The Rebel Surgeon's Proposal. Margaret McDonagh

all he had built here, but he knew what he had to do and nothing or no one was going to stop him. His boss, Professor James Fielding-Smythe, renowned orthopaedic surgeon, brilliant, impatient and demanding, would have a fit when he found out, but Luke didn’t care. Whatever scathing criticism and shameless cajoling came from the crusty old professor, Luke was not going to be diverted.

      Not now Fate had tipped his hand.

      Not now he knew that Francesca was in Strathlochan.

      Not now he had a plan.

      CHAPTER TWO

       8 weeks later—April

      IT HAD to be her. He had never seen anyone else with such incredible hair.

      Luke stared at the four figures walking ahead of him down the hospital corridor, two male and two female. But only one held his attention. His gut tightened as his gaze zeroed in on the back of the woman with the riot of red tresses restrained in a thick plait that fell like a stream of fire to her waist. Old memories, old hurts, old desires stirred within him. He took a moment to breathe deeply and acknowledge the fact that Francesca was really here, that he was close to her after so long.

      It had taken eight weeks and had necessitated turning his life upside down to get here, incurring the ire of Professor James Fielding-Smythe when no threats or inducements could persuade him to change his mind about leaving. To be fair, once he had known he was defeated, the prof had given in— if not entirely gracefully. His reference had been glowing, however, and his backing invaluable in rapidly securing Luke’s new job.

      But even with his goal firmly in mind, Luke had experienced some uncertainty about coming back to Strathlochan. This was the town where he had known so much strife and unhappiness as a child, where he had been judged and labelled, ostracised as a teenager, written off because of the reputation of his father and his older brothers. Damned from birth because he carried the Devlin name. Yet he had felt stifled in London, had missed his home environment, the freedom of the forests and the hills. And, he acknowledged, a part of him still felt the need to prove himself, to show the bastards they couldn’t beat him, that they had been wrong about him. To prove that he was worth something, that he was different from the rest of the men in the Devlin family.

      A combination of fate and planning had brought him back to Strathlochan. And to Francesca Scott. Whilst he would never wish any harm to befall the mother he loved and respected beyond measure, the accident that had led to her broken arm had turned out to be fortuitous. Lady Luck was shining on him for once in his life. A slow smile curved his mouth as he watched Francesca’s rear view, the natural sway of her hips, unintentionally provocative and classically feminine. His mother had not exaggerated when she had said that the coltish girl had grown into a beautiful woman, fulfilling the promise that had always been there through her youth.

      Francesca…

      Whilst he remained unobserved, Luke allowed himself the luxury of savouring the sight of her. Even dressed in her unflattering uniform of white tunic and trousers, she stood out, her five-foot-nine-inch height, shapely figure and eye-catching hair making her impressive and impossible to ignore. He enjoyed another leisurely perusal, from the sweep of her slender back, over the appealing curve of her bottom and down long, athletically graceful legs. A runner’s legs. Legs he had always dreamed would wrap around him as he sank deep inside her silken heat. He never had. Not yet. But he would. Even when times had been at their most desperate and finding her again had seemed impossible, he had always known he was destined to claim her, that he and Francesca were meant to be together.

      The group stopped at a junction in the corridor and, as Francesca half turned to talk to her colleagues, Luke could see the swell of lush, ripe breasts under her fitted tunic. A fresh lick of desire ran through him, tightening his gut. She was even more gorgeous than his imagination had suggested she would be. But ten years was a long time. The timid sixteen-year-old girl had matured into a stunning woman.

      As he slowly closed the distance between them, he absorbed her perfect bone structure, the curve of her jaw, the sensuous mouth, the creamy skin that had been as soft and velvety as a peach. He ached to touch her, to find out how good she felt now. Then there was that hair…the thick and lustrous rich red corkscrew curls. One hundred per cent natural and unique, just like the rest of her. Let loose, those curls would cascade around her shoulders and down her back like living flames. His fingers itched to bury themselves in the silken, fiery mass, to have the strands caressing his skin, to see them fanned out across his pillows.

      Francesca had always been a lady—and way out of his league. She appeared as graceful and stylish ten years on, enough that just looking at her reminded him of the chasm that had yawned between them. The classy girl who, outwardly, had appeared to have everything and the boy from the wrong side of the tracks with the bad reputation. Flickers of anger and doubt churned in his gut. What made him think he had any more right to be around her now than he had a decade ago? Yes, he had changed. He’d beaten his background, his father’s legacy, and had made a success of himself, had shown he was his own man. Had Francesca changed, too? If she remembered him at all, would she view him as she once had or would she now regard him in the same way the rest of the town had always looked on a Devlin male…as something dirty to be wiped off the undersides of their shoes?

      He needed to look into her eyes, to know what lurked there now, to see if the sadness and innocence had gone, to judge her expression as she faced him unprepared. As he neared her, she frowned at whatever was being discussed. He sensed her tension, her discomfort in the presence of her colleagues, noting the way she moved back to maintain her personal space. At once he felt protective, ready to step in if needed, just as he had all those years ago when he had put himself between her and the bullies at school.

      But every thought went out of his mind when she turned her head and looked at him. All he saw were those remarkable silver-grey eyes—eyes that for years had haunted his dreams and instantly made his insides slam with need. Eyes that widened now in stunned recognition.

      ‘Luke?’

      His name was a whisper of breath on her lips. He stood still under her swift observation of him, aware of the curious glances of her colleagues. Her gaze skimmed his face and clashed with his own once more.

      ‘Hello, Chessie.’

      ‘My God, it is you.’ Shocking him with her unexpected boldness, she stepped forward and slid her arms around him in a welcoming hug he had never dreamed she would initiate. That his surprise appearance had knocked her so off balance that she acted this out of character took his breath away. ‘It’s been years.’

      Ten long, solitary years. Instinctively his arms closed around her, drawing her as tightly against him as he dared without alarming her. One hand splayed across the small of her back, tempted by the enticing swell of her rear, while the other hand indulged in feeling the silken strands of hair bound now in the braid—a braid he wanted to knot around his wrist so he could draw back her head and plunder her mouth with his own. He somehow managed to resist both urges to touch and to taste.

      What he couldn’t resist was to nuzzle into her to breathe in her very essence. Her subtle scent, flowery and sensual, teased his nostrils, sparking his desire anew, reminding him of the one other time in his life he had been able to hold her this close for far too short a time. Then she had been a girl, now he felt the woman…all soft curves and feminine sweetness. The seductive press of firm, perfect breasts against his chest that made him want nothing more than to bare them, shape them, taste them, bury his face against them. Francesca belonged in his arms, in his bed. And if all went to plan—if dreams really did come true—she would be there. Soon.

      With regret, he allowed her retreat as soon as he sensed her withdrawal. She stepped back a pace, failing to mask her confusion at her effusive welcome of him, uncertainty evident in the slightly slanted mesmerising grey eyes fringed by long, thick, sooty lashes. The young Francesca would have been too shy and scared to approach anyone, much less have physical contact with them. He could tell from her growing tension that the reticence to touch and be touched outside a professional setting remained, and that her initial, instinctive response to him had shocked her. All of which