Prescription—One Bride Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  About the Author

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Copyright

  “Paige will be waiting…”

  Then Niall looked up at Jess and smiled, that heartwarming, heart-stopping smile that was all the things less considered most dangerous in a man.

  “Ten minutes, Dr. Harvey,” he smiled. “Ten minutes more of human contact before I go back to being the Ogre of Barega.”

  He knew. He knew of his reputation.

  Jessie felt herself flush crimson, but Niall Mountmarche was smiling in a way that showed he didn’t mind the title in the least—in fact, by the look of it, he rather liked it!

  Marion Lennox has had a variety of careers—medical receptionist, computer programmer and teacher. Married, with two young children, she now lives in rural Victoria, Australia. Her wish for an occupation that would allow her to remain at home with her children and her dog led her to begin writing, and she has now published a number of medical romance novels.

  She also now writes as Trisha David for Harlequin Romance. Look out for McAllister’s Baby, coming soon to a bookshop near you!

  Prescription—One Bride

  Marion Lennox

  CHAPTER ONE

  TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT.

  The sign was huge. It almost covered the farm gate and, not surprisingly, it made Jessica pause.

  She didn’t pause for long.

  Dr Jessie Harvey stared down at the pathetic drag marks leading to the gap beside the gate. Harry must have dragged himself through—and there were traces of blood on the path.

  Sign or no sign, there was no choice. Jess had to look.

  Niall Mountmarche might have half the island scared silly with his stupid signs but if Harry was suffering somewhere on the other side of the fence…

  Sod Niall Mountmarche’s sign!

  Jessica Harvey, Barega Island’s only veterinary surgeon, pushed stray wisps of soft brown curls from her angry eyes and pushed open the gate.

  She’d been here before and she hadn’t been shot.

  Louis Mountmarche, wine-maker extraordinaire, had been the island children’s ogre for years. Rumour said that he’d shot a child in the dim, distant past and his reputation was fearsome.

  By the time Jess had arrived to work on the island the old man was hardly ever seen by the locals.

  Four months ago the local police had asked Jess to investigate reports of animal cruelty. Neighbours had complained that the old man’s dog had been howling for days.

  She’d found the dog.

  The neighbours had been right. The animal had been neglected but it hadn’t been the old man’s fault. When Jessie and the police had finally found him, Louis Mountmarche had been dead for weeks—with his dog guarding his body.

  Although the fate of the old man and his dog had shocked the locals, the islanders hadn’t blamed themselves. The old man had abused everyone—and now it seemed that his nephew was of the same mould.

  Niall Mountmarche, nephew of Louis, had arrived on the island three months ago by private boat and his contact with the locals since then had been restricted to necessary business. The threatening signs had been renewed.

  It seemed that there was a family trait of isolation and aggression.

  The ogre reputation was building again among the local children and the unknown Niall Mountmarche did nothing to refute it.

  So…

  So Jessie shouldn’t be here, crawling on all fours between the grapevines trying desperately to follow the broken trail of drag marks and blood.

  The ground had been recently furrowed. It was early spring on the island and the vines were just budding. Someone had been here recently, ploughing weeds into the ground and, by the smell of the rich loam, applying fertilizer.

  ‘Harry,’ Jessie called softly.

  Drat the Mountmarches. They had her spooked. She took a deep breath and rose to her feet. The trail ended here but where the vines were still bare she’d surely see an injured dog if it was in the open.

  Jessie raised her voice. ‘Harry!’

  There was no response.

  Or was there? Had she heard something?

  Jessie’s face turned in the morning sun toward a bank of trees further down the slope. In the trees there was cover—and an injured dog would head for cover if it possibly could. The sound—if she hadn’t imagined it—had come from there.

  She was too close to the Mountmarche house for comfort. For a moment Jessie considered approaching the house to ask permission to search—but only for a moment. The Mountmarche reputation suggested that she’d be marched off the property at the point of a gun—and where would that leave Harry?

  ‘Harry?’ Jess called again, lowering her voice and heading down the slopes into the cover of the trees. She cast a nervous glance at the house and her voice dropped even further. ‘Harry!’

  A pathetic whimper cut across the silence, so low that she would have missed it if her ears hadn’t been straining to hear.

  He was here. Somewhere.

  Here, where the ground was rough and overgrown and the banks of a creek fell away from the fertile soil, there were hundreds of places that a wounded dog could crawl to die.

  She could hear him clearly now. His whimpers increased as she called him.

  The branches were thick over her head, barring her path. Swearing softly to herself, Jessie slung her bag over her shoulder and dropped to the ground again.

  She’d have to crawl.

  Her knees were bare and the twigs and branches littering the ground dug into them—but if she stood up she wouldn’t be able to see. She’d have no hope of finding him.

  ‘Harry,’ she called again. ‘Harry…’

  Jessie pushed her nose through a thicket of undergrowth and stopped dead.

  A pair of black boots blocked her path.

  And a gun.

  Jessie practically yelped in fright. She jumped about a foot and when she finally came down to earth her heart was thumping like a battering ram.

  The island children had done their job well. The Ogre of Barega had been built up to such a fearsome figure that it was all Jessie could do not to scramble to her feet and run.

  Instead, she forced herself to squat back on her heels and look up.

  It was hardly a position of dignity. To be caught crawling on all fours on someone else’s land was scarcely a desirable fate at the best of times—but to be caught by a Mountmarche…

  Niall Mountmarche…

  Ogre of Barega…

  Jessie’s first impression was of size—and of darkness. The man wore black knee-length boots over dark riding jodhpurs, and a black short-sleeved shirt open almost to the waist. The wind-tossed hair around the man’s lean, harsh face was jet black as well and his angry eyes were as dark as night.

  The Ogre was in his mid-thirties, Jessie guessed.

  The Mountmarche she’d seen—old Louis—had been short and stout but Jess saw no similarity between Louis and his nephew. This man was over six feet tall and hadn’t an ounce of spare flesh on his strongly built body.

  Or compassion, Jessie guessed, as she slowly rose to a standing position. Niall Mountmarche’s face was flint hard, repellent with anger.

  Even as she found her feet and stood before him, he still made her feel tiny.
<
br />   And scared stiff.

  The man’s hands were gripping his gun as though he’d love to use it. He wasn’t pointing the thing at her—but it didn’t make it one whit less threatening.

  ‘G-good morning,’ she stammered.

  The Ogre of Barega was looking at the girl before him as though she was a repugnant form of insect life. Jessie flushed in mortification. His look was nothing short of contemptuous.

  Well, Niall Mountmarche wasn’t to know that Jessie was the island’s vet. She hardly looked professional, she thought grimly. The young vet was wearing shorts and sneakers; her knees were dust-caked from crawling along the furrowed ground and her face was probably the same. Her shoulder-length curls had caught on briars and were tangled and wild.

  Niall Mountmarche didn’t know why Jess was on his land. Maybe he was right to look like this—when she was so clearly trespassing.

  Jess pushed her tangled curls back with a defiant flourish—and felt more dirt streak down her cheek as Niall Mountmarche finally spoke.

  ‘What the hell are you doing on my land?’ The man’s voice was deep and resonant with a trace of an accent she couldn’t quite place—and more than a trace of anger.

  It was hardly a promising start.

  Jessie bit her lip and forced herself to hold out her hand in an attempt at greeting.

  ‘Hi,’ she said unsteadily. ‘I’m…I’m Jessica Harvey…’

  ‘I’m not the least bit interested in who you are,’ the man snapped. His dark eyes flashed his displeasure. ‘The sign on my gate is there for a purpose—and it means what it says. This is no place for teenagers to play stupid games—so I suggest you get yourself off my land now.’

  Teenagers…

  Jessie’s flush faded. Teenagers…How old did he take her for, for heaven’s sake? She drew herself up to her full five feet five inches and her brown eyes glared.

  ‘I’m twenty-seven,’ she snapped.

  He shrugged. ‘Fascinating, I’m sure.’ The man’s cold gaze raked Jessie’s slim form, from her filthy sneakers to her dust-caked face. His disdain only seemed to increase. ‘If you’re speaking the truth—’ his tone suggested such a thing was as plausible as the moon being made of cheese ‘—then I suggest you’re too old to be crawling round my property on what, I must assume, to be some sort of infantile game. Now collect this Harry—or whoever it is you’re calling—and get the hell out of here. Now!’

  Harry…

  ‘Harry’s a dog,’ Jessie managed.

  ‘You brought dogs onto my property?’ The man looked as if he was preparing to explode in fury. His fingers whitened on the gun and Jessie blenched. What on earth had she got herself into?

  ‘I didn’t bring him…He’s not my dog and I can’t find him,’ she stammered, striving desperately for calm.

  The man visibly fought for self-control. His leather-booted foot stirred the ground, like a bull before a charge, and his face was cold as ice.

  ‘So you didn’t bring him? He’s not your dog but you’re looking for him,’ he said coldly. ‘I see.’ He raised his gun slightly. ‘Then I suggest you leave my land now—and let me do the looking.’

  The gun’s slight movement was so suggestive that Jessie blenched. He wouldn’t shoot Harry…

  ‘No!’

  Instinctively Jessie’s hand reached out to the gun and held on hard. She pulled it towards herself, swinging the point away from her body.

  The man didn’t release it. He stood like stone, immovable.

  ‘Are you playing games with me?’ the man said slowly. The foot had stopped its movement. He stood rigidly, his hand locked on the gun and his cold eyes staring down at her. Jessie had never felt such anger—such a blaze of hostility…

  Or had she…?

  Once…

  A wave of such dreadful remembrance hit her that Jessie stepped back in horror. Her hands dropped from the gun as if burned.

  Jessie’s face drained of what little colour she had left and instinctively her hands came up before her face—to ward off a blow…

  It was a futile gesture. This man hadn’t threatened her with a gun—or with a raised hand for that matter—but the fury was there…

  And suddenly it wasn’t.

  The man’s face changed. The aggression died as he stared down at her and his hand came out as if to touch…

  Jess stepped back in panic. ‘N-no…’

  ‘I won’t hurt you,’ he said harshly.

  There was a long silence. The morning sun glimmered through the canopy of leaves above them. Their eyes stayed locked, the man’s harsh stare changing to a look of confusion—as if, suddenly, his aggression was weakening.

  Jessie’s fear remained.

  How could it not?

  The man swore suddenly. He took another step towards her and Jessie flinched again.

  He stopped.

  And swore again.

  And, then, in a gesture of impatience the man broke the barrel of his gun. The cartridge fell out onto his palm and he let it fall further onto the ground. Then he let the gun fall, too.

  ‘I won’t hurt you,’ he said again and this time he spoke as though he meant it. The blazing anger was gone.

  Jessie took a deep breath. The memory receded—a little. This man wasn’t John Talbot. He had no cause to hurt her.

  ‘I…I guess…’ she said, but she couldn’t make her voice steady.

  ‘Are you running from someone?’ Niall Mountmarche’s dark brow was creased in sudden concern. Clearly her reaction had him puzzled. He looked around as if expecting to see others. ‘Are you hiding? Who’s Harry?’

  ‘I told you—Harry’s a dog.’ It was all Jessie could do to get her voice above a whisper.

  ‘But not your dog?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you’re scared stiff?’

  Jessie took a deep breath. ‘No. Not…not any more.’

  ‘Because I put the gun down.’

  ‘That might have something to do with it,’ Jessie stammered, her equilibrium returning by degrees. The man still unsettled her badly—but at least the ogre image was fading. For the moment…

  ‘Well, would you care to tell me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jessie closed her eyes, still fighting for calm. When she opened them she had herself almost under control.

  ‘Harry is your neighbour’s dog,’ she said at last. ‘Frank Reid owns land on your north boundary. I guess you don’t know him—as you keep to yourself so much—but Frank is elderly and diabetic. He’s ill at the moment and has been in hospital for over a week.’

  ‘So?’ This was of supreme disinterest, Niall Mountmarche’s face told her.

  ‘The girl who’s been looking after his farm told Frank today that Harry’s been missing for almost a week,’ Jess stammered. ‘Frank asked me to look…’

  ‘A week…’

  ‘She didn’t want to worry him.’ Jessie’s voice trailed away. The girl’s actions were almost inexcusable, she thought, remembering the elderly farmer’s distress when she’d seen him that morning.

  ‘So he asked you to look because you’re a friend?’ Niall Mountmarche was watching her as if she was a specimen he just couldn’t make out.

  ‘Because I’m the island vet,’ Jessie said bluntly and watched his reaction.

  It was all she could have hoped for.

  The man’s eyes widened in incredulity—and then disbelief.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said flatly.

  ‘That’s fine.’ Jessie bit her lip and shrugged. ‘Just let me get on with finding the dog and there’s no need for you to believe anything.’

  ‘How long have you been qualified?’

  ‘Look!’ Jessie’s voice exploded into anger. ‘How long I’ve been qualified has nothing to do with anything. The only thing that matters at the moment is that there’s an injured dog on your property and I need to find him. Fast!’

  Niall Mountmarche was still watching her—assessing her. With his eyes still on her, he sto
oped to pick up his gun and snap it together. As Jessie’s face changed again he flicked the cartridge with his booted toe so that it lay almost at her feet.

  ‘You keep the cartridge,’ he said harshly. ‘I won’t shoot your precious dog. But I want to know why you think he’s on my property.’

  The air whooshed out of Jessie’s lungs in a rush. She stooped to retrieve the cartridge and shoved it deep into her pocket—before the man changed his mind.

  ‘There are rabbit traps set near your boundary fence,’ she told him, fingering the cartridge as security. ‘Some of the local kids must have set their traps on Frank’s land while he’s in hospital. They know he’d never let them, otherwise. The traps are set in a pattern and one trap seems to be missing—and the place where it should be is marked with blood and fur. Not brown rabbit fur. It’s the black and white fur of a collie.’

  ‘Collie?’

  ‘Harry—Frank’s dog—is a Border collie. A good one.’

  He was certainly a lovely dog, Jessie knew, and if anything happened to Harry Frank Reid would break his heart.

  ‘You haven’t said why you believe he’s here.’ The booted toe was tapping again on the leaf-strewn ground. Patience, it seemed, was not one of Niall Mountmarche’s strong points.

  ‘There’s a trail of drag marks and blood leading through your fence. At a guess, the dog still has the trap on his foot. If he’s too injured to drag himself home then he won’t have gone far.’

  ‘If he’s been missing a week then he’ll be dead.’

  ‘No.’ Jessie shook her head. ‘I heard him,’ she said flatly. ‘He’s somewhere here.’

  The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Nearby?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, what are we wasting time for, Jessica Harvey?’ the man demanded harshly. ‘Let’s find him.’ ‘You mean…You mean you’ll help?’ ‘Why on earth wouldn’t I?’ Why not, indeed?

  It took fifteen minutes.

  At the sound of Niall’s voice Harry’s whimpers had ceased and, no matter how much Jessie called, she wasn’t able to hear the dog again. Then it was a case of physically searching inside every hollow log and under every piece of undergrowth.