A Gentle Giant
Caroline Anderson
MILLS & BOON
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Table of Contents
IT WAS a stone house, painted white like all the others, but large in comparison with its neighbours. Flowering shrubs nestled against the garden walls, their leaves still damp after the rain, and the intoxicating fragrance of night-scented stocks and nicotiana drifted on the mild evening air.
Jamie paused, her hand on the knocker, and listened to the stillness. She could hear the steady throb of a distant fishing boat, and the harsh cries of the gulls wheeling at the stern as the boat chugged steadily up the loch. Nearer to hand she caught the intermittent laugh of a little child, and the happy sound brought a soft smile to her lips.
It was so different from the city—so different, and so clean! No noisy crowds, no overflowing litterbins and gangs of youths hanging around every street corner. This small community, snuggled down in the fold of the land with the sea at its front and the mountains at its back, was a place where people worked hard and honestly. It looked clean and decent, a new beginning—and she was more than ready for it.
She straightened her skirt, smoothed her honey-gold curls into some semblance of order and drew a deep, sweet-smelling breath of fresh sea air. The smile still lingering around her soft blue eyes, Jamie turned back to the door and banged on the knocker. She heard the sound reverberate round the hall, and then quick footsteps approached.
‘Hello, there—come away in, would you, I’m just on the phone. Is it Dr Buchanan you’d be after?’
Jamie nodded agreement at the pleasant, middle-aged woman. That’s right—I’m——’
‘You’ll find him in the room on the left at the end—go on through, hen. I must get back to the phone. Can you manage?’
‘Of course,’ Jamie said softly to the woman’s retreating back, and headed quietly down the hall.
‘On the left,’ she murmured to herself, and, just as she reached the end of the corridor, a tiny child, vest flapping round her chubby legs, came barrelling round the corner, shrieking with laughter. A diminutive cherub, Jamie thought as the baby giggled again and waddled past her, her glossy black curls bouncing around her flushed cheeks.
‘I’m going to get you!’ growled a deep voice, and a huge bear of a man on hands and knees came charging round the corner snarling and snapping his teeth, and ground to a halt at Jamie’s feet. He looked up, his head level with her thighs, and gave a quiet groan.
‘Ah—er—hello!’ He stood up, brushing off his knees, and as he straightened, Jamie took a step back. He was huge! At five foot six, Jamie was used to men a little taller than her, although in high heels she could look many of her male colleagues in the eye. But this man! She didn’t even reach the dark-shadowed chin that jutted above her! Nor was he simply tall. He was broad, solid and vigorously masculine to boot.
He was also acutely embarrassed.
‘Sorry about that,’ he mumbled, a dull flush mounting his craggy cheeks. ‘Let me just catch the wee scamp and I’ll be with you. Chloe? Come here, darling——’
He squeezed past her and strode down the corridor. There was a delighted shriek, and the sound of an enormous raspberry, and then the man reappeared, apologising again. ‘That’s better; Mrs H has got her now. Come on in to the surgery.’ He led her down the corridor to the room opposite the one from which he had emerged, and opened the door for her, ushering her in with a hand on the small of her back.
It was impossible to go through the door without brushing against him, and, as she did so, Jamie felt the solidity of his body with a sensation of shock. He was built like granite, huge and unyielding, but unlike granite he radiated warmth and energy.
She felt at once safe and threatened, and for the life of her she couldn’t work out why. All she knew was that he had a physical presence, unrelated to his size, that something deep inside her had recognised, and she felt as if all the air had been sucked out of her lungs.
She took a deep breath and looked around, and was immediately captivated by her surroundings. The surgery was painted white, the plain walls hung with bold pencil drawings, delicate watercolours and children’s daubs in equal proportion. Mixed in among the colourful display were the more usual posters about breastfeeding and smoking. One of the amateurish paintings caught her eye.
In it a bright and vigorous sun shone cheerfully on a picture-book cottage, and a raggy tortoiseshell cat perched on the wall outside. ‘Dear Dr Rob,’ the straggling inscription read, ‘I’m better now. I love you. Trudy.’
‘Who’s Trudy?’ she asked with a smile.
She had thought he was ugly, has face too rugged for good looks, his heavy brows and battered nose no adornment to the rough-hewn plains and valleys of his cheeks above the jutting jaw. Then he smiled, and the sun lit up