On the house.”
“That’s very generous, but I think I’m fairly capable of diagnosing the injury myself.” She pursed her lips as if daring him to contest her.
Or kiss her.
No, it definitely wasn’t to kiss her, although it was not such an unappealing idea. He squared his feet again, aware his father was actively tuned into their conversation.
So she wanted to spar? Fine by him.
“You won’t be able to X-ray yourself. I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist you let me make up for my lead feet.”
“The clinic won’t be able to afford to take the X-ray if you don’t put anything in the bottle.” She returned his smile with a healthy dose of Cheshire cat.
Touché. She was good. Very good.
And distractingly attractive. Not your typical primped and preened heiress his mother had enjoyed trotting out in from of him—better. Natural. Not a speck of makeup needed on her milk-and-honey complexion. If he hadn’t known better, he would’ve pegged her as a Scandinavian, but her accent was pure, unaffected English. An English rose with a particularly fiery spirit, from the looks of things. If circumstances had been different he’d …
No point in going there. Circumstances weren’t different.
“Put it on my account. I’ll see you at the clinic at, shall we say, three o’clock?” His words brought the conversation to an end but Oliver couldn’t resist one last tip-to-toe scan. No doubt about it. Mud-slicked outdoor wear suited Julia MacKenzie. It’d be interesting to see how she scrubbed up.
Bubble bath? Shower? Oliver! Stop it.
He followed her eyes as she glanced up at the clock built into the stable’s spire. It was just past two.
“Fine.”
She didn’t look happy. He didn’t feel happy. A match made in heaven.
“Well, then. It’s a date.”
IF JULIA’S HAND hadn’t been throbbing so much she would have had a proper go at washing that very annoying man right out of her hair. If only she could scrub the soap bubbles into her brain. As it was, she could just about handle a quick rinse and a slapdash effort to clean herself up before Dr. Oliver Wyatt—or was it just plain old Oliver?—met her in the clinic’s exam room. She pulled on a sapphire-blue blouse she knew flattered her neckline and brought out the color of her eyes. Not that she was dressing up for him.
Maybe just a little.
Who knew Oliver Wyatt would be so good-looking? From the tangle of Chinese whispers she’d heard, the mental picture she’d formed of him would’ve matched the gargoyles leering over the roof of the gatehouse.
Now she was going all googly-eyed on herself, which was really irritating. Particularly considering that Oliver’s presence here at St. Bryar could very well pull the very nice rug out from under her feet.
Then again, had the rug been all that permanent? No one had been able to tell her what would happen long-term with the country hospital. The Duke of Breckonshire had been very clear about the fact that when his son returned home the reins would be handed over.
The duke had stipulated she was free to fund-raise her heart out if she thought it would help the clinic. Help? The clinic was definitely … erm … retro would be putting it nicely. But it had spoken to her and she loved every worn linoleum inch of it. She had thought if she could somehow get the place free of needing funding from the estate before Lord Oliver—Oliver—returned from his posting in South Sudan, she could look toward a future here. Turned out seven months wasn’t quite long enough to jack the place into the twenty-first century.
Her eyes moved to the lead-plated windows of her bedroom overlooking the tiny hospital’s garden. If she was really going to go for accuracy, St. Bryar Hospital was little more than a patch-em-up service. Even so, thanks to a few beds and a twenty-four-hour rota of volunteers, it served as the only round-the-clock resource for the small village cut off from big city hospitals. There was a midsized NHS clinic about forty-odd minutes away if you didn’t get stuck behind a tractor. Helicopter was the only quick way to get to a proper hospital in an emergency and, with the government cutting funds left, right and center, she worried about the day they wouldn’t even have those. She’d searched on the internet for grants and extra funding and had already printed out an imposing stack of application forms waiting to be filled out. Soon. She’d get to them. Tonight.
She tugged on a skirt and ran her good hand along the soft fabric of the peasant-style blouse she’d chosen. A peasant blouse to meet the aristocrat? She snorted. Hilarious. Her stomach did a nervous flip, and she gave herself a get-a-grip shake.
What did she have to be nervous about? Being born into a great family didn’t make you great. Actions made you great. Like finishing a fun run with a throbbing hand. She let herself give a smug little sniff before grabbing her keys and heading to the clinic. Hopefully, the brisk walk would focus her.
Julia was only seven months into her new job and it had already woven itself into her heart. Fat chance she was going to let Mr. Enigmatic Green Eyes with an unrelenting case of wanderlust take it all away. Never mind the minor fact he would one day be the rightful owner of it all—he clearly didn’t have any staying power! South Sudan? Republic of Congo? Libya? Where else had he been over the previous year? Sure, he’d been helping people—but what about the people here in St. Bryar? What about his father? It was one heck of a big place to be knocking around in on your own.
She stopped short of harrumphing as she pulled open the clinic door, knowing full well she couldn’t really point that particular finger. Her whole life had been a catalogue of packed bags, long-haul flights, change-of-address cards and now, finally, in this beautiful untouched village, she thought she’d found her place in the world.
“Anybody home?”
Julia felt a tremble of excitement play at her fingertips at the sound of Oliver’s voice.
Don’t let him rattle you! Put your best foot forward. Kill him with kindness.
“Just coming!” Julia called down the corridor as she flicked on the power switches in the small X-ray room. If she could just exhale all the mean thoughts she’d been thinking, she just might manage to greet Oliver with a winning smile.
One foot round the corner and her ambition flew out the window. The inscrutable look on Oliver’s face as he took in the time-worn reception area made her heart sink. Scruffy or not, she loved it here—avocado-colored carpet and all.
“Looks like the old place is still in need of a facelift, eh? I don’t think it’s changed since I was a kid.”
Julia met Oliver’s sardonic smile with what she hoped was a steely gaze. In reality, she was sure he could see the question marks pinging across her face. Good thing he couldn’t feel her pulse rate rising in exactly the way it shouldn’t be. Thanks a lot, blushing cheeks! You are relegated to the Turncoat Department!
Oliver had the rugged, outdoorsy looks she’d always had a penchant for. Matt had been blond, buff and as “SAS poster boy” as they came. Of course, her husband had been attractive, but there was something almost primitive in the way she found herself responding to Oliver. No doubt about it, he was a top ranker on the masculinity scale. If anyone could make wire-rimmed glasses sexy, here was the guy. They leaned a studied air to his face, framed by that untamable black hair curling ever so slightly over his collar. His tweed jacket, complete with elbow patches, hung perfectly from his shoulders—the starting point of a lean physique. His long-fingered hands were obviously accustomed to hard graft. In short, he was not your typical la-de-dah heir apparent.
Pity.
It’d