A Man of Honour
Caroline Anderson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SHE didn’t know what it was about him—in a department filled with attractive men, his regular features and easy, natural bearing were not particularly remarkable—but there was something compelling, some elusive, indefinable je ne sais quoi that drew her.

Perhaps it was his smile, the hesitant, slightly quirky twist to his lips, gone as swiftly as it had come; or perhaps the eyes, that strange combination of ice-blue and the dark, practically navy line around the iris that gave them a penetrating, almost haunting quality.

Whatever it was, Helen Cooper found his presence at the meeting distracting in the extreme.

His name, she learned, was Tom Russell, and he had just been offered the post of senior registrar to Ross Hamilton, one of the consultant general surgeons at the Audley Memorial.

Which meant of course, that she would be seeing very much more of him that was going to be good for her concentration, if today was anything to go by.

The meeting was an informal get-together, an opportunity for Tom to meet some of the team before he joined them at the beginning of May, and as they chatted over coffee Helen found her eyes straying to him again and again.

He was quieter than the rest—still, she imagined, on his best behaviour for the occasion—but his eyes followed the conversation and his mouth lifted now and again in response to a joke.

Oliver Henderson was there, propping up her desk and asking Tom if he had any ambition to be a cartoonist, which brought howls of laughter from the other members of the team and a puzzled frown from Tom.

Ross’s smile was wry but good-natured. ‘Ignore Oliver,’ he told his new SR in his soft Scots burr. ‘He’s just trying to provoke me.’

A bleep squawked, and Ross’s SHO, Gavin Jones, excused himself and lifted the phone. After a murmured conversation he turned to Ross.

‘Sounds a bit tricky. They’ve got an RTA victim in the trauma unit—suspected leaky aorta.’

Ross set down his cup and stood up. ‘Sorry, Tom, think this needs my attention. Sister Cooper will ply you with coffee and point you in the right direction, I have no doubt. I’ll see you in a month—don’t hesitate to ring if you’ve got any queries.’

They shook hands and Ross left with Gavin, followed by Oliver and then Linda Tucker, the staff nurse on duty, and Helen found herself alone with Tom in a silence that seemed to stretch on forever. Just when she thought she would have to find something to say to fill the void, he met her eyes.

‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’

‘No, of course not, ask away.’

‘What was all that about cartoons?’

She laughed softly, caught off her guard. ‘Oh—well, one of the surgical team was a bit of a joker. He’s moved on now, but he’s supplementing his hospital salary quite nicely by freelancing as a cartoonist for medical journals, I gather.’

Tom nodded, and the silence closed softly round them again, suffocating her. He seemed so close, so big, somehow, his hips propped against the windowill and his suit jacket drawn back by hands thrust casually into his trouser pockets in an unconsciously masculine gesture.

Awareness tingled through her, quickening her pulse and making her breathing unsteady. She looked away, taken aback by her reaction, and the silence yawned on. After a moment her natural good manners overcame her distraction.

‘Would you like another cup of coffee?’ she offered him, and was struck again by the haunting eyes.

‘Thank you, but I’d better not. I’ve had about five cups already this morning—I’m in danger of drowning in it!’

His lips, firm but with a hint of fullness, quirked into an appealing smile and Helen felt her heart kick against her ribs.

‘Another look round the ward?’ she suggested, her composure really rattled now. They suddenly seemed very alone together in the little ward office.

‘Have you got time?’

She laughed wryly. ‘No, but the paperwork can wait.’

He laughed with her, a quiet, restrained laugh, and shrugged away from the window. ‘If you’re sure, then, I would appreciate it.’

He held the door for her, and as she passed through it she caught the faint trace of cologne, a subtle lemon fragrance tinged with something peculiarly masculine and very personal, something inextricably linked with her confusion and the strange, haunting feeling of being poised above an abyss.

And then he smiled, that strange, quicksilver smile, and she felt the edge of the precipice shift and start to crumble beneath her feet.

The first day back after the spring bank holiday was destined to be hectic from the start. Ross Hamilton’s team were on take for emergencies, and Oliver Henderson had a list that morning. There were three day cases in for endoscopy and a fourth for sigmoidoscopy, and, if that wasn’t enough, one of her staff nurses was off sick with a summer cold that had been doing the rounds.

Even so, and most untypically, Helen found time after she had taken the report and programmed her nurses to dive into the staff cloakroom and give herself a critical once-over.

Not, of course, that it had anything to do with a certain dark-haired, enigmatic young registrar who was starting work today—heavens, no!

But there was a becoming touch of colour in her pale cheeks, and deep in her soft grey eyes the light of hope glimmered. She didn’t see that, of course. Instead she saw the mousy brown hair escaping from the bun, and the little smudge of mascara under her lashes—lack of practice, or a shaking hand? Could have been either, she thought, licking a tissue and dabbing at it. Better. She stood back and examined herself critically, tugging her uniform dress straight over her slight figure and staring, unsmiling, at her reflection.

What she saw dismayed her, and the ray of hope in her eyes flickered and died. With a sigh of resignation she turned away and went back to her duties with customary efficiency, putting aside her foolish fancies.

What would Tom Russell see in her, anyway? And besides, he was probably married, or at least engaged or living with someone. His type always were. It was only the perennial bachelors with the morals of alley-cats that were still free—and Helen wouldn’t touch them with a barge pole.

Not that she was a prude exactly, but there was a line over which she wouldn’t step, and casual sex with overgrown schoolboys fell far beyond that line.

So she was lonely, and a little out of practice at dating men, although she worked with them as patients and colleagues every day of her life without any problems.

No, he wouldn’t be interested, and she was crazy to imagine he would be, she told herself firmly, and set about putting him out of her mind.

She was bent over a set of notes, transferring information on to the computer, when his voice sent a shock-wave through her.

‘Any chance of that coffee you offered me a month ago?’

Schooling her expression, she straightened and turned.

‘Dr Russell—welcome aboard.’ Her words were stilted, but her smile was natural, open and generous, and her voice was filled with a warmth she was unable to disguise.

‘Thank you,’ he replied, his eyes searching hers, and his lips twitched briefly into that smile. ‘Are you on my side?’ he asked conspiratorially.

‘Your side?’ Helen was momentarily nonplussed.

‘Yes—my side. Can I hide behind your skirts when I commit some bureaucratic misdemeanour and get yelled at by the powers that be?’

She chuckled. ‘Is that likely?’

He shrugged. ‘I hope not, but I must confess to a rotten case of nerves.’

Oh, no we can’t allow that!’ she said with a smile. ‘Come on.’ She led him into her office. ‘Here—coffee.’

There was a jug always on the go, at the insistence of the consultants who disdained the ‘sewage produced by the canteen’ and supplied their own coffee grounds. Helen poured Tom a cup and passed it to him, and then as he perched on the edge of the desk and downed it gratefully she watched him, unable to look away.

He was even more attractive than she had remembered, the smooth line of his jaw faintly shadowed even this early in the day. There was a tiny nick in the skin of his throat where he had cut himself shaving, and she wondered absently if anyone had kissed it better.

She looked away. Thoughts like that would get her nowhere. The cup rattled gently in the saucer, and she turned back.

‘Gorgeous,’ he said, his grin crooked. ‘God, I needed that! Thank you.’ He took a deep breath, then shrugged himself off the desk and smiled at her.

Her heart faltered for a second, then speeded up, much to her confusion. This was ridiculous! She couldn’t react like this to him every time he smiled at her! She had to get things back on an even keel, and fast.

‘How are you really feeling about starting here?’ she asked him, determined to hold a normal conversation without blushing and stammering.

His grin was fleeting and hesitant. ‘Really? I’m terrified,’ he confessed.

‘I don’t believe you,’ she told him bluntly. ‘You don’t look that easily intimidated.’

His eyes, those haunting ice and midnight-blue eyes, met hers and held, and they were backlit by a lurking glimmer of humour. ‘I’m not usually. It must be first-night nerves—either that or a hang-over from last week’s exams. I had the written papers for my FRCS Part Two, and I thought I was going to die of fright.’

‘Unlikely,’ she assured him drily. ‘Still, I remember starting on this ward as sister. I was absolutely terrified, too, but everyone was so friendly. One of the older SENs came and perched on my desk and started to chat. I was so grateful to her, and it was fine after that—a lot of fun, in fact.’

His smile was wry. ‘I doubt if it’ll be fun.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Ross Hamilton has a terrific sense of humour.’

‘Hmm—I’ll reserve judgement on that. I gather he’s a hard task-master.’

She grinned. ‘Only if you’re totally incompetent—or if your name’s Mitch Baker!’

His mouth quirked. ‘Not guilty.’

Helen chuckled. ‘Mitch was. He’s the cartoonist I was telling you about. He drew an anonymous series of cartoons about Ross and Lizzi when they first started going out together, and some of them were a bit close to the knuckle. He probably would have got away with it if he’d been good at his job, but at that point he still had an awful lot to learn, and so, yes, Ross was hard on him, but he certainly deserved it, from what I can gather.’

‘So,’ he said, his eyes smiling, ‘provided I’m whiter than white and toe the line, I’ll be all right?’

‘I don’t think Ross would have taken you on if he hadn’t thought highly of you,’ she told him seriously. ‘He doesn’t suffer fools gladly.’

Tom sobered. ‘That suits me,’ he murmured, ‘because neither do I. Right, what has he got for me this morning?’

‘Four day cases, and you’re on take for emergencies.’

‘Fine. What are the day cases?’

‘Two endoscopies for investigation of query gastric or duodenal ulcers, and an ERCP for query cholecystitis.’

He chuckled. ‘The miracles of modern technology. Thank God for abbreviations—endoscopic retrograde cholangiopancreatography is a hell of a mouthful!’

‘But probably quicker than saying sticking a tube with a camera on down someone’s throat and into the duodenum and injecting radio-opaque medium into the bile duct to see what happens! Oh, and there’s a sigmoidoscopy—middle-aged man with fresh blood in his stools—Ross is querying colitis or carcinoma; his wife reckons he’s got piles.’

Tom looked thoughtful. ‘Well, I hope to God she’s the one that’s right.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Is it OK if I wait here? Hamilton said he’d meet me here at eight-thirty.’

Just then the door opened and Ross came in.

‘Tom—good to see you again,’ he said, extending his hand, and after a brief exchange of pleasantries he turned to Helen.

‘Got the day cases in yet?’

‘Yes—Gavin’s clerked them and they’ve been prepped—they’re all ready for you.’

‘Good girl. Right, Tom, let’s go and see you in action.’

‘I can hardly wait,’ he said drily under his breath, and winked at Helen, drawing his finger across his throat.

‘Coward,’ she muttered at his departing back, and he chuckled.

‘Too damn right. Save me some coffee—I’ll need it.’

And the door closed behind him, leaving her alone with her chaotic emotions.

They reappeared two hours later, deep in conversation and clearly troubled. Helen, back with her paperwork again, looked up, smiled and carried on.

‘So what do you think we should tell him?’ Ross asked, reaching for the coffee-pot.

‘Hmm.’ Tom propped himself against Helen’s desk and shrugged. ‘I don’t know. What do you think the prognosis is?’

‘I should say he doesn’t have one,’ Ross said candidly, passing Tom a cup of coffee. ‘Helen?’

‘No, thanks. Who are you talking about?’

‘Ron Church—we’ve just done a sigmoidoscopy and he’s got very widespread CA colon and rectum—God knows how he’s been so symptom-free for so long.’

‘Perhaps he hasn’t,’ Tom said quietly. ‘Perhaps he just didn’t realise it was anything to worry about till he started passing blood.’

‘Yes, it’s the fresh blood that frightens people. A higher bleed will usually go unnoticed. Oh, hell. So, what would you tell him?’

Tom frowned thoughtfully. ‘That we found something that needs further investigation and removal? That he will have a colostomy, and that depending on what else we find he will need further surgery and possibly other treatment to alleviate symptoms. That it’s possible that relieving pain and preventing further distress is all we will be able to do.’

Ross regarded him steadily. ‘What if he says no?’

‘Then he’ll suffer unnecessarily, possibly intolerably. I’d do my best to talk him into it, even if I know that we can’t save him.’

‘Would you mention the word cancer at this stage?’

‘Maybe. I’d let him lead me on that.’

Ross nodded. ‘Fine. Would you like to go and talk to him now?’

Tom looked resigned. ‘If you think so, but I don’t know him—wouldn’t it be better if you gave him the news?’

Ross’s mouth lifted in a wry smile. ‘Now how did I know you’d say that?’ he murmured, and, putting his cup down, he left the room.

‘Poor chap.’

Tom looked at Helen quizzically. ‘Who, Ross?’

Helen laughed. ‘No, Mr Church. He seemed a nice man—he’s only in his forties, isn’t he?’

‘Yes—forty-six. God, Helen, it was unbelievable considering his lack of symptoms. He’s within a few days of perforating, I should say—if that.’

‘His wife’ll be shocked—she said this morning as she was leaving, “Oh, well, at least once they’ve done this you’ll know there’s nothing wrong and you’ll be able to stop being such a worrywart.” She’ll feel dreadful, I should think.’

‘I wonder,’ Tom said slowly, ‘if that’s why he hasn’t done anything until now? Although the bowel is notorious for not giving signals.’

‘Yes.’ Helen sighed. ‘How about the others?’

‘The endoscopies? Two duodenal ulcers and one narrow bile duct, probably due to scarring following an infection. No sign of any stones now, but Ross is going to operate and enlarge the duct if he can, and have a closer look. He might even link the gall bladder to the duodenum and bypass the bile duct—it looked pretty tight. We’ll have another look at the plates before we operate, I guess, but I doubt we’ll see anything new.’

‘Are they staying?’

‘Ron Church will be, I imagine, but the others will go out and come back in a few days or weeks—Mrs Tranter and her bile duct sooner, I suspect.’

Helen smiled teasingly at Tom. ‘Funny how it’s usually the men who get ulcers. It’s because you all bury your emotions and won’t talk to each other—everything piles up and becomes intolerable.’

A fleeting shadow crossed Tom’s face, and he straightened up and set the cup down on her desk.

‘Yes, very likely. Mind if I have a look at the post-ops?’

The sudden change in atmosphere was puzzling. What had she said? Had he taken her remarks as criticism? She hoped he wasn’t going to be all tetchy and theatrical—it would drive her mad.

‘Feel free,’ she offered.

Then his bleep squawked and with a muttered, ‘May I?’ he reached for the phone.

She listened as he talked to the A and E department, and then he cradled the receiver and straightened up. ‘Acute abdo in A and E—probably surgical.’

‘Who did you speak to?’

‘Chap called Jack Lawrence?’

‘The consultant—if he says it’s surgical, it’s surgical. I’ll get a bed ready. Once you’ve seen him, can you let me know if it’s an ITU job?’

He grinned. ‘Sure—and it’s a she. Will you tell the boss?’

She nodded. ‘You go on down—can you find the way?’

The grin widened slightly. ‘Just about, I expect. I’ll be in touch.’

She followed him out and with one of the junior nurses she prepared a bed for post-op in the side-ward nearest the nursing station where the patient could be observed continuously. Depending on the nature of the emergency, the patient would be specialled for the first few hours anyway if necessary, but a little extra supervision wouldn’t go amiss.

She watched for Ross and saw him coming out of the little side-ward reserved for the day cases, his face grave. She followed him into her office and watched as he poured another cup of coffee. ‘How is Mr Church?’ she asked him.

‘Unsurprised. He wants to tell his wife himself, and then I’ll talk to her after he’s seen her. Where’s Tom?’

‘He’s gone down to A and E—acute abdo. I’ve alerted Theatre and prepared a bed. I’m just waiting to hear more.’

Just then the phone rang and she scooped it up. ‘Surgical—oh, hello, Tom.’

‘Hi—look, it’s a woman, early twenties, looks like a burst appendix. Is Ross around?’

She handed the phone over, waited while Ross talked to Tom and then looked at him expectantly. ‘Well?’

‘I’ll go in with him but I think Tom can handle it—he’s very good, if his performance this morning is anything to go by.’

‘So why go in?’

Ross shrugged. ‘If it’s a real mess it might take two of us to clean her up—and anyway, I’d like to see him in action.’

They were in Theatre for nearly two hours with her, and when they came back to the ward Helen heard all about it.

‘Ghastly mess,’ Ross told her, reaching for the coffee. ‘Must have been festering for months. Abcesses all over the place, all sorts of gynae implications—she’s obviously had roaring pelvic inflammation for ages, poor kid.’

‘What did you do?’

Tom pulled a face. ‘What could we do? We cleaned her up as well as we could, repaired the damage and sewed her up again, but goodness knows how well she’ll recover. She’ll probably get an infective ileus, so don’t assume that just because she’s got bowel sounds she’s ready for food, OK? It would just be the healthy bowel above the paralysed section trying to overcome the obstruction in the paralysed loops.’

Helen smiled slightly. ‘Don’t worry, Dr Russell—I’m well trained. I’ll do nothing and give her nothing without instruction.’

Tom evidently picked up a slight reprimand because his face relaxed and he gave a rueful grin. ‘Sorry—just making sure I didn’t leave anything to chance. Oh, and one of the gynae chaps is coming down to look at her later. We took a vaginal swab and a smear test in Theatre just to be on the safe side before we started her on the IV antibiotics.’

‘OK, I’ll look out for him. Is she still in Recovery?’

Ross nodded. ‘Yes, she’ll be there for some time, I think.’ He yawned hugely, and laughingly apologised. ‘Sorry, Sarah was up in the night and Lizzi’s feeling a bit rough at the moment so I ended up changing nappies and singing nursery rhymes at three o’clock.’

Helen chuckled. ‘Do you good.’

He gave a non-commital grunt and helped himself to more coffee, waving the pot at Helen and Tom, who both declined.

‘You’ll OD on that stuff if you aren’t careful,’ Helen remarked casually, and got a snort for her pains.

‘Et tu, Brute?’

Helen grinned. ‘Lizzi been nagging you?’

‘Constantly. And I don’t care if she is right.’

Tom looked at him thoughtfully. ‘You look tired.’

‘I am tired. I think I’m too old to be a father.’

Helen patted his prematurely grey hair teasingly. ‘Poor old man—what a shame.’

He glared at her. ‘Less of the old!’

‘You started it!’

‘Humph. Right, what’s next?’

‘Lunch?’ she suggested.

He glanced at his watch and blinked. ‘Lord, I suppose so—oh, well, we might as well grab something while we can. Coming, Tom?’

They left, and Helen went back out into the ward. Ruth Warnes, the staff nurse on duty, was standing at the nursing station staring after them.

‘Wow,’ she said, clearly awestruck. ‘There aren’t many like that around.’

Helen gave a non-commital shrug. ‘Seems quite ordinary to me,’ she lied.

Ruth eyed her suspiciously. ‘Do you need your bumps felt? He’s a dish!’

‘Like tripe and onions,’ Helen muttered.

Ruth chuckled. ‘Philistine! I was thinking more of some exotic Eastern number full of fascinating spices and unusual combinations of flavours—

‘Now who needs their bumps felt?’ Helen asked drily, and Ruth laughed.

‘Never mind—no doubt he’s on the menu for some totally undeserving ingrate who doesn’t appreciate the full subtlety of those wonderful blue eyes…’ She sighed, and Helen felt an irrational urge to hit her. Instead she unlocked the drugs trolley from the wall and snapped her fingers under Ruth’s nose.

‘If I could drag you away from your reverie, Staff, perhaps you could spare the time to help me with the drugs?’

Helen went into the staff cloakroom, unpinned her frilly cap and tucked a wisp of hair back into her bun. She was feeling harrowed—harrowed and emotionally drained.

Ross had spoken to Mrs Church and explained the full implications of her husband’s condition, and then left Helen to pick up the mess he left behind when he was called urgently to Theatre.

Tom stayed and talked to the Churches together once Mrs Church had settled down a little, and then Helen had given them a cup of tea and gone to see Judy Fulcher, the girl with the burst appendix who was down from Recovery.

She was doing reasonably well, nicely stable and not too nauseated, and Helen was happy that she was being nursed to her satisfaction. She had put Ruth on to special her as she had plenty of experience and was well aware of the implications of any possible change in her vital signs, but even so she had checked the chart herself, discussed her progress with Ruth and checked the flow of the drip and the suction drains from the stomach and the abdomen before she was happy to go off duty.

She was just coming out of the cloakroom when Tom walked through the double doors from the ward, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder, his car keys dangling from his hand.

‘Hi—off now?’ she asked him, and he nodded.

‘Ross implied that I should get some sleep while the going’s good—I think once I know where everything is and how it all works he’ll chuck all the notes at me and run!’

Helen laughed softly., ‘I doubt it, he’s very conscientious. How are the Churches?’

Tom’s face sobered. ‘Pretty grim. Mrs is certainly taking it hard. I think actually he’s known for ages that there was something pretty damn drastic wrong with him, so he isn’t really surprised, but she is.’

‘Yes, she seemed to be quite stunned. Is he going to have the op?’

Tom nodded. ‘Yes, I think so. He’s gone home for the night as planned, but I think he’ll be back tomorrow for surgery.’

‘Difficult start for you—I’m sorry.’

He threw her a quick grin. ‘Doesn’t matter when you start, Helen. It’s always difficult for someone. I suppose that’s why I’m here—to make it easier if I can’t take it away. That’s all any of us can do.’ He glanced at his watch, then back at her. ‘Got time for a cup of tea?’

‘In the canteen?’

He wrinkled his nose. ‘I was thinking of my room here—hospital tea is usually strong enough to stand a spoon up in, and I could do with something a little more subtle after all that coffee.’

She knew it was only a casual invitation and her reaction was probably foolish, but why not? She was tired and uptight, and anyway, she might find out something a little more personal about him.

Tea would be lovely,’ She said rashly.

They walked together through the sprawl of the hospital to the residents’ wing, and he opened his door and ushered her in with a flourish.

‘Welcome to Cell Block H.’

She looked round the small room, its cream walls chipped and bare, and chuckled. ‘It is pretty basic, isn’t it?’

His mouth quirked fleetingly. ‘It’s only temporary. I’m looking for something to buy—preferably something empty that I can move into quick! Park yourself if you can find anywhere.’

The only chair was stacked with books waiting to find a home, and a suitcase lay open on top of the chest of drawers.

Lacking any viable alternative, she sat on the end of the bed, her back against the wall, and watched him as he hung up his suit jacket on the back of the chair, tugged off his tie and rolled up his sleeves.

His jaw was deeply shadowed now, giving him a slightly rakish look and adding a dash of danger to an already very masculine man. Helen found it very unsettling, and she was deeply conscious of the nearness of his body and the intimacy of her surroundings.

Not that he did anything that could give her cause for concern—or at least not at first.

He plugged in a plastic jug kettle and flicked it on, then dropped on to the bed and shot her a grin. ‘Mind if I change out of this suit? I’ve been suffocating all day.’

She shook her head, her mouth suddenly dry, and looked away as the zip rasped down and he peeled off the trousers.

‘Now, the six-million-dollar question is, where are my jeans?’ he mumbled, and stood up to rummage through the suitcase.

She looked up and caught a glimpse of strong, straight thighs smothered in dark curls, so close that if she had lifted her hand she could have touched him. Her heart pounded and she felt the heavy, insistent beat of desire in her veins.

The threat was real now, close enough to touch, but it came, she realised, from within—which did nothing to diminish its impact on her starving senses.

Then his legs were plunged into battered old blue denim and he was turning towards her with a smile.

‘Milk or lemon?’

Oh.’ Lord her mind had deserted her in those few brief seconds. ‘Milk, please.’

He passed her a mug, and she cradled it in her hands and cast about for something sensible to say.

He spared her the trouble.

‘How long have you been here?’ he asked, propping himself up on the pillow and stretching his long legs down towards her—legs that were etched on her retinas and would trouble her sleep for weeks!

‘Four years. I came to the hospital as a staff nurse on the other surgical ward, and when Lizzi stopped work to have the baby I got her job.’

Tom blew on his tea, took a sip and sighed with satisfaction. ‘Better. So, are you happy here?’

‘Oh, yes—very. It’s a lovely hospital, and the staff are very friendly.’

‘They are, aren’t they? Ross seems really decent.’

‘He is. So’s Oliver Henderson. I’m very fortunate to be working with such reasonable people. The surgeon at my last hospital was a total pig.’

Tom chuckled. ‘I’ve worked with a few of them. Self-opinionated, over-blown stuffed shirts. Ross is a real breath of fresh air.’ He looked at her oddly. ‘And so are you.’ His smile was brief, his eyes strangely intense. ‘Thank you for making today so easy. I was dreading it.’

She was momentarily nonplussed. ‘You—you’re welcome,’ she stumbled, and found herself wondering if there would ever come a time when she could see him smile without turning to mush inside.

CHAPTER TWO

HELEN didn’t stay long. She found Tom’s presence altogether too disturbing in that little room, and after finishing her tea she made some excuse and fled.

During the course of that night she spent a great deal of time telling herself that her reaction to him was fifty per cent imagination and fifty per cent the result of her solitary and loveless existence. By the morning she almost believed it, but ten minutes on duty threw a hefty spanner in those works.

She was just welcoming a very subdued Ron Church to the ward and beginning the process of admitting him when the hairs on the back of her neck stood up and Tom strolled into view, more casually dressed than the previous day in lightweight trousers and a white coat, and doing unspeakable things to her blood-pressure.

‘Morning, Sister, morning, Mr Church,’ he murmured, and with a fleeting smile he hitched one leg up and perched on the other side of the bed. ‘How are you feeling today?’ he asked the patient.

Mr Church sighed heavily. ‘Resigned—scared, a bit.’

Tom nodded. ‘Yes, it’s all a bit of an unknown quantity, isn’t it? Don’t worry. Let Sister Cooper get all the paperwork out of the way and I’ll come and have a long chat and see if I can set your mind at rest, all right?’

He moved away, going into the side-ward where Judy Fulcher had spent a fairly uncomfortable night following her burst appendix.

After Helen had finished with Mr Church she followed Tom in there and found him just covering Judy up again.

That looks fine,’ he said with a quick lift of his lips, and Judy gave him a wan smile in return.

‘I feel awful,’ she said.

‘I’m sure. You’ve been brewing this for some time, though, so you’re bound to feel rough for a few days until the antibiotics can get to grips with things. Still, you should be over the worst by now. We’ll get you up later today and get you moving, and that should help to get you on the mend more quickly.’

She groaned with the thought, and Tom patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll take it very slowly. Just a few minutes in a chair at first, and then later perhaps a walk round the bed.’

They left the room, and he flashed a smile at Helen. ‘Mr Church ready for me?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, he is. He’s very scared, Tom.’

‘I’m sure. I would be, but then I know more than he does. I need to discuss him with you as well—perhaps we can do that first?’

She took him into the office and Tom explained that they were going to start by building him up a little. He would need blood transfusions to overcome the anaemia caused by prolonged blood loss from his ulcerated bowel before he would be fit enough for surgery. In the meantime he would be starved and his bowel emptied as far as possible to create as clean a field as they could for the operation.

Initially they would open him up to see if they could establish the extent of the tumour. Then they would remove as much as was necessary, depending on the progress of the growth. If it was too far advanced to hope for a cure, they would perform a palliative operation designed to minimise pain and distress in his remaining months. If they felt there was any hope of saving him, they would perform probably much more radical surgery including the removal of all of the descending colon, the rectum and anus and any affected lymph glands, in the hope that this more drastic approach would remove all the malignant cells.

Tom, however, was not optimistic.

‘It looked too far gone, Helen. We’ll do what we can, but —’ He shook his head. ‘Still, we can only try. Right, I’ll go and have a chat to him.’

Tom’s pessimism was well founded. When they finally opened Mr Church up on Thursday, they found the cancer had spread too far to hope for a cure, with metastases in the lymph nodes and invasion of surrounding organs, including his liver.

Ross felt that any surgical intervention should be aimed at causing as little distress as possible, and so they removed part of the descending colon and rectum and rejoined the ends, thus removing any immediate danger of obstruction and leaving the man his dignity for the short time he had left.

Tom found Helen after he came out of Theatre, and filled her in.

‘What a damn shame,’ she said sadly. ‘He’s such a nice man.’

‘A least his wife will know what to expect,’ he said enigmatically, and left her, puzzled, while he went to snatch some lunch before his clinic in the afternoon.

Ross came up during the afternoon and spoke to Mrs Church, and then Helen had the unenviable task of dealing with the shattered woman.

‘I don’t believe it,’ she said over and over again. ‘I thought he had piles. I kept telling him not to make such a fuss, and now it turns out he’s dying!’ She pressed her fist against her mouth to stifle the sobs, but to no avail. Helen put her arm round her and let her cry, and after a few minutes she tried to pull herself together. Helen gave her a cup of tea, and Mrs Church was halfway through it before the tears got the better of her again.

It was nearly five and time for Helen to hand over to her staff nurse for the evening before Mrs Church finally left, and as a consequence Helen had a mountain of paperwork to wrestle with before she could leave.

She was just coming to the end of it when Ross and Tom came in headed for the coffee-pot.

‘How’s Mr Church?’

‘Asleep—he was very dopey. Ruth’s specialling him.’

Ross nodded. ‘I’ll pop in and have a chat before I go home tonight, if he’s awake enough. Otherwise I’ll see him in the morning. What about Judy Fulcher?’

‘She’s doing well—her peritonitis is settling and she seems to be responding well to the antibiotics. Alex Carter came and saw her yesterday and confirmed a generalised gynae infection—he wants to keep an eye on her. Seems she’s got gonorrhoea, chlamydia and candida among other things.’

Tom wrinkled his nose. ‘Delightful. I thought she was married?’

‘She is,’ Helen told them. ‘Perhaps her husband brought the bugs home?’

‘How thoughtful,’ Ross commented drily. ‘Some people have all the luck.’

Tom chuckled and put his cup down. ‘Well, if it’s all the same to you I’m going to stick my nose in a book. I’ve got my viva coming up altogether too quickly.’

‘You’ll walk it,’ Ross said with a yawn. ‘Oh, God, I’m tired. Think I’ll go home to bed. Oh, before you go Tom, Lizzi and I are having a barbecue on Saturday—all very informal, just a swim and a burger in a bun. Lizzi ordered me to make sure you come. She says it’s high time she met you.’

Tom smiled slightly. ‘Thank you, that would be lovely. I’ll look forward to it.’

Ross turned to Helen. ‘What about you—any chance you can make it?’

‘Yes—super. Thanks, Ross.’

‘I tell you what—why don’t you come together? Very ecologically sound—and there won’t be so many cars on my grass!’

Tom gave a short laugh. ‘Fine—provided Helen doesn’t mind?’

She met his eyes—those strange, haunting blue eyes—and thought of spending all that time alone in a car with him. ‘No—no, I don’t mind,’ she said quickly, and her voice was slightly breathless, like an eager girl’s, she thought in disgust.

Ross shot her a keen look, but simply said, ‘Good. That’s fine. Any time after three.’

Then she was alone, with the prospect of spending Saturday afternoon and evening with Tom, and wondering what on earth she had let herself in for.

‘Wow.’

Helen glanced across at Ross’s house, sprawling down the hillside like a Spanish villa, and then at Tom, who looked faintly thunderstruck.

‘It is a bit, isn’t it? Look, park over there by those others under the trees.’

‘Lord—a cast of thousands,’ Tom said softly. He swung his Sierra off the drive on to the broad sweep of lawn that was covered in cars and pulled up beside a big dark grey Mercedes estate. ‘I’m going to lower the tone a bit in this,’ he joked, and tipped his head towards the Mercedes. ‘Oliver’s?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘He’s on call, but I guess his registrar will be doing it this afternoon.’

‘Surprise, surprise,’ Tom muttered under his breath. ‘The joys of being a registrar.’

Helen chuckled. ‘Poor old boy—you look really hard done by.’

He had the grace to laugh. ‘Yes, I’m really badly treated, aren’t I?’

‘The trouble with Ross,’ she told him as she gathered her things and climbed out of the car, ‘is that he is incapable of delegating. That’s why he’s always so tired. He flings himself whole-heartedly into his job, and insists on doing the best for his patients. If that means he does the operation, so be it.’

Tom regarded her thoughtfully over the top of the car. ‘But is it always the best for his patients? If he’s tired, will he perform well?’

‘The curse of the houseman. I think Ross perhaps hasn’t realised that he’s grown up!’

Tom chuckled. ‘No, I think he feels the rest of us haven’t—that’s why he mothers and spoon-feeds us! Where do we go?’

‘Follow the noise—and you’re wrong, you know. He’s been very complimentary about your operating—says you’re good—and from Ross, believe me, that’s high praise indeed.’

They strolled together across the grass and round the side of the house to the pool area, and Helen tried to ignore the long, lean, hair-strewn legs that ate up the ground so easily, and the snug fit of the tailored shorts that emphasised his narrow hips below the trim waist and wide, strong shoulders. She felt more than ever attracted to him, and was sure it must show in her eyes. She just wished she had the nerve to ask him if he was married or had a girlfriend, but she didn’t really want to know. She might not get the answer she wanted, after all!

They turned the corner and Tom stopped in his tracks. ‘Good God, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many babies out of a maternity unit!’

Helen laughed. ‘Oh, well, they’re all at it. There’s Lizzi—come and meet her.’

They picked their way through the bodies strewn over the lawn to a slender, quietly pretty woman bent over a tiny toddler.

‘Lizzi?’

She straightened, hitching the baby up on to her hip, and her face broke into a smile.

‘Helen! I’m so glad you could come—and you must be Tom. Lovely to meet you. Welcome to the madhouse. Go and find yourselves a drink in the kitchen and come and have a chat.’

They made their way up the broad flight of steps leading to the house, and Tom shook his head slightly. ‘Wow, again. What a house. I could almost forgive it for being modern, it does it so well!’

Helen chuckled. ‘I take it you like old houses?’

‘Oh, ideally, but I’m not having a lot of joy finding anything I like. Nothing lives up to the estate agent’s blurb!’

They went into the house and found Ross in the kitchen piling burgers and sausages and chicken legs on to big plates. He was dressed only in a pair of scanty swimming-trunks, and looked disgustingly healthy and youthful.

‘Just in time,’ he told Tom with a grin, and handed him two of the plates. Take them down by the pool to the barbecue, and come back for the next lot. Right, Helen, what can I get you to drink? Hot, cold, with or without alcohol?’

‘Cold without, please.’

‘Fruit juice and fizzy water?’

‘Lovely.’

He handed her the ice-cold glass and then carried on unwrapping food.

‘Are you expecting an army?’ she asked quizzically, eyeing the mountain of burgers.

‘We’ve got the army already,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Ah, Tom, well done. Help yourself to a drink.’

He pulled the ring on a can of beer and propped his hips against the worktop beside Helen, but Ross didn’t let him linger.

‘Go and enjoy yourselves,’ they were told. ‘Here, give that to Helen to carry and take this lot down to the barbecue on your way—oh, and could you tell Lizzi I could do with a hand with the salad?’

They found his wife sitting on the grass with her sleepy daughter on her lap, talking to Bron Henderson and Clare Barrington, both obviously pregnant.

Helen introduced them to Tom and gave Lizzi Ross’s message, then Tom escaped to put the food down and talk to Oliver while Helen chatted to Bron and Clare.

‘Lizzi looks tired,’ Helen said thoughtfully, watching her as she made her way slowly up the steps.

‘She is—this pregnancy’s making her feel very sick and I think Sarah’s giving them the run-around at night,’ Bron commented with a wry laugh. ‘Dear God, do I know the feeling! Jamie’s being a holy terror at the moment, and heaven knows what it’ll be like when this one comes along. Still, Liwy will be at school in September so it won’t be so bad then.’

Helen grinned at Clare. ‘Just think, you’ve got all this to look forward to!’

Clare chuckled. ‘Yes, there are times when I think even sailing the Atlantic again couldn’t be as bad as motherhood! Still, I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

She looked across the pool to where Michael was standing talking to Oliver and Tom, and the loving expression on her face brought a lump to Helen’s throat. How wonderful it must be to feel like that for someone and know it was returned, she thought wistfully, and found her eyes drawn to Tom.

He was laughing with the others, but at that moment he turned his head and caught her eye, and her heart turned over.

‘He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?’

Helen turned back to Clare. ‘Hmm?’

‘Tom—he’s gorgeous—if you like dark-haired men, which of course I don’t!’

The girls all laughed, and Helen found her eyes drawn back to Tom again. Yes, he was gorgeous, but there was something else, some deeper quality that drew her against her better judgement.

She had found herself overpoweringly aware of him all week, almost to the point of being unable to concentrate on her job on occasions, and yet he had given her no hint that he returned her interest.

She sighed softly and turned back to the others, determined to ignore Tom and get him out of her system.

‘Sold the cottage yet?’ Bron was asking, but Clare shook her head.

‘No—we haven’t really had time to think about it. Michael only started at Ipswich last weekend, and we’ve been too busy sorting things out to worry about putting it on the market. I suppose I’d better do that next week.’

Helen’s interest was immediately caught. ‘Look, I’ve got an idea. Tom’s looking for a place, and I know he wants something old. Why don’t you ask him if he’d like to see it?’

Clare looked across at him. ‘Do you think he’d be interested?’

Helen shrugged. ‘Might be. It wouldn’t hurt to ask.’ Clare waved them over, and the three men strolled across.

‘What’s with the royal summons? Drinks run out or something?’ Michael asked as they approached.

‘No, no—Tom! Helen says you’re looking for a house, and we’ve got a cottage to sell. It’s only tiny, so it wouldn’t be any use if you’ve got a wife and six children tucked away somewhere, but it is quite lovely, miles from anywhere and beautifully done up —’

‘This is the soft sell, you notice,’ Michael interrupted, and Clare blushed and giggled.

‘Well, you know what I mean. It is lovely, Michael. I shall miss it.’

‘No, you won’t. My grandfather won’t give you time to miss it, and once the bump comes along you certainly won’t have time to mope. Anyway, Tom, as she says, the cottage isn’t big, but you’re more than welcome to have a look if you want.’

Tom nodded. ‘Please. It sounds wonderful, and size isn’t a problem, I’m on my own. When can I look at it?’

Clare and Michael exchanged glances. ‘Tomorrow morning?’

‘Fine. Can you give me directions?’

Helen saw Clare glance at her, then back to Tom. ‘Why don’t you get Helen to come with you? She knows the way, and it’s a bit tricky to find the first time.’

‘Helen?’

She met his eyes and shrugged. ‘Fine. No problem.’

‘Ten o’clock at the cottage?’

They all agreed, and then the conversation moved on, leaving Helen free to absorb Tom’s admission that he was on his own. That didn’t necessarily mean he was interested in her, of course, but it did mean he was free to pursue her if he wanted to. She would just have to wait and see if he did want to.

Lizzi joined them, followed by a trail of tiny children, with Ross bringing up the rear.

‘It’s like the National Childbirth Trust round here. Hoo-hoo-haaaah,’ he huffed, and they all chuckled.

Tom looked quizzically at Helen.

‘Breathing exercises for labour,’ she told him, and he nodded blankly.

Ross chuckled. ‘Not quite in your league, is it?’ he said. ‘Go and help yourselves to food—there’s a stack of cooked bits and pieces, rolls, salad, et cetera. Eat plenty, for God’s sake. There’s always masses left over.’

Tom pulled Helen to her feet and they wandered over to the groaning table beside the barbecue.

‘Oh, terrific—I’m starving!’ Tom confessed, and after they piled their plates up he led Helen away down the garden to a little orchard at the end. Then he lowered himself to the grass under the trees and patted the ground. ‘Sit down and tell me all about the Barringtons’ cottage.’

She settled herself beside him, taking a bite of her burger to distract herself from the sight of his hair-roughened thigh only inches from her knees. ‘Well, it’s called Rose Cottage, and it’s got roses climbing up it and a thatched roof and little latticed windows, and it’s absolutely enchanting. If I could afford to, I’d buy it, but I just don’t earn enough.’

‘Not fair, is it?’ Tom said quietly. ‘You work hard enough, God knows. It’s lovely to see you relaxing; you’ve been rushing about all week. Every time I’ve seen you you’ve been either bent over a patient or buried under a mountain of paperwork.’

She sighed. ‘Well, it’s been a bit hectic. You’ve been busy too.’

‘Mmm. Still, I’ve enjoyed it. Thanks for all the help.’

She turned her head slightly and looked at him. ‘You’re welcome.’

His eyes locked with hers, and for an endless moment they stared at each other, then he turned away and bit into his roll, and she found she could breathe again.

They ate in silence for a while, then Helen put her plate down and lay back on the sweetly scented grass.

‘Oh, heaven. I think I’ve eaten too much.’

‘Rubbish. That’s why you’re so skinny. Do you want the rest of this burger?’

She shook her head, and watched, fascinated, as Tom picked it up and bit into it. His throat worked as he swallowed, and she found the sight of his Adam’s apple rising and falling absolutely riveting.

She made herself look away. Let him make the first move, she thought, and closed her eyes.

Seconds later his breath whispered against her cheek.

‘You’ve caught the sun,’ he said softly, and his finger trailed down her nose.

‘Freckles,’ she said unnecessarily, and he counted them.

‘Fifteen.’

‘Are you sure? There were twelve this morning.’

He chuckled softly. ‘Is that a fact? I told you you’d caught the sun.’

She opened her eyes and found herself staring straight into his, just bare inches from her face. Her lips parted involuntarily on his name, and for an endless moment she thought he was going to kiss her.

Then he rolled away and stood up. ‘I’m going for a dip—coming?’

‘You shouldn’t swim so soon after eating,’ she told him mechanically.

‘Tough,’ he replied, and there was an edge of hardness in his voice she hadn’t heard before.

She watched him walk away, his long legs eating up the grass in great strides, and wondered what she’d done wrong.

He fell in love with the Barringtons’ cottage on the spot, and Helen strolled round the pretty garden while they agreed a price and decided on a completion date. He had apparently sold his house in Oxford to a cash buyer, and was able to go ahead as quickly as Clare and Michael were willing to.

Helen was very pleased for them all. Tom was so clearly thrilled with the cottage, and on the way home afterwards he positively bubbled with enthusiasm. It was the most animated she had ever seen him, and Helen was secretly delighted. He looked so sad for much of the time, and to see him like this, brimming over with excitement and plans, was a real joy.

It was also infectious, and she found herself laughing as she hadn’t laughed in ages.

And then suddenly, without warning, his mood changed again.

Afterwards she found it difficult to put her finger on exactly what had happened. They were talking about when he was to move in, and he said he’d have to buy furniture. Then she asked how come he’d owned a house and didn’t have any furniture, and that was when he went funny.

‘It was all borrowed,’ he said shortly, ‘and anyway, it’s time for a change.’

And after that he hardly said a word all the way back, and dropped her off outside her flat without even a smile. She was bitterly disappointed, because they had been getting on so well and she’d hoped he would suggest they go somewhere for lunch together—instead of which he had driven off with a stony face and left her alone again.

She let herself into her flat and made a sandwich, then sat by the window looking out into the concrete back yard, relieved only by a sorry-looking lilac that struggled for existence in a crack in the paving.

It was such a contrast to Rose Cottage and Ross’s house that she indulged in a moment of self-pity before changing into tatty old jeans and a T-shirt and picking up the keys of her sensible, middle-of-the-road little car.

‘God, I’m so bored!’ she said savagely as she banged the door of the car. ‘Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored!’

She headed out into the country and found herself in a little village with a winding stream that gurgled under an old brick bridge. Parking the car in a lay-by, she locked it and set off on a hike along the stream.

It was a gorgeous day—a day to share, she thought crossly, and felt suddenly very lonely and sad.

‘There was no guarantee he felt anything for you,’ she told herself firmly as she walked. ‘He’s just as entitled to be as picky as you are—and he’s obviously decided not to pick you. God knows he gave you enough warning—he was hardly all over you. And yesterday—he could have kissed you so easily, but he didn’t. And still you expect miracles!’

‘Pardon?’

She looked up, startled, to find a woman with a dog regarding her strangely. ‘Are you all right, dear?’

She blushed and laughed. ‘Sorry—yes, I’m fine. I was just telling myself off.’

‘On a lovely day like this? What a shame.’ The woman smiled, and Helen smiled back, suddenly happier.

‘Yes, you’re right. It’s much too nice a day to be cross.’

They parted company, the woman and her dog going on the way Helen had come, Helen following the track beside the stream.

She was right, it was a beautiful day, and being cross and ungracious was just a waste of it. She would put Tom out of her mind, and forget him.

Easier said than done, she acknowledged the following morning.

How he had managed it in so short a time she didn’t know, but Tom Russell had winkled his way into her heart in a big way, and it would take more than a little determination to get him out again.

He was quiet and withdrawn when she saw him, but they were so busy that she hardly had time to chat anyway.

Judy Fulcher, the patient with the burst appendix and peritonitis, was making slow but steady progress, althought she was still unable to take anything by mouth. As a result oral care was a very important part of her nursing, and Helen took the opportunity, to sponge off her caked lips and tongue and clean her teeth as a training exercise for Carol, one of the student nurses who had started with her that day.

Judy’s gratitude was touching, and Helen wished she had time to do it better and more often.

However she didn’t, and she was busy with the pre-ops who were due to go up to Tom in Theatre that afternoon.

Trailing her students, she prepared the patients for Theatre, including passing a Ryle’s tube into one man who found the whole experience intolerable and panicked himself into a frenzy.

‘Look, Mr Blackstone,’ she explained for the second time, ‘it really doesn’t hurt. All you have to do is relax as much as possible, take little sips of water and swallow gently, and I’ll just slip the tube down your throat bit by bit. It’s really not that bad.’

He snorted and put his hand over his face. ‘I’m not having no bloody tube poked down my throat!’ he mumbled.

‘Please let me try,’ she coaxed. After a few more minutes he lowered his hand, and, taking the lubricated tube, she lifted it towards his nose.

‘No,’ he moaned, and covered his face again.

Tom arrived just as she was soothing the man down for the third time, and with his help she managed to calm him sufficiently to try again.

This time she actually succeeded, much to her relief, and afterwards, when the tube was taped in place and the man’s stomach had been aspirated and he was settled, Tom drew Helen aside.

‘You were wonderful with him,’ he said gently, and the sun came out for her again.

Foolish heart, she chided herself, and tugged off her gloves. Her smile was coolly impersonal.

‘He’s just a big baby. What can I do for you?’

He sighed quietly. ‘Could we go round the pre-ops? Do you have time? I wanted a last word with them.’

Her heart sank. She had thought—oh, never mind what she had thought. She forced another smile. ‘Of course. Susan, clear up the trolley could you, please? And then start the lunches. Carol can give you a hand. Oh, and Susan?’

‘Don’t forget to read the menu list,’ the third-year student said with a grin. ‘OK, Sister.’

Helen watched her go. ‘Scatty as the day is long, but willing. Right, where were we?’

The rest of the day was hectic, and that suited Helen just fine, because the last thing she needed was time to think about Tom. She felt she had come within an ace of making a complete fool of herself over him, and he so clearly wasn’t interested.

Oh, well.

She was just going off duty at five when she heard a commotion in Judy Fulcher’s room.

The door was shut, most unusually, and when she opened it she saw to her horror that Judy’s husband was sprawled across the bed, his trousers round his ankles, and Judy was sobbing and pleading with him as he dragged her nightdress up.

For a second Helen was so stunned she did nothing, but then she leant on the bell over the bed and seized his shoulders.

He shrugged her off, and she stumbled back, steadying herself on the locker.

‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ she asked furiously, and grabbed hold of him again, determined to drag him off. He flung her aside and she landed on the floor with a crash, shaken but not seriously hurt. She was more worried about Judy, still struggling with her half-crazed husband.

As she crawled to the door for help, so Tom appeared in the doorway and with one look at the scene stepped over her and hauled the man off, slamming him up against the wall.

‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?’ he roared. ‘She’s ill, for God’s sake!’

‘She’s always ill!’ he snarled. ‘Always got some damn excuse or other. I’ve got rights, you know, and I haven’t had it for months!’

‘What about her rights?’ Tom yelled into his face. ‘What kind of an animal are you that she’s lying there after a major abdominal operation and all you can think about is getting your leg over?’

Helen tried not to smile. Tom was so furious with the man it would be a miracle if the latter survived intact!

She stood up, dusted herself down and went to make sure that Judy was all right.

Ruth Warnes had heard the bell and come to help, and between them they settled Judy down again and made sure her drip hadn’t become dislodged, while Tom hauled up the man’s trousers with more vigour than was strictly necessary and dragged him off to the office.

Judy was crying, and Helen left Ruth comforting her and went to phone the hospital security. Just as she got through there was a crash from her office, and she put the phone down after begging the security officer to hurry and ran into the office, to find Mr Fulcher pinned to the floor, Tom with blood running down his face and glass everywhere.

‘Security’s coming,’ she said briefly, and Tom nodded.

‘Fine. Just so long as they’re quick, before I’m tempted to run this bloke through with a scalpel.’

‘He threatened me!’ Fulcher mumbled against the floor. ‘Did you hear that? Threatened me, he did.’

‘I shouldn’t let it worry you,’ Helen said drily, eyeing Tom’s bleeding eyebrow. ‘He’s the one running with blood. Are you going to press charges, Tom?’

‘If I don’t bleed to death first,’ he muttered. ‘Where the hell are they?’

Just then the security staff came running in and Tom stood up, handing his charge over to the uniformed officials.

‘Lock him up till the police get here,’ he said shortly.

‘Right, sir,’ one of them muttered, and then they hauled the man to his feet and marched him out of the office.

Helen shut the door and turned to Tom. He was pale, trembling slightly with reaction, and the cut over his eye was still welling blood.

‘You look awful—sit down and let me look at that.’

He tipped the broken glass off the chair and sat down obediently, tipping his head back so that she could examine the cut.

‘What on earth did he hit you with?’ she asked incredulously.

‘The coffee-jug—ouch!’

‘Sorry. It’s a good job it was empty.’ She probed again, and he flinched. ‘There’s a bit of glass left in there, and it’ll need a stitch. Do you want to go down to A and E?’

He peered up at her from under his eyebrows. ‘Can’t you do it?’

She looked doubtful. ‘I can, but—I might leave a scar.’

‘Shame,’ he said softly. ‘Just stitch it, Helen.’

She took him into the treatment-room and made him get on the couch.

‘Don’t bother with the lignocaine,’ he told her as she picked up the syringe. ‘If it’s only one stitch it’ll hurt less just to do it.’

She shrugged and washed her hands, then opened the suture pack, swabs and antiseptic before pulling on gloves. It was his head, she reasoned. If he wanted it stitched without a local, so be it. And anyway, he was probably right, a local anaesthetic did hurt.

She lifted out the glass and swabbed the cut with antiseptic, and he winced and flinched.

‘Sorry—that’s probably the worst bit.’

‘God, I hope so,’ he said with a weak attempt at humour. ‘It brings the tears to your eyes.’

‘Just tough it out, cowboy,’ she told him firmly. ‘You wanted it this way—OK, hang on, here it comes.’

He didn’t move a millimetre, but she could see the muscle jumping in his jaw and knew it was hurting him.

‘OK, all done,’ she said seconds later, and snipped the suture.

He sagged back against the couch and shot her a weak smile. ‘Thanks.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘Sadist.’

She snorted and wiped the skin around the cut dry before putting on a couple of butterfly sutures each side of the stitch. ‘It was your idea to play the hero,’ she told him laughingly.

‘Hmm. Remind me next time not to bother,’ he said with a smile, and her stupid heart went into overdrive again.

She turned away, clearing up the debris from her suturing, and he was so quiet she thought he’d fallen asleep. Then his hand rested lightly on her arm and turned her towards him.

‘About yesterday…’

She forced herself to meet his eyes.

‘What about it?’

‘I’m sorry I got ratty. It’s just—the furniture was a bit of an issue in the past. You just hit a nerve. I’m sorry I was short with you.’

All the lectures she had given herself over the past twenty-four hours went out of the window at a stroke. She knew the smile must have lit up her eyes, but there was nothing she could do about it.

‘Forget it,’ she told him. ‘I thought it must be something I’d said or done to irritate you ——’

‘No. No, Helen, it was nothing to do with you. You’ve been marvellous.’

He sat up and swung his legs over the side, and his mouth quirked into that fleeting smile again.

‘Forgive me?’

‘Of course I forgive you,’ she said softly, and wondered if her heart would stand the strain of that wretched smile.

CHAPTER THREE

THE police came and interviewed Tom and Helen, and then talked to Judy Fulcher who was still very shaken but clearly so familiar with the pattern of her husband’s behaviour that she was unsurprised.

The only surprising thing, she told Helen, was that he had waited so long. However, even under pressure from the police she refused to press charges.

‘If he goes to prison, he’ll kill me when he gets out,’ she explained, and behind her matter-of-fact delivery Helen sensed a deep-rooted terror.

Instead of going off duty as she had planned, Helen sat and talked to Judy, letting her pour out all her troubles, and gradually a picture built up of a long-term pattern of abuse, both physical and mental, that had turned Judy into the submissive, diffident woman that Helen had been nursing for the past week.

Helen promised her that the medical social worker would come and talk to her in the morning, and that if she didn’t want to return to her husband she wouldn’t need to.

Again, Judy felt that there was no way she could escape from him, that if she left him he would find her and kill her.

‘It’s not that he’s deliberately cruel,’ she explained. ‘It’s just that he’s got definite ideas, and if I agree with him that’s fine, but if I want anything different—like this sex thing. I’ve been feeling awful for months, but still he insisted. When I finally told him I couldn’t stand it any more, he started going off with other women—prostitutes, mainly. So I let him do it with me after that—well, people were talking. Anyway, it’s hardly the first time.’

Helen didn’t know what to say, but it didn’t matter. Now she had started, Judy talked for hours, and it was nearly ten o’clock before she felt able to leave her.

She went into the sister’s office and found Tom, slouched in a chair, reading a weighty textbook.

‘You’re still here!’ she said, surprised.

He put the book down and smiled fleetingly. ‘I was waiting for you. I went and got a book—it looked like a long job.’

Helen nodded and sank into the other chair. ‘Yes. God, what a coil, Tom. That man is a complete bastard.’

Tom gave a wry chuckle. ‘Tell me about it! I’ve got a hole in my head that says so.’

She looked at the cut, now swelling and colouring well, and shook her head. ‘It looks sore.’

‘Surprise, surprise,’ he murmured. ‘Are you OK, by the way? I gather he threw you on the floor.’

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