The Surgeon

“What? That’s ridiculous.”

His eyes roved her body. Good Lord, what was she doing standing in front of a man, in front of him, naked beneath this cover?

“Is it so ridiculous?” he asked. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but when I removed your corset, your waist grew by a full three inches.”

She gaped at him. Her face burned with heat. Why did she constantly feel like an idiot around this man?

“You know, most men would agree with me. These contraptions you women get into are highly unnecessary. Personally, I’d much rather see natural skin bouncing beneath a woman’s clothing than this piece of armor.”

He’d finally reached her and held up the corset, a foot away from her.

Gulping, she decided she’d better simmer her temper. He was getting far too close for comfort. “You tore my clothes to shreds. Why?”

“I didn’t shred them all.”

“Where are the rest?”

“Your satchel’s in your room, on the right side of the bed. Didn’t you see it?”

She shook her head a little too vigorously.

He nodded toward the front hall. “I had Polly wash and press your red suit. It’s hanging in the front armoire in case you’d like to check. After an eight-day journey, I figured you’d appreciate laundered clothes.”

“For heaven’s sake, I didn’t wear the suit for the whole eight days. I changed into it two hours before we pulled into the station. I’d prefer if you didn’t touch my things, thank you very much!”

“I guess that explains why Polly said they weren’t soiled.” He grew bolder and stepped closer. Much too close for her comfort. “You changed into your lovely suit before the train rolled into the Calgary station? For me again?”

“No! For the man I thought I’d be marrying.”

“You’re a very accommodating woman.”

It sounded like a compliment, but she caught the sarcasm.

The black flecks in his brown eyes sparkled. “How did you sleep last night?”

“Very well,” she squeaked. She pulled in a nervous breath at the steamy way he was studying her, at the thought that she’d spent the entire night in this surgeon’s bed. She cleared her throat. He must have gotten some rest, too. Even though there were a few sleepy wrinkles around his eyes, he looked fresher. “How did you sleep?”

“I got about two hours. It wasn’t much, but I’ve got the next few to myself. I arranged for someone to take over at the fort so I could come to check up on you.”

“There’s no need to check up on me.” Another question gnawed at her. She had to ask. She needed to know for her own peace of mind. “How exactly…did you remove my clothing?”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

Swallowing she tried to say yes, but the word was inaudible. “Yes,” she repeated, much too loudly.

“I removed them one by one.” Leaning in, two inches from her face, he laid one palm flat against the wall behind her, grazing her hair.

A wave of heat shimmered through her. In a self-conscious gesture, she tried to smooth her tangle of hair, but it was no use trying. It was no use ever trying to smooth her hair.

“Your jacket slid off first. Quite easily, I might add.”

“Humph.”

“Then your skirt.”

“Humph.”

“Your petticoat was easy, too, because of the secret drawstring.”

She heard a moan and realized it was coming from her throat. Heaven help her!

“Then the bloomers. They looked new, too. Did you buy them for me, as well?”

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

He raised his other palm and placed it firmly on the wall by the other side of her head. She was trapped between his arms. His body was splayed before her. She recognized the faint scent of laundry soap that’d been on his pillow.

Her voice was a frazzled whisper. “Why…did you ruin my corset?”

“Because if I’d taken the time to unlace all those little zigzagging straps at the front, gently and carefully, and took the time to slip them up over your arms, I would have seen it all.”

She gasped.

When his gaze dropped to the bare expanse of her throat, a suggestive smile curved his well-defined lips. He ran a long, tanned finger along the base of her jawline and her muscles quivered beneath his touch. She should drop dead here and now.

“Sarah?” he murmured.

“Yes?” she whispered.

“I’m going out that door, to the bakery. When I come back, I want you fully dressed.”

A loud clang startled them. In the hallway below, a mop and bucket hit the hardwood floor.

To Sarah’s mortification, staring up at them was a skinny, youthful man she didn’t know. In front of him, Polly Fitzgibbon who’d just dropped her bucket, dressed in her washing clothes and kerchief, stood aghast. “Well, I do declare!”

The man turned his portable camera up the stairs. Sarah was blinded by the magnesium flashlamp as it went off in a cloud of smoke and ash. “Look straight at the birdie!”

Chapter Four

“Are they gone yet?” Sarah shrieked the question from behind John’s bedroom door.

John hollered back from the hallway, still agitated himself but wondering when she was going to come out of hiding. “The house is empty. It’s safe. They’re both gone.”

In the commotion ten minutes earlier, Sarah had dashed up the stairs and locked herself in his bedroom and Mrs. Fitzgibbon had huffed her way out the front door with her bucket, which had left her obnoxious nephew David alone with John to do the fancy footwork of explaining.

John heard a scraping on the floor, then Sarah asked another question. “Did you smash the camera?”

“I didn’t need to smash it. Besides, it’s private property and I can’t do that. But I confiscated the photographic material.”