It was nearly midnight when Martin finally slipped into the house. He peeked into Louisa's room, found her and the baby asleep, and quietly made his way to the spare bedroom. It had been a long week and his first time away from Louisa and Tommy since he'd moved in with them. The experience had been lonelier than he'd expected.

He'd spent the last three days in Truro, doing all the things that the hospital deemed necessary for him to start work as a consultant. The week began with a series of meetings with heads of departments, his soon-to-be colleagues, and even the hospital administrator. There'd been a few questions about his decision not to take the position in London but the explanation of wanting to be closer to his son quickly ended those conversations.

He was tasked with completing endless forms – from those attesting to his medical qualifications to life insurance policies. Finally, he was required to take certain hospital-mandated training, almost all of which he considered useless and unnecessary. At the end of it, he'd yet to see a single patient but was now apparently considered qualified to do so.

The initial contract was for him to work as a medical consultant in the clinic three days per week. The hours and the pay were less than he'd hoped for but, as Parsons had pointed out, the situation was only temporary until the GP position opened up in a few months.

Driving back along the winding roads that night had left him exhausted and now he quickly brushed his teeth, tugged on his bedclothes, and crawled beneath the crisp sheets. Within minutes, he found himself succumbing to the pull of sleep.

They were at the beach at Newquay. He and Louisa were sitting on a blanket on the sand, watching surfers in the distance. Tommy lay next to them, on his back, giggling contentedly and occasionally playing with his toes.

"Did you see that?" Louisa exclaimed as one of the surfers rode out a long wave. "That's amazing." She looked at him. "Have you ever tried surfing?"

"No."

"We could take lessons sometime, although you'd need to wear a suit."

"I always wear a suit," he said.

She laughed. "I meant a bathing suit."

"All right, if it would please you."

"You really mean it? You'd take surfing lessons with me?"

"Yes, Louisa, for you I'd do it."

"This is nice," Louisa said, leaning back on her elbows.

"Yes, it is." He lay down next to her and intertwined his hand in hers. As always, the contact made him tingle with anticipation.

"We should come here more often," she said contentedly.

"Spending too much time in the sun is harmful. It increases your risk of developing melanoma—"

"And it's hot."

He frowned. "What?"

"Martin, it's hot."

"Of course it's hot. We're at the beach in the sun. It's supposed to be hot."

"Martin." Louisa touched his shoulder.

"What?"

"I'm hot, Martin. Please wake up."

His eyes shot open and he sat up in the bed. A glance at the bedside clock showed it was 0213. He immediately realized that he was in Louisa's spare room, not at the beach, and Louisa was standing next to the bed in her nightclothes. Martin was instantly alert, a skill he'd honed through long nights of surgical call.

"Louisa? What is it?"

"I'm sorry to wake you, Martin, but I feel so hot. And," she bit on her lower lip and looked away, "my breast . . . it really hurts."

"Come closer." When she did so, he pressed the back of his hand to her forehead and immediately frowned. She was running a temperature of several degrees. Damn.

"Go back to your bed while I get my bag."

Martin pulled on his dressing gown, washed his hands, retrieved his bag from downstairs, and was sitting on the edge of Louisa's bed in less than two minutes.

He placed the tympanic thermometer in her ear and checked the result. "102.3," he reported. "No wonder you feel feverish." A quick check of her pulse found it nearly normal. "You said your breast was sore. Both or only one?"

"Just the right one." She shrugged slightly. "I thought it was, you know, sore because of the nursing. But it's been getting worse."

"Did you call Owens?"

"I called the surgery today and talked to Poppy."

"Poppy? Since when is she qualified to provide medical advice?"

"She passed along my message. She said that Owens felt it was probably nothing serious but that, if I didn't feel better in 48 hours I should come in to the surgery."

Martin harrumphed. "So, he dispensed medical advice through an unqualified receptionist without even speaking to the patient."

"I didn't feel that bad when I called. I'm sure if I'd made it sound more serious—"

"All right, let me see." He motioned for her to remove her nightshirt.

She hesitated. "Martin, I—"

"Louisa, if I'm to help, I need to examine you." He struggled to control his frustration at her newfound sense of modesty. For god's sake, he was a doctor.

She met his eyes for a minute, then gingerly lifted her nightshirt over her head.

Martin evaluated the affected breast with a clinical eye. Any other time, the sight of Louisa in her bed half-naked would have been more than titillating. Knowing Louisa was sick and in pain, he pushed aside any such thoughts and focused all of his attention on his clinical skills.

There was a characteristic wedge-shaped area of redness in the upper right quadrant of the breast. He gently pressed the tips of his fingers against the skin, finding it warm to the touch.

She jerked away. "Ow! Martin, that hurts."

He grimaced. "I'm sorry, Louisa. I think the inflammation and soreness is being caused by mastitis but I need to make sure there's no abscess."

"Mastitis?"

"An inflammation of the breast tissue common in nursing mothers," he explained. "It's painful, but not serious." He tried to be as gentle as possible, not meeting Louisa's eyes, as he continued his palpation of the affected breast. Next, he checked her left side, finding it reassuringly normal.

"That's all. Here you go." He handed her back the nightshirt and helped her put it on.

"Martin." Louisa's voice was sultry as her hand reached out for his arm.

He felt her fingers tracing softly along his forearm, sending ripples of pleasure through his body. He tried to forget they were sitting inches from each other, her hormones racing and his . . .

Good god. He was acting like a schoolboy – irrational, not to mention unprofessional. He shook off the feelings that surged within him, sat up straighter, cleared his throat and reminded himself that he was a doctor – Louisa's doctor.

"It's mastitis," he repeated in a detached, professional tone. "But there's no sign of abscess, which is good."

"How did I get it?"

"Most likely bacteria from the baby's mouth entered the breast tissue through a crack in the skin." He sought comfort in the familiarity of the medical explanation. "That in turn caused an infection which caused the pain and swelling as well as the fever and fatigue."

"Do I have to stop breastfeeding?"

He shook his head. "No, in fact it's very important for you to continue breastfeeding in order to remove the milk from the breast. I'll give you antibiotics to treat the infection; I'll get some from Mrs. Tishell in the morning. Don't worry, it's perfectly safe for the baby. In the meantime, we'll try some paracetamol for the pain along with some warm compresses. Most of all, it's important for you to rest."

Louisa's eyes were moist. "What did I do wrong?"

He cupped his hand under her jaw and gently lifted her head until she was looking directly at him. "Louisa," he said softly, "you've done nothing wrong. You have a minor infection that will clear up very quickly with rest and antibiotics."

"I'm a failure as a mother. I can't even breastfeed my own son."

Martin sighed. Louisa was ill and obviously somewhat depressed; she wasn't thinking or talking clearly. Probably hormonal imbalance as well. Being short with her wouldn't help.

"You're a fine mother – Tommy couldn't ask for better and neither could I."

She gazed up with him. "Do you mean that?"

He pushed up against her and brushed his lips against hers. "Of course I do."

"Ow." She involuntarily shrank away from the pain of his chest touching hers. "Oh, Martin. I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

Once again, Martin scolded himself. Right now, he needed to be Louisa's doctor, not her lover. He stood up quickly. "I'll get the paracetamol and compresses."