Sold to the Surgeon (10 page)

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.”

“But I…” began Abigail in amazement, about to blurt out that it wasn't a question of being worried, but that she hadn't even known about it.

“As I told Mr. Lincoln, we always close half the ward during August, and take emergency admissions only. So many of the staff take holidays at that time as it's the children's school holidays, and most patients are reluctant to come into hospital unless it's a dire emergency, for the same reason.”

“Yes, thank you,” murmured Abigail, wondering what on earth Greg had said.

“I do hope you and your fiancé have a lovely time with Mr. Lincoln and his family. Of course, I shan't say a word of this to anyone else. I shall keep Mr. Lincoln's confidence.”

“Thank you,” repeated Abigail, thinking the whole situation was getting more bizarre by the moment. Why should it be a confidence? Unless of course the mighty American consultant didn't want it to be known that a humble staff nurse was going along on his family holiday. Abigail wrinkled her nose at the thought. Surely Greg Lincoln wasn't a snob? But perhaps he was.

“Oh, Staff,” Sister's voice intruded in upon her confused thoughts, “before you go off duty, could you change the sheets again for the patient in the end bed of room eighteen. It's Mr. Sampson, I'm afraid he's had a little accident again. I did ask Nurse Orchard to do it, but she seems to have forgotten.”

I bet, thought Abigail cynically. Forgotten my foot! She just made sure she didn't get around to doing it. “Has Nurse Orchard gone off duty already then?” she enquired.

“Yes,” replied Sister Collins, looking up absently from the notes she was writing. “I said she could leave five minutes early. Sir Jason is taking his family out to the theatre in London tonight.” She gave a pleased little laugh. “He rang me himself, and as he said, I couldn't possibly keep the great man waiting!”

But never mind about the rest of us, thought Abigail wryly, as she hurried towards the linen room. It was the third time that day she'd had the task of changing Mr. Sampson's bed. The poor man was always terribly apologetic. Sister Collins had wanted to catheterise him, which would have saved a wet bed, but Greg Lincoln refused to let her. He felt it would be detrimental in the long term. In the meantime, it's definitely detrimental to
me
, thought Abigail grimly.

She had nearly reached the linen cupboard, when she literally bumped straight into Greg. “You're in a hurry,” he remarked, as she made to move past him.

“Yes, I've got to change Mr. Sampson's bed again,” said Abigail shortly, and not waiting for a reply, she opened the door of the linen cupboard and went in.

Greg followed her, watching her snatch the clean sheets and pillowcases from the shelves. “Perhaps I'll have to catheterise him after all,” he said slowly. “But the poor old chap's in such a state from just being in hospital that I don't want to make things worse.”

“He hasn't had major surgery,” said Abigail, turning back towards him, “why is he in such a state?”

“Because he's worried sick that an interfering social worker won't let him go back to living alone at home,” said Greg. “They want to put him in a home, but he wants to stay in his own house and look after his garden and his old dog.”

“I see,” said Abigail slowly. “I didn't know that. I haven't had time to talk to him. I'm usually at the other end of the ward, and I've always been in such a rush when I've changed his bedding.”

“That's why I don't want him catheterised, because I know the social worker will take that as an indication that he's incontinent.”

“And isn't he?” asked Abigail.

“No, he isn't,” replied Greg sharply. “He's just worried sick, out of his routine and confused. I'm determined to try to get him home as soon as possible. Back to his dog, the one living creature in the world he has to love.”

Abigail paused, the pile of linen in her arms. “You really care, don't you?” she said quietly. She was seeing the American surgeon in a completely new light, as a truly caring and compassionate man.

“Of course I care,” answered Greg, vehemently. “Don't you?”

“I didn't know his history,” answered Abigail truthfully, suddenly feeling ashamed that she'd always been in a hurry. So much of a hurry that she'd done whatever had been necessary for the old man, but done it automatically. “I've been thinking of myself too much lately,” she confessed. The words were out before she could stop them, and immediately she regretted her indiscretion.

“Why?” asked Greg, homing in on to her words. “Is something bothering you?” He came towards her, his huge frame seeming to completely fill the small space inside the linen cupboard.

“No,” muttered Abigail hastily, “of course there isn't.” She tried to push past him. “Excuse me, I must go to Mr. Sampson.”

“Mr. Sampson won't mind waiting a few more moments,” said Greg, and without further ado he roughly took the pile of clean linen from her and plonked it on a nearby shelf. Abigail wished he wasn't so close, the distinctive smell of his aftershave was making her senses reel. “There
is
something wrong,” he said in a low voice. “Don't prevaricate.”

“I'm not…there isn't,” Abigail protested feebly, putting her slender hands up against his chest as if to ward him off as he came towards her. But it was only a token gesture. She made no real attempt to escape from his embrace. Instead, before she had realised it, she found she was automatically raising her face, her tender lips parted to receive his kiss.

As his firm mouth descended upon hers, she gave herself up to the pleasure of his kiss. It seemed he only had to touch her, to hold her, and she responded in a way she could for no other man. After a brief moment he raised his head and looked down at her, his eyes deep pools, reflecting she knew not what.

Suddenly, an image of Rupert swam muzzily before her eyes, and a red-hot feeling of guilt flooded through her. Urgently she pushed Greg aside, twisting her head away so that he couldn't see the confused anguish in her eyes.

Greg sighed, and releasing her immediately turned away. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to kiss you. I don't know what came over me. You're a bad influence on me, Abigail.”

“
I'm
a bad influence on
you
?” exploded Abigail, ridiculously near to tears. “That's ludicrous! It wasn't my fault. Why don't you just stay away from me?” She grabbed the pile of sheets and pillowcases from the shelf. “Get out of my way,” she said woodenly.

Without another word, Greg stood aside and opened the linen cupboard door. Abigail noticed he did have the grace to look slightly uncomfortable.

“I'm sorry,” he said again as she came level with him at the doorway. “A momentary lapse on my part—it won't happen again.”

She swept past him, then from the relative safety of the corridor she paused and said, “I intend to speak to Rupert tonight and tell him I'm not going to Italy. Not for all the tea in China!” With that parting shot, she turned swiftly on her heels, and walked quickly down the corridor towards Mr. Sampson's bed.

It was true, she did intend to speak to Rupert, but of course she wouldn't be able to tell him the real reason. Just what shall I tell him? she wondered. Anyway, she reasoned sensibly, surely Greg must be having second thoughts about it now as well, because in spite of his remarks about their engagement, she knew the two men got on well together, and had a mutual respect for each other. She also knew Greg wouldn't purposely hurt Rupert.

It was just that they were so different. One rugged, dark and unpredictable, the other the perfect English gentleman. She sighed miserably, wishing Mr. Wilberforce had never gone to the States, then Greg Lincoln would never have come to England on the exchange; and she would still have had her peace of mind.

Stopping by Mr. Sampson's bed, she looked at the puckered worried face of the old man. All her natural compassion rose to the surface as she remembered Greg's words, and forgetting her own problems, she spent a long time with him trying to reassure him, and generally talking, trying to draw him out of himself.

He had had a small benign tumour removed from the back of his throat, and was recovering well, but Abigail could see he was a bag of nerves.

“Don't worry about it,” she said for the umpteenth time. “Look, I'll tell you what.” Tucking him in comfortably, she sat on the side of the bed and took the frail, blue-veined hand in hers. “There's no need for anyone to know you've had a few little accidents, it can be our secret.”

Mr. Sampson grasped her hand tightly between his gnarled fingers. “I want to go home,” he said urgently. “Dolly will be missing me. She's very old, you see, and nearly blind.”

“Is Dolly your dog?” asked Abigail, remembering Greg's words about him missing his dog.

“Yes,” Mr. Sampson's face creased into a smile at the thought, “Dolly is my dog. She used to be a racer, you know, best little dog on the track. Dolly Bluebird, she was called then. Of course, she's been retired for years now, and it's been just the two of us for a long time. She'll be missing me,” he repeated again sadly.

Abigail smiled gently. “Don't worry, Mr. Sampson. I know Mr. Lincoln wants to get you home just as soon as possible.” She had a sudden thought, and looked in his bedside locker. There should have been a bottle in there, within easy reach for him, but it was empty.

She felt a sudden surge of anger. Trust Penelope not to bother! It was her end of the ward area, and part of her duties was to look after things like that. It suddenly became quite obvious to Abigail that, without a bottle to use, Mr. Sampson had needed to press his buzzer for a nurse to come, and then hadn't been able to wait.

“I'll pop a couple of bottles into the bedside cabinet,” she said, “then you needn't worry about calling a nurse, and you won't have any more accidents.”

“Oh, thank you, nurse!” Mr. Sampson's voice was tremulous with gratitude. “I did ask the other nurse, but she was too busy and forgot. She works very hard, you know,” he added loyally, not wanting to blame Penelope.

Abigail patted his hand, at the same time thinking, “that's a matter of opinion!” Then she sped off down the corridor once more, loaded down with the dirty linen, collecting a couple of urine bottles on the way back and popping them in his bedside cabinet.