Sold to the Surgeon (3 page)

Rupert turned his head briefly. “I know he's at a disadvantage not being English, but the way you say the word ‘American' makes it sound positively criminal!”

Abigail threw back her head and laughed, for the first time that evening “Does it really? Poor man—all right, I'll be nice to him. Even though he doesn't deserve it!”

And not for the first time that day, she wished that her first encounter with the man in question had been in slightly more dignified circumstances.

Chapter Two

“This is my idea of a perfect English cottage and garden,” remarked the tall American quietly, as he watched Abigail prepare the coffee in her tiny kitchen. They were alone, Penelope and Rupert were chatting in the lounge.

“Is this your first visit to England?” asked Abigail politely, at the same time carefully setting out the cups. His dark gaze was having a disastrous effect on her, making her all fingers and thumbs, and as a result she spilt the sugar in the tray. “Damn,” she muttered softly.

“Here, let me.” Swiftly he reached over and took the sugar bowl from her. With his other hand he grasped her wrist and pulled her hand away from the tray. “You're almost as bad as Nurse Parkins,” he said with a smile.

Involuntarily Abigail snatched her hand away. Trust him to remind her of their first encounter!

He laughed, misinterpreting her gesture. “I'm not going to bite,” he said gently. “I know I have this reputation for being—what was it you said?” he paused, his glance holding an amused challenge.

“Oh…I can't remember,” muttered Abigail uncomfortably, remembering only too well. She made to move away from him towards the cupboard for more sugar to refill the bowl.

“Oh, I do,” he said, grasping her slim wrist again, this time even more firmly in his strong hand. “Pushy American, wasn't it?” He laughed softly. “Well, surely I'm not so pushy that you have to recoil from me as if I'm deadly poison!”

“Don't be ridiculous,” she answered, forcing herself to look him straight in the eyes. “I was just going to get the sugar, not recoiling, as you so absurdly put it.” She tried to laugh causally, not with any great success, and firmly removed his hand. “You're as bad as Rupert. He practically accused me of being racist—he said the way I said the word American made it sound positively criminal!”

Greg laughed loudly. “Very astute of him—but then he must be,” he added with a mischievous grin, “to have chosen you as a companion for the evening.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” retorted Abigail lightly, glad to steer the conversation away from the reminder of her unfortunate remark. “Anyway, Rupert and I are engaged. I've known him for years.” She tossed him a damp cloth. “Here catch this, it will do for wiping up the spilled sugar.” Greg caught the cloth deftly, and dutifully started to clear up the sugar. “You still haven't told me whether or not this is your first visit to England,” Abigail continued.

“My second,” he replied, “but the first time, I was very much a tourist. I came over when I was a medical student, for six weeks one summer with my folks. But I made my mind up there and then that one day I'd come back for longer, and really get to know England. So here I am.” He spread his hands wide in an expansive gesture, at the same time showering sugar from the cloth on to the floor. “And I'll be grateful for any friendly overtures from the natives!” The last remark was accompanied by an expressive quirk of his dark brows.

“This native is going to be positively unfriendly, if you insist on throwing sugar all over the kitchen floor!” Laughing at his surprised expression, Abigail snatched the cloth from his hand and threw it in the sink. Then, removing the bowl of pink roses, she proceeded to wipe the kitchen table clean of the offending sugar with a soft duster.

“Sorry for making even more mess,” said Greg, not sounding in the slightest bit penitent. Then abruptly he changed the subject. “Lovely roses—a present from an ardent admirer?”

“No, from Rupert,” answered Abigail quickly without thinking. As soon as the words were out she could have bitten off her tongue, realising that by her remark she had implied that Rupert was not an ardent admirer.

“Ah, yes—your fiancé,” he observed. It seemed to Abigail that his voice held a questioning note to it, her
faux pas
had not gone unnoticed.

“You can take the tray in for me,” anything to get him out of the way, “and ask Rupert to get the mints from the cupboard. He knows where they are.”

“Good as done,” replied Greg, obediently carrying the tray through from the kitchen into the lounge.

Abigail stood, coffee pot in hand, watching his retreating figure squeezing through the narrow doorway. What was it about him that set her on edge? She was normally such a self-assured girl; she had never met anyone who had disturbed her in quite the way Greg Lincoln did. It was most irritating to find herself reacting like a jittery schoolgirl; and it had all started with Sue Parkins and that wretched spilt milk. For a mature young woman, you're being ridiculous, she told herself, and picking up the coffee pot, marched purposefully into the lounge to join the others.

After serving coffee and mints, she took one for herself and seated herself on a small stool beside Rupert, sipping her coffee and letting the conversation wash over her head. Penelope was in full flood, laughing and talking non-stop, fluttering her long lashes at both men, flirting outrageously. She
is
pretty, thought Abigail without malice, watching Penelope's animated face.

She glanced at Rupert. He was listening intently to every word Penelope uttered. For a split second Abigail felt a little pang of jealousy, then repressed it; after all, what had she to worry about? Rupert was much too sensible to go running off with another girl just because she fluttered her eyelashes. It was Greg Lincoln who would probably be taken in by Penelope, not kind, sensible Rupert.

She smiled inwardly. Yes, Mr. self-assured Greg Lincoln would be the one in for a shock. Penelope had a very nasty habit of picking up males she fancied, only to drop them abruptly, when her mood changed, or something better hove into sight.

Instinctively Abigail rested her arm on Rupert's knee, in an almost protective gesture, and smiled up at him. As she did so she became aware again of Greg's dark, moody eyes staring at her. She had been so immersed in her own thoughts that for a few moments she had completely forgotten that he was sitting so close, and suddenly she knew he had been watching her face all the time.

Hastily getting to her feet, she waved the coffee pot, asking at the same time, “Any more coffee, anyone?”

“No thanks, not for me,” said Rupert, also standing. “I must be going. I've got an early start in the morning, nearly as early as you, Abigail.” He gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek as he spoke.

Yes, seven-thirty until five in the evening,” said Abigail, sighing at the thought of the long shift of duty. “I just hope it's not as hot as today—those new wards are like greenhouses.”

“Yes, I noticed that,” said Greg, also rising ready to leave. “I spoke to the Hospital Administrator today and told him I want blinds up by next week. The patients can't be expected to tolerate such discomfort.”

Penelope giggled and linked her arm through his. “I bet the Hospital Administrator bowed to your command,” she purred.

“He did, as a matter of fact,” said Greg, “but not because I commanded, but because I pointed out the salient factors to him in a perfectly reasonable way.”

And in such a way that he couldn't refuse, thought Abigail, suppressing a smile. He was commanding as Penelope had said, in a deceptively quiet, relaxed sort of way—as Sister Collins had already found out to her cost!

“Well, for my part,” said Penelope gaily, “I don't care about the patients. I hope it's absolutely scorching tomorrow as it's my day off, and I want to sunbathe and get a tan.”

“You already have a lovely tan,” observed Rupert, escorting her towards the front door of the cottage.

“Oh, I got that in Zante at Easter,” said Penelope casually. “Daddy and I popped over for a few days. It was absolute heaven. Mummy was already there. We have this darling little villa—you really must come over some time.” Abigail didn't hear Rupert's murmured reply as they left the room. “You go first,” she said to Greg, “and mind your head on the beam.”

Greg ducked just in time. “This house wasn't built for people like me,” he observed wryly. “Thanks for warning me. The first people who lived here must have been very small.”

“Oh, they were. Two hundred years ago people were much smaller than we are, because of poor nutrition and other factors.”

“Yes I know,” replied Greg dryly, “I studied human development at med school.”

Abigail flushed. She had only been trying to make polite conversation. She didn't need him to remind her
he
was the doctor!

“Yes, of course,” she replied icily.

“Look, I didn't mean…” he began, but Abigail wasn't in the mood for listening, and quickly strode ahead into the tiny hall, joining Rupert and Penelope in the brick porch of the cottage.

“Thanks for the coffee.” Rupert gave Abigail a quick peck on the cheek. Then he turned to Penelope and Greg, who had joined them by this time, and extended his hand. “Goodbye, I hope we meet you both again quite soon.”

“Oh, so do I,” said Penelope, flashing him one of her most brilliant smiles. “We must make it a firm date.”

“Goodbye,” said Greg, shaking Rupert's hand, and then extending his hand to Abigail. “Goodbye until tomorrow.”

Some inner devil of obstinacy egged Abigail on to ignore his proffered hand. “Goodbye,” she replied, contenting herself with a casual wave of the hand.

Later that night, unable to sleep, she sat at her bedroom window; the perfume of roses drifted up from the garden, the aroma strong and heady on the warm night air. The familiar perfume washed over her, and she relaxed, closing her eyes; but immediately her mind wandered back to thoughts of Greg Lincoln. What was it about him? Why was he so disturbing? Opening her eyes suddenly, she stared out into the darkness, at the same time giving herself a mental shake. It was illogical, she hardly knew the man, so how could his mere presence possibly disturb her? Keep your imagination under control, she told herself crossly, otherwise you'll become as paranoid as Sister Collins! Not a happy prospect, she reflected ruefully, as she finally climbed into bed and prepared for sleep. But in spite of her good intentions, Mr. Lincoln's lean, dark face, with the lock of jet black hair that continually fell forward, was the last conscious image in her mind before she fell asleep.

Next morning dawned hot and humid, and Abigail groaned as she staggered out of bed and showered at six a.m. It was going to be another scorcher, that was obvious, and she didn't relish the thought of being incarcerated in the stuffy wards of the new block all day. Still, she sighed resignedly, I'm not the only one, but I do hope Sue Parkins doesn't create too much havoc today!

Of course, she should have known that was too much to hope for; she'd hardly had time to stow her handbag away in her locker before Sue's plaintive, “something has gone wrong,” voice was crying, “Staff, are you there?”

“Yes,” groaned Abigail, wondering what disaster had overtaken the student nurse so early in the morning.

“It's Mr. Jones—he's too heavy.” Sue Parkins poked her curly head around the corner of the staff room door, her face scarlet with anxiety.

Abigail laughed. “Whatever are you talking about? I know he's a big man, but…”

“He's too heavy for the new bedpans, he's flattened it!” Sue entered the locker room, and posed dramatically in the doorway, waiting for Abigail's reaction.

“What on earth do you mean,
flattened
it? He can't have…oh no! You didn't—you couldn't have!
Poor man
!”

Abigail sped down the corridor, towards the four-bedded room where the unfortunate Mr. Jones was ensconced, Sue Parkins scuttling anxiously along behind her.

“But, Staff,” panted Sue, trying to keep up with Abigail, “what do you mean? Have I done something wrong?”

“I think I know what you've done. Have you used these disposable bedpans before?”

“No,” said Sue, “and I must say I didn't think they looked very strong. I thought when I gave it to him that it looked like some sort of egg-box!”

By this time they had arrived at Mr. Jones' room, and parting the cubicle curtains quickly, Abigail went in, Sue following closely on her heels.

The Mr. Jones in question was sitting up in bed, red-faced, and very embarrassed. On top of his bed was the mangled remains of a disposable bedpan. “Ah, nurse,” he said with a sigh of relief at the sight of Abigail, “do you think you could get me another one, a strong one? And please hurry—I'm getting desperate!”

“Of course,” said Abigail matter-of-factly, quickly picking up the offending object. “We'll get you another right away.” She motioned with her head for Sue to leave the cubicle with her, restraining an almost overwhelming urge to giggle.

As soon as they were outside she rounded on the unfortunate Sue. “Honestly, Sue, you really are an idiot! You should have used the rigid blue plastic rim that fixes over the top.” She grabbed hold of Sue's arm and started to propel her towards the dirty utility room. “Just thank your lucky stars it was me that happened to be around, and not Sister Collins.”

“But I didn't know!” wailed Sue. “Nobody told me, and I was in a hurry and I thought…”

“That's precisely what you did
not
do,” cut in Abigail, “and really, Sue, if you're going to succeed at nursing you've just got to use some of the grey matter that's lodged between your ears. Although sometimes I do seriously wonder if there is any!”

Sue sniffed full of remorse. “I do try,” she said plaintively, “but it's just that I panic, and I'm always in such a rush, and then everything goes wrong and…Oh, crumbs, look who's coming!”

Automatically Abigail thrust the mangled remains of the bed pan behind her back as Sister Collins and Greg Lincoln came towards them, down the long corridor.

“You go ahead, get another bedpan, but for heaven's sake put the plastic rim on it this time, and then get back to Mr. Jones before he bursts,” muttered Abigail, her mind racing ahead; she had to do something to keep Student Nurse Parkins from starting off yet another day with a black mark. “I'll keep the evidence out of sight, and parry the opposition, should it prove necessary.”