Sold to the Surgeon Read online

  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. “Sh
e 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.”

  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.

&
nbsp; 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.