by Eve Silver
“No, I do not.” He looked away. “Why did you defend me?”
“I defended no one. I merely pointed out possible explanations for what had occurred and since no one came forth with any other, it appears my suggestion was given full merit.” She paused. “Though I suspect this is not the end of the inquiry, nor the end of supposition and accusation.”
His lips curved in a ghost of a smile, and she found herself staring at his mouth, the hard line of it, the slightly squared, full lower lip, so incredibly appealing. She could not seem to look away.
He had not shaved. His grooming was otherwise impeccable, but he eschewed the razor quite often. She wondered if there was a particular reason for that, or merely that he found it a bother.
There was no question that she liked it. Liked the look of his lean, squared jaw with the faintest hint of a cleft at the front of his chin. Of its own volition, her hand half rose, and she stopped the movement with a tiny gasp, wondering what she thought she had meant to do. Touch him? Lay her fingers against his jaw and feel the golden hairs beneath her fingers? She wondered if they would be soft or scratchy, and she could not suppress a small shiver.
“No, I suspect it is not the end of the inquiry,” he agreed. He seemed not at all distressed by the observation.
Suddenly reckless, she dared ask, “Were you there this morning? Before I arrived? Was it you that I saw leaving Mr. Scully’s bedside?”
His fine humor dropped away, and his expression turned cool and blank.
“What precisely did you see?” A harsh demand.
“I—” She backed up a step, put off by the sharp change in his tone, but the shelves were at her back and there was nowhere else for her to go.
He prowled a step closer. Her heart slammed hard against her ribs and she stared at him, afraid and appalled and tantalized all at once.
“Whom did you see, Miss Lowell?” He moderated his tone now, made it gentle and smooth. But he did not step back. He held his place, close enough that she had to tip her head far back to look into his eyes.
She liked it, liked his nearness, the scent of his skin, his size…and she thought that perhaps she oughtn’t to like it. “Do you crowd me on purpose, sir?”
His teeth flashed white in a brief smile, and despite her words and tone, he made no move to step away. “And if I do?”
“Then I would ask you to explain such action. Do you intend it as a threat?”
He frowned. “No. Most assuredly not.” He sounded appalled. “It seems I have forgotten the rules…” He took a step back, leaving a more decorous space between them.
“Rules?”
“Of polite discourse. Of flirta—” He broke off and scrubbed his palm over his jaw. “I am long out of practice.”
“Polite discourse? We are in a supply closet talking about a dead man.” Holding his gaze, she took a deliberate step forward, closing the gap. “Explain yourself.”
He made no reply.
“You could have spoken with me in the ward or the corridor, yet you chose to follow me and engage in conversation here where we are alone. Why?” The words were a challenge, a demand, and she knew such confrontation was neither polite nor expected. But she was not one to act coy and cajole answers. She was only the person her father had raised her to be, the person she was inside, and she would not—could not—be other.
So she waited, arms crossed, head tipped.
“I like being close to you,” he said with a rueful twist of his lips, his words warming her blood and leaving her dizzy. Dipping his head until his cheek brushed against her hair, he inhaled deeply. She stood very still, her pulse racing, her breath locked in her throat and all manner of strange and bright emotions cascading through her like a brook.
Only when he eased back did she dare to breathe, and even then, it was a short, huffing gasp. “You are inappropriate, sir.”
He sighed. “I am.” He took three steps back until he was at the far edge of the alcove. She regretted the loss of his proximity. His expression suggested he regretted the loss of hers. “Your hair smells like flowers,” he said.
He left her breathless and warm and so aware of his assertion that it hummed in her blood. Her hair did smell like flowers. She bathed as often as possible using the scented soap that was her one excess, her baths her sole luxury, one she worked hard for, heating water and dragging it up the stairs to the hip bath she set up in her chamber. Mrs. Cowden and her fellow lodgers in Coptic Street thought her mad.
But this moment, with Killian Thayne noticing her in a way much the same as she noticed him, made her think that hours spent heating water and lugging buckets had been worth the effort.
Sarah closed her eyes, torn between the desire to stand here forever and the fact that anyone could come upon them.
As though he divined her thoughts, he said, “My apologies, Miss Lowell. Truly. I take liberties that are not mine to claim.” And before she could form a response, he said, “Tell me what you saw this morning by Mr. Scully’s bed.”
“I am not certain.” She was grateful for the change in topic and the tiny bit of space he allowed her. Her heart yet raced; her nerves tingled with excitement. He made her lose her common sense, and she did not like that. “Whatever I saw, it was not beside his bed, but rather on the far side of the ward. Perhaps I saw a shadow cast through the windows. Perhaps nothing.” She paused and lifted her gaze, but found only her own reflection in the dark glass of his spectacles. “Perhaps I saw you.”
“If you think that, then why did you defend me?” There was something in his tone that both pleased her and raised her hackles…affection? Amusement? He confounded her, made her wary, and yet, he fascinated her.
“I never said I thought it. You asked what I saw, and as I truly do not know, I offered a variety of options. I cannot say why I leaped to your defense.” She only knew that she could not find it in herself to believe that he had ripped open the wrists of four patients at King’s College and drained their bodies of blood.
Even standing here in the gloomy little closet with the height and breadth of him—the threat of him—blocking her path, the possibility that he had done murder seemed absurd. She had seen him work far too hard to save patients’ lives to believe that he would choose to rob them of it.
He reached up and slid his spectacles down his nose, then dragged them off entirely, leaving his gaze open to her scrutiny. The shadows only served to accent the handsome lines and planes of his features. The slash of high cheekbones, the straight line of his nose.
For a long moment, he studied her, saying nothing, the only sound the escalated cadence of her own breathing. He was so focused, so intent.
Again, she wondered if he was a mesmerist, for she found she could not look away. Had no wish to look away.
Her limbs felt heavy, languid, and her blood was thick and hot in her veins.
He moved aside and swept his hand before him, offering her the opportunity to exit the closet. She hesitated then shook her head and stayed where she was.
“No?” he asked and waited.
Again, she shook her head, knowing it was folly, yet unwilling to simply walk away from this moment. She held his gaze as he stepped inside the closet once more, held it as he moved closer and then closer still, held it as he raised his hand and laid his fingers along the side of her throat where her pulse pounded hard and wild.
“Sarah.” Just her name, spoken in his low, deep voice. The sound thrummed through her body, leaving her limbs trembling and her thoughts befuddled. “Such a wise and brave treasure you are.”
Wise. Brave. Was she? Or was she a fool, making choices that were ill advised, even dangerous?
Treasure.
He rested the back of his hand against her cheek and she fought the urge to lean into his touch. How long since she had been touched with affection? Months and months. And even then, not like this. Never like this.
“I believe that in a different time, you would make a fine physician and surgeon,�
�� he said, his voice rougher than she had ever heard it. “Dr. Sarah Lowell has a pleasant ring.”
She cut him a glance through her lashes. “Your words are fantastical. No medical school would offer a place to a woman.”
“And if they did?”
He laid bare a secret dream, one she had shared with no one, not even her father. She would make a fine surgeon. She knew she would. But such was not to be.
“If wishes were fishes…” She made a soft laugh.
“…we’d all swim in riches.” Killian smiled at her. “I like the sound of your laughter,” he said.
Her skin tingled, her nerves danced, and she was aware of his every breath, of the sweep of his dark gold lashes, the line of his brow, the shape of his lips.
A sound escaped her, a breath, a sigh. He leaned closer until their breath mingled. She wanted to rest her nose against the strong column of his throat and simply breathe him in, but she held her place, paralyzed by incertitude and inexperience.
He would kiss her now. She wanted him to kiss her now.
Her lips parted.
Voices carried to them from the main corridor, laughter and the murmur of conversation. The moment dropped and shattered, fractured into a thousand bits. Sarah felt the loss like a physical blow.
With a rueful smile, Killian drew his knuckles along the curve of her cheek, making her shiver. Then he dropped his hand and stepped away, leaving her body aching in the strangest way, as though her breasts and belly were pained by disappointment.
She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, and when she opened them once more, he was gone and she was alone. Alone with the shadows and the dark and the memory of the way he had looked at her, his features hard and lean with…hunger.
Only when she turned and reached for the supplies that she had set on the shelf did she see a brilliant white handkerchief atop the pile, the four corners drawn together and tied in a knot.
“How…?” Somehow, Killian had put this here without her noticing. She untied the knot and the corners fell away, revealing an elaborate “T” embroidered in one corner, the pristine linen stained by grease from a golden pasty neatly aligned in the center of the square, the edges of the dough crimped, the scent of meat and pepper and potato tickling her senses.
She broke off a corner and popped it in her mouth, the flavors bursting on her tongue. She ate the whole pasty, one delicious bite at a time, and then folded the handkerchief, knowing she ought to return it.
Knowing she would keep it.
8
Killian knew she was an innocent. Not in the sense that she lacked knowledge. He had every confidence that Sarah Lowell knew a great deal about both male and female anatomy and how the two fit together. But such knowledge did not equate to experience, and there she lacked.
The beast at his core stirred, pleased that she had lain with no man.
Mine.
The thought was not in his nature.
It is. You are a beast driven by appetites. It is in your nature to claim what you want.
Then he would defy his nature.
But there in the dim closet with the shadows playing across her skin and her lips ripe and moist, he had been hard pressed to keep his distance. Her straight, dark hair had been pinned at her nape, begging to be set free to tumble over her shoulders. He’d wanted to peel the clothes off her body and leave her only her unbound hair for adornment.
She was not beautiful by conventional standards, but he had no use for such standards. They changed with each passing decade and he had watched them come and go. To him, Sarah Lowell was more than beautiful. Her nose was small, her lips ripe, her chin stubborn. And each time he looked at her, he saw something new and wonderful. A small freckle at the corner of her lip. A slight imbalance between her right and left brow that made her face unique, expressive…perfect.
The scent of her skin intoxicated him.
The sweep of her lashes enthralled him.
He wanted her with an intensity that made no sense. He wanted to pin her beneath him, take her, conquer her, mark her as his. He wanted her body. He wanted her blood, not to feed, but to bind her to him. He wanted her not merely because she was soft and smelled like flowers or because her curves were apparent and lush beneath the ugly dresses she wore or because her gaze held his without guile. He wanted her because he liked her, because he enjoyed their conversation, because he anticipated the soft huff of her laughter…and that was a danger.
It had taken iron will to touch her cheek and step away, to leave her there in the closet aching for his touch.
That was the worst of it. The knowledge that she wanted him. The knowledge that she would welcome him.
He had no right.
9
Sarah came to work before dawn each day and walked home each night long past dusk. The sun she saw only through the grimy windows of the wards or the corridors.
She had grown wily, careful to vary her route between her room in Coptic Street and the hospital, but every route skirted the dangerous edges of St. Giles. Twice more, she had seen a man standing by the gravestones, watching her as she entered the hospital. Not just a silhouette or a man-shaped shadow. A man. There could be no doubt now. He never approached her, never made any truly menacing move, but he was there, always there, and his presence unnerved her.
Yesterday, she had dared to turn in his direction and take a step toward him, intending to call out to him from across the way. Her attention had forced him deeper into the gloom. Clearly, he had no wish to entertain her company, only to watch her from a distance.
A menacing conundrum.
Now, Sarah turned her attention to Elinor, who stood by her side holding a stack of clean bandages to replace the blood and pus-stained cloths that Sarah had just unwound from a dressed wound. The patient was stoic, lips pressed together in a tight line, eyes dull with pain.
“You’re adept at that,” Elinor said. “As good as any of the sisters. As good as any of the attendants. Better, I think.” She glanced around. “But you take a risk. I think you oughtn’t. Last time—” She broke off and sighed.
Last time the matron had discovered that Sarah had tended a wound, she had lectured her about overstepping her place and Sarah had waited for the woman to dismiss her. Sarah had cautioned the patient not to divulge the fact that it was she who had removed cloth and stones and stitched the gash shut. He had not heeded her request. That the patient had recovered did nothing to sway judgment in Sarah’s favor. It had been only the arrival of Mr. Thayne who insisted he had been the one to treat the wound and Sarah had merely been a bystander that had saved her. He said the patient had been out of his head and confused. Matron had relented, but her warning to Sarah against further transgression had been stern.
When Sarah had tried to broach the matter with Mr. Thayne, he had only shaken his head and said, “Do you think I am as adept with a needle as the fellow’s wife?”
Sarah knew then that Mr. Thayne had observed her that night and chosen to stay silent. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, she had shrugged and replied, “Perhaps.”
“This time is different,” Sarah said now to Elinor. “Two of the sisters are sick with the ague, and one apprentice as well. The surgeons are occupied elsewhere.” She accepted another bandage from Elinor. “Which means that I have been tasked with doing whatever needs to be done.” She shrugged. “This needs to be done.”
“And you’ll do a better job than the lot of them,” Elinor said with a nod, her gathered curls bouncing. She leaned in to get a better look at Sarah’s handiwork. “Why bandage the wound in fresh cloth? Why not just wipe it like the surgeons do and rewrap it? Or leave it alone? Mr. Franks says it is best not to disturb a healing wound.”
“Almost done,” Sarah said to the patient, who offered a nod and a wan smile. Then she answered Elinor without looking up, her movements deft and sure as she tied off the bandage. “I do as my father did. He believed it necessary to unwrap and examine the wound. And he never
set a used dressing back in place. He said the foul humors would result in putrefaction.”
“Did he?” Elinor sounded interested rather than dubious.
The sounds of footsteps carried from the hallway. Sarah glanced at the open door. One of the apprentices hurried past, and she looked away, disappointed. She had seen Mr. Thayne—Killian—only in passing since their exchange in the closet. But she had found an orange on the stool beneath her cloak four days past, and yesterday, he’d left a ham sandwich. He seemed determined to feed her. And he somehow divined her favorites.
Raising her head, she found Elinor watching her with a knowing gaze, one tinged with concern.
“I saw one of the apprentices watching you,” she said. “He’s young and sweet. Pleasant face. Clean fingernails. I could point him out if you like.”
Sarah huffed a short laugh. “I think not. Though clean fingernails do much to recommend him.”
Elinor shook her head. “Don’t be soured on men just because I am. They aren’t all like my lump of a husband.”
“I know that. I just…” Sarah shrugged. “A young and sweet apprentice does not interest me.”
Elinor sighed. “You’ve set your sights on him and no other will do.” She caught Sarah’s wrist and Sarah glanced at her, reading all the worry and distress in her friend’s expression. “Mr. Thayne is neither simple nor sweet, Sarah. He is young and handsome. I’ll give him that. But his soul is old. And there is something…” She shook her head. “Something other about him. Something distant and dangerous.”
Sarah opened her mouth. Closed it. Finally, she said, “I have not set my sights on anyone.” Liar.
She moved to the next bed, the next patient who lay snoring. Elinor followed and with a quick glance about, lowered her voice and said, “I passed Mrs. McKeever on her way out as I was coming in this morning and she said that some believe Mr. Thayne killed all four of the dead patients in a mad fit.”