, its delicate gold chain coiled around his neck like an accusation. Three days had passed since he saw Emma, and her absence already cut deeper than any physical wound. But he couldn’t allow himself to wallow, not when his carefully laid plans were finally coming together.

His breakfast lay untouched as he opened the morning paper, only to have his blood turn to ice at the headline: ROYAL COLLEGE BRINGS CHARGES AGAINST UNLICENCED PRACTITIONER

His hands shook as he read further.

“The Royal College of Physicians has laid formal charges against Miss Emma Brown for practicing medicine without proper credentials. Additional charges include theft of confidential medical records and endangering public health through unauthorised treatments…”

“No.” The word emerged as a snarl as the paper crumpled in his fist. He surged to his feet, nearly toppling over his chair. His father had gone too far by turning what should have been a private negotiation into public warfare.

“Have my carriage brought around,” he barked at the startled footman. “Immediately.”

As he waited, Everett’s mind raced with the implications.

When the carriage arrived, Everett practically threw himself inside. “Westminster Palace,” he ordered, his voice tight with barely controlled rage.

His father would soon learn that he wasn’t the only Moreland capable of calculated warfare. And unlike the elder Dr Moreland, Everett had truth on his side. It was time for more direct measures.

He burst into Westminster Palace, his rapid footsteps echoing off the Gothic arches as he made his way to the House of Lords.

He found the public gallery already crowded with observers watching the peers debate some agricultural bill. Arthur sat in his usual place, his aristocratic profile unmistakable even from above. Everett scrawled a note on a piece of paper.

Urgent. Royal College has moved against Emma. Must speak with you immediately. - E.M.

He pressed the note into a page’s hand along with a coin, watching the boy thread his way through the gallery to deliver it. Arthur’s posture shifted subtly as he read the message. After a moment, he rose with practiced casualness and made his way toward the exit.

Everett met him in a secluded antechamber, where portraits of past lords seemed to watch their hasty conference with painted disapproval.

“I saw the paper,” Arthur said without preamble. “Your father moved faster than we anticipated.”

“He means war.” The words caught behind his teeth.