Sold to the Surgeon (2 page)

As they collected the empty cups from the patients and took the trolley back to the ward kitchen, Abigail wondered about their new consultant. If he wasn't married, Penelope would certainly set out to ensnare him, although she'd probably do that even if he was, Abigail reflected a trifle cynically. It was a cynicism born of experience. As far as Penelope was concerned, anything in trousers, who was reasonably attractive, and who she considered to be on a par with her as far as social status went, was fair game. Her main preoccupation in life was men, and Abigail often wondered why she had ever bothered to take up nursing at all. She had so little interest in it.

However, once Abigail had escaped the stuffy confines of the new wards, and started the drive home, she soon forgot all about Penelope, the new consultant, and everything else to do with the County General.

It was a beautiful early summer's evening, and the plan was to go out for a meal in a riverside pub with her fiancé Rupert Blair. He had been her fiancé for six months now, a quiet steady young man, whom Abigail loved dearly, if not exactly passionately. Passionate romance existed only between the pages of romantic novels, she told herself. She was much more content with the way things really were; their relationship meandering along in a comfortable sort of way, and would end eventually in marriage, when they were both ready.

All her nursing friends who had met Rupert thought Abigail quite mad not to snap him up and marry him immediately. But for some reason she couldn't define, even to herself, Abigail wanted to wait; and Rupert never pressed her to set a date. It was a tacit agreement between them that they would know when the time came.

Shampooing her hair vigorously in readiness for the evening ahead, she thought of Rupert, and a gentle smile curved her generous lips. She couldn't understand why her friends wanted her to be so impatient, she was quite happy with things as they stood.

She had known Rupert for about two years. He was an ambitious young solicitor, and she'd met him after her father's death when he had helped her through the legal jungle of settling her father's estate. Now, she lived on alone in the ancient flint stone cottage she had once shared with her widowed father; the cottage, in fact, was the only thing about which she and Rupert had nearly come to blows.

Rupert was continually telling her that she couldn't afford to stay there, that the roof needed fixing badly, and that she should sell it; but Abigail was stubborn. She had promised her father she would stay on in the cottage. It was where he and her mother had first set up home, and for her it was the last tenuous link she now had left with a happy past.

The cottage itself was in a small village a few miles outside the town, a low two-storey building in the middle of a rambling, old-fashioned garden, filled with traditional flowers, lupins, marigolds, hollyhocks and roses. Roses, roses everywhere, at the moment overgrown and covered with sweet-smelling blooms, their scent pervading in every room in the stone cottage.

Rupert arrived at the appointed time to pick her up; he was always punctual. “Good evening, Abigail,” he said in the slightly formal way he had. He came into the kitchen and suddenly whipped a bunch of bright pink roses out from behind his back.

Abigail buried her nose in the roses. “Rupert, what a lovely surprise, but you shouldn't have. I…” with a laugh she looked almost apologetically towards the window.

Rupert followed her gaze. “You're right, I shouldn't have,” he said, seeing the profusion of roses outside. “You have more than enough to fill a whole room. But these were such a bargain, such good value for money. That was the reason I bought them.”

“It's a lovely surprise, and a lovely gesture,” said Abigail, kissing him on the cheek. “I can never have too many roses.” She smiled at Rupert's description of the roses as a bargain, he always believed in getting value for money.

As she arranged the roses quickly in a cut glass bowl, she couldn't help thinking, just a little wistfully, how nice it would have been to have had them delivered, a card with a romantic message attached. But just as quickly as the unbidden thought came, she chided herself for being so ungrateful; she was, she reminded herself, luckier than most girls to have a steady and reliable fiancé, even if he did lack imagination sometimes.

Having arranged the roses they left to go. It was an exceptionally warm June evening, and Abigail had chosen a simple cotton dress in pale sea-green. It hung loosely on her fine-boned figure, and emphasised the smallness of her waist. Her long blonde hair had been brushed until it shone like spun gold, and she had left it loose, a shimmering curtain brushing on her shoulders.

“Take a wrap,” said Rupert practically. “You know what an English summer can be like. It may not be as warm as this when we come back.”

“I have it already,” replied Abigail, flinging a coral-coloured shawl over her arm, and trying to keep the faint note of irritation out of her voice. He meant well, she knew, but Rupert was inclined to treat her sometimes as if she'd been born with only half a brain!

Their destination was a small riverside pub and restaurant called The Tickled Trout, standing on the edge of a broad, slow-flowing chalk river, which meandered its way through a lush green vallery. This was trout and salmon fishing country, and that evening everything was serene, save for the mayflies dancing their frantic dance above the river, unheedingly skimming down to the mirror-smooth surface of the water. Every now and then there was a faint splash, as one of their number was snapped up by a hungry fish, leaping up from the green depths of the river.

Once they were settled at their table, Abigail smiled and slowly stretched. “Bliss,” she said to Rupert. “It's been a perfectly awful day at the hospital. Moving into our new ward was bad enough in this heat, but having to put up with Sister's bad temper to boot was just too much!”

“Was she bad-tempered for any special reason?” asked Rupert as he scanned the menu.

“Well, she had good reason, I suppose,” answered Abigail, pulling a face at the memory. “The office she'd set her heart on had been commandeered by our pushy new American Consultant.”

“Good evening, Nurse Pointer,” said a voice from the vicinity immediately behind her.

Abigail felt her face flushing a deep crimson, and her heart flipped guiltily. It couldn't be…yes, it was! It was Greg Lincoln, standing right by her side, accompanied by a very smug looking Penelope Orchard. Nervously Abigail raised her expressive grey eyes to his. Had he overheard? The expression in his dark eyes was impenetrable, although there was a glimmer of something—was it annoyance? she wondered anxiously, at the same time surreptitiously crossing her fingers beneath the tablecloth, and praying that he hadn't overheard her remark “pushy new American consultant.”

But his next words confirmed that he had. “I'm sorry I've given you the impression of being a ‘pushy American.' You'll have to teach me some of your impeccable English manners!”

Another hot flush stained Abigail's face. Why had the wretched man to turn up at The Tickled Trout of all places? And to overhear her unfortunate remark into the bargain.

“I'm just showing Greg a little bit of the real England,” said Penelope coyly smiling at Abigail and Rupert; although she reserved the most dazzling smile for Rupert.

Good heavens, Abigail couldn't help thinking with something akin to amazement as she watched Penelope flirt with Rupert, you're not content with one man, you have to try to seduce every male in sight!

“I hope you enjoy your meal,” she said shortly, inclining her head, but not getting up. She hoped they would pass by quickly to another table.

“Aren't you going to introduce us?” asked Penelope, looking at Rupert.

Abigail felt herself getting annoyed; it was not that she felt the slightest bit possessive about Rupert, there was no need. But the way Penelope was making a play for him, while she was standing holding on to the arm of her escort for the evening, was blatant to say the least. She glanced across at Rupert. He didn't seem to mind at all and was smiling broadly.

Suddenly Abigail saw him in a new light. Perhaps she'd taken him too much for granted. Now looking at him through another woman's eyes, she realised that his height, and blond good looks accentuated by a slight tan, made him look rather distinguished, and dressed as he was in a navy blazer, striped shirt, tie and dark grey flannels, he had an unmistakably aristocratic English appearance.

By contrast, Greg Lincoln was wearing denims and a cream checked shirt, wide open at the neck, showing a mass of dark wiry hair curling at the base of his throat. He looked rugged and very masculine, in comparison to Rupert's cool good looks.

“Abigail?” queried Penelope again, and Abigail suddenly realised she had been surveying the two men in silence. For how long? She wondered, slightly embarrassed at her apparent rudeness.

“Oh!” She jumped up, feeling unexpectedly flustered. “Penelope, this is Rupert, this is Penelope, and Mr. Lincoln, he's our…”

“Pushy new American consultant,” interrupted Greg's amused voice. “Just call me Greg.” He reached a dark muscled arm across the table to shake Rupert's hand. Abigail found herself staring with fascination at the curling dark hairs on his arm; he seemed to literally ooze masculinity in a most disturbing way. She shivered, glad that Rupert didn't have that effect on her.

Rupert laughed as he shook Greg's hand. “Don't take any notice of Abigail,” he said, “her bark is much worse than her bite.”

“Really?” came the reply. “I'm looking forward to getting to know you better, Abigail.”

It was with difficulty that Abigail forced herself to look coolly into his dark brown eyes; he was laughing at her again, and she found it extraordinarily disturbing. But it wasn't the laughter that disturbed her. As her gaze was caught by his, she felt as if he had ensnared it, and that she was unable to look away. For a few short moments it seemed to Abigail that they were completely alone, that no one else existed in the room. Although cross with herself for even allowing such ridiculous thoughts to enter her head, nevertheless she found she was unable to lower her eyes.

Greg broke the moment. He looked back to Rupert, and in doing so severed the invisible bond that had been holding her gaze. “We'd better leave you two to get on with your meal,” he said, smiling easily. “Bon appétit.”

“Thanks, same to you.” Rupert inclined his head to Penelope first, then Greg, and sat down. “Seems a nice enough fellow,” he said, as they passed on by to another table well out of earshot. “She seems a nice girl too.”

Abigail snorted derisively. “You don't know Penelope Orchard,” she said.

“Penelope Orchard,” said Rupert slowly, turning his head to look after her retreating back with interest. “Is that the daughter of Sir Jason Orchard? I've heard of him.”

“Who hasn't?” snapped Abigail, who was beginning to wish they'd chosen somewhere else to eat that evening.

“Honestly, Abigail,” reprimanded Rupert gently, “I've never known you to be so snappy! I'm only trying to make pleasant conversation. As far as Sir Jason is concerned, I mentioned that I'd heard of him because I might be doing some work for him soon. One of his big business ventures!”

“Sorry,” answered Abigail contritely, knowing she had snapped his head off quite unnecessarily. “It's been one of those days. Penelope's not bad, it's just that…well, she's not one of my favourite people. Sorry I bit your head off.”

Rupert smiled, and reaching across the table squeezed her hand. “Don't worry about it. Let's choose something to eat.”

They had a delicious meal, but somehow the whole evening was spoiled for Abigail. She was acutely conscious that both Greg and Penelope were continually looking in their direction, and wondered if Rupert had noticed as well.

She was quite relieved when after they had finished Rupert had suggested that they return to her cottage for coffee. “I'll get my wrap,” she murmured hastily, ignoring the couple watching them across the room.

Picking it up, she had flung it around her shoulders and was standing waiting for Rupert to pay the bill, when to her horror she heard him saying, “Why don't we invite Penelope and Greg to join us for coffee? They've just finished too.” He couldn't have noticed Abigail's disapproving expression, as he carried on blithely, “It would be a nice gesture, don't you think?”

Before she could stop him, he went across to the table where Greg and Penelope were sitting, and that was that. He had invited them back, and there was nothing she could do about it without looking extremely churlish.

However, as they drove back to the cottage, with Greg and Penelope following in Penelope's car, she did say, “I do think you might have asked me first, Rupert. I don't particularly want them back for coffee.”

Rupert glanced at her briefly, a surprised expression on his face. “You're not usually so anti-social. I thought it would be a friendly gesture, I didn't realise you'd object.”

Abigail moved uncomfortably in her seat. He was right. Although she couldn't help thinking a little uncharitably that Rupert had probably thought it would be a good idea to get to know Penelope because of her father. Business and social life did tend to go hand in hand quite often where Rupert was concerned. She bit her lip in vexation. That was the second unkind thing she'd thought about Rupert that evening. What was the matter with her?

She sighed, feeling suddenly miserable. “I'm sorry, Rupert, I know I'm difficult sometimes.”

Rupert chuckled and reached for her hand in the darkness. He was not in the least perturbed. “I don't mind. I'm the patient kind, you should know that by now.”

“I do,” Abigail told him. “and I'm glad.” She grinned, her good humour coming to the rescue. “I suppose I'd better be nice to that wretched American.”