needs like you do, Jane.”
The statement felt far too familiar, and Jane, unsure of herself around men, did the only thing she could—she retreated behind her veil of coolness.
“As you inquired, Lady Blackwood is very well,” she said, stumbling to get their conversation on a safe course. “That tincture you sent for her has helped immensely with her arthritis.”
He smiled, making Jane wonder if he was laughing at her. “Good, good,” he mumbled, his gaze traveling over her face and the white apron she used to cover her gown with. “You do credit to her, Jane. I know of few lady’s companions who would deign to become a nurse.”
“You give me too much credit, sir. You know very well I came to the hospital to work off my, as well as Lady Blackwood’s, mounting debt to your father.”
His smile softened as he pressed in closer to her. “But you didn’t have to stay once it was repaid.”
A little frisson of excitement snaked along her spine at his closeness. It was most improper how close they were standing. “I found I liked helping the ill. And what is closer to the truth, I saw it as a means for future employment. We both know that Lady Blackwood will not be with me forever. And where would I go? There is not another Lady Blackwood out there who would overlook my pedigree and bring me into her home to act as companion.”
“There are many that would overlook your upbringing, Jane.” His smile was like a full kiss on the lips. Jane felt it in every cell of her being.
“Doc, we’ve got somethin’ fer ye.”
Irritation flickered in his eyes, and Jane held the lantern higher. The annoyance swiftly passed as he saw two burly night men carrying in the body of what looked to be an unconscious man. A rather large man, Jane thought.
“’E’s bleedin’, he is. Head’s mashed to bits.”
“My theatre,” Richard commanded, taking charge. “Jane, wash your hands and assist me.”
“Yes,” she said, obeying him with a slight curtsy. She ran to the end of the ward where a porcelain sink and a pitcher of clean, soapy water awaited her.
Pouring the now-tepid water over her hands, she rubbed her palms together, using friction to clean between her fingers and beneath her nails. Richard was fastidious about washing, a fact his father laughed about. But Jane had noticed over the months here that Richard’s patients had less wound infections than those of his father.
Drying her hands on a clean towel, Jane walked briskly to the wooden doors that swung open. The hem of her black gown was swishing around her legs, the starched white apron itching against her neck, which had started to perspire. It was not fear that made her sweat, but excitement.
“We have a significant head wound, Jane,” Richard announced as she entered the room where Richard performed his operations. “And perhaps some broken bones.”
Richard’s hands, covered in blood, searched through the tumble of black hair on the man’s head.
“’E’s a rich cove, ’e is,” the burliest of the night men said. “Look at ’is clothes and that waistcoat.”
“Never mind that now,” Richard growled. “Help me to get him undressed so I can see if there is more damage. Jane, bring over the tray with the ether. I have a feeling when this giant awakes, he will not be in pleasant humor.”
The two men began pulling off the bloodstained jacket and waistcoat. Jane turned her back, preparing the silver tray with the ether and an assortment of tools she thought Inglebright might need. For certain, this man would require needle and thread to close the gaping wound in his head.
“Damn me, the man’s been through a rounder!”
Whirling around, Jane caught sight of a very muscular chest and arms. On the man’s ribs were black smudges, which she knew were bruises.
“Spleen and liver feel intact, and there isn’t any swelling or firmness,” Richard muttered as he palpated the man’s belly, which was etched in muscle. “His limbs seem to be intact, as well. I don’t know how he managed it, but he seems to have avoided breaking any bones. Bring a cloth and water, Jane. Let’s find out where all this blood is coming from.”
Jane set the silver tray down on a wooden table, and began dabbing at the wound. The scalp wound, while large, was not overly deep. More of a superficial gash, really. The blood was already starting to dry, and the wound no longer wept.
Cleaning the cloth in the water, Jane wrung it out, watching the clear water turn red. She turned to his face, bending over him to work. He snarled, his white teeth bared like a rabid animal’s as he grabbed her wrist.
“Givens and Smith, if you please,” Richard said, motioning to where the man held her.
“None of that now, guv,” Givens said. “The chit is only tryin’ to help.”
The man came off the table, swinging and hitting, as the night men struggled to hold him down.
“Get off,” he cried. Like a madman, he swung at anything that moved. “Get the fuck off me, you whoreson!”
“’E don’t talk like a gent,” Mr. Smith grunted as he twisted the man’s arm, forcing his torso back onto the table. “Talks like ’e was born in the rookery.”
The man burst into a litany of profanity about being tied down. He struggled, his strength incredible considering his wounds.
“Give him two drops of ether, Jane.”
With a dropper, she administered two drops of the liquid onto a folded cloth and pressed it tightly against the man’s face.
He struggled, roaring, but it was not a cry of rage, Jane thought as she watched him, it was one of terror. He tossed his head from side to side trying to dislodge the towel, but Jane held firm.
“No,” he said, muffled beneath the cloth, his voice weakening, as was his strength. “Don’t do this. No binds…”
Jesus Christ, not again. He was being held down, his body unclothed, hands, cool and damp, stroked his flesh. He retched, trying to fight through the fog that clouded his brain. Fumbling at his waist told him his trousers were being removed, and he gathered the last of his evaporating strength to fight off his assailant.
The old fear seized him and he began to shake and breathe too fast.
“Shh,” came a female voice. “You’re safe.”
He stilled, going limp, then realized it was a trick. This was no angel in disguise.
Violently he tossed his head, trying to fling off the cloth that was smothering him.
“It’s all right,” came the softly spoken voice, directly in his ear. “Take a slow deep breath, and hold it. That’s right. Now let it go.”
His body seemed to go languid. He felt hands in his hair. They were gentle and soothing. Not like the other hands that had always plagued his dreams. Hands that clawed and pinched. Hands that had awakened him many times in his sleep. Hands that had ruined him.
“You’re
