Praise for Annie O’Neil

‘A heartwarming tale of two opposites falling for each other. Annie O’Neil has done a fabulous job with her first offering. Highly recommended for readers of medical romance.’

—GoodReads on

The Surgeon’s Christmas Wish

‘A poignant and enjoyable romance that held me spellbound from start to finish. Annie O’Neil writes with plenty of humour, sensitivity and heart, and she has penned a compelling tale that will touch your heart and make you smile as well as shed a tear or two.’

—CataRomance on

The Surgeon’s Christmas Wish

‘A terrific debut novel, and I am counting down the days until the release of Annie O’Neil’s next medical romance!’

—CataRomance on

The Surgeon’s Christmas Wish

“Ouch! Foot! Foot! Foot on hand!”

She looked up to see a military boot lifting off her hand as the body attached to it vaulted over the top of the wall, coming round to land opposite her on the mesh.

Their bodies made impact with a gooey thwack. Mud adhered their chests together, then released and joined them together again as they each fought for breath and balance.

“I’m slipping!”

She felt his arm slip round her waist, easily pulling her in tight to the mesh and to what felt like a particularly nice man-chest. Her eyes lingered for a moment on the wet T-shirt outlining her captor’s—or was it her savior’s?—shoulders. A lightning flash of response tugged her body closer to his and tingles of excitement danced along her skin like an electric current.

“Are you in?”

In what? Seventh heaven?

“I just need to grab—”

“Put your feet in one of the squares. I’ve got you.”

Her bare legs slid along his as her feet finally slipped onto a rung.

“What about your hand? Are you all right?”

His voice kept pulling her back to reality. I’m fitting a little too perfectly into your chest for me to answer that accurately.

“I’m fine. I—”

Finally daring to look directly at him, Julia felt the air being sucked out of her lungs. She was face to face with a pair of mossy green eyes, beaming out at her from the midst of a mud-slathered face. A face she was pretty certain sported a pair of very nice cheekbones, a broad mouth and, underneath the mud, jet-black hair.

She glanced at the green eyes again and felt her knees wobble as her tummy did a heated whirly hoop twirl. For the first time in a long time she felt an overwhelming urge to kiss—and it was very specific.

She wanted to kiss him.

Dear Reader,

This story was like completing a big circle for me, in that it is the tying up of the final ‘loose end’ for the women who didn’t get their happily-ever-after in my first book, The Surgeon’s Christmas Wish.

In good conscience I just wasn’t able to let Julia wander around out there in my subconscious. Which is vast. Think bigger-than-the-Outback big—outer-space big would be getting closer. She deserves a happy ending as much as the next person, and I hope you agree that she’s really met her match in Oliver … Ahem, excuse me . . . Lord Oliver Wyatt.

I’m sure you will be unsurprised to see there are lots of eating scenes. Guess what motivates me! It couldn’t be the diet I’m on that made me write a deliciously tempting moment including chocolate-covered salted caramels, could it?

I really loved writing this, and found it particularly hard to finish because I just didn’t want to say goodbye to Julia and Oliver at the end. I hope you enjoy it—and please do get in touch if you ever have any questions or want to let me know what you think. You can reach me at annie@annieoneilbooks or on my Facebook page (Annie O’Neil) or Twitter (@annieoneilbooks).

Toodle-pip for now!

Annie O

ANNIE O’NEIL spent most of her childhood with a leg draped over the family rocking chair and a book in her hand. Novels, baking, and writing too much teenage angst poetry ate up most of her youth. Now, quite a few years on from those fevered daydreams of being a poet, Annie splits her time between corralling her husband (and real-life Scottish hero) into helping her with their cows or scratching the backs of their rare breed pigs, and spending some very happy hours at her computer, writing.

Find out more about Annie at her website: annieoneilbooks.com

Doctor…to Duchess?
Annie O’Neil

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedication

This book is dedicated, without reservation, to my Happily Ever After guy—my husband. He brings light into my life and infuses my heart with an incredibly happy beat. Thank you. For everything.

Table of Contents

Cover

Praise for Annie O’Neil

Excerpt

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

“C’MON, DOC! RACE you to the top!”

Clawing herself out of the mud was one thing, but clawing herself out of a mud-filled moat via a seven-meter mesh wall was another.

“I think I know who’ll win.” Julia panted, fairly certain the nineteen-year-old apprentice gardener had the advantage.

“You’re the reason we’re doing this. Show us how it’s done!”

The words of encouragement gave her a new charge of determination. Julia grabbed ahold of the mesh and began to pull herself out of the waist-deep pool of mud and water, a trail of muck dripping down her legs. She felt and looked like a swamp creature. Big picture? This was fun!

Right?

Surely it was just like having an all-over body mask? Julia risked opening her mud-covered mouth to give a short bark of laughter. What did she know about fancy spas and mud masks?

Boarding school hadn’t exactly been the stuff of luxury, and being a military wife from a young age? Let’s just say the SAS boys weren’t lining their coffers with gold pieces. Her foot found purchase on a mesh square as she blindly reached up to grab another handhold. A surge of adrenaline took over as she pulled herself up another meter.

The burst of energy was a reminder that her family’s life was on a new track. After two dark years, this was all part of starting over. Thanks to a generous overload in the talent department, and a loving uncle, her children were enjoying an education she could only have dreamed of. And as for her? After military wife had morphed into military widow, she’d found herself on a different life path. One that had landed her in the middle of a mud-filled obstacle course! Matt would’ve laughed his socks off.

No. Check that. Matt would already have been at the finish line with the kids cheering her on. And laughing his socks off.

A quick squeeze of the eyes and Julia lifted her right knee again and found a foothold, arm reaching for another rung to pull herself even higher, as if the physical exertion would help push away the memories.

It was all right. Everything was going to be all right. She’d slogged through the grief-laden, crying-every-day thing and now it was time for the moving-on part. She had to do it. For herself and for her children. Here in St. Bryar she was slowly putting everything to rights, clearing the fug of heartache to make way for a new future. If only her feet weren’t weighed down with fifty kilos of mud! The sensation reminded her of how she’d felt in the days after she’d opened the door to two uniformed officers handing her the official confirmation of her husband’s death.

“Doc! I’m almost at the top!”

The quickfire scrabble of bodies jolted Julia back into the moment. There was laughter, shouting and cheering coming from everywhere. A group of villagers lined the stone wall circling the moat of Bryar Hall. Their shouts of encouragement rallied the unrecognizable runners as they scrabbled over the final hurdle before the finish line in front of the three-hundred-year-old hall.

“This should get you an extra fiver, Doc!” Julia peered through the mesh and watched as the assistant gardener flung himself from the other side of the mesh wall belly-flop style back into the moat. The crowd roared with delight.

Fingers crossed, the charity run would bring in some much-needed funds for the St. Bryar Country Hospital. Funds that would hopefully keep the rumors at bay about the heir apparent leaving the clinic—and the estate—to its own devices when a cash injection was what they needed. She didn’t really know what to make of what she’d heard of Lord Oliver. Globetrotting do-gooder or playboy of the whole, entire world?

None of the stories she had heard added up to something—or someone—she could picture. For the villagers’ sake, she hoped he saw the clinic as part of Bryar Estate’s future. Right now, it was the only thing keeping the doors open to the public. Realistically, any funds gathered today would barely make an impact—but she couldn’t think about that now. Not with a so-called fun run to finish.

She sucked in a deep breath, wiped the mud from her eyes and looked up. A bit of training might not have gone amiss. Only two more meters to go but she was knackered. Hanging in midair was not the optimal place to stop and have a peaceful break.

Logic was belatedly kicking in. So what if the run had been her idea? Surely, as GP of the clinic, she should have stayed on the sidelines in case anyone was injured?

Her gut? It was saying actions spoke louder than words—and it was time to get moving.

She flicked her mud-slicked ponytail out of her mouth, put a hand up to grab ahold of another rung and pulled up one step, then another, and another. Just a rung or two more and—

“Ouch! Foot! Foot! Foot on hand!” She looked up to see a desert-style military boot lift off her hand as the body attached to it vaulted over the top of the mesh wall, coming round soundly to land directly opposite her on the mesh.

Their bodies made impact with a gooey thwack. Mud-pie suction adhered their chests together then released and joined them together again as they each fought for breath and balance.

“I’m slipping!” Julia’s feet struggled to find balance on the footholds. She wasn’t winning. He-Man was.

She felt his arm slip round her waist, easily pulling her in tight to the mesh and what felt like a particularly nice man-chest. Muddy but nice. Her eyes lingered for a moment on the wet T-shirt outlining her captor’s—or was it savior’s?—shoulders. A lightning flash of response tugged her body closer into his. It was hardly the mile-high club, but tingles of excitement danced along her skin like an electric current.

“Are you on?”

What? Seventh heaven?

Oh, for goodness’ sake. Don’t say that.

“I just need to grab—”

“Put your feet in one of the squares. I’ve got you.”

You sure do! Julia’s bare legs slid along his as her feet finally slipped onto a rung. Mmm … I could get used to this. The cheering sounds around them shifted from distinct calls into a fuzzy hum. Was it possible to sustain a concussion from a couple of cracked fingers?

“What about your hand? Are you all right?” His voice kept pulling her back to reality.

I’m fitting a little too perfectly into your chest for me to answer that accurately.

“How’s your hand?” he repeated. “Are you holding on? I can wrap my leg around you for support if necessary.”

Please don’t. That would definitely tip me over the edge. Who was this guy anyway? Tarzan? His hair was a bit shorter, but …

“I’m not going to let go of you until you tell me you’re all right.”

“I’m fine, I—”

Having finally dared to look directly at him, Julia felt the air being sucked out of her lungs for a second time. She was face-to-face with a pair of mossy-green eyes beaming out at her from the midst of a mud-slathered face. A face she was pretty certain sported a pair of very nice cheekbones, a broad mouth and, underneath the mud, jet-black hair. A gently furrowed brow…

The fingers of her left hand tightened on the rung. The physical connection reminded her of the ring she no longer wore. She glanced at the green eyes again and felt her knees wobble as her tummy did a heated whirly-hoop twirl. For the first time in a long time she felt an overwhelming urge to kiss. And it was very specific. She wanted to kiss He-Man.

No, she didn’t!

Yes, she did.

What was she? Twelve?

Julia blew a controlled breath through her lips as she demanded her brain explain to her what a mature thirty-three-year-old widow with thirteen-year-old twins would do in these circumstances. There wasn’t much room to escape the six-foot-something body pressing into hers. She was a doctor, for heaven’s sake. She felt bodies all day long. Just not leanly muscled, mud-covered ones hanging five meters above a mud pit pressing a bit too sexystyle into hers. A surprise spree of spicy images sped up her heart rate.

“I’m really sorry if I’ve hurt you. May I have a look?”

Blimey, his voice was nice. Like hot chocolate. She could do with a cup of that about now. Direct delivery. Oops! Remember to hold on!

Julia felt his fingers tighten his grip on her waist, steadying her. She abruptly pulled her eyes away from his, certain she was blushing. Wait a minute. You’re covered in mud. He doesn’t have a clue. Thank you, fun run!

“Have I hurt you? Or are you up to making it to the finish line?”

Fine. If you’re going to insist upon dealing with the matter at hand …

Julia put her left hand in front of her face. It wasn’t bleeding—but two of the fingers were swelling fairly rapidly and had the telltale thudding pump of more to come. Prognosis? Most likely cracked, if not fully broken. Not really what a GP running a country hospital was hoping for.

“Don’t worry. I’m a doctor.”

“Don’t worry. I’m a doctor.”

Julia laughed as they spoke simultaneously then shook her hand a bit as if to shake away the incident. Youch. Bad idea.

Hang on a second.

Doctor? She was the only doctor she knew of in St. Bryar. Was he from a neighboring village? Did that mean she’d see him again? Stop it, Julia. Don’t go there. Men are not part of the Get Your Career On Track scheme. Particularly men of the scrumptious-enough-to-eat variety.

“Where do you practice?”

“Where do you practice?”

The laughter came again. Nervously now.

“St. Bryar.”

She was the only one to answer this time and saw any warmth in his eyes cool.

Hmm. Had she stolen his job? Were there bad feelings about an ‘outsider’ coming into the small community? She’d not felt that from anyone else, so the reaction was a bit strange. Whatever it was, she didn’t like the vibes coming off him.

“Not to worry.” She wriggled out of his hold as best she could. “I’ll sort it at the finish line. There wasn’t much chance of me getting a red ribbon anyhow.”

“Distinguished Service Medal would be more like it. I really am sorry about your hand. Do catch me up if there’s anything I can do.” A tight smile of apology broke through the man’s mud-slathered face. Before a word could escape her lips, he grabbed ahold of the side of the mesh wall and slid down into the moat for the final stretch of the run.

Julia remained static, his words ringing in her ears. Hearing them had stung. Painfully so.

Matt had been given a Distinguished Service Medal posthumously. Julia had been presented with it only a few months ago. As if it would change the fact her husband was dead.

“Better press on, then!” she called, hoping her voice sounded bright. A sharp blade of heat ran from her fingers through to her heart as she grabbed the top line of mesh and swung herself over. Her hand hurt like hell. Suppressed emotion was fueling her to finish the obstacle course now. Matt was gone and being here was the start of a whole new life. She had to remember that. It wasn’t just her body’s response to the sexy mud monster that was new. The past seven months here at St. Bryar had doled out moment after moment of proof she’d made the right decision. Pursuing her medical career had been a long time coming. Through the years her medical degree had fizzed and itched for action while she’d ‘held the fort’, as Matt had said each time he’d swung his duffel onto his shoulder and headed out the front door.

Well.

She couldn’t stop a grin from forming as she took a one-handed, mud-slicked slide down the mesh wall into the history-rich confines of the moat. She was holding the fort, all right—a ruddy nice one—and this time it would be different. Even if she had to fund-raise her heart out to show the ever-absent future Lord of the Manor the clinic was worth its weight in gold.

Oliver scanned the crowd, wondering if he could pick out the blue eyes and mud-caked ponytail that had stayed with him since the obstacle course. The impact the woman—the new GP at St. Bryar Clinic—had made on him wasn’t just physical. It was a hit-all-the-senses body-blow. Not something he was used to. Not by a long shot. Years of working as a volunteer surgeon in combat zones had helped him retain his emotional distance from just about everything.

Until now.

Since when had there been a new GP throwing fun runs in the moat? Where was Dr. Carney? The sixty-something doctor had been in charge of the estate’s small country clinic since Oliver had been a boy. Surely his father wouldn’t have replaced him without telling him? Then again, he hadn’t imagined his father throwing an assault course, either.

“Lord Oliver! So nice to see you!”

Oliver turned to see a mud-encrusted man stretching out a hand.

“Hello there—ah …?”

“Max Fend. From down the village. I used to help my dad.” He paused, waiting for a glimmer of recognition. “He sorts out all the Bryar Hall firewood. Done so for yonks.” Max filled in the blank then withdrew his hand as he saw Oliver was freshly showered. “Best not muck you up, your lordship”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Max.” Oliver smiled, hoping it would cover the all too familiar fish-out-of-water feeling he was experiencing. “And, please, it’s Oliver.” He hated being called Lord Oliver. Served him right to get a big dose of it. He’d not recognized Max, someone he’d seen nearly every day throughout his childhood. It didn’t sit well, being so out of the loop.

The one thing he’d always been able to count on at Bryar Hall was nothing changing. His title, the unwritten aristocratic code, the unnecessary kowtowing of locals who, like it or not, had livelihoods that depended upon what he did when he inherited the estate. He’d spent his entire adult life avoiding the confines of the role he’d be handed one day. And here he was, stepping right into the mold history had cast for him—an aloof aristocrat.

Kaboom! There goes ten years of plain old Dr. Ollie.

“Dr. MacKenzie sure knows how to throw one heck of a bash.”

“Ah, the new GP?”

He received a nod and grin. Little wonder. Anyone could see the woman was a knockout, even covered in mud.

“So this was her brainchild, was it?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Like a whirlwind, she’s been. Changing this, changing that. Sometimes you hardly recognize the place for all of her ‘spring cleaning.’” Max held his fingers up in the air quotation-style but, instead of the frown of displeasure that usually accompanied change in St. Bryar, his lips held a broad smile.

“She seems to have bewitched the lot of you.” Oliver wasn’t sure if he was giving a compliment or castigating the locals for falling under the new GP’s spell.

“Oh, that she has, Lord Oliver. That she has. High time someone with a bit of drive and commitment came round and gave the old carpets a fresh beating!”

“Indeed.”

Call a spade a spade, why don’t you?

“Not meaning you, Lord Oliver,” Max quickly covered. “I know the Red Cross couldn’t get by without you and all the help you must be giving all those poor people in war zones and whatnot.”

“Not to worry. No offence taken.”

Oliver smiled and gave Max a light clap on the shoulder to settle the matter but the remark niggled.

No. It had cut right through to the heart of the matter. The locals didn’t see him as a stayer. And they were right. The last place he saw himself putting down roots—if he were to do such a thing at all—was here at Bryar Hall, the estate that time forgot.

A place bursting with life was the last thing he’d expected to see when his taxi pulled up in front of the house less than an hour ago. The kid in him had barely stopped to think before pulling on a pair of shorts and a scrubby T-shirt so he could join in—be the Oliver he was anywhere but here.

As a child, he’d always dreamed of an escapade in the moat, and here it was handed to him on a … not a silver platter, exactly … complete with a beautiful woman willing to risk her manicure for a charity combat exercise. Brilliant! Holding her against him had felt as natural as breathing.

Then he’d gone and stomped on it. With combat boots. Talk about a literary analogy! Crushing the very thing you’d been hoping for your entire life.

Just peachy.

If—or when—someone from the parish newsletter got ahold of the fact he’d just stepped on and possibly broken the new GP’s fingers … The scandal!

He laughed and just as quickly felt his lips settle into a grimace. Had she really being fit enough to carry on? He should have insisted upon helping her off the climbing wall.

His mud-slicked introduction to the new doctor had perfectly foreshadowed what this whole palaver was turning into: messy and emotional, full of unexpected entanglements. All the top rankers on his “things to avoid” list.

This trip was about fulfilling a promise to his father who had said long ago he would hang up his managerial hat when he turned seventy in exchange for seeing a bit more of the world. It was fair enough, but Oliver had been absolutely dreading it.

“Keep the estate, sell the estate, turn her into a National Trust property if you wish, son. Of course, I’d love it if you decided to keep the old family ship afloat, but the choice is yours.”

His father’s birthday was just a few months away, and Oliver could no longer put off the inevitable. Just buying the ticket home had made him feel as if millstones had been tied to his feet.

And what had he received instead? A good old-fashioned shock to the system.

What he had always pictured as a beleaguered old relic was now bursting with life. Life the place had been crying out for since—

“Oliver! Over here, please.”

Oliver smiled in acknowledgement as his father beckoned him over to a bunting-decked table. Cane, silver goatee, a casual-smart outfit perfectly suited to an outdoor gentleman’s catalogue. His father was pure class, elegant, charming, socially adroit. Everything becoming a landed gentleman. Everything he lacked.

As Oliver wove through the crowd, it struck him how much his father had aged in the ten months since his mother had died. A stab of remorse that he hadn’t spent more time with his father over the past year tightened his stomach. He’d been on the end of the phone for their weekly update but it wasn’t the same, was it? Being there—being here—made all the difference.

How would he ever fill his father’s shoes when the time came? Just the thought of being the Duke of Breckonshire actively stoked Oliver’s adrenaline stores. Adrenaline he preferred to put to use in his work in conflict zones.

He loved being a doctor. Just a nameless doctor with a red cross on his back. Where he wasn’t “m’lord.” In the South Sudan or Syria—any outpost he found himself in—he was one of countless others in a sea of millions. He was jeans-wearing, red-dust-covered, on-call-round-the-clock Dr. Ollie.

“Oliver! There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” His father waved him over to a small group hovering over a table filled with ribbons and a trophy shaped like Bryar Hall. Before she’d even turned, he knew exactly who it was. He hadn’t held her for long, but something told him he’d remember the sensation of his hands sliding along that particular pair of hips for some time.

“Dr. Julia MacKenzie—I’d like you to meet my son, Oliver. He’s also a doctor, you know.”

“We’ve already had the pleasure of meeting.” He extended a hand, eyes locked with hers, unsure if there were sparks of pleasure or irritation flying between them. Did she recognize him without the mud?

“I would shake your hand,” she replied with a slight lift to her brow, “but …”

He winced as Julia used her right hand to lift her freshly washed left hand to show him two obviously swollen fingers.

That answered that, then.

“Apologies. This generally isn’t how I put my best foot forward.” He pulled a hand through his wet hair and cringed, grateful she couldn’t read his thoughts. How cheesy was that? Fix it, you fool.

“Is there anything I can tempt you with to ease the pain? A scone, perhaps?” Blimey. Being suave had never been his forte. He ran a panicked eye over the other baked goods. “Some chocolate cake?”

“No, thank you.” Her lips twitched into the hint of a grin. “I’ve already had some of Margaret’s ginger cake when I was setting up the event, Dr. Wyatt. Or do you prefer Lord Oliver?”

“Oliver will do.” He felt his own lips thin as hers curved into a broad smile. So they were playing the rank game? Time-worn territory. One turn of phrase and all the old familiar feelings thundered back into place. She’d judged him before she knew him and it irked him, more than he wanted to admit.

“So, you’re the brains behind this little shindig? It’s cute. The Big Day Out at Bryar Hall, was it?”

“I’m so pleased you think it’s charming.”

Julia’s smile tightened as her blue eyes flitted from him to a large glass flagon on the prize table stuffed with bills and coins. A sign taped to the flagon read: Coins for the Clinic!

Terrific. A charity run—and he’d just belittled it. Come on, Oliver. You’re bigger than this. Don’t spar with someone who’s obviously been able to do what you deemed impossible.

“It’s better, in fact. Refreshing to see everyone having so much fun here.”

He could see the tight smile on her lips soften. That was better. He might hate it here but there was no need to take the wind out of her sails. Getting this event together must’ve been like pulling teeth.

“Your father, of course, has been amazing in his support of the event,” she continued.

Oliver couldn’t hide his surprise.

“Oh, yes, it’s been just wonderful, Oliver!” His father chimed in, clearly delighted with the day’s event. “You know, more than anyone, the most we’ve ever done with the moat is feed the herons with some of your, ahem, less active goldfish. Dr. MacKenzie here seems to have an endless stream of ideas to breathe life back into the old place.”

Julia flashed him a dimpled smile. “Perhaps you’d like to give a donation to the estate’s valued clinic? Without it, of course, I’d have to drive all the way to Manchester to get an X-ray.”

Ah. He knew which camp she stood in now: a fact finder.

That Oliver and Bryar Estate were not a match made in heaven was common knowledge. His looming take-over kept all the locals’ minds spinning. In a small place like this, news of the estate’s future—or lack thereof—was like gold dust. Or kryptonite. He felt himself being openly scrutinized by Julia’s clear blue eyes. Kryptonite it was, then.

“I could do you better than that,” he parried. “How about a free examination? 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.”

CHAPTER TWO

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 be easier to dislike him if he was a pale-faced, smarmy-eyed, snooty aristocrat. She turned on her heel and headed toward the X-ray room. Ogling him was going to get her nowhere.

“Funny you mention it.” Be brave, Julia. “The clinic gets so much use from all of the villagers, it really would be a treat for them to have a cheerier reception center.”

“Did you earn enough from your event today to cover the costs?”

Ah. She knew that tone. The “expressing idle curiosity with an agenda” thing. Apparently, those Indiana Jones looks were masking an inner reptilian nature. No problem. She could do cold-blooded as well as the next person.

“Probably.” She opted for a bright and cheery tone. “Although I expect the money we raised would be better put to use on medical supplies.” Snap!

“That’s wise. People don’t take much to change here.”

Julia didn’t risk a look back over her shoulder. Had he been patronizing her or complimenting her pragmatism? Maybe it was something deeper, something related to his childhood. There had to be something keeping him thousands of miles away from this beautiful nook in the world. Either way, she needed to stop taking things so personally. Each word he spoke was chinking away at her usually cool-as-a-cucumber exterior. Or was it those green eyes of his? The ones she wanted to stare into a bit more. See how the colors changed …

Blink them away, Julia! Eyes on the prize, not on Oliver Wyatt.

“You’ve switched things round. Shouldn’t these be exam rooms?”

“Yes, they were. Traditionally.” She emphasized the word to let him know she was aware he, too, seemed to fall into the “people who don’t like change” category. “I’ve turned one into a … Well …” She faltered, wanting to choose the right turn of phrase.

“Dr. MacKenzie? Is that you?”

Julia gratefully slipped into the hospice room at the call.

“Hello there, Dr. Carney. Everything all right?”

“Yes, dear. Yes. I was just wondering how your Mud Day, or whatever you call it, went?” Julia’s heart melted as she put a hand on Dr. Carney’s wrist, taking a discreet check of his pulse. He was a dear man and just the reason the fund-raising was so important. Had it not been for a stage-four diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, she was sure he would’ve been out cheering at the finish line with the rest of the crowd. As things stood, she had a very quiet arrangement with the duke to handle the lifelong bachelor’s care. She smiled at the memory of the duke making her cross her heart and promise never to tell Dr. Carney—or Oliver—of the supplementary funding. It wasn’t a bottomless purse—but it helped.

“Dr. Carney? It’s me—Oliver.”

Julia stiffened as she felt Oliver approach then relaxed as Dr. Carney’s eyes grew wide with delight.

“Oh, if it isn’t little Jolly Ollie!”

Was that a grimace of embarrassment she saw? Ooh, this was going to be fun.

“Jolly Ollie, is it?” Julia smiled gleefully. “I say, Dr. Carney—pray do tell more.”

She raised a protesting hand as the frail man tried to push himself up into a seated position and failed.

“Let me help.” She reached for his mattress sheet then, remembering she only had one good hand, thought better of making the shift on her own. “Sorry, uh, Jolly Ollie? Would you mind grabbing the other side of the sheet, please?” She glanced up at Oliver’s unreadable expression. Too much?

“It’s my pleasure, Peculia’ Julia.”

Zap! And the man fights back! So he could be playful. Good to know. And a handy reminder to take a quick glance in the medicine-cabinet mirror. It sounded like her clean-up efforts hadn’t been very successful.

As they repositioned Dr. Carney, Julia’s brow furrowed. What exactly did she know about Oliver? Trauma surgeon. Residency at an inner-city hospital before he’d flown the coop entirely for some serious globetrotting with the Flying Doctors and the Red Cross. Rumored to want to be anywhere but here in St. Bryar. Not what you’d expect from a titled gentleman who would be inheriting a vast estate and a sprawling country pile.

Then again, none of the tearoom gossip told her what actually made him tick. A man in the army could be a general but that didn’t describe who he really was at heart. She’d have to work her chit-chat magic to see what she could come up with.

“What brings you back from—Africa, was it, this time?”

Excellent. Dr. Carney was going to do her investigative work for her.

“Thought I’d help the old man keep his chess game up to par.” Oliver said it jokingly but Julia could see there was true affection in his words.

“Good, for you, son.” Dr. Carney patted Oliver’s hand gently. “Mustn’t let us old codgers waste away to nothing without a good round of chess to keep us in check—”

“Mate,” Oliver finished, and the pair smiled at what was obviously an old ritual. Julia took a few steps back as Oliver sat himself down on the side of Dr. Carney’s bed, holding the sick man’s thin hand in his own. “May I take that as a challenge?”

“Of course you may, Ollie. But I’d get your date in the diary fairly sharpish.”

Oliver shot an enquiring look at Julia. It told her he knew what the words meant as well as she did: Dr. Carney didn’t have long to live. The last time they’d made the journey down to the hospital in Manchester, the prognosis had been dire: three months, maximum. That had been a month ago. From the look on Oliver’s face, she already knew it would be difficult news to pass on.

“You can bet on it, Dr. Carney. It’s time I showed my mentor how much I’ve learned.”

“And the gauntlet is thrown!”

Julia felt the sting of tears tease at her nose as the two men continued to spar. Why did she always have to be so sentimental? Then again, it was plain to see the pair were extremely fond of each other. She hated that Dr. Carney was ill and hoped to heaven Oliver saw why being able to offer hospice care to lifelong residents like Dr. Carney was just one of the things she’d like to put in place to help the community.

The implications of Oliver being here hit her like a speeding truck. This man held their future in his hands. Whatever he decided to do with the estate would directly affect the clinic. They received a small but steady stipend from the duke but he’d made it clear, once Oliver took charge, any funding would be up to him. She was really going to have to kick things into another gear to get the clinic independent of the estate’s money.

“Right.” Oliver’s voice briskly cut into her thoughts. “Shall we get you X-rayed?”

“I suppose we’d best.” She laid a hand on Dr. Carney’s shoulder before leaving the room. “Are you sure you’re comfortable? May I get you anything?”

“No, dear. I’m fine. You’re just what the doctor ordered.”

Was that a wink he just dropped in Oliver’s direction? Surely not? From the flustered look on Oliver’s face, maybe it had been. Julia gave her patient a quick wave and made a beeline for X-ray.

Everything was going topsy-turvy!

When she’d interviewed for the job, the duke and Dr. Carney had told her she could run the place as she saw fit. You’d hardly say that to someone if there was some big plan of Oliver’s she was meant to have been following, right? There had been a lot of proverbial dust gathering in the corners of St. Bryar Clinic seven months ago and, Lord Oliver or not, she was determined to sort the place out and let it shine.

Oliver was reeling. Seeing his mentor in what was clearly a hospice room had been a genuine shock. Dr. Carney had not only been his inspiration as a teen but he’d been the physician to two generations of Wyatts and untold villagers for as long as Oliver could remember. The kindly doctor had cared for Oliver’s mother through her losing battle with pneumonia and, whilst not a young man himself, he had not seemed ill in the slightest. What was it? Only ten months later and so much had changed. He knew he only had himself to blame. A life overseas had its ramifications and here they were—smack in the face. A virtual stranger was caring for his mentor. It didn’t sit well.

He watched as Julia’s wheatsheaf ponytail followed her curve-perfect body into the X-ray room at the far end of the clinic. He cleared his throat, beginning to feel uncomfortably aware of the effect this woman had, not just on him, but everyone she came in contact with. It sounded ridiculous but she seemed to bring out everyone’s hidden sparkle. Quite a feat for what he’d always seen as a fusty little village mired in the past.

Staying detached was going to be harder than he thought. It was how he coped with the sprawling refugee camps; the never-ending queues outside the medical tent; the hunger, the disease, the deaths. Level-headed detachment worked wonders. Time to harness it up again. Cool. Calm. And distinctly collected. Doing the same with Dr. Carney was going to be tough.

“Right.” He rounded the corner ready to get down to what he knew best—medicine.

“Are you ready for me, Doc?”

Was he imagining things or was that a come-hither voice? Surely not? Or was that him hoping …?

Being tongue-tied was not his usual modus operandi. But tongue-tied he was as he took in the sight of Julia leaning across the X-ray table with her hand laid out ready for the X-ray plate. Her blond hair fell in a damp coil over her shoulder, leading his eyes to travel downward toward her deep scoop-necked top. His gaze shifted as she peered up at him from beneath a swoop of stylish fringe, eyes twinkling. She had him off-balance and it had been some time since he—no, since his body—had responded so instinctively to someone. Not least of all when they’d been, well, breast to chest and slathered in a slick of mud just an hour or so ago.

“How do you want me?”

An urge to lift her up onto the X-ray table, slip his hands through her hair and along to the nape of her neck before teasing out some very deep kisses shot through him. Cool and professional, Oliver!

“Right! Let’s see what we’ve got here.” Oliver trained his eyes on Julia’s hand. If he let them travel up her slender arm, farther up along the curve of her shoulder, which was just slipping out of the dark cotton fabric, exposing …

Stop it!

“What was that?” Julia looked up at him, a little smile playing on her lips.

“Sorry, what? I didn’t say anything.”

Did I? Going mad at the ripe age of thirty-five. Nice one. “Can I just get you to lift your hand for a moment? I’m going to slip a plate under …” His eyes zig-zagged round the tiny room.

“In the cupboard on your left.”

“Right.”

“No, left.” She giggled then immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. Her nails were painted a bright purple. Were those daisies on her thumbnails?

“I know what you meant,” he snapped, cross with himself for being so distracted.

One look in her direction and he knew he’d not just been rude. He’d hurt her feelings. Not a good move. Not one bit. The hurt in her eyes spoke of something deeper than just being snapped at—and hurling abuse at this completely innocent woman was the last thing he wanted to do. She wasn’t to know she’d unleashed a wash of emotion in him when he needed now, more than ever, to remain level-headed.

Oliver quickly pulled out a plate and slipped it onto the table as he scrubbed a hand through his hair. Why did coming home always bring out the bad guy in him? He exhaled heavily as a list of answers began jostling for pole position.

“Shall we get this X-ray wrapped up?”

“That sounds like an excellent idea.” Her tone was curt. Any flirtation that had been cracking between them had evaporated entirely. He could’ve kicked himself. Not that he was planning on asking her out for a date or anything but surely he could’ve managed to be pleasant and professional?

Life in St. Bryar was normally so predictable. He arrived, saw his parents, attended the obligatory cocktail party his mother threw to see if she could tempt him with any women on that year’s “available for marriage” list and stayed calm and neutral before flying off to another Red Cross camp. There he could be himself: passionate, caring, committed. Being that version of himself here? Impossible.

They remained silent until Oliver pulled out the used X-ray plate and slipped the results onto the light tray. “I hope you’re not left-handed.”

He didn’t even try to sound chirpy. Fractured. Both her pinky and ring finger. A noticeably unencumbered ring finger.

“I’d normally tease you that I was a lefty but I daren’t risk getting my head bitten off again.” She said the words with a smile, but Julia saw they had hit their target. A microscopic green-eyed flinch.

Good.

She knew he must be hurting after seeing Dr. Carney so ill, but biting off the head of the person who was around day in, day out to care for him? Not a good move.

“I guess we’d better get you trussed up, then.”

“Don’t worry,” Julia said grumpily. “I can buddy tape and splint them myself. I will need as much dexterity as possible and don’t want to be hassled with having my hand in plaster.”

“Let me advise you, then,” Oliver retorted without so much as a hint of a smile, “you are going directly against doctor’s orders.”

“That’s rich, considering it’s a doctor who put me in this predicament.” Julia only just stopped her voice from rising.

“Are you going to realign them yourself? Perform the reduction? Give yourself the anesthetic jab?”

She glanced at the X-ray. It was doable. Sort of. Not completely advisable, but doable. Particularly since it meant the Ogre of St. Bryar would leave her alone. A distractingly attractive ogre—but an unwelcome beast nonetheless.

“Yes, thanks. I’m sure you’ve got plenty else to do.”

“Fair enough.” He turned to leave the X-ray room, his six-foot-something frame filling the doorway, before he stopped to speak over his shoulder, eyes fastidiously avoiding hers. “I’ll be back in the morning. You’ll need help.”

“I’ll be just fine, thank you. No help necessary,” she called to his receding figure as she clapped her hand to the door frame. Ouch!

Julia forced herself to count to ten before stomping to the supplies cupboard where she crankily rooted around for a small splint and some medical tape. How dared he impose himself upon her and her clinic?

Hmm … Well, technically it was his clinic on his property. But apart from that she was the one responsible for running the place and there was little chance she was going to let him elbow in and reimpose the fuddy-duddy ways that had this place stuck in the mud.

Stuck in the mud … Like she had been. With Oliver. Face-to-face, their breath virtually intermingling. Their lips had been so close to each other’s. And his eyes … just the most perfect, mossy green. Breathtaking. Her heart had thumped so wildly in response she’d been amazed he hadn’t felt it. Perhaps he had.

Which made him all the more unpleasant for being such a curmudgeon! Julia sucked in a deep breath. She’d show him how to run a clinic—a clinic that kept a community afloat. Just because he swanned around the world with his flak jacket, looking gorgeous and aiding the masses, didn’t mean helping the people of this beautiful village was a waste of time. Not one iota. Her chosen role was every bit as important as helping in war zones!

She rested her forehead on one of the shelves and forced her whirling thoughts to slow to a less heady speed. Was it Oliver she was battling or her guilt over Matt?

Matt. Soldier. Husband. The loyal man she had been best friends with since primary school. She’d learned to live with the niggling frustration that had cropped up every time he’d broken it to her she’d have to change her plans to kick-start her medical career again because they were moving. There was always “a bigger problem out there in the world” that needed fixing. How could you argue with that? War-torn nation versus small-town hemorrhoids?

You had to laugh.

Didn’t you?

Not if, the last time you’d talked, you’d bickered about that very topic. Told him you had had it with packing boxes and following in his wake yet again as you sidelined your career for the umpteenth time. She’d wanted to be a family GP for so long and now, here she was, living the dream. If only it hadn’t come about via her worst nightmare.

She swallowed hard. She’d been through this. Matt would’ve been happy for her. Happy to see her doing what she loved.

She resumed her search for supplies, doing her best to squelch down her feelings. She couldn’t stop a grin from forming when she found some tape that had been donated by a big-city sports team. The company making the tape had spelled the name of the team incorrectly and it reeled an endless stream of Burnside Tootball Club.

Oops.

“Nice to see a smile on those lips.”

Julia jumped at the sound of Oliver’s voice.

“Sorry—I thought you’d gone.”

“I have a feeling my bedside manner hasn’t exactly been winning.” He tilted his head at her and offered a smile complete with a couple of crooked teeth.

Good! He’s not completely perfect! Or does his imperfection make him more perfect?

“It could be,” Julia conceded after a thoughtful chew on her lower lip, “that you encountered my stubborn nature.”

“Stubborn? You?” Oliver’s smile broadened as he reached for the tape and small splint she was holding. “May I?”

Despite her resolve to complete the reduction herself, her logical side knew it was best to have it done properly. She was too young to worry about arthritis.

“All right, you win.” She tipped her head in the direction of the exam room across the hall. It wasn’t like she was going all weak-kneed or anything, but standing together in the tiny supplies cupboard was a bit too close for comfort.

Oliver took Julia’s hand in his, suddenly very aware of how delicate her fingers were. They would have suited a surgeon—which would’ve made fracturing them doubly awful.

“Did you ever have any ambitions beyond being a village GP?”

Julia’s eyes shot up defensively. If he could’ve swallowed the words right back he would’ve. There it was again—his “I’m better than you are” tone. His mother had always warned him against being a know-it-all and it looked like he still had some work to do.

Oliver quickly covered. “That came out all wrong. I just meant, are you happy with what you’re doing?”

“Perfectly.” The sharp look in her eyes dared him to challenge her. Then she sat back, visibly reconsidering, and continued openly, “The pace is obviously nothing like what you do, but I absolutely love what I’m doing here. You’re looking at the child of parents in the Diplomatic Service. I went on to marry a military man. I’m not sure I’ve ever stayed anywhere longer than a couple of years.” She pushed her lips into a deep red moue.

How did lips get that red without lipstick? Distracting. Very distracting. Oliver found himself quickly rewinding through everything she’d just said.

“You’re married?” He made a stab at small talk, well aware he’d already clocked her ring-free hand.

“Yes. Well …” She was flustered. “Was.”

What was she now? Divorced? Separated?

“Widowed.” She filled in the unasked question for him. “Just over a year and a half now.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“It was always a possibility.” Her voice was surprisingly even. Oliver looked up from taping her fingers with a questioning look.

“The military life is an uncertain one,” she said without malice. “At least I’ve got the children.”

Oliver felt his eyebrows raise another notch.

“Children?”

“Yes. Two.”

“Did I see them today? I would’ve thought a fun day in a moat would be straight up a kid’s alley.” Children? She’d jammed a lot of living into her life. She didn’t look as if she was over thirty years old.

“You’re not wrong there!” She laughed, a bit of brightness returning to her eyes as she continued. “They love it here—absolutely love it. But their school—it’s in Manchester—managed to lure them away from me for the weekend with the promise of a trip to London and a West End show.”

“St. Bryar Primary not good enough?” The words were out before he could stop them. Oliver hadn’t gone there, so why he was getting defensive about the tiny village school was a bit of a mystery.

“Not at all. You’ve got the wrong end of the stick.” Julia waved away his words. “My two—thirteen-year-old twins—are at the Music Academy in Manchester. I don’t know where they got it but they are unbelievably talented musicians. Cello for Henry and violin for Ella. Heaven knows they didn’t get it from me or their father.”

“He wasn’t a musician?”

“Heavens, no!” Julia laughed. “Special forces through and through.”

“Yes, of course. You mentioned the military.” Oliver’s mind raced to put all of the pieces together. Widowed military mother, a GP, with children a good hour away at boarding school. What on earth was she doing here? Hiding away from the world?

He watched as her blue eyes settled somewhere intangible. “His job was a different kind of creative. He saw his main mission as being a peacekeeper. Ironic, considering his job only existed because of war.”

Oliver nodded for her to continue.

“It seems people are always busy trying to stake their claim on this town or that country, while others are desperately trying to cling to the tiny bolt-hole they have, no matter how insignificant. It’s almost laughable, isn’t it? The messes we humans get ourselves into.”

If her words hadn’t hit home so hard, Oliver would’ve immediately agreed.

Every day with the Red Cross he saw the ill effects of war. Huge swathes of humanity moving from one camp to another. Lives lost over what, exactly? Half the time it was hard to tell what the endgame was.

And now, sitting here in the tiny country hospital he had never imagined working in, it was next to impossible to divine what was significant in the world. The big picture? The small moments? The beautiful fingers resting on his palm? A torrent of emotion threatened his composure as he felt the heat of Julia’s hand cross into his.

He looked up at Julia, unsurprised to see curiosity in her eyes.

“No, it’s worse,” he answered with feeling. “It’s heartbreaking.”

If Oliver hadn’t left the small clinic when he did, Julia was certain her commitment to disliking him would have required some plasterwork. When she’d heard the first whisperings that the future heir of Bryar Estate had few to no plans to stick around once the place was his, she’d vowed to fight tooth and nail to keep the clinic open. If it could stand on its own two feet, there was no reason for it to be a factor in whatever he did with the rest of the estate.

To keep her focus, she’d vowed to see Oliver as her mortal enemy. Of course, she’d done this before clapping eyes on her globetrotting nemesis. Who would’ve thought he’d be all sexy-academic-looking? And smell nice? And have long black eyelashes surrounding some seriously divine green eyes? Her normal composed, calm and collected disposition was feeling distinctly volcanic.

Her laugh filled the empty exam room. Who was she kidding? Meeting Oliver had pulled the rug straight out from under her firmly planted feet. Up until now, life had been straightforward.

Well, not really. Okay, not at all.

Then when Matt had died everything had become an unknown. What did she know about being a thirty-something widow with two children and a general practice to build? Absolutely nothing.

And now, finally—after so much soul-searching and a huge burst of encouragement from her children, who were joyously pursuing their passion for music—she’d found something that was her own. Something solid. Safe.

Despite the clinic’s retro vibe, she loved every square of the stone exterior. Every bud on the climbing roses just threatening to blossom in the soft spring air. Every patient they helped in this chocolate-box village brought a smile to her lips. Speaking of which, she owed Dr. Carney an update before she went back to her cottage. The overnight nurse would give him his meds later but Julia always like to check in on him around teatime. He’d dedicated his life to this place, and she wanted him to know he’d made the best choice when he’d selected her to take over.

She poked her head round the corner of his room and saw he was resting quietly. She placed a couple of fingers on his wrist and checked the heart-rate monitor. His obs looked good, considering. Truth of the matter was, she wasn’t all that sure how much longer he had, but nothing would stop her from making sure he had the most comprehensive care and comfort he could enjoy in his final days.

“His heart’s in the right place, you know.”

Julia started, realizing Dr. Carney wasn’t just talking in his sleep.

“Who?” Stupid question. You both know who he’s talking about, ninny.

“Oliver.” Dr. Carney opened his eyes to meet hers, and Julia was still amazed to see how clear and blue they were despite his rapidly declining health. “He’s just never really recovered and it makes being here …” He hesitated. “It makes all this quite difficult to deal with.”

Recovered from what? Being born into gentry, being handed an amazing estate on a plate and rejecting it? Or did Dr. Carney mean something more immediate?

“Do you mean seeing you here?” Julia sat down when he indicated she should perch on the side of the bed. She tugged at the corners of the handmade quilt one of the villagers had brought in.

“Oh, I’m sure that wasn’t very nice for Oliver. We probably should have told him, but no. That wasn’t what I meant. I’ll leave him to tell you those things.”

“Tell me what?” Julia felt the hairs prickle on the back of her neck.

“It’s not my place to say, dear, but give him time. Patience.”

“Dr. Carney, if you’re trying to get me to understand a man who is set to inherit all of this and chooses to be anywhere but here …” She paused for a moment. Telling Dr. Carney she thought a man passing up the chance to run his very own family practice was bonkers might not go down well. Then again, if Oliver’s plans didn’t involve the clinic at all, she had to ramp up her fight to keep it alive. She needed to know where she stood. “You don’t think he plans to sell the place, do you?”

“Now that’s just idle gossip, my dear. Nothing’s been set into motion, has it?”

Dr. Carney tutted as he gave Julia’s hand an affectionate pat. “I’ve probably already said too much. Just give him a chance. The two of you are an awful lot alike, you know.”

“Ha! I find that hard to believe. He seems to like the high-flying life and I’m quite happy here in good old-fashioned St. Bryar.” Even as she said the words they didn’t sit well. The little she did know about Oliver was that he was passionate about medicine. And that he cared for Dr. Carney. It must’ve hurt coming in here and seeing a man he’d known his whole life in this condition. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I don’t know the man at all. I guess his arrival just took me by surprise.”

“It’s all right, dear. No one takes easily to change.”

“Isn’t that the truth!” Julia quipped, meaning Oliver, then realized Dr. Carney had most likely meant her. Uh-oh. She thought she’d changed a lot since she’d come here. Maybe not. She peered at Dr. Carney, hoping for more answers, but he just smiled and looked toward the window. Just outside, a crab apple tree was in full blossom. Beautiful. If everything could stay exactly like this … Screech! Wait a minute. Embrace the change. Embrace the change. And give Oliver a chance. Maybe his plans for this place were for the better. Maybe he’d be sticking around for a while … An involuntary ribbon of excitement unfurled within her tummy.

Easy, tiger. Stop reading into things.

Julia gave Dr. Carney’s hand a small squeeze. “Rest now, Doctor, it’s been a long day.”

Dr. Carney gave her a knowing smile. “Sweet dreams, Dr. MacKenzie.”

Oliver vaulted over the centuries-old stable door. It was how he’d always entered the kitchen as a boy and suddenly—some fifteen years since he’d done it last—he felt a rush of impulse to do it again.

Sentimentality? Or just plain whimsy, because he’d met a beautiful woman? A beautiful woman who had tilted the world of St. Bryar on a whole new axis. He shrugged off the questions as a steaming stack of hot cross buns came into view.

“Mr. Toff! Hands off!”

The cry was familiar and so was the voice.

“Clara!”

“C’mere, you. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you since you’ve been back!” He was instantly surrounded with the same warm embrace he’d enjoyed as a boy and, after the shock of seeing Dr. Carney, he was grateful for the familiarity.

Clara Bates had been with the family for over forty years and showed few signs of releasing her iron grip on the Bryar Hall kitchens.

“It’s only been a few hours!” He pulled out of the tight embrace and held her at arm’s length. “Now. Tell me why I’m not allowed one of your delicious buns.”

Pulling the platter of steaming baked goods out of his reach, she explained, “They’re for the Cakes and Bakes stall at the church.”

“Sorry?” There’d never been so much as a toast soldier at church services in his day.

“It’s new,” she continued with a broad smile. “One of our Dr. MacKenzie’s ideas. We’re raising money for one of those portable heart-attack machines.”

“A portable AED?” he prompted. It was a good idea. In such a remote hamlet, they should have had one the second they’d come on the market. He should have thought of it. Then done something about it.

“That’s it. If we make a certain amount, we can get a matching grant from the government or something like that. Dr. MacKenzie has all the bumph.”

Oliver rocked back on his heels, finding purchase on the ancient cast-iron oven. Wait a minute: our Dr. MacKenzie? That was quick work. Making herself part of the woodwork here at St. Bryar was quite a feat, considering the villagers didn’t consider you a local unless your family had tucked a good three hundred years under their collective belts. Impressive. And ruddy annoying. He’d come back to nail down how things ticked at Bryar Hall, but with Julia changing things left, right and center, it didn’t seem anything would be still enough to get a proper perspective.

He felt his soft spot for her become less pliable.

“You don’t know the half of it,” the cook continued without noticing the creases beginning to form on Oliver’s forehead. “She’s just come along and blown a breath of fresh air into everything. Really made the place come alive again since your mother passed. Of course, it’s all very different from when the duchess was with us. Your mother was very traditional, wasn’t she? Liked things just so.” She gave Oliver a wide-eyed look and a squeeze on the arm.

He knew what she meant. His mother had been renowned for living in the world of How Things Used To Be Done. If old-fashioned decorum was your thing, Bryar Hall was the place to be. One piece of cutlery out of place on a table laid for fifty, and his mother could’ve eagle-eyed it from the doorway. Oliver had always thought that was how everyone had liked things, as well. Surely he hadn’t misread his entire childhood?

“Dr. MacKenzie’s not so much a stickler for the details, but she sure likes a good commotion! Seems there’s nothing she can’t lay her hand to and make it better. You should meet her. Birds of a feather, you two!”

Birds of very different feathers, is more like it. He had always been hands-off when it came to the estate, and she was anything but.

He drummed his fingers along the stove top, rattling through options. When he’d come home, his remit had seemed so clear: start the long-put-off handover of the estate with his father and decide once and for all how he would take on the mantle of Duke of Breckonshire.

Home or away?

Sell up or stay put?

Suffocate under the aristocratic code or live freely as a conflict zone surgeon?

Bish, bash, bosh.

He knew he didn’t want to be here and so did everyone else. All he had to do was find a way to make cutting ties permanently as painless as possible. And what had things been from the moment he’d arrived? The polar opposite.

How had Julia managed to get everyone here to don rose-tinted glasses? Even he’d been sucked in! Wild horses couldn’t have kept him from joining in that fun run.

“Scooch. I have another batch of buns in the oven.”

Oliver found himself being unceremoniously moved to the side as Clara bustled about the oven doors.

“Are you sure there isn’t just one tiny bun free for me?”

“What? And rob the village of a heart attack machine? Oliver!” Clara’s eyes went wide in mock horror before slipping one of the steaming currant buns onto the counter. “There you go, but I’ll leave you to tell Dr. MacKenzie why we won’t have hit our target if we’re twenty-five pence short.”

Add fuel to Julia’s fire that he didn’t give a monkey’s about the locals? Hardly.

“I’ll pay for it right now.” Oliver dug into his pocket and pulled out a bit of lint with a sheepish grin. “Put it on my account?”

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