just as much say in the running of things, having worked for Isobel for six years.
She scribbled down some bullet points that she would put to him—she wouldn’t simply step meekly aside.
‘I’ve got to be firm, Titan,’ she informed the dog.
Titan looked up from his comfortable basket and thumped his tail sleepily in agreement.
* * *
Lachlan Maguire towelled himself down vigorously after his shower in the tepid water, the hottest temperature he could raise from Ardenleigh’s antiquated boiler. The whole place needed gutting—a fortune would have to be spent on it. He looked round at the cracked plaster and suspicion of damp on the walls, the stained bath and peeling lino floor. It was basically a handsome house, but where to start?
Years ago, before he’d left home, the house had been beautifully kept—light, bright chintzes in the sitting room, an airy dining room with lovely old furniture and a huge bay window that looked over the garden. Now there was an unkempt and uncared-for feel about the place—it felt sad and neglected.
Lachlan wound the towel round his waist and started to shave, peering into the dim mirror, and his bleak reflection stared back at him. A mixture of regret and sadness washed over him as he thought of the naïve judgemental youth he’d been, blaming his parents totally on the break-up of his family, impulsively moving as far away as he could.
Once he’d loved them dearly—a love that over the years he’d thought had turned to hate. Even now, years later, he could feel the resentment and despair he’d felt as a young lad when his world had seemed to collapse around him.
What an irony it was, therefore, that Isobel had left him the house—and perhaps by way of an apology, or some form of restitution, written that emotional letter, hoping Lachlan would take over her beloved practice. His mother had shown him that she still loved him, and had had faith in him. With a sudden and overwhelming feeling of guilt and sorrow, he realised that it was too late now to tell her that, despite everything, he had still loved her, had still missed her and had often longed to come home and see her again. How stupid he’d been to let his pride get in the way!
Could Lachlan fulfil his mother’s last requests? Surely a sense of obligation at least would mean that he should take over the house and the practice. But the other bizarre wish? That might be more difficult to contemplate! Then he grinned wryly as he splashed cold water on his face and patted it dry with one of the cardboard-like towels he’d found in a cupboard. He considered the situation.
Lachlan flicked a hand through his thick, spiky hair to try and tame it and dabbed at a cut on his chin with the towel. He did have some sympathy with Christa—he would probably have felt a good deal of resentment if a strange guy had appeared out of the blue to take over the practice.
She wasn’t the kind of girl to accept things meekly, he reflected. He recalled her angry-looking figure at the bottom of the ladder that afternoon, commanding him to come down! He grinned. For some reason he’d rather enjoyed seeing her sherry-coloured eyes snap and sparkle at him when she’d been annoyed.
Christa had no idea of the connection between their two families—and perhaps it was better to keep it that way, although the truth had a habit of coming out when you least expected it.
Then suddenly a wave of exhaustion overcame him. He stretched and yawned. The last few days had been a complete blur. The time from learning that his mother had died to getting a plane from Sydney to London and then eventually arriving in Inverness had seemed endless. When he’d finally arrived in Errin Bridge and seen the solicitor, jet-lag had begun to catch up on him.
Lachlan wandered into one of the bedrooms, stuffed with heavy dark furniture and a huge sagging bedstead. In his exhausted state it looked quite inviting and he flung himself onto it. Just a little kip for a quarter of an hour would do him the world of good. He lay back on the musty pillow and fell into a deep slumber.
* * *
Through a fog of sleep Lachlan heard the doorbell ring. He stirred restlessly, trying to ignore it, then heard a dog barking. With a muffled oath he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The doorbell rang again—whoever it was couldn’t wait.
He padded downstairs wearily and opened the front door, realising too late that he was still only dressed in a small towel wrapped round his waist. Christa was standing there, with Titan standing guard by her side.
They stared at each other, his eyes sweeping over her slim figure, elegant in jeans, long black boots and a warm, close-fitting red biker jacket with a black scarf casually looped round her neck. He clapped a hand to his forehead.
‘Oh, God! Sorry! I fell asleep after my shower...forgot you were coming.’ His austere expression changed to a wry grin. ‘I’d have put something on to hide my modesty if I’d known it was you.’
Christa flicked a glance over the lean and athletic body before her. Good God, was ever a man in such superb shape! She wondered crossly why the sight of his bare chest should affect her when it was something she saw routinely in the surgery—but, then, of course, not many of her patients had torsos like Lachlan Maguire!
She tore her glance away and said blandly, ‘Don’t worry, I’ve seen it all before... If it’s inconvenient, I’ll come back another time.’
‘No time like the present...’ He held the door open and motioned her in. ‘If you’ll wait in the kitchen I’ll put some clothes on—won’t be a minute.’
He stepped away as Christa passed him and she caught the faint fresh smell of soap and shaving lotion. She watched as he bounded up the stairs, holding onto the towel, and grimaced to herself when she remembered the way she’d harangued him about being nothing but the scum of the earth! That was the last thing he looked...he had to be the sexiest male on two legs that she’d seen for a very long time. Not, she reminded herself sharply, that she was at all interested in sexy males—they were too sure of themselves, too confident by half and far too duplicitous.
She sat down in the ramshackle kitchen with Titan curled up on an old rug under the window. There were ancient cupboards with broken hinges, an old-fashioned stove on four cast-iron legs and a few dusty shelves with bottles and jam jars jostling for space. Isobel had been a lonely person, living on her own in this big house, and patently had had no interest in cooking if the look of the kitchen was anything to go by. It was almost shocking that she had allowed the house to get into this state—odd, too, when she had been a well-organised and efficient doctor.
If Lachlan was married and came to live in Errin Bridge, how would his wife take to living in a time warp like this? Indeed, would she relish the thought of leaving Australia and coming up to a Scottish backwater?
Engrossed in her thoughts, Christa didn’t notice Lachlan at first when he appeared at the door. She was gazing out of the window, her shiny bob of auburn hair framing a profile of a determined little chin and a tip-tilted nose. She was feisty with decided opinions—rather like he was, he acknowledged. He guessed she wasn’t about to defer to him in any discussion about the practice.
‘I’ve looked in the drinks cupboard,’ he said from the doorway. ‘All I can find is whisky and more whisky... Would that be OK?’
Christa jumped with surprise and looked round at him, relieved to see that he was now more modestly attired in jeans and a T-shirt under a corduroy jerkin. ‘Yes, please, with a splash of water.’
She
