Caroline Anderson - A Gentle Giant

He was in, upstairs, back down and off out again within five minutes. Mrs H took Jamie upstairs and showed her her room and the bathroom which she would share with the housekeeper and the baby.

‘Dr Buchanan’s got his own bathroom off his bedroom, so we’re quite private. I expect you’d like a bath and then something to eat, wouldn’t you? You look all in.’

Jamie agreed, and bathed quickly, dressing warmly in a tracksuit before running back downstairs. She found the kitchen by trial and error, and Mrs H turned to her with a smile.

‘Here you are, lass. Bacon and mushroom omelette and a cup of tea.’

Jamie returned the smile. ‘Thank you, you’re very kind. How did you know I was hungry?’

There was a motherly chuckle. ‘I didn’t, but it was a fair bet that you hadn’t eaten before you got here, and the doctor wouldn’t have given it a thought. If it wasn’t for me tying him down and force-feeding him three times a day, that man wouldn’t eat from one week’s end to the next.’

‘What about his wife?’ Jamie asked, and the housekeeper’s face lost its smile.

‘Away,’ she said briefly.

‘On holiday?’

She snorted. ‘You could say that.’

‘Oh.’ Jamie didn’t quite know what to make of that. ‘When’s she coming back?’

There was a slight sound behind her, and she turned, the blood draining from her face. She had never seen anyone look so angry in her entire life. Then he turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him.

She turned her bemused gaze back to the housekeeper, and the woman sank down at the table and covered Jamie’s hand. ‘Don’t let him frighten you—and don’t let him drive you away either. If ever a man needed help it’s that one.’

‘Tell me about his wife,’ Jamie pleaded.

The woman shook her head. ‘If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you himself. I’ll tell you this much, though. She’ll not be back, and good riddance. He doesn’t need her, and no more does the child—but I’ve said enough. Ask him—if you dare—but pick your moment. He’s awful touchy about it still.’

Jamie had noticed—and she had no intention of asking him about any such thing. Besides, it was by no means certain that she’d even get the chance!

IT WASN’T a good night. Between the strange bed, the uncertainty about her future and Rob Buchanan’s anger over her inquisitiveness, Jamie didn’t sleep much.

Her room was above the front door, and so she was aware of the exact number of times Rob was called out, and how long he was gone each time.

By five-thirty, when he left again, he had been in for precisely four hours, in three stretches, since the unfortunate scene in the kitchen—this on top of an already punishing schedule and at the start of a no doubt hectic week. Jamie sighed. Why was he so determined to get rid of her? Mrs H’s words came back to her. ‘If ever a man needed help it’s that one.’ Well, it was up to her to make him accept it—at least temporarily.

Throwing off the bedclothes, she made her way to the bathroom, had a quick wash and then dressed in the colourful and pretty tracksuit she had worn the previous night. With her trainers in her hand, she crept down the silent landing and tiptoed down the stairs, letting out her breath as she closed the kitchen door behind her. She put the kettle on and made a cup of tea, and then while it cooled she started her warm-up routine. She was standing head-down with her back to the door and her hands grasping one ankle when she heard a slight noise behind her. Peering through her legs, she saw a large pair of shoes at the bottom of impossibly long legs clad in lovat-green wool trousers.

She dropped her ankle as if it were red-hot and snapped upright.

‘Good morning.’

She shoved the hair off her face with both hands and turned reluctantly to face him, conscious of the flush on her cheeks and, strangely, every curve and hollow of her slender body. She tugged the tracksuit top down and tried for a smile.

‘Morning. Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘I haven’t had a better offer all day,’ he murmured. He hooked a chair with his foot and dropped wearily into it, one arm lying along the table-top with the elbow bent and his head propped on his hand.

She found another cup and filled it, then set it down beside him. His eyes were shut, and he looked absolutely exhausted. His skin was grey, the dark hair heavy on his brow in stark contrast. There were black shadows under his eyes, and his cheeks were hollowed and deeply etched. He needed a shave, and the dark stubble did nothing to improve his appearance. He looked like a convict on the run, a man at the end of his tether. She stifled the urge to pull his head against her breast and smooth away the cares, instead perching on a chair near him and watching him with steady eyes.

After a few seconds a soft snore escaped him, and she realised he was asleep, bolt upright in the chair. Poor man. Poor, exhausted, stubborn, foolish man. She reached out and touched his arm lightly, and his eyes flickered and opened slowly.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered gruffly, and reached almost blindly for the tea.

‘Bad night,’ she stated gently, and he nodded.

‘Did I disturb you?’

She shook her head. ‘Not really, no.’

‘Just wondered. You’re up awful early.’

‘I was going for a run. It looks a lovely morning.’

He nodded. ‘It is.’ He cocked his head on one side. ‘Mind if I join you? I could do with a little fresh air.’

Well, what could she say? No, I want to be on my own? Yes, by all means, but keep your rotten temper to yourself?

‘That would be very nice,’ she said instead, and wondered why she didn’t choke on the lie. Still, it would give her a chance to be with him, and perhaps they could talk again about the practice. He couldn’t deny that he needed help, and she was ready, willing and able—not to mention having a contract in her handbag, which must surely mean something?

She stirred the dregs of her tea idly while he went and changed, and the thoughts ran endlessly round in a continuous loop, always coming back to the same thing—if Rob Buchanan wouldn’t let her help him, there was nothing she could do about it.

He was back quickly, and she pushed herself to her feet before she turned to look at him. Instantly, she wished she had remained seated, because he was dressed in nothing more than a pair of satin running shorts and a running vest that did nothing to hide him from her eyes, and he was hugely, overpoweringly—well, male, really, she thought with a last vestige of humour. It was just that the word man was suddenly redefined before her eyes, and it frankly took her breath away.

‘Ready?’

‘I—yes, of course.’ She pushed the chair under the table, took a deep breath and followed him down the hall. He stood back to hold the door for her, and she squeezed past him, skilfully avoiding contact. ‘Which way do we go?’ she asked quietly.

‘Up out of the village, along the glen and then back round to the coast road and home—about four miles. Is that OK?’

She nodded. Three miles was her usual run, but she hadn’t done it recently because of all the confusion and packing up and—well, she just hadn’t. Still, she could. ‘I’ll follow you,’ she said, and it was the last thing she managed for some time.

He set a punishing pace, and she fell into step behind him with a feeling of dread. Was he doing it on purpose? Probably. She gritted her teeth and tucked her head down, keeping just his heels in sight. It served two purposes. One, it stopped her having to see the length of the hill they were climbing—and two, she was less aware of the powerful legs with their liberal dusting of black hair pounding like pistons ahead of her. She spared him a glance, and shook her head slightly at what she saw.