Sold to the Surgeon

by Ann Jennings

  His answer was to hold her even tighter, until she felt she was suffocating. But although she was hating him for his cruel remarks about her forthcoming marriage, she couldn’t deny that the very same thoughts had lain dormant at the back of her own mind. Wretched man! she thought furiously, trying to wrench her hand from his. He had the perfect knack of going to the very heart of the matter, and it hurt.

  “Let me go,” she whispered between clenched teeth, but his answer was a brief but shattering kiss, right there in the middle of the dance floor. His impudence knew no bounds!

  “Take that as my congratulation on your forthcoming marriage,” he said quickly. Abigail glanced worriedly over her shoulder, and he noticed. With a short laugh, he added curtly, “don’t worry about your precious fiancé seeing that little kiss, he’s much too busy discussing business with Sir Jason.”

  Abigail glared at him, her grey eyes reflecting a mixture of apprehension and anger. “I shall take the kiss for the congratulation you said it was,” she said quietly, “and as far as wondering about my marriage, I can tell you right now it will be successful.” Her voice sounded more confident than she felt, as with a quick twist she manoeuvred herself out of his arms. “As I’ve told you before, I’m old-fashioned, and I happen to believe that marriages should last. I intend to see that mine does.”

  “Huh!” Greg snorted.

  But Abigail didn’t give him the chance to reply, as she swiftly made her way from the crowded dance floor and joined the rest of the group. Although inwardly seething with a confusing mixture of emotions, somehow she managed to present a cool, calm appearance. But when Greg passed her another glass of champagne, with a wickedly questioning flicker in his dark eyes, she would have dearly liked to have thrown it straight at him! Instead, she had to content herself with taking it, acknowledging the glass with a gracious nod of the head.

  The rest of the evening was spent with Rupert and the Orchards, Abigail all the while studiously avoiding catching Greg’s eyes, although without looking in his direction, she knew he was watching her and Rupert together; his remarks echoed repeatedly, and very uncomfortably, through her head.

  Rupert, of course, noticed nothing, and anyway he was very much engrossed with Sir Jason, until in the end Abigail began to wonder impatiently when they would stop talking. When he eventually did announce that he and Abigail must leave, she tried not to look too enthusiastic, although inwardly she greeted his words with a feeling of immense relief.

  When at last they left, Rupert drove her straight back to the cottage. “You weren’t annoyed,” he asked, “because I was talking business so much? But Greg seemed to do a good job of looking after you,” he added as an afterthought.

  Abigail laughed, it was meant to be lighthearted, but somehow it came out strained and brittle. “I didn’t need Greg to look after me,” she said, anxiously wondering whether perhaps Rupert had seen the kiss after all, “and of course I didn’t mind—business is business. Was it something exciting?”

  “It might be,” replied Rupert mysteriously. “There might be a trip abroad in it; for both of us. How would you like that?”

  “I’d love it,” said Abigail truthfully. “Am I allowed to ask where?”

  “Italy,” said Rupert, bending to kiss her a brief goodnight, “but don’t mention it to anyone yet.”

  She touched him tenderly on the cheek as he left her. Dear Rupert, she loved him so, but why, oh, why didn’t he set her on fire?”

  Sleep eluded her that night. Greg’s dark, handsome face with the quizzical smile hovered maddeningly in front of her every time she closed her eyelids. Eventually she drifted off into an uneasy sleep, but even then, that dark brooding face crept into her dreams, and she awoke in the morning still remembering the touch of his lips on hers.

  To say that she felt like death warmed up the following morning was an understatement! The result of a late night, too much champagne and fitful sleep left her hollow-eyed and pale. For a moment she was almost tempted not to go in, but then forced herself to get up and go into work.

  It was Sue Parkins’ study day, which meant they would be one short on the ward, and she knew there were several patients due for discharge, and new ones to be admitted for operations the next day, so it would be busy. Her conscience would prick her too much if she stayed away, and as she reminded herself, it was her own stupid fault she felt so rotten; one glass of champagne too many!

  As she walked on to the ward from the changing room, she firmly pushed her hair back beneath her cap, telling herself her headache was all in her imagination, there was nothing wrong with her.

  Her determined effort at feeling well evidently wasn’t good enough, though. Joan’s first remark as Abigail approached the desk was to say, “Goodness, Abigail, you look simply awful.”

  “Thanks, that’s all I need,” said Abigail, leaning on the desk with an air of resignation, “and here I was trying to convince myself I felt OK!”

  “Problems?” asked Joan curiously.

  Abigail pulled a rueful face. “Nothing much, just a surfeit of champagne.”

  Joan laughed unsympathetically. “Lucky thing! I’ve never even had the opportunity! Anyway, I thought champagne wasn’t supposed to give you a headache?”

  “I can tell you with absolute certainty, that story is a myth. Champagne can and does most definitely give you a splitting headache. And I’m speaking from experience!”

  Joan laughed again. “Well, you’ll get no sympathy from me,” she said, collecting up her things and starting to leave. Then she paused a moment, looking at Abigail’s pale face speculatively. “My advice to you is to snatch a quick cup of coffee. There’s still some left on the patients’ trolley.”

  Abigail took her advice, and was sitting at the nursing station sipping the coffee when Greg Lincoln came along.

  “Headache?” he asked.

  She could see the glint of amusement in his eyes. “Yes,” she answered briefly.

  Picking up the now empty coffee cup, she left the desk, and hurried down the corridor, catching the kitchen maids just as they were wheeling the trolley through the fire doors. She felt Greg’s eyes almost literally boring holes in her back, but instead of returning to the nursing station, as she had originally intended, she made a pretext of needing to go into the utility room, waiting there until he had left the ward and gone down to his outpatient clinic. That way, she managed to avoid him for the whole of the morning. As there was an extra large outpatient clinic Greg had cancelled that morning’s ward round, just leaving Dr Singh with a list of tasks to perform.

  Mrs. Jewell was discharged, and went off happily to go back home, with strict instructions to be more careful next time she was eating meat containing small bones.

  “Don’t worry, dear, I will,” she said to Abigail. “I don’t want to end up in hospital again.” She patted Abigail’s hand. “Everyone has been very nice to me, dear, but there’s no place like home.”

  As the morning wore on, so Abigail’s headache gradually lessened, but she was still left feeling lacklustre and tired. Not enough sleep, I suppose, she thought wearily, wishing lunchtime would come so that she could sit down. But she was on late lunch that day, so there was nothing for it but to keep on working, and by the time she did eventually make her way downstairs to the canteen, she felt like dropping in her tracks.

  Most of the food had been crossed off the menu board, only pie and chips or salad was left. Abigail carried her tray, containing a plate of limp-looking salad, over to a table by the window. It looks about as crisp as I feel, she thought dejectedly, looking down at the unappetising mound of food on her plate. But her morose thoughts were interrupted by Lynne, who came hurrying over.

  She perched on the edge of the table. “Can’t stop, because I’m due back,” she said in her usual rush, glancing hastily at her watch, “but I’ve come over to see it.”

  “
See what?” asked Abigail, through a mouthful of lettuce.

  “The ring, silly,” Lynne exclaimed impatiently. “You are a dark horse, you didn’t tell me you were getting married in September. And everyone is talking about the enormous diamonds you’re wearing.”

  Reluctantly Abigail put her hand on the table top, so that Lynne could inspect the ring. “I think everyone is exaggerating,” she said, “about the size, I mean. It’s not that big.”

  Lynne whistled appreciatively. “It’s a lot bigger than most girls are ever likely to get,” she said. “It’s lovely, Abigail.” Then she glanced curiously at her friend’s serious expression. “You are happy, aren’t you?”

  “Of course,” said Abigail quickly. “I’m not feeling a hundred per cent today, that’s all.” Then she changed the subject rapidly. “How did you get on with your date with Derek Thompson?”

  “Oh,” Lynne rolled her eyes heavenwards, an expression of ecstasy spread across her face, “absolutely divine! He’s a perfect honey. We’re both off duty this weekend, and he’s asked me down to Torquay for the whole weekend.”

  Abigail raised her eyebrows. “I always thought it was Brighton or Bournemouth that couples went for illicit weekends,” she teased.

  Lynne blushed furiously. “It’s nothing like that,” she said quickly. “We’re staying with his brother, he’s a consultant pathologist down there, married with two children.” She leaned across the table towards Abigail confidentially. “That’s a good sign, don’t you think? Introducing me to some of his family.”

  Abigail smiled at her excitement. “I think it’s a very good sign. Who knows, perhaps you’ll be getting married too in the near future!”

  Lynne gave an embarrassed giggle, “I should be so lucky!” Then glancing at her watch again, she jumped down from the table. “Must dash,” she said hastily, “but it doesn’t look as if you’re going to be alone for long.”

  Abigail turned her head in the direction of Lynne’s gaze. Greg Lincoln was striding through the canteen, tray in hand, obviously making for her table.

  Short of picking up her tray and fleeing down the length of the canteen, there was nothing she could do but sit and wait for him to join her. However, she couldn’t resist saying sarcastically. “Do please join me,” as he sat down without asking.

  “I wasn’t aware that you had the monopoly of the table,” he replied, equally sarcastically.

  Touché, thought Abigail—I deserved that! However, his next words came as a surprise.

  “I didn’t come over to quarrel,” he said coolly, “I came to apologise.”

  “Apologise?” Startled, Abigail raised her head, grey eyes surveying this new penitent Greg rather warily.

  “Yes, for provoking you last night. I shouldn’t have made that jibe about your marriage.” He looked across the table, his eyes searching hers. “Will you forgive me?”

  Abigail looked down at the table top, suddenly afraid that his dark, searching gaze might see her own doubts lurking continuously at the back of her mind. “Yes,” she muttered hesitantly, “I suppose so.” Then she added almost inaudibly. “I’m sorry too, for snapping back.”

  “Oh, that,” he laughed. “I deserved it.” Suddenly he reached across the table and grasped her hand. “I don’t want us to be bad friends—promise me you won’t bear a grudge?”

  A strange feeling of alarm made it impossible for her to look at him. The touch of his hand on hers was sending a warm glow racing through her veins, and her heart was beating ridiculously loudly against her rib cage. So loudly, it seemed to her that everyone in the canteen must surely hear it.

  But to her surprise, she heard her voice replying calmly, “I’m not the sort of person to bear grudges. It wasn’t important.” She made to draw her hand away, but Greg resisted, imprisoning it with his.

  “It is important to me,” he insisted, “I want to be friends with you, and Rupert. Let’s call a truce.”

  At last Abigail looked at him. Perhaps he really was sorry for the unkind things he had said. But the enigmatic expression she encountered gave nothing away.

  She smiled briefly, and said lightly, “OK, it’s a truce.”

  He seemed satisfied, because he released her hand. “Good,” he said, “it’s just as well, because I think we’re going to be seeing quite a lot of each other in a little while.”

  “Oh?” Abigail was puzzled. What on earth could he mean? They would see each other, of course, more or less every day in the course of their work at the hospital, but she couldn’t think of any other reason.

  “Rupert is overseeing some business matters for me,” he said, by way of explanation. “It was Sir Jason that gave me the idea and…”

  “But I don’t understand what…” began Abigail.

  “Rupert is, as I’m sure you know,” said Greg, starting on his lunch, “quite an expert on continental property law. He’ll be negotiating some contracts for Sir Jason and myself.”

  “But what has that got to do with me?” queried Abigail, thoroughly mystified. “I have nothing to do with Rupert’s work.”

  “Rupert has agreed to spend a month at my villa in Italy, and we have also agreed that you should be with him,” said Greg.

  “He hasn’t mentioned anything about it to me,” said Abigail quickly, feeling surprised that Rupert should have agreed to such a thing without mentioning it to her first. “Anyway,” she added, “I’m not sure whether I could get time off.”

  “No problem,” said Greg confidently. “I’ve already spoken to Sister Coffins. You can have two weeks’ holiday, and the reason Rupert hasn’t told you about it yet is that we only fixed it all this morning.”

  Abigail opened her mouth to protest, but he interrupted before she had a chance to speak.

  “My mother and father will be there, as well as the Orchards.” He smiled at Abigail’s disgruntled expression. “Don’t look so cross! Rupert thinks you could do with a good holiday, and I wholeheartedly agree. I understand you haven’t had a proper one since your father died.”

  Abigail clattered her knife and fork down on her plate. Between them, Rupert and Greg seemed to be organising her life, and she was not at all sure she liked it!

  Chapter Seven

  The rest of the afternoon couldn’t go quickly enough for Abigail. Inwardly seething, she scurried round the ward, helping settle in the new patients who arrived that afternoon. Why was Rupert making all these plans without even bothering to ask her? If this is what it’s going to be like when I’m married to him, she thought rebelliously, I shall break off the engagement!

  But in her heart of hearts she knew it wasn’t so much the fact that he had made arrangements without conferring with her, it was because he had committed her to spending two weeks in Italy with Greg Lincoln. He was the one man she did not want to see too much of, they always rubbed each other up the wrong way. Any other time she would have jumped at the chance of spending a fortnight in Italy, but she would have preferred it without Greg Lincoln there, and the prospect of the presence of the Orchards didn’t exactly fill her with joy!

  The afternoon was busy. Dr. Singh, always methodical, ordered numerous tests for the newly admitted patients, and Abigail had her work cut out to take all the bloods and get them down to the pathology laboratory in time. She knew there would be an uproar from the surgeon and the anaesthetist, if the results were not back before the scheduled operating time in the morning. So it with a thankful sigh that she sent the porter off to the lab with the last batch of specimens by the appointed time.

  Penelope Orchard, had, as usual, been conspicuous by her absence during all this activity. So Abigail felt no compunction about nabbing her quickly for some work the moment she clapped eyes on her.

  “Hey, I need a hand with the afternoon teas,” she said.

  “Oh, Abigail, you know I hate doing that,” groaned Penelope, the Cupid’s
bow of her lips pouting at the mere thought.

  “Sorry about that, but it can’t be helped,” said Abigail firmly. “Sue Parkins is off on her study day, and there’s no one else.” She started walking briskly towards the ward kitchen, a reluctant Penelope by her side. “Come on, let’s get the trolley, and please remember to put up ‘nil by mouth’ by the patients who are due for surgery tomorrow.”

  Penelope sighed heavily. “Honestly, Abigail, you ought to be a Sister, you’re such a dragon sometimes!”

  Abigail smiled sweetly, but kept her own counsel. It was not often she bullied Penelope into actually pulling her weight, but that particular afternoon she didn’t see why she should work her fingers to the bone, while Penelope skived.

  It was nearly time to go off duty before she had time to go back to Sister Collins’ desk, to see if there was anything else that needed doing.

  Sister Collins was in a surprisingly good humour. “Mr. Lincoln isn’t so bad after all,” she informed an astonished Abigail. “I find I’m getting on much better with him now. We understand each other.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Abigail, wondering what form of flattery Greg had been using to melt Sister Collins’ heart. Then she noticed the vase of pink rosebuds on the desk, and smiled. “They’re pretty,” she said, bending to sniff their delicate fragrance.

  “Mr. Lincoln gave them to me,” came the reply. Sister Collins sounded pleased.

  Abigail smothered a grin. So that was how Greg Lincoln had been wooing Sister Collins, and it appeared to have worked with a vengeance! Still, she reflected, it didn’t matter what he did, just so long as it kept Sister happy.

  “I’ve entered your holiday in the books,” Sister Collins continued, “for two weeks in August. That’s quite all right, I don’t know why you were worried about asking me.”