Читать книгу Serpent Sting - Toni Grant - Страница 7

Prologue

A memory. Hazy as an Australian outback summer’s afternoon. And yet, it tolled with the regularly of a Venetian church bell. Francesca closed her eyes. In the darkness, she cradled her stomach heavy with child and remembered a time six years before.

Protected within the confines of the secure Brisbane hospital ward, Sinclair McCrae was waiting beside her. The army medic had stayed all night, dozing in the chair, and had flatly refused to leave. Now he was pacing, waiting impatiently for the specialist surgeon to arrive, his head full of strategies for her recovery.

The doctor, an expert with surprisingly intolerable bedside manner, explained at great length the intricacies of his surgical deeds to save the movement in her shattered shoulder. If he was trying to impress Captain Sinclair McCrae MD, he certainly wasn’t succeeding.

Francesca, however, would be forever grateful for his skills and his intense physical therapy plan. The broadside came in the offhanded way the surgeon commented on her ‘condition’.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” she had replied.

The folder with her essentials was resting in his open hands. He paused briefly to look at her, sternly, from the outward-facing leaves and his focus turned to the page in front. His response was going to drain the blood from her face and punch the wind from her chest.

“Surely you’ve realised. You’re pregnant.”

Francesca surely had not realised such a thing. Now, her mind was racing. She mentally counted back the weeks. God save me! Her thoughts and attention caught up with the surgeon at his final callous comments: birth follows death, and perhaps you should hope for twins. By now, he had shut the folder and was looking expectantly at her.

She stared at him in disbelief. Sinclair lunged forward. Francesca grabbed at his arm, her warning glance stopping him mid-flight.

“Thank you, Doctor. You may leave now.” The army medic spoke through gritted teeth. A good head and shoulders taller than the white coat and twice as solid, Sinclair squared off, placing himself between Francesca and the doctor. “We won’t be requiring your services again,” he added, before shutting the door in the retreating surgeon’s face.

“Sinclair.” It was the most difficult conversation Francesca would ever have.

The soldier remained standing in the doorway and turned to face her, his arms folded across his chest, waiting. At his expression, Francesca swallowed the hard lump of her throat. She couldn’t read this tight mask.

She cleared her throat. “Nicholas and I. We had a brief affair before …” her voice trailed away, hanging awkwardly in the tense space between them.

“In Italy,” she mumbled as if to explain her actions. Her face turned crimson with embarrassment. “And again when I returned to Sydney. We had sex then too,” Francesca said quietly again.

“Sinclair. Believe me, I had no idea. You’re a good man. I love you completely. But don’t stay if … I mean, this is not your problem …” Her throat tightened in emotion and the sound stopped at the words she needed to say.

With a raspy cough, she had said, “I will understand if you want to leave.”

Francesca quickly turned her head away. She couldn’t witness his relief whilst he made the decision to go, as he surely would.

“Please stay,” she had mouthed silently into the pillow.