Page 7 of Prescription for Sin

As he watched the Salisbury carriage depart, Everett ran a hand through his hair in relief. He didn’t much relish the thought of disgracing a lady who had saved him. It was welcome news that she had her powerful family’s defence.

On the other hand, he couldn’t help but feel everything was about to spiral out of his control—his mission, his carefully ordered life—all threatened by a woman who defied every convention, who challenged him in ways both maddening and thrilling.

Emma’s quill hovered above her medical notes, her mind wandering to memories of her mysterious patient—his powerful physique, a flicker of appreciation in his eyes as he studied her, the flexing of muscles beneath her fingers. She pressed her thighs together, fighting an inappropriate warmth.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, setting down her quill. A physician should maintain clinical detachment, not dwell on the magnificent breadth of Mr Hughes’s shoulders or the elegant definition of muscle that spoke of disciplined training. Everything about him was a contradiction—refined speech at odds with his claimed profession, powerful form belying gentle manner.

“What has you so lost in thought, Miss Brown?”

Michael’s voice startled her. Emma’s cheeks warmed as she met his knowing gaze. “Merely analysing data.”

“Are you certain?” His boyish grin held a hint of their former intimacy. “Your expression suggested more…personal contemplations.”

“Stop it, Kincaid. You know perfectly well I’m immune to masculine charm.”

“Is that so?” His slight frown carried echoes of old hurt. “I hadn’t noticed.”

The loaded silence that followed made Emma’s skin prickle. “Did you expect me to fall into your arms like other women do?”

“No, you were quite clear about your intentions.” He stepped closer. “Though I had hoped…perhaps we might try again? This evening?”

Emma’s heart gave a peculiar twist. Once, she might have considered it. Michael was handsome, intelligent, and understood her work. But now she knew her body could react more intensely to the male physique in ways it never had with Michael.

“No. I have a patient staying with me.”

“Who?”

“You don’t know him. I found him in the cemetery.”

Michael’s features creased into a frown. “A man? Emma, you underestimate the danger—”

“He’s in no condition to pose any threat.”

“Men have hidden strengths when properly motivated.” His voice softened. “I should know. I could be at death’s door and still wouldn’t decline you.”

His confession made Emma pause. “Perhaps we should discuss what happened between us. I assumed you’d simply lost interest.”

Michael’s gaze drifted away. “I thought I could maintain distance. That our arrangement could remain purely physical. But my heart had other ideas.”

The admission landed like stones in her chest. “You developed affections for me? Is that why you ended things?”

His nod sent guilt through her.

“And you? Did you feel nothing?” he asked quietly.

“I value your friendship deeply,” she said carefully. “But our physical relationship didn’t awaken any deeper emotions.”

His laugh held more pain than humour. “Ever decisive, even in matters of the heart.”

Michael changed the subject quickly to their cholera research, though Emma couldn’t quite forget his confession. As Michael leaned close to study her notes, his familiar scent brought memories of intimate moments. Yet all she could think about were dark eyes and callused hands that belonged to someone else entirely.

After Michael left to attend to his patients, Emma paced her office while wrestling with an unconventional hypothesis. Her recent conversation with Michael had stirred something—not desire for him but rather a stark awareness of her own limited understanding.

“A physician should comprehend all aspects of human health,” she muttered, trying to frame her thoughts clinically. Her female patients constantly sought advice about intimate matters, their whispered confessions revealing profound unhappiness. Some described their marital duties as mere endurance, while others spoke longingly of passion they’d only read about in novels.

She paused at her desk, fingers tracing the spine of an anatomy text. Medical knowledge was one thing, but practical understanding… That was harder to come by, especially for a woman physician.

“Thirty years old,” she said to the empty room. “And what do I really know of pleasure beyond clinical descriptions and one failed experiment?”