Only one attendant came to carry Mr. Scully away, which meant either Sarah or Elinor would need to haul the other end of the stretcher.

“Would you rather fetch linens and make up the bed or lift and carry?” Elinor asked.

“Linens,” Sarah said with a glance at the bed. Another poor soul would arrive soon to take that spot, to lie moaning in pain, or stoically white-lipped.

That was the part she found difficult. She had little enough to offer the patients save for a cool hand on their brow or a cup of water or gin. The physicians doled out laudanum with a miserly fist when there was any to be had at all, for the cost was dear. So the patients suffered, and that suffering wore at her. She longed for a way to alleviate it.

She paused only long enough to wash her hands in the basin at the side of the ward. Others had commented on her obsession with cleanliness, including Mr. Franks and the matron. Mostly, the nurses washed not at all, and the surgeons only after a messy surgery to clean away the blood and gore. But Sarah’s father had thought it important to wash both before and after patient care. He had believed that miasma was the source of illness, foul smell taking root and causing disease, and so he had insisted on cleanliness to curb fetid smells.

A mouse scurried in the shadows as she made her way along the wide corridor, the noise and clamor of the wards fading behind her. Slowing her pace, she turned down a narrower hallway and, finally, stepped into a small, dark alcove that housed the storage closet. The door was an ill-fitting slab of wood that stuck fast until she pulled hard, and then it scraped along the floor with a grating rasp.

She stared into the interior of the closet and thought that she ought to have brought a candle for there were no windows in the alcove or in the short, narrow hallway that led to it. The linens were on the middle shelf, a low stack of oft-mended, yellowed cloths that had been scrubbed and boiled time and again, and still bore the stains of many uses.

As Sarah stepped into the storage closet, a shush of sound behind her made her turn. She peered into the gloom but saw nothing more than dust and shadows. Then a mouse scurried across the floor and disappeared into a hole on the opposite wall.

Feeling foolish, she turned back to her task, stacking sheets and choosing several tallow candles to add to her pile. An eerie sensation tickled the fine hairs at her nape and again she heard a whooshing sound. She set down the gathered items on the shelf and turned to face the hallway.

“Hello,” she called, feeling both wary and foolish.

A long, thin shadow stretched across the floor, stopping at the closet threshold.

Footsteps sounded from the distant corridor.

With a groan, the door of the closet swung shut, trapping her in the dark.

For an instant, she stood motionless, heart pounding, blood rushing in her ears. Then she placed both palms against the door and shoved, expecting it to be stuck or locked. It swung open with ease.

Sarah surged into the alcove then the narrow hallway. No one was there.

The wind caught her hair, pulling strands free of her pins. She spun to see that a window in the main corridor was open, the drapery flapping.

With a shake of her head and a self-deprecating laugh, she went to drag the window shut and ensure the latch was set. Then she returned to the closet where she added a stack of torn strips of cloth to act as bandages, for she had noticed that the stores in the ward were depleted.

Again, came the sensation that there was someone behind her, yet it was different than what she had felt earlier. Perhaps it was the faint scent of citrus that gave him away. Killian.

Her heart thudded in her breast and the walls of the small closet seemed to move closer still. It was not fear that touched her now; it was something else, something bigger and stronger, a stirring excitement that raced through her veins, dangerous and alluring at once.

Resting her hands on the shelf, she swallowed, struggling to gather her wayward emotions. If she turned, he would be only a hand span away, and she would...What? Dare to touch him? To lay her hand on his arm and know the strength of him?

Strange how this moment so closely resembled a thousand others. The difference was, those moments had taken place in her dreams, or in the waking daze as she first broke from slumber’s embrace, alone in her bed, her thoughts focused on imagined shared moments where Killian came to her as a lover would.

The touch of his hand on her cheek. The scent of his skin. The feel of his lips, warm, soft, as they brushed hers. Those were the secret, naive imaginings of a girl who had never been courted, never been kissed. Fantasies.

But it was one thing to dream those things in her secret heart, in the dark of night while she lay in her cold, narrow bed. Quite another to be faced with the reality. Standing here in the dark little closet with Killian behind her was a far different thing.

Did he know? Could he tell that she had dreamed of him and watched him and fantasized about him for as long as she had been employed here at King’s College? Foolish, girlish dreams, because he sought her opinion and listened to her words, because he laughed at her dry humor, because he was beautiful and intelligent and mysterious, and far more intriguing than any other man she had ever met.

Slowly, she turned, her heart pounding in anticipation, a wild, untrammeled rhythm, her mouth dry, her cheeks hot.

She saw now that he was not so close as she had anticipated, and she did not know if she was disappointed or relieved. He was standing in the alcove beyond the door, the insubstantial light that leaked down the narrow hallway from the main corridor leaving his features obscured by shadow.

“Miss Lowell,” he greeted her, so polite, his tone low and smooth.

“Mr. Thayne.” The words came out a cracked whisper, and she dropped her gaze to the tips of his polished boots. Always polished. His trousers always neat and pressed. His clothing impeccable and obviously expensive.

An oddity. Physicians to the upper class might earn quite a respectable income but a surgeon was less likely to do so and was definitely a rung below on the social ladder. All the more so a surgeon who practiced in a poor hospital such as King’s College.

“Killian,” he said.

She blinked, believing she had said his name aloud. Then she realized it was an invitation to use his given name. An inappropriate invitation.

“Mr. Thayne,” she said, her tone inviting no further discussion. There was danger in even the slightest intimacy with this man. Speaking the syllables of his given name aloud would only heighten that danger.

Rolling her lips inward, she swiped her tongue across the surface, and waited, wondering what he was doing here. He had followed her. She could have no doubt of that, but the reason for such action escaped her.

“You defended me,” he said. “I would like to know why.”

He asked only why she defended him, not why she lied for him. The differentiation did not escape her.

Was there some import, some key relevance to his choice of words?

The shadows and his ever-present darkened spectacles masked his eyes and any secrets his expression might reveal.

“Does it matter?” she asked.

“You put yourself in a position of risk. That is…unacceptable,” he said.

She wanted to laugh. She was in a position of risk more often than not. “Unacceptable to whom?”

“To me.” His voice, low and rough wove through her.

“You have no right to feel that way,” she whispered, hoping that her tone did not betray her, that he did not discern that part of her wanted him to have that right, the right of a friend…or lover.

“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.