The Doctor Claims His Bride. Fiona Lowe

chuckled. ‘The locals love that sound as it means there is plenty of good hunting.’

      She walked over to the shade and sat down on the ground. She was immediately struck by how quickly she was losing the expectation that to sit required a chair. ‘I’m slowly getting a handle on the skin-group issue. Who can talk to whom and who can’t talk to each other.’ She grimaced, suddenly remembering her forgetfulness.

      He tilted his head, taking in her expression. ‘Problem?’

      She traced her finger through the fine dirt. ‘Oh, it’s just that I had a lapse the other day when I made the mistake of asking a fourteen-year-old boy to give a message to his mother, forgetting he can’t talk to her. I’ve now put up the skin group compass on my wall so I always remember.’

      Understanding wove across his face. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. It seems complicated at first because it’s so foreign to us. But this law has served them well for thousands of years and has avoided inbreeding and the genetic disaster that brings.’

      She knew too well the damage a faulty gene could inflict. Picking up a fallen palm leaf, she fanned herself. ‘The separate men and women’s entrances to the clinic are a great idea. It must have been a lot harder to deliver culturally appropriate health care when you only had one waiting room and one examination room.’

      His keen gaze suddenly intensified, hooking with hers as if he was seeing her for the very first time. Seeing her as herself rather than a RAN.

      A shimmer of wondrous pleasure streaked through her, immediately chased by thundering unease. Remember, no man can be a part of your life