by Ramsay, Anna
Heartbeat
by
Anna Ramsay
Who will she choose, the doctor or the priest …
PARMA MEDICAL ROMANCES
Originally published by MILLS&BOON LTD.
Heartbeat
© 2012 by Parma Medical Romances
The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.
The characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. All the incidents are pure invention.
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CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter One
She was aware of having been dumped fully clothed on the treatment couch intended for patients. Through a haze of dizziness the young nurse sensed that two men were looming over her.
'The Sleeping Beauty!' joked one. ‘Whaddya think, Doc? If I kiss her will I turn into a frog?’ The accent was definitely Dallas— which only added to Jenni's confusion.
A deeper voice, cynical and authoritative with a faint twang of Down Under, crushed the American's enthusiasm with dry humour.
'Shouldn't recommend it. You might turn into a frog.'
A solitary tear slid from beneath Jenni's trembling eyelids and trickled down the side of her pale face onto the rough cotton pillowcase.
Somewhere above her head there was an awkward silence. The men exchanged glances.
Jenni's head was still going round and round and she didn’t dare move for fear she might faint again – all alone with two unsympathetic strangers, deep in the heart of the African bush.
* * *
After chilly London, the humidity of Dar-es-Salaam was proving a knockout, stifling and oppressive.
Every bone in her body ached with weariness, but supper at Mission Headquarters was clearly going to be a sociable affair and the long refectory table was crowded with friendly faces, all eyes focused on the English nurse who had arrived late that afternoon. Nothing for it but to keep her chin up and make an effort to look alert and interested.
I’m not the slightest bit hungry! thought Jenni with an inward sigh.
Miss Margaret, the Mission Supervisor, lifted the lid from a big earthenware casserole. Mmm ... fish simmered in some kind of vegetable sauce ... it smelled totally delicious.
She sampled a forkful, and a beaming smile spread over her freckled face.
Miss Margaret was warming to this cheerful, uncomplaining newcomer. 'Enjoy!' she encouraged. 'You won't get much fresh fish where you're going.’
And for all her slightness, she thought as she watched the girl tucking in, this one’s got a healthy appetite. 'We use a local recipe called samaki, flavoured with lots of chopped coriander leaves,' she explained, rolling her rrs with relish as she ladled a second helping on to Nurse Westcott's plate.
Och yes, just the sort we need out here; a lassie who won't hesitate to roll up her sleeves and get stuck in. As for that hair and those freckles, she'll take a bit of time getting acclimatised, but she'll be all right. Only a tough nurse would volunteer to work out in the African bush.
'Ross McDonnell will be mighty glad to see you, dear. Poor man came to Africa expecting to specialise in eye surgery and found himself Dr Jack-of-all-trades.'
'I very much admire you British nurses,' murmured the dignified headmaster, clearly taken with the freckled newcomer's cloud of coppery curls and her frank, open-featured face. 'You leave your homes and cross entire continents to help Africa and the Africans. I want you to know, Miss Westcott, that our joy and gratitude is deep and sublime because you offer your hearts to humankind.'
His sincerity was touching, and Jenni felt her cheeks grow warm. What would this grave African say if he knew the truth? That she had travelled here to offer her heart, not to humankind so much as to one very special man working deep in the Tanzanian bush.
'But darling, with your colouring Africa's the last place you should be going,' Mrs Westcott had sighed, knowing only too well that once her youngest daughter's stubborn mind was made up, protesting was a waste of words. Thank goodness Paul, bless his heart, would be on hand to see the tempestuous Jenni came to no harm. Not that Jenni was a child exactly; not at twenty-four and a London-trained RGN.
On a nurse's salary a girl couldn't afford to splash out on a lot of new outfits to suit a tropical climate. Jenni could sew and knit, but what with fitting in nutrition lectures at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine alongside her demanding job as staff nurse on one of the Royal Hanoverian's paediatric wards, she was very grateful for her mother's wizardry with an electric sewing machine.
It was specially important to look stunning for Paul.
If the family had twigged what their youngest member had in mind they'd probably have hidden her passport! For Jenni was hell-bent on seduction. And the man she’d set her sights on was sister Helen's ex-fiancé, now a missionary priest in the African bush. The wedding ring, the honeymoon, the whole works, Mrs Paul Hume. Jenni Hume. She’d been practising that signature since she was seventeen …
This was why the African headmaster's generous words made Jenni bite her lip and drop protective lashes over eloquent golden eyes.
Of course she was distressed by the sufferings of his people; of course she was determined to do her bit. But there was this other very personal motive.
A trickle of sweat ran eerily down her spine. The jade shift dress with its body-skimming fit was sticking uncomfortably to her shoulder blades—even after the cool shower she'd gladly taken on arrival for this overnight stay. Everyone was being so kind, so friendly, so eager to help. The dry heat of the interior, they assured the newcomer, would prove much more tolerable: there, the nights would turn cool and even chilly. They hoped she had packed a sweater or two.
Now fatigue began to take its toll and a huge yawn told the tale.
'Great black rings under y'r eyes. Away to your bed, child, you've an early start in the mornin'. So much travelling for a wee slip of a lassie.' The Supervisor glanced up at the big round clock on the wall. 'Nine-thirty and still no sign of Dr McDonnell. Tch, tch, and he knew you'd be here today. Where can that man have got to?’
Over supper Jenni had been told that Ross McDonnell, with whom she would be working out at the Good Shepherd Mission, was an eye surgeon from a big northern hospital back in the UK; one of a team of eye specialists recruited on temporary assignment by the World Health Organisation to tackle eye problems in the Third World. Dr McDonnell had signed a nine-month contract of which three months had passed. According to Miss Margaret, he worked all hours. Accounting for his typical lateness this particular evening.
Every three weeks or so the doctor would drive the long haul to Dar-es-Salaam to demonstrate complicated techniques in eye surgery to African doctors at the city's general hospital. He would then collect fresh medical supplies for the mission station out in the wilds and spend a couple of nights at headquarters where Jenni was now en passant. Her arrival had fortu
nately coincided with one of his visits, saving the eager newcomer the discomfort of endless hours on the rickety local buses.
Jenni thought Ross McDonnell sounded a considerate and caring sort of doctor. He must be, to have volunteered for work such as this.
As for Father Paul—who while serving his curacy in her father's busy city parish had fallen deeply in love with Helen, the Vicar's eldest daughter — judging by the conversation tonight he hadn't changed one bit. An Oxford Rugby Blue with the profile of a Greek statue and the physique of an athlete, loved for his gentleness and his big kind heart … Jenni's own heart leapt in anticipation of the moment when she would set eyes on beloved Paul once again.
Staff Nurse Jennifer Westcott, RGN, was a girl with a mission. She had promised herself at the tender age of seventeen, when crazy Helen dumped Paul Hume, one day she would marry him herself.
And now she was twenty-four. And in all her wide experience—for she was a pretty and lively girl with a host of admirers—a man to equal Paul had never materialised.
From the moment the aircraft had flown over the Equator, Jenni's excitement had spiralled with the plane's steady descent.
Somewhere down there Paul would be waiting. She hadn't seen him for almost eight years, not since she was a sixth-former planning a nursing career at the same London hospital where her sisters had both trained.
What would he think of her now? An assured and responsible woman of twenty-four, volunteering her professional skills for the work of the Good Shepherd Mission.
The realisation that he wasn’t at the airport to meet her was a bit of a blow, but Jenni sensibly abandoned herself to the adventure of sorting things out for herself. She had been brought up to stand on her own two feet and was not inclined to be a worrier over trifles; all the same, when a beaming young African in a check sports jacket introduced himself and said he had been sent to escort her to Mission Headquarters, Jenni was relieved to find herself expected …
… ‘Great black rings round your eyes,’ Miss Margaret had said. Interesting!
Back in the privacy of her room, she peered myopically at her reflection in the fly-spotted mirror. Even a back-to-back shift of eight nights on duty hadn’t put sexy shadows under those wide hazel eyes with their nondescript lashes. She leaned on the stained china washbasin to get a closer look. Two bright enough eyes stared back at her—surrounded by circles of melted mascara.
'You look like a redheaded panda,' she informed her image scornfully. 'I know you’ve been run off your feet, but why didn’t you make time to get your lashes dyed, like Helen said. What if Paul had caught you looking like this? And your hair's going to be a problem in this heat. There's just—' she dragged her fingers through the mass of bright curls—'too much of it.'
Rooting in her case for makeup remover the first thing that came to hand was her precious album of press cuttings. Out of the blue, homesickness struck. The realisation of it! She was going to be away from the family for six months. Six whole months…
For the past seven years the parishioners of Holy Trinity had held coffee mornings and car boot sales to raise money to send out to Father Paul and the Good Shepherd Mission. And when the local press heard that the Vicar's youngest daughter (all three girls were trained nurses) was going out to join Paul at the Mbusa Wa Bwino, there had been a flurry of interest and articles and photographs, which Jenni had carefully collected to show to everyone at the Mission. Then there were the packets of letters and photos sent by the children of Holy Trinity Junior School to the children of Paul's African parish.
Since there was no one to see, Jenni indulged in a little private sniffle which made her nose glow and her mascara make black snail tracks down her cheeks.
She had just begun to undress when heavy footsteps came purposefully along the corridor and halted outside her door. A demanding fist beat a tattoo on the wooden panel, and struggling back into her crumpled dress, Jenni called to her impatient visitor to hang on a mo’.
Cautiously opening up, she discovered a filthy tramp leaning threateningly with one hand on the door frame. She knew the nuns took care of such people and gave them food and shelter: but really, you wouldn't think they'd let them wander round the building disturbing visitors. Hold on! said a warning voice in her head. This is Africa, and underneath all the dust, that's a white man.
A large and dirty boot shoved itself deliberately across her threshold. The light in the passage was directly behind him, so that the face remained in shadow. He was very tall; she had to tip her head back to look up at him.
Jenni had the impression of a harshly lined face that hadn’t seen a razorblade for days. An uncompromising head outlined in greyish stubble. And a pungent smell of heat and sweat emanating from the intruder's stained, crumpled and faded khaki fatigues.
'What do you want?' she demanded in her curtest tones. 'What can I do for you.' She wanted to take a step backwards and away from this threatening presence, but stood her ground.
The man's gaze had been levelled a good six inches higher, as if expecting the room to be occupied by a female Amazon. The girl's spirited question seemed to amuse him, and he smiled grimly: at least, his clamp of a mouth widened in some semblance of mirth. For a drawn-out moment he too stared back, with no sign that he liked what he was seeing any more than Jenni did.
'You're the nurse,' he said with rueful emphasis, drumming his fingers on the wooden door frame. 'Strewth!'
Even as she bridled at the clarity of the insult, Jenni was registering the twang of an Australian accent. She had a temper easily roused, but over the years she had learned to control it, tucking fists automatically clenched in anger under folded arms.
'I beg your pardon!' she snapped. 'I take it you are Dr McDonnell?' No way had he been operating! Not with that smell on his breath.
He didn't even try to be polite. Already he'd seen as much as he wanted, hooking his thumbs into his belt and turning to walk away.
'If you're not ready and out front by five-thirty, don't expect me to hang about.' The voice was curt, deep and well educated. The accent was slight; it must have been some years since he had quit his homeland for the UK.
'I shall be there.'
The shadowy head nodded, even as shrewd eyes noted that this slip of a kid was as whacked as Ross himself after that emergency call to an outpost thirty miles distant.
'Oversleep, and you'll have to get yourself down to the bus station.'
'I told you, doctor, I will be ready on time. Thank you,' she added, cool and firm, managing to shut the door just as he presented his long, lean and distastefully sweat-stained back, so that neither seemed to have the advantage of dismissing the other.
There was a rusting key in the lock, and with a defiant wrench Jenni turned it, leaning for a moment with upturned palm pressed against solid wood while she considered the reality of Miss Margaret's saintly Ross McDonnell. Unwashed, unkempt, distinctly malodorous, and so arrogantly unconcerned with his physical appearance and the impression he was making on her that it was...well, it was insulting, that was what it was!
It had never occurred to her that the Mission doctor might for some peculiar reason find her unacceptable. But it was clear as the nose on her face that Dr McDonnell hadn’t much taken to her. Brilliant start to her stay in Africa.
Jenni chewed painfully on her bottom lip. She was not accustomed to being glowered at with blatant disapproval. Professionally she was both competent and capable, with the diplomas to prove it. And as a woman—well, men generally fell over themselves to be pleasant and attentive.
The confrontation had left her with a thudding heart and an uneasy sense that perhaps she had approached this African venture with high ideals and her head in a romantic cloud. Doubts assailed Jenni Westcott for the very first time.
But not for longer than a few brooding moments, for Jenni was an incorrigible optimist and generous with it. The doctor was short-tempered and tired. She'd seen him in an uncharacteristic mood.
Yes, t
hat was bound to be it. A cold shower and a decent night's sleep and the poor chap would be a different man by the light of day. No point getting upset over his attitude tonight. She'd win him round. A dose or two of flirtatious charm and Dr McDonnell would be eating out of her hand—just like all the rest.
Miss Margaret's description of him, though—a description so misleading it made your hair stand on end! Wiping away the last trace of mascara, Jenni did wish the bad-tempered doctor's first impression of her could have been a more positive one. Seeing his new nurse so drained and enervated by the damp heat, he'd be bound to assume she was lightweight. Just you wait, Dr Ross! muttered Jenni, slipping between the coarse cotton sheets and pulling the mosquito net around her.
She had been so preoccupied with the sheer thrill of seeing Paul again that her professional relationship with the doctor at the Mission had simply not concerned her. In her mind's eye he had registered as an insubstantial and shadowy figure with whom she would … well, get on like a house on fire, as for the most part had been the case with her colleagues, nursing or medical, at the Royal Hanoverian.
'Where is Miss Margaret?' demanded Jenni.
'Miss Margaret is at early Mass. Perhaps I can help you?'
'Well, I do think McDonnell might have waited, I'm only forty minutes late.'
Persuaded to eat breakfast before being escorted to the teeming bus station, she winced to see her luggage casually heaved on to the dusty roof of a cream and orange bus which looked as if it might well fall to bits on the long drive westward into the interior.
'Oh, please do take care!' she called out to the African driver, as with lazy grace he tossed a heavy bundle on top of her cheap and shabby cases. Her own things didn't concern her, but the cases contained precious vaccines wadded round with towels to protect them from damage, medicines and plastic bags filled with powdered milk, all donated by Dad's parishioners back home.
Loose-limbed and bare-armed, the driver grinned confidently down at her and nodded his head, indicating that Jenni should get inside and grab herself a front seat.
