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