Free Sinful by Charlotte Featherstone Page B

knew with one-hundred-percent certainty that Dr. Inglebright would never have touched, in a sexual manner, a patient under his care.
    How far she had fallen for the touch of a man. Jane had no idea she yearned for such things. Certainly there were some nights when she felt the urge to touch her breasts and quim. She had found it naughty, in a forbidden way, to touch herself. And it had felt good. Now, those times of self-pleasure paled whenput beside this brief, erotic interlude with Matthew. She sensed that what he had done to her, what she had done to him, was merely the starting point of where their shared passion might go.
    She yearned to explore it, she realized, giving honesty to her feelings. But to do so could be disastrous. Besides, there could be nothing out of it except a few stolen moments, hardly worthwhile when one thought of what she could lose if it ever got out what they were doing behind that swinging wooden door.
    Her job at London College would be lost. Her name and that of Lady Blackwood would be further tarnished. The profession, which she was trying so hard to make credible to the eyes of the world, would be thrust back down. Only old harlots and washerwomen are nurses…that would be accurate, if the truth about what she had just done got out.
    No, she could not repay Dr. Inglebright or Lady Blackwood by sullying her name, her profession or the hospital.
    Standing up, Jane retrieved her basin of water and determinedly stepped back into the ward, resolute to rid her patient of his fever and survive the long night ahead without further thinking on how much she wanted to lie on top of him and feel him thrusting that beautiful phallus deep inside her.
     
    The tepid water trickled over his skin as Jane changed the cloth that she had folded on his forehead. His fever was higher, despite the hours of sitting at his bedside, bathing him.
    “I don’t understand it,” Richard mumbled behind her. “Where is this fever coming from?”
    “I do not know,” she whispered, worry clouding her thoughts. “He’s so strong and healthy, I don’t know why it holds him.”
    “He smelled of spirits when he arrived. Perhaps he is achronic drinker. I’ve seen the fever in the gin addicts when they don’t have it.”
    Jane glanced at Matthew’s face, which was drawn tight. Occasionally he would frown, as if he was being plagued by dreams. Taking her fingers and dipping them in the basin, she brushed them over his cracked lips, while Richard continued to pace behind her, deep in thought.
    “Perhaps it is the head trauma that is causing it. The body’s natural response to pain and injury.”
    Jane did not respond. She knew no answer was necessary. This was Richard trying to solve a medical puzzle. Instead, she continued to bathe Matthew, studying the way his body felt taut with tension.
    “Don’t touch me,” he suddenly cried, and thrashed in the bed, his arms flaying wide, nearly hitting her in the head. “Jesus Christ, get off me.”
    He knocked her off the bed with a blow to her shoulder. With a thunk, she landed on the floor, and the ceramic basin smashed to bits around her.
    Richard ran to her and helped her up. “Are you cut?”
    “No, I don’t think so,” she muttered as she looked at her shaking hands then back at Matthew. “He rages with fever. He didn’t mean it.”
    Richard looked at her skeptically. “From now on I will assign another nurse to care for him.”
    “No!” The rebuttal was out of her mouth before she could stop it. Richard looked startled, then his gaze slipped past her shoulder to where Matthew lay still on the bed.
    “No?”
    Jane swallowed hard. She could not bear the thought of another woman sitting beside him. He was hers—her patient. The thought that perhaps he was already married or engaged did not enter her thoughts. For Jane, he was hers. It was thelast remnant of growing up in the East End that still clung to her. She had grown up with nothing, not even a decent