Annie O'Neil - Doctor...to Duchess?

The implications of Oliver being here hit her like a speeding truck. This man held their future in his hands. Whatever he decided to do with the estate would directly affect the clinic. They received a small but steady stipend from the duke but he’d made it clear, once Oliver took charge, any funding would be up to him. She was really going to have to kick things into another gear to get the clinic independent of the estate’s money.

“Right.” Oliver’s voice briskly cut into her thoughts. “Shall we get you X-rayed?”

“I suppose we’d best.” She laid a hand on Dr. Carney’s shoulder before leaving the room. “Are you sure you’re comfortable? May I get you anything?”

“No, dear. I’m fine. You’re just what the doctor ordered.”

Was that a wink he just dropped in Oliver’s direction? Surely not? From the flustered look on Oliver’s face, maybe it had been. Julia gave her patient a quick wave and made a beeline for X-ray.

Everything was going topsy-turvy!

When she’d interviewed for the job, the duke and Dr. Carney had told her she could run the place as she saw fit. You’d hardly say that to someone if there was some big plan of Oliver’s she was meant to have been following, right? There had been a lot of proverbial dust gathering in the corners of St. Bryar Clinic seven months ago and, Lord Oliver or not, she was determined to sort the place out and let it shine.

Oliver was reeling. Seeing his mentor in what was clearly a hospice room had been a genuine shock. Dr. Carney had not only been his inspiration as a teen but he’d been the physician to two generations of Wyatts and untold villagers for as long as Oliver could remember. The kindly doctor had cared for Oliver’s mother through her losing battle with pneumonia and, whilst not a young man himself, he had not seemed ill in the slightest. What was it? Only ten months later and so much had changed. He knew he only had himself to blame. A life overseas had its ramifications and here they were—smack in the face. A virtual stranger was caring for his mentor. It didn’t sit well.

He watched as Julia’s wheatsheaf ponytail followed her curve-perfect body into the X-ray room at the far end of the clinic. He cleared his throat, beginning to feel uncomfortably aware of the effect this woman had, not just on him, but everyone she came in contact with. It sounded ridiculous but she seemed to bring out everyone’s hidden sparkle. Quite a feat for what he’d always seen as a fusty little village mired in the past.

Staying detached was going to be harder than he thought. It was how he coped with the sprawling refugee camps; the never-ending queues outside the medical tent; the hunger, the disease, the deaths. Level-headed detachment worked wonders. Time to harness it up again. Cool. Calm. And distinctly collected. Doing the same with Dr. Carney was going to be tough.

“Right.” He rounded the corner ready to get down to what he knew best—medicine.

“Are you ready for me, Doc?”

Was he imagining things or was that a come-hither voice? Surely not? Or was that him hoping …?

Being tongue-tied was not his usual modus operandi. But tongue-tied he was as he took in the sight of Julia leaning across the X-ray table with her hand laid out ready for the X-ray plate. Her blond hair fell in a damp coil over her shoulder, leading his eyes to travel downward toward her deep scoop-necked top. His gaze shifted as she peered up at him from beneath a swoop of stylish fringe, eyes twinkling. She had him off-balance and it had been some time since he—no, since his body—had responded so instinctively to someone. Not least of all when they’d been, well, breast to chest and slathered in a slick of mud just an hour or so ago.

“How do you want me?”

An urge to lift her up onto the X-ray table, slip his hands through her hair and along to the nape of her neck before teasing out some very deep kisses shot through him. Cool and professional, Oliver!

“Right! Let’s see what we’ve got here.” Oliver trained his eyes on Julia’s hand. If he let them travel up her slender arm, farther up along the curve of her shoulder, which was just slipping out of the dark cotton fabric, exposing …

Stop it!

“What was that?” Julia looked up at him, a little smile playing on her lips.

“Sorry, what? I didn’t say anything.”

Did I? Going mad at the ripe age of thirty-five. Nice one. “Can I just get you to lift your hand for a moment? I’m going to slip a plate under …” His eyes zig-zagged round the tiny room.

“In the cupboard on your left.”

“Right.”

“No, left.” She giggled then immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. Her nails were painted a bright purple. Were those daisies on her thumbnails?

“I know what you meant,” he snapped, cross with himself for being so distracted.

One look in her direction and he knew he’d not just been rude. He’d hurt her feelings. Not a good move. Not one bit. The hurt in her eyes spoke of something deeper than just being snapped at—and hurling abuse at this completely innocent woman was the last thing he wanted to do. She wasn’t to know she’d unleashed a wash of emotion in him when he needed now, more than ever, to remain level-headed.

Oliver quickly pulled out a plate and slipped it onto the table as he scrubbed a hand through his hair. Why did coming home always bring out the bad guy in him? He exhaled heavily as a list of answers began jostling for pole position.

“Shall we get this X-ray wrapped up?”

“That sounds like an excellent idea.” Her tone was curt. Any flirtation that had been cracking between them had evaporated entirely. He could’ve kicked himself. Not that he was planning on asking her out for a date or anything but surely he could’ve managed to be pleasant and professional?

Life in St. Bryar was normally so predictable. He arrived, saw his parents, attended the obligatory cocktail party his mother threw to see if she could tempt him with any women on that year’s “available for marriage” list and stayed calm and neutral before flying off to another Red Cross camp. There he could be himself: passionate, caring, committed. Being that version of himself here? Impossible.

They remained silent until Oliver pulled out the used X-ray plate and slipped the results onto the light tray. “I hope you’re not left-handed.”

He didn’t even try to sound chirpy. Fractured. Both her pinky and ring finger. A noticeably unencumbered ring finger.

“I’d normally tease you that I was a lefty but I daren’t risk getting my head bitten off again.” She said the words with a smile, but Julia saw they had hit their target. A microscopic green-eyed flinch.

Good.

She knew he must be hurting after seeing Dr. Carney so ill, but biting off the head of the person who was around day in, day out to care for him? Not a good move.

“I guess we’d better get you trussed up, then.”

“Don’t worry,” Julia said grumpily. “I can buddy tape and splint them myself. I will need as much dexterity as possible and don’t want to be hassled with having my hand in plaster.”

“Let me advise you, then,” Oliver retorted without so much as a hint of a smile, “you are going directly against doctor’s orders.”

“That’s rich, considering it’s a doctor who put me in this predicament.” Julia only just stopped her voice from rising.

“Are you going to realign them yourself? Perform the reduction? Give yourself the anesthetic jab?”

She glanced at the X-ray. It was doable. Sort of. Not completely advisable, but doable. Particularly since it meant the Ogre of St. Bryar would leave her alone. A distractingly attractive ogre —but an unwelcome beast nonetheless.