Reunited with Her Surgeon Prince

by Marion Lennox

  ‘That’s our local hospital,’ Marc told her. ‘It’s where I’ve been based for the last six years. Maybe you’d like to see it while you’re here.’

  ‘You still have a key?’

  He smiled but it was suddenly strained. ‘I can go there wherever I want, but I go now as ruling sovereign.’

  ‘Bodyguards included.’

  ‘Bodyguards included.’

  ‘That must suck.’

  ‘It does indeed suck,’ he said gravely. ‘I miss my job more than I can say. But what I’m doing is more important.’

  ‘Playing dress-up?’

  His smile disappeared altogether. He looked down at his beautiful uniform and then he met her gaze head-on.

  ‘If you knew how much I’d rather be in scrubs right now...’

  She did know. And with that knowledge part of her panic fell away.

  She’d been feeling trapped, but how much more so must Marc feel? She knew how passionate he was about his medicine, yet now he was forced to live in a sugar-frosted fantasy of a palace while the world he loved operated just below him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  His gaze held hers. ‘You understand.’

  ‘I guess I do.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said simply. And then his smile returned and her heart twisted as it had no right to twist. Oh, Marc...

  But her heart had better get itself under control, she told herself harshly.

  Marc might be trapped for ever but she wasn’t. Four weeks, tops.

  * * *

  It was nine that night before Ellie finally had time to herself.

  The day had been crazy, a jumbled mix of introductions, formality and pomp.

  She was now in a suite designated for the mother of the heir to the throne. Her bedroom looked the size of a small football field and the attached living room took her breath away. Her meagre luggage had been unpacked by a maid who was more impressively dressed than she was. A woman had arrived and done a quick measure and promised a few outfits ‘to make you more comfortable in your surroundings, ma’am.’ She was so out of her depth she didn’t argue.

  Felix was asleep on the other side of the door in an adjoining room. His apartment was similarly impressive. It was set up as a nursery, but not for babies. It was a space most nine-year-olds could only dream of.

  There was a nurse sleeping in yet another room, a twinkly lady in her sixties. ‘He doesn’t need a nurse,’ Ellie had stammered when Marc had introduced them and Marc had put a finger to his lips to shush her.

  ‘Hilda was my good, kind nurse when I was a baby. She understands boys and, what’s more important, she understands what Felix needs to know. She also has a grandson of about Felix’s age. She’ll introduce them tomorrow and see if they hit it off. Pierre’s English is sketchy but he’s bright and fun and Felix might feel better with a friend. Hilda might help you both feel more at home. Now, I’m sorry, Ellie, but I have things I need to attend to. I’ll see you later tonight.’

  That had been five hours ago. Hilda had taken them on a mind-boggling tour of the palace. She’d answered Felix’s thousands of questions. She’d given Felix his dinner and clucked because Ellie wasn’t hungry, but finally she’d let Ellie be.

  In Ellie’s cavernous apartment the silence was deafening.

  She peeked through to Felix’s room for about the twentieth time. He was in a similar bed, a bed considerably rumpled from having been bounced on. He was fast asleep.

  She should be too, but she stood at the great bay window and gazed across the palace gardens to the moonlit mountains beyond and wondered where she’d found herself.

  There was a soft knock, as though the person thought she might be asleep.

  She was far from asleep, but heaven only knew how much courage it took to open the door.

  Marc.

  He’d lost the uniform. Thank heaven for small mercies, she thought numbly. The uniform alone had been enough to scare her. Now he was dressed in faded jeans and a black T-shirt which stretched tightly across the six-pack of a chest she remembered only too well.

  His face was darkened with a five o’clock shadow. It was nine o’clock, she reminded herself, though it didn’t feel anything like that. What time was it back in Australia? Who knew?

  But she had other things to think about. Marc was here, smiling in concern.

  ‘Hey,’ he said softly. ‘You should be asleep.’

  ‘I think my body thinks it’s seven in the morning.’

  ‘Hilda says you haven’t eaten.’

  ‘My body said it was five in the morning when dinner was on offer.’

  ‘So breakfast now?’ he asked and looked towards the great bell rope hanging by the mantel.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ she said, startled. ‘Wake the whole palace because I feel like a toasted cheese sandwich?’

  ‘Is that what you’d like?’ His face creased into another smile and it was almost her undoing. Once upon a time she’d fallen in love with that smile.

  Whoa. She was not going there again. She was a sensible woman, here to do what had to be done before returning to her sensible life.

  If only he wouldn’t smile.

  ‘I don’t feel like it enough to pull the rope,’ she managed. ‘Next thing I know there’ll be a booming announcement—all staff to the scullery—and I’ll be seated at your grand thirty-seater dining table with four footmen and a butler and one cheese sandwich on a silver platter...’

  ‘It is a bit like that,’ he said and his smile softened. ‘But not quite. The bell pull looks amazing but all it does is light the palace switchboard.’

  ‘Manned by someone who could make booming announcements?’

  ‘I suppose so, but...’

  ‘And the palace cook who’s probably just gone to bed would be pulled out to cook again?’

  ‘That’s what he’s paid for,’ he said and then his smile changed again. Suddenly there was a twinkle of mischief lurking within. ‘But you know what? I make a mean cheese toastie and I know where the kitchens are.’

  ‘Kitchens?’

  ‘Kitchen,’ he said hastily, seeing her look.

  She skewered him with a glare. ‘How many kitchens?’

  ‘Well, three,’ he told her. ‘Number one’s for everyday use, two’s for banquets, three’s for State Occasions.’

  ‘So making myself a cheese toastie wouldn’t qualify as a State Occasion?’

  ‘It should,’ he told her, his smile disappearing. He touched her lightly on the cheek, only a trace, hardly a caress, but it seemed like one to Ellie.

  Why? This man was a ghost from her past, nothing more. Get a grip, she told herself.

  ‘It should be a State Occasion,’ he was saying. ‘What you’ve done for the last ten years, on your own...’

  ‘Is nothing compared with what you’ve achieved,’ she managed. She’d done some intense research over the last weeks and she pretty much had a handle on what his life had been like. ‘For your work during the war you’re regarded as some sort of superhero. Since then I gather you’ve been helping run the health system, as well as working behind the scenes, actively politicking so Falkenstein stays peaceful.’

  ‘That’s why I need to stay where I am right now,’ he told her and his voice turned grim. ‘That’s why I’m trapped.’

  ‘It’s an impressive trap.’ Unconsciously her gaze went back to the bell pull and his smile returned.

  ‘It is. To be honest I’ve pulled that about twice. But come my coronation, with the crown on my head, I imagine I’ll be pulling the bell rope like anything. Meanwhile, may I escort you to the smallest of our kitchens and cook you a toastie?’

  And what woman could resist a toastie?

  What woman could resist that smile?r />
  Not her, she thought helplessly. She was exhausted in every sense of the word. She should close the door on Marc, sink onto the amazing bed and close her eyes on the world.

  But a cheese toastie was calling.

  And Marc. Prince of the Blood. Her husband.

  No, she thought frantically. Not her husband. Just Marc. The father of her son. A man who should be—must be—her friend.

  So, it was entirely reasonable to make overtures of friendship. That was what mature couples did in the face of a need for co-parenting.

  She could even feel virtuous as he led her out of her room and started the trek through the vast network of portrait-lined galleries and down the back stairs that led eventually to the palace kitchens.

  She was doing this for Felix’s sake, she told herself. And she was doing this because she was hungry.

  She wasn’t doing this because Marc made her toes curl at all.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE ‘EVERYDAY’ KITCHEN was still grand to the point of intimidating, but Marc was accustomed to cooking for himself. Army messes, campfires, hospital kitchens—he’d learned to ignore his surroundings and get on with it. His French chef might well be miffed that Marc was taking liberties with his frying pan, but for now Marc’s focus was on Ellie.

  Who sat, pale-faced, worried, watching him as he searched the bank of refrigerators. With increasing frustration.

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a caviar sandwich instead?’ he demanded as he found a shelf stocked with smoked salmon and pâté. Make a note, he told himself. Basic Cheddar for toasties needs to be added to the royal shopping list. He did, however, finally find cheese.

  ‘Pont l’Évêque?’ Ellie said faintly, and he grinned.

  ‘Only the best, m’lady. That’s all there seems to be.’

  ‘That’s all you normally eat?’

  ‘Up until four weeks ago my normal fare’s been what’s left at the back of the fridge in my apartment. Which isn’t pretty. Often it’s cheese I’ve forgotten to wrap. With the furry bits chopped off it makes an awesome sandwich, but obviously tonight we need to slum it.’

  ‘You really had no connection to the royal family?’

  ‘Only as my job dictated. My uncle allowed me to take over the role of Director of Health after my father died. I’ve battled with his funding ministers but my uncle never concerned himself directly.’

  ‘So government positions...?’

  ‘Have been assigned purely by whim and favouritism,’ he told her, abandoning his search for tomatoes. White asparagus, tick. Tiny designer potatoes? Something that might be kale? Who cooked sandwiches with kale? No tomatoes. Hmm. ‘My uncle liked the idea that I was family,’ he conceded as he searched. ‘He seemed to think it gave him more control, but he never bothered to take an interest anyway.’

  ‘Will you?’

  He paused. For a long moment he stayed, staring into the fridge as if an answer might magically appear, but then he shrugged and straightened. ‘This’ll be a toastie with a difference. Hold your hat.’

  ‘Will you?’ she asked again.

  ‘Take an interest?’ He shrugged. ‘I will, but where do I start? Immediately after the coronation I need to sack half the administrators of this country. They’ve been lining their own pockets for years. It’s going to be—’

  ‘Hell?’ she finished for him.

  ‘You said it.’

  ‘And your medicine?’

  He’d been unwrapping cheese and was about to slice it. Now he closed his eyes as if in pain. ‘I can’t think,’ he said savagely. ‘All that training... Never to operate again...’

  And he sliced down hard.

  Which was a mistake. He stared down in disbelief at the slash on the side of his forefinger.

  ‘Wow,’ Ellie said, reaching for the dishcloth. ‘Nicely done, Dr Falken. Hold it up. High.’ She wrapped the finger tight and propelled it upward and he was left feeling like a king-sized fool.

  One large carving knife. One very soft cheese. What an idiot.

  ‘Where’s the first aid kit?’ Ellie demanded, still holding his hand up.

  ‘It’s fine. I can...’

  ‘Bleed all over my toastie? I don’t think so. I need disinfectant, a couple of Steri-Strips and a bit of gauze. And don’t tell me to pull the bell rope. I can deal with this.’

  ‘I can do it myself.’

  ‘Yeah?’ A crimson stain was seeping from under the dishcloth. ‘Shut up, Marc, and tell me where I can find what I need.’

  ‘There should be a cupboard in the main kitchen with a red cross on it. But—’

  ‘Then don’t move. Keep your hand up. Sit and don’t faint.’

  ‘I don’t faint,’ he said, revolted, and she grinned.

  ‘And as a surgeon you don’t slice your own finger with a carving knife. It’s a whole new world we’re living in, Your Highness. Sit down and let me play doctor.’

  * * *

  And for the first time in what seemed like weeks, she felt okay.

  Okay? That was a strange word. She was walking through cavernous kitchens looking for a cupboard with a red cross on the front. Marc was in the next room hugging his sliced finger.

  Marc was the future King of Falkenstein and she was in a place that did her head in. But, right now, her world had suddenly got domestic.

  Marc had a cut finger and she could fix it.

  She thought suddenly of how their lives could have been. Rewind the clock. Cancel the war in Falkenstein. Cancel her mother’s illness. She and Marc could have stayed married, had their baby, maybe settled down in some nice country practice together. Patched each other’s scrapes, supported each other, maybe had a few fights along the way.

  Celebrated birthdays, Christmas, wedding anniversaries. Stuff normal couples did.

  Ten years later she finally got to put a bandage on a sore finger. Woo-hoo!

  But for now, suddenly, she was simply grateful for what she could get. Was that stupid? Yes, it was, but it felt okay.

  She found the right cupboard and was truly impressed. This wasn’t a standard kitchen first aid kit. She needed to move oxygen canisters and a CPR kit out of the way before she could reach what looked like a box of dressings.

  There was a dressing for everything. Plus suture material, antiseptic washes and equipment for giving local anaesthetics. This place seemed equipped for everything from childbirth to snakebite.

  She fished out an almost embarrassingly large amount of kit and headed back to Marc.

  ‘You want to lie down?’ she asked him. ‘I have enough dressings to cover you from the toes up.’

  ‘One finger,’ he growled. ‘I can do it.’

  ‘Like you sliced the cheese? I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’m the surgeon.’

  ‘I have a very poor opinion of doctors who have other careers on the side,’ she said primly. ‘Your carving skills... Being King has obviously messed with your head.’

  ‘Slicing cheese as expensive as Pont l’Évêque messes with my head.’

  ‘Then that’s another career you should avoid. You know, it’s so soft you could have used a spoon? Hush, Marc, and let me see.’

  He cast her a strange look and subsided.

  Silence. He sat motionless while she washed his finger, assessed it and decided stitches weren’t needed. It’d pull together okay with Steri-Strips. But she needed to get the finger totally dry and apply the Steri-Strips carefully, pulling the sides of the slice together firmly but not rounding the entire finger. It’d swell a bit over the next few hours and if she encased the entire finger, at best it could throb, at worst she’d cut off circulation.

  She focused and Marc sat and watched her head bent over his hand—and it felt okay.

 
To have Ellie treating him.

  To have Ellie touching him.

  After ten years there should be nothing, he told himself. Or, there again, if there’d been real sexual attraction then there should have been a zing of sheer magnetic pull.

  But this reaction was different. Strange.

  He was watching the top of her auburn curls. Her attention was absolute. If he cocked his head to the side he could see the tip of her tongue, just emerging, a sign of pure concentration.

  He wanted to touch those curls, not for any proprietorial reason, not because he wanted to tug her to him and declare she was still his wife but because he wanted to assure himself she was real.

  Their marriage had been so brief, a moment out of time that had seemed almost fantasy. When he’d left her, he’d come home to chaos, war and destruction on an unbelievable level. He’d had to put his head down and work as he’d never worked before and never wished to work again. But at night, lying on the various camp beds in which he’d found himself, he’d often conjured up a vision of Ellie.

  Of a life he couldn’t have. Of a fantasy.

  She’d been that fantasy for almost ten years, his quiet place, a memory that helped him stay steady in times of trouble. Yet here she was, no memory but a woman with premature threads of silver in her hair. A woman with worry lines, put there by a life as demanding as the one he’d faced.

  Reality and fantasy were fusing and he didn’t know where to take it.

  Nowhere at all, he told himself harshly. Ellie’s life was back in Australia. Keep your thoughts—and your hands—to yourself, and play the patient.

  With the Steri-Strips in place, she was applying gauze dressing. Finally she stepped back, satisfied. ‘It should heal fast if you look after it,’ she told him. ‘It’s a sharp knife so the cut’s not ragged. Keep it dry and try and keep that dressing intact for a couple of days.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  She cast him an odd look—maybe she was finding this situation as disconcerting as he was—and started clearing up.

  ‘I can do that.’

  ‘Not in my surgery,’ she told him. ‘And I’m making the toasties now. I might have known a king couldn’t cook to save himself.’