Читать книгу The Baby Swap Miracle - Caroline Anderson - Страница 6

‘HUNTER.’

He sounded distracted, terse. He was probably busy, and for a moment she almost hung up, her courage failing her. Then he spoke again, and his voice was softer.

‘Emelia?’

How had he known?

‘Hi, Sam.’ She fizzled out, not sure what to say, where to start, but he seemed to understand. ‘Problems?’

‘Sort of. Look—I’m sorry, I expect you’re busy. It’s just—we need to talk, really, and I’ve gone and got myself into a rather silly situation.’ She took a little breath, then another one, and he interrupted her efforts to get to the point.

‘I’m not busy. Where are you?’

She looked around. She’d seen a sign ages ago that welcomed her to Suffolk—where Sam lived, according to Emily, in a ridiculous house in the middle of nowhere. Had she gone there subconsciously? Probably. She’d been driving in circles, lost in tiny lanes, not caring.

‘I’m not sure. Somewhere in Suffolk—close to the A140, I think. Where are you? Give me your postcode, I’ll put it in my satnav. What’s the house called?’

‘Flaxfield Place. The name’s partly buried in ivy, but it’s the only drive on that road for a couple of miles, so you can’t miss it. Look out for a set of big iron gates with a cattle grid, on the north side of the road. The gates are open, just come up the drive and you’ll find me. You can’t be far away. I’ll be watching out for you.’

The thought was oddly comforting. She put the postcode into the satnav and pressed go.

This couldn’t be it.

She swallowed hard and stared at the huge iron gates, hanging open, with a cattle grid between the gateposts. A long thin ribbon of tarmac stretched away into the dusk between an avenue of trees, and half hidden by ivy on an old brick wall, she could make out a name—something-field Place, the something obscured by the ivy, just as he’d said.

But she could see weeds poking up between the bars of the cattle grid, and one of the gates was hanging at a jaunty angle because the gatepost was falling down, making the faded grandeur somehow less intimidating than it might otherwise have been.

His ridiculous house, as Emily had described it, falling to bits and shabby-chic without the chic? There was certainly nothing chic about the weeds.

She fought down another hysterical laugh and drove through the gates, the cattle grid making her teeth rattle, and then up the drive between the trees. There was a light in the distance and, as she emerged from the trees, the tarmac gave way to a wide gravel sweep in front of a beautiful old Georgian house draped in wisteria, and her jaw sagged.

The white-pillared portico was bracketed by long, elegant windows, and through a lovely curved fanlight over the huge front door welcoming light spilt out into the dusk.

It was beautiful. OK, the drive needed weeding, like the cattle grid, but the paint on the windows was fresh and the brass on the front door was gleaming. And as she stared at it, a little open-mouthed, the door opened, and more of that warm golden light flowed out onto the gravel and brought tears to her eyes.

It looked so welcoming, so safe.

And suddenly it seemed as if it was the only thing in her world that was.

That and Sam, who came round and opened her car door and smiled down at her with concern in those really rather beautiful slate-blue eyes.

‘Hi, there. You found me OK, then?’

‘Yes.’

Oh, she needed a hug, but he didn’t give her one and if he had, it would have crumpled her like a wet tissue, so perhaps it was just as well. She really didn’t want to cry. She had a horrible feeling that once she started, she wouldn’t be able to stop.

‘Come on in. You look shattered. I’ve made you up a bed in the guest room.’

His simple act of thoughtfulness and generosity brought tears to her eyes anyway, and she swallowed hard. ‘Oh, Sam, you didn’t need to do that.’

‘Didn’t I? So where were you going?’

She followed his eyes and saw them focused on her suitcase where she’d thrown it on the back seat. She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t really have a plan. I just walked out. And I am so angry.’

‘With the clinic?’

‘No. With my in-laws.’

His brow creased briefly, and he held out his hand, firm and warm and like a rock in the midst of all the chaos, and helped her out of the car. ‘Come on. This needs a big steaming mug of hot chocolate and a comfy chair by the fire. Have you eaten?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve got a sandwich,’ she said, pulling it out of her bag to prove it, and he tutted and led her inside, hefting her case as if it weighed nothing. He dumped it in the gracious and elegant hallway with its black-and-white-chequered marble floor, and led her through to the much more basic kitchen beyond the stairs.

‘This is Daisy,’ he said, introducing her to the sleepy and gentle black Labrador who ambled to her feet and came towards her, tail wagging, and while she said hello he put some milk to heat on the ancient range. She could feel its warmth, and if he hadn’t been standing beside it she would have gone over to it, leant on the rail on the front and let it thaw the ice that seemed to be encasing her. But he was there, so she just stood where she was and tried to hold it all together while Daisy nuzzled her hand and pressed against her.

‘Sit down and eat that sandwich before you keel over,’ he instructed firmly, and so she sat at the old pine table and ate, the dog leaning on her leg and watching her carefully in case she dropped a bit, while he melted chocolate and whisked milk and filled the mugs with more calories than she usually ate in a week.

She fed Daisy the crusts, making Sam tut gently, and then he took her through to another room where, even though it was April, there was a log fire blazing in the grate.

The fireplace was bracketed by a pair of battered leather sofas, homely and welcoming, and Daisy hopped up on one and snuggled down in the corner, so she sat on the other, and Sam threw another log on the fire, sat next to Daisy and propped his feet on the old pine box between the sofas, next to the tray of hot chocolate and scrumptious golden oat cookies, and lifted a brow.

‘So—I take it things didn’t go too well?’ he said as she settled back to take her first sip.

She gave a slightly strangled laugh and licked froth off her top lip. ‘You could say that,’ she agreed after a moment. ‘They were devastated, of course. Julia was wondering how much it would cost to get the other woman to give up James’ baby. When I told her there wasn’t one, she fell apart, and I went to pack up the annexe, and when I went back to tell them I was leaving, they were arguing. It seems Julia had talked James into signing the consent form for posthumous IVF while he was on morphine. They lied to him, told him it was what I wanted.’

He frowned, her words shocking him and dragging his mind back from the inappropriate fantasy he’d been plunged into when she’d licked her lip. ‘But surely you’d talked about it with him?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I only knew about it after he’d died. They’d told me he’d been desperate for me to have his child, but he couldn’t speak to me about it because he knew it would distress me to think about what I’d be doing after he was gone.’

Sam frowned again. ‘Did you think that was likely, that he wouldn’t have talked to you about something so significant?’

‘No. Not at all, and there was no mention of it in his diary. He put everything in his diary. But I was so shocked I just believed them, and it was there in black and white, giving his consent. And it was definitely his signature, for all that it was shaky. It never occurred to me that they’d coerced him—he was their son. They adored him. Why would they do that?’

Her voice cracked, and he felt a surge of anger on her behalf—and for James. The anger deepened. He hated duplicity, with good reason. ‘So they tricked you both?’ ‘It would seem so.’

‘And you’d never talked about it with James?’

She shook her head. ‘Not this aspect. The idea was to freeze some sperm so that if he survived and was left sterile by the treatment, we could still have children. Once we knew he wasn’t going to make it, nothing more was ever said. Until Julia broached it after the funeral.’

After the funeral? Surely not right after? Although looking at her, Sam had a sickening feeling it was what she meant. He leant back, cradling his hot chocolate and studying her bleak expression. She looked awful. Shocked and exhausted and utterly lost. She’d dragged a cushion onto her lap and was hugging it as she sipped her drink, and he wanted to take the cushion away and pull her onto his lap and hug her himself. And there was more froth on her lip—

Stupid. So, so stupid! This was complicated enough as it was and the last thing he needed was to get involved with a grieving widow. He didn’t do emotion—avoided it whenever possible. And she was carrying his child. That was emotion enough for him to cope with—too much. And anyway, it was just a misplaced sexual attraction. Usually pregnant women simply brought out the nurturer in him.

But not Emelia. Oh, no. There was just something about her, about the luscious ripeness of her body that did crazy things to his libido too. Because she was carrying his child? No. He’d felt like it when he’d hugged her in the car park at the clinic earlier today, before he’d known it was his baby. It was just that she was pregnant, he told himself, and conveniently ignored the fact that he’d felt this way about Emelia since the first time he’d seen her…

‘So what did they say when you told them you were leaving?’ he asked, getting back to the point in a hurry.

She shrugged. ‘Very little. I think to be honest I saved them the bother of asking me to go.’

‘So—if you hadn’t got hold of me, where were you going to stay tonight?’

She shrugged again, her slight shoulders lifting in another helpless little gesture that tugged at his heartstrings. ‘I have no idea. As I said, I didn’t really give it any thought, I just knew I had to get out. I’d have found somewhere. And I didn’t have any choice, so it doesn’t really matter, does it, where else I might have gone?’

Oddly, he discovered, it mattered to him. It mattered far more than was comfortable, but he told himself it was because she was Emily’s friend—and a vulnerable pregnant woman. That again. Of course that was all it was. Anybody would care about her, it was nothing to do with the fact that this delicate, fragile-looking woman, with the bruised look in her olive green eyes and a mouth that kept trying to firm itself to stop that little tremor, was swollen with his child. That was just a technicality. It had to be. He couldn’t allow it to be anything else—and he certainly wasn’t following up on the bizarre attraction he was feeling for her right this minute.

‘You’re done in,’ he said gruffly, getting to his feet. ‘Come on, I’ll show you to your room. We can talk tomorrow.’

He led her up the broad, easing-rising staircase with its graceful curved banister rail, across the landing and into a bedroom.

Not just any bedroom, though. It had silk curtains at the windows, a beautiful old rug on the floor, and a creampainted iron and brass bed straight out of her fantasies, piled high with pillows and looking so inviting she could have wept.

Well, she could have wept anyway, what with one thing and another, but the bed was just the last straw.

He put her case on a padded ottoman at the foot of the bed, and opened a door and showed her the bathroom on the other side.

‘It communicates with the room I’m using at the moment, but there’s a lock on each door. Just remember to undo it when you leave.’

‘I will.’

‘And if there’s anything you need, just yell. I won’t be far away.’

Not far at all, she thought, her eyes flicking to the bathroom door.

‘I’ll be fine. Thank you, Sam. For everything.’

He gave a curt nod and left her alone then, the door closing with a soft click, and she hugged her arms and stared at the room. It was beautiful, the furnishings expensive and yet welcoming. Not in the least intimidating, and as the sound of his footfalls died away, the peace of the countryside enveloped her.

She felt a sob rising in her throat and squashed it down. She wouldn’t cry. She couldn’t. She was going to be fine. It might take a little time, but she was going to be fine.

She washed, a little nervous of the Jack-and-Jill doors in the bathroom, then unlocked his side before she left, turning the key in her side of the door—which was ludicrous, because there was no key in the bedroom door and he was hardly going to come in and make a pass at her in her condition anyway.

She climbed into the lovely, lovely bed and snuggled down, enveloped by the cloud-like quilt and the softest pure cotton bedding she’d ever felt in her life, and turning out the light, she closed her eyes and waited. Fruitlessly.

She couldn’t sleep. Her mind was still whirling, her thoughts chaotic, her emotions in turmoil. After a while she heard his footsteps returning, and a sliver of light appeared under the bathroom door. She lay and watched it, heard water running, then the scrape of the lock on her door as he opened it, the click of the light switch as the sliver of light disappeared, and then silence.

How strange.

The father of her child was going to bed in the room next to hers, and she knew almost nothing about him except that he’d cared enough for his brother to offer him the gift of a child.

A gift that had been misdirected—lost in the post, so to speak. A gift that by default now seemed to be hers.

And now he was caring for her, keeping her safe, giving her time to decide what she should do next.

Something, obviously, but she had no idea what, and fear clawed at her throat. Her hand slid down over the baby, cradling it protectively as if to shield it from all the chaos that was to follow. What would become of them? Where would they go? How would she provide for them? And where would they live? Without Sam, she had no idea where she would have slept tonight, and she was grateful for the breathing space, but her problem wasn’t solved, by any means.

‘I love you, baby,’ she whispered. ‘It’ll be all right. You’ll see. I’ll take care of you, there’s nothing to be afraid of. We’ll find a way.’

A sob fought its way out of her chest, and another, and then, with her defences down and nothing left to hide behind, the tears began to fall.

He heard her crying, but there was nothing he could do.

She was grieving for the child she’d never have, the man she’d lost forever with this last devastating blow, and there was no place for him in that. All he could do was make sure she didn’t come to any harm.

He didn’t know how he could protect her, or what she’d let him offer in the way of protection.

His name?

His gut clenched at the thought and he backed away from it hastily.

Not that. Anything but that. He’d been there, done that, and it had been the most painful and humiliating mistake of his life. He couldn’t do it again, couldn’t offer the protection of his name to another pregnant woman. The first time had nearly shredded him alive and he had no intention of revisiting the situation.

But there was a vital difference. He knew this child was his. There was no escaping that fact, however shocking and unexpected, and he couldn’t walk away. Didn’t want to. Not from the child. He’d do the right thing, and somehow it would all work out. He’d make sure of it. But Emelia—hell, that was a whole different ball game. He’d have to help her, whatever it cost him, because he couldn’t see a pregnant woman suffer. It just wasn’t in him to do so. But his feelings for her were entirely inappropriate.

He nearly laughed. Inappropriate, to be attracted to a woman who was carrying his child? Under normal circumstances nobody would think twice about it, but these circumstances were anything but normal, and he couldn’t let himself be lured into this. It would be too easy to let himself fall for her, for the whole seductive and entrancing package.

Dangerously, terrifyingly easy, and he wasn’t going there again. Even if she would have had him.

So he lay there, tormented by the muffled sobs coming from her bedroom, wanting to go to her and yet knowing he couldn’t because she wasn’t crying for him, she was crying for James, and there was nothing he could do about that. And when finally the sobs died away, he turned onto his side, punched the pillow into shape and closed his eyes.

She must have slept.

Overslept, she realised as she struggled free of the sumptuous embrace of the bedding and sat up.

Sun was pouring through a chink in the curtains, and she slipped out of bed and padded over, parting them and looking out onto an absolutely glorious day. Everything was bathed in the warm and gentle sunshine of spring, and in the distance, past the once-formal knot garden on the terrace below with its straggling, overgrown little hedges, and past the sweeping lawn beyond, she could see gently rolling fields bordered by ancient hedgerows, and here and there a little stand of trees huddled together on a rise.

It was beautiful, in a rather run-down and delightfully bucolic way, and she wanted to explore it. Especially the walled garden over to her right, which drew her eyes now and lured her with the promise of long-forgotten gems hidden by years of neglect.

However it wasn’t hers to explore and she reminded herself she had other priorities, as if she needed reminding. She had nowhere to live, no clear idea of her future, and that had to come first. That, and food.

She was starving, her stomach rumbling, her body in mutiny after yesterday’s miserable diet of junk food and caffeine, and she bit her lip and wondered where Sam was and how she could find him, and if not, if it would be too rude to raid his fridge and find herself something to eat.

Clothes first, she told herself, and went into the bathroom, tapping on the door just in case. It was empty, but the bathmat was damp, and she realised she must have slept through his shower. She had no idea what the time was, but her stomach told her it was late, so she showered in record time, looked in her suitcase for a pretty jumper and some clean jeans with a really sexy stretch panel in the front to accommodate the baby—just the thing for reminding her of all the good reasons why it didn’t matter what she looked like—and then in a moment of self-preservation she dabbed concealer under her eyes, added a quick swipe of mascara and lip gloss and made her way down to the kitchen.

Daisy was there, thumping her tail against the cupboard doors in greeting, and as she straightened up from patting the dog she saw Sam lounging against the front of the range with a mug cradled in his large, capable hands.

His rather grubby hands, to go with the worn, sexy jeans and the battered rugby shirt. He looked light years from the suave and sophisticated man of yesterday—and even more attractive. He smiled at her, and her heart gave a little lurch of recognition.

‘Hi. How did you sleep?’ he asked, his voice a little gruff.

‘Well. Amazingly well. The bedding’s blissful.’ ‘It is good, isn’t it? I can’t stand rubbish bedding. Hungry?’

‘Mmm. Have you got anything healthy?’ His mouth twitched. ‘Such as?’ She shrugged. ‘Anything. Yesterday I had chocolate, cheese and caffeine!’

‘So—does healthy rule out local free-range eggs?’ ‘How local?’

‘Mine.’ Her eyes widened, and Sam laughed at her. ‘Everyone around here has chickens.’

‘There is no one round here,’ she pointed out, but he shook his head.

‘There are lots, and it’s only a mile or two to the village. I’ve got local home-cured bacon from pigs that grub around in the woods, sausages ditto, mushrooms, tomatoes—’

‘Whoa!’ she said, laughing now, and he felt his gut clench. ‘I said healthy!’

‘It is. The bread’s local, too, so’s the butter.’

‘You’re going to tell me next that you grow the coffee, and I’ll know you’re lying.’

He felt his mouth tilt into a grin. ‘The coffee’s Colombian. So—are you up for it? Frankly, as it’s three hours since I had breakfast, I’d happily join you and we can call it brunch, if it helps.’

She gave in. He watched it happen, saw the brief internal tussle and the moment she surrendered, her body relaxing as the fight went out of her and a smile bloomed on her lips, making his body clench.

‘Thank you. That would be lovely.’

Not nearly as lovely as you, he thought, his eyes feasting on her as she stooped again to talk to Daisy. Her hair, the colour of toffee, swung down across her face, and when she hooked it back behind her ear he could see that smile again.

God, she was gorgeous, and he had no business eyeing up a pregnant woman he’d given sanctuary to! Especially not one he was locked in a complicated relationship with for the next twenty-odd years. And anyway, she was still grieving, he reminded himself firmly. Definitely out of bounds.

He scrubbed the grease and dirt from the lawnmower off his hands, pulled out the frying pan, stuck it on the hot plate and started cooking.

‘Thank you. That was amazing.’

‘Good. You looked as if you needed it. And there were vegetables.’

‘Yeah—fried.’

‘Barely, in olive oil. And fats carry vitamins.’

‘Yes, Mum,’ she said teasingly, and he wondered if he could be arrested for his thoughts, because her smile was having a distinctly unplatonic effect on him. And that was a disaster, because he didn’t do this. Didn’t get involved with nice women. Any women. Especially ones who were carrying his child.

These days he only engaged in the kind of relationship where everyone knew the rules, where there were no expectations or hurt feelings.

No broken hearts, his or anyone else’s.

Been there, done that, he reminded himself, as if he needed reminding.

‘More coffee?’

‘No, thanks.’

He shoved the chair back and walked over to the stove, and Emelia watched him thoughtfully. Something had happened—some kind of sizzly, magnetic thing that left her feeling breathless and light-headed.

Hormones, she told herself sternly, and hauled her eyes off his jeans.

‘No, thanks, I’m fine,’ she answered, a little on the drag and sounding just as breathless as she felt. She cleared her throat silently and sighed as she realised she was staring at his shoulders now—those broad, solid shoulders that would feel so good to lean on—

No! No, no, no! He was being kind to her, it didn’t mean anything, and she had to keep this relationship firmly on track, because if he wanted to keep in touch with his child—and for its sake she desperately hoped he would—she’d be stuck with him for the next however many years.

‘Sam, I need to make some decisions,’ she said firmly, and he glanced at her over his shoulder. ‘About?’

‘Where I go next.’

He sat down again, mug in hand, and searched her eyes, his own expressionless. ‘There’s no hurry.’

‘Well, there is. I have to get settled somewhere and register with a doctor and a maternity unit for my antenatal care, and I need to find a house, and a job.’

‘Any ideas?’

She gave a brittle little laugh and wished she had. ‘Not one—but I can’t stay here indefinitely. I ought to make a few phone calls. My mother, for one—not that I can stay with her. She lives in Cheshire, in a tiny little cottage with my stepfather who wouldn’t take kindly to me rocking up with a baby on the horizon and shattering their peaceful existence. And anyway, I’m too old to go and live with my mother.’

Sam frowned slightly, his brow pleating as he studied the grain on the table top, tracing it with his finger. ‘Don’t rush into anything, Emelia. You can stay here as long as you need to. There are lots of things to consider, and maybe we should consider them together, under the circumstances.’

She felt her eyes fill, and looked away before he saw the tears gathering in them. ‘You’re right. We should be thinking about this together. I just hate imposing…’

‘You’re not imposing,’ he said flatly. ‘And you’re welcome.’

‘Am I?’

He frowned again and met her eyes, his thoughtful. ‘Yes,’ he said after too long a pause. ‘Yes, you are. The situation isn’t ideal, but we have to make it work, for the sake of the baby and our sanity. So, yes, Emelia. You’re welcome—you and the baby, for as long as you need.’

‘Thanks,’ she said gruffly, emotion welling up and threatening to suffocate her, and as if he realised that, he moved on.

‘So—do you have any ideas at all? Any thoughts, long or short term?’

She shook her head. ‘No. Well, plenty of thoughts, but no constructive ones. They talked about compensation, but I don’t know how much or when it’ll come through, so I’ll have to find a job in the meantime—supply teaching’s the obvious one. I can always do that.’

He frowned slightly. ‘You’re pregnant.’

‘Well, heavens, so I am. I hadn’t noticed.’ She rolled her eyes and he sighed softly.

‘Emelia, it will make it harder. When did you last teach? You’ll probably need a police check, and they take weeks. By the time it’s done you’ll be on maternity leave and it’ll be the summer holidays anyway. And the ordinary job market is a real scrum these days, never mind in your condition.’

She shut her eyes briefly. She really didn’t need him pointing this out to her, she was well aware of the paucity of her options.

‘It’s not a condition, Sam. I’m fit and strong. I can do anything. I’m only nineteen weeks pregnant. Lots of women work right up to the end if they have to.’

‘But you don’t, so you could just stay here and be sensible.’

She stared at him blankly. ‘What—till the compensation’s agreed? It could be weeks. Months, more likely.’

‘Even more reason. I’m sure we’ll all survive,’ he said drily.

She wasn’t. Not if he kept on wearing those jeans—no! She mustn’t think about them. About him. Not like that, it was crazy. She met his eyes. ‘Not without money—and before you say it, I can’t just sponge off you, Sam—and even if I could, what would I do all day?’ she argued, trying to be logical in the face of rising panic. ‘I can’t just sit about. How is that sensible? I’ve got over four months before the baby comes. I have to do something to earn my keep.’ Even if I am unemployable…

Sam scanned her face, saw the flicker of anxiety that she tried to mask, and knew before he opened his mouth that he’d regret this.

‘Can you cook?’

‘Cook? Why?’

He shrugged, regretting it already and backpedalling. ‘Just an idea. I thought you could pay your way by taking that over, if you really feel you have to, but it’s not very exciting. Forget it.’

Her brow pleated. ‘Cooking for you? A few minutes a day? No, you’re right, it’s not especially exciting and it’s not much of a deal for you, I’m a rubbish cook. And anyway, I’ve done a bit of supply teaching recently to stop me going crazy, so my police checks are up to date. Maybe I’ll contact the local education authority and ask them if I can go on the supply list. There must be schools around here. Maybe one of them needs some cover.’

She wouldn’t be underfoot. He felt relief like a physical wave—and as the wave ebbed, regret. Ridiculous. He was being ridiculous. He didn’t want her here.

But he wanted the baby. He’d said so, in as many words, yesterday, and she seemed to be taking it on board. And of course that meant she’d be around, and he’d have to live with the consequences—

‘Tell me about the garden,’ she said now, cutting through his troubling train of thought. ‘Who looks after it?’

He laughed, more than happy to change the subject for a minute. ‘Nobody. Couldn’t you tell by the weeds in the cattle grid?’

‘Have you tried to find someone?’

He shrugged. ‘There’s a lad from the village who’s done a bit. He helps from time to time when it gets too bad. And I cut the grass—hence the dirty hands. I had to rebuild the mower again this morning. I hit something.’

‘Something?’

He shrugged again. ‘A branch? Who knows. It was out in the wilds a bit, and I was cracking on, because it’s a heck of a task, even with a ride-on mower. There’s a lot of it.’

‘How much?’

He shrugged. ‘Fifteen acres? Not all cultivated,’ he added hastily as her eyes widened. ‘There’s the old knot garden on the terrace, the kitchen garden and the walled garden by the house. That’s my favourite—it opens off my study and the sitting room we were in last night, but it’s a real mess. And then there’s the laburnum walk and the crumbling old orangery which is way down the list, sadly. The rest is just parkland—or it used to be. None of it’s been managed for years and it’s all just run wild.’