‘You’re the drug dealer,’ Jess murmured. ‘The one who’s lying low until the heat’s off.’
‘The drug…?’ His fingers reached swiftly for her wrist again.
‘That’s what Wattie Hope reckons at any rate. Or an axe murderer who’s come to Greensay to dispose of the dismembered bits and pieces of your ex-wife.’
He sat back on his heels, his grey eyes glinting with amusement. ‘I see. And you—what do you think?’
‘I’m just wondering if your car is as much of a write-off as mine.’
‘No, but, then, I don’t drive a sardine can,’ he replied, gazing critically at her beloved little hatchback. ‘Surely if you’re the only doctor on the island you should have chosen something more substantial to drive.’
‘Look, could we just stick to the point?’ she returned acidly. ‘Is your car driveable?’
‘The front bumper’s bent, and the offside light and indicator are smashed, but apart from that—’
‘Then you can drive me to the Sinclair Memorial in Inverlairg.’
The man’s black eyebrows snapped down. ‘I really don’t think—’
‘You’re doing it again—thinking—and I’d far rather you didn’t,’ Jess interrupted. ‘Now, are you going to help me out of my car, or do I have to crawl?’
For a second he hesitated, then held out his hands to her. Large hands, she noticed, strong hands. Which was just as well, she realised, because when she tried to stand up another shaft of pain had her grabbing frantically at the front of his Arran sweater.
‘Care to reconsider your plan?’ he said gently as she buried her face in his chest, desperately fighting the waves of nausea and pain which threatened to engulf her.
Actually, she’d have liked nothing better. Just to stand here wrapped in this man’s arms was infinitely preferable to the thought of the journey ahead. And she was mad. Good grief, he could have killed her and yet all she could think as she clung to him was that he smelt of the sea, and of warmth, and shelter.
‘What I want,’ she managed to reply, after taking several deep breaths, ‘is for you to stop talking, stop thinking and get me into your car.’
His mouth quirked into a rueful smile. ‘Are you always this bloody-minded, Dr…Dr…?’
‘Arden. The name’s Jess Arden, Mr Dunbar.’
All amusement disappeared instantly from his face and his voice when he spoke was clipped, tight. ‘You know me?’
‘Not from Adam. Sorley McBain said he’d rented his cottage to an Ezra Dunbar from London—’
‘A talkative man, Mr McBain.’
‘You can’t really blame him,’ Jess replied defensively, hearing the decided edge in his voice. ‘I mean, we get lots of people renting holiday cottages on Greensay in the summer—Americans mostly, looking for their Scottish roots—but it’s pretty unusual for someone to take a cottage for three months in the middle of winter.’ She glanced up at him with a slight frown. ‘Does it bother you—people knowing your name?’
He didn’t answer. Instead he slipped his arm round her waist, balanced her against his hip, then carried her across to his Mercedes. An action which left her white-faced and shaking, and feeling sick all over again.
‘You know, your leg really ought to be splinted,’ he observed after he’d pushed the front passenger seat of his car back as far as it would go. ‘It’s a ten-mile trip down to Inverlairg and no matter how slowly I drive you’re going to get jolted. Perhaps I could find some pieces of wood to splint it—’
‘And perhaps you could just let me worry about my leg?’ Jess flared, driven beyond all endurance.
For a second she thought he was going to argue with her again, but by the time he’d eased her into the car Jess heartily wished she’d let him find those pieces of wood, and that he’d used them to knock her unconscious.
‘Feeling rough?’ he murmured sympathetically when he finally got into the driver’s seat beside her.
‘A bit,’ she admitted, pushing back her damp hair from her forehead with a trembling hand.
He shook his head. ‘I’m not surprised. Frankly, I don’t know whether to admire you for your courage or condemn you for your stupidity.’
‘While you’re making up your mind, could you just drive?’ she suggested, and he chuckled as he switched on his car’s ignition.
‘Regular little firebrand, aren’t you? Goes with the red hair, I suppose. Your eyes wouldn’t happen to be green, would they?’
They were, but Jess didn’t feel up to acknowledging it as he turned his Mercedes in the direction of the town, or to informing him that she’d always been short-tempered even as a child. So he thought her a firebrand, did he? Well, right now she felt more like a damp squib. A squib that was giddy, and in pain, and more frightened than she’d ever been in her life.
What if she hadn’t simply fractured her leg? What if she’d suffered internal injuries as well? She couldn’t afford to be ill, couldn’t so much as catch a cold, when it would mean leaving her patients with a two-and-a-half-hour ferry ride to the nearest doctor on the mainland.
‘Why are you the only doctor on the island?’ Ezra asked suddenly, as though he’d read her mind. ‘Surely there’s too much work here for you on your own?’
‘Not for most of the time, there’s not,’ she answered, biting down hard on her lip as his car hit a pothole. ‘Greensay only has a population of six hundred.’
‘But those six hundred don’t all live in the main town,’ he argued back. ‘From what I’ve seen, a lot of them live in outlying crofts, and if you’re called out at night—’
‘I manage,’ she replied defensively. ‘My father was the doctor here for thirty years before he died, and he managed.’
He glanced across at her, his grey eyes pensive. ‘I see.’
She rather thought he saw more than she wanted him to. That it hadn’t simply been a desire to return to the island where she’d been born which had brought her back when her father had died three years ago. It had been a desire to follow in his footsteps, to be as good a doctor as he had been.
And why shouldn’t she want that? she asked herself as they drove through the dark countryside. She’d adored her father, had always loved the island and its people. Why shouldn’t she want to emulate him?
Yes, it was tough sometimes, being permanently on call. And, yes, there were days when she was so bone-weary it took all her strength to drag herself down to the health centre, but she couldn’t have borne it if a stranger had taken over her father’s practice. She had to succeed. She simply had to.
‘Where do we go for the A and E unit?’ Ezra asked when they finally arrived outside the imposing Edwardian building which housed the Sinclair Memorial Hospital.
‘There isn’t one as such,’ Jess replied, sucking in her breath sharply as he carried her up the steps. ‘But if you ring the bell at Reception Fiona should come.’
The staff nurse did, and the minute she saw them her face crumpled in dismay. ‘Oh, my word…!’
‘I’m OK, Fiona, honestly,’ Jess interrupted quickly. ‘I just took a corner too fast and landed in a ditch. I think I’ve fractured my right tibia—possibly my patella as well.’
‘Not to mention having also acquired a very nasty bump on your forehead.’