The woman sitting opposite him—this very lovely, warm and gentle woman—was pregnant with his child.

Our child.

He looked away, his eyes carefully avoiding the smooth, pretty curve containing a bomb that was about to blow his life apart. His child was growing inside her body—a body he’d had to force himself to ignore on every one of the occasions they’d met in the past eighteen months. Very few occasions. Hardly any, really. Just enough for her to get right under his skin and haunt his dreams…

His eyes dropped to the gentle but unmistakable swell of their baby, and something elemental kicked him in the gut, just as it had when he’d held her.

Almost as if he’d known…

About the Author

CAROLINE ANDERSON has the mind of a butterfly. She’s been a nurse, a secretary, a teacher, run her own soft-furnishing business, and now she’s settled on writing. She says, “I was looking for that elusive something. I finally realised it was variety, and now I have it in abundance. Every book brings new horizons and new friends, and in between books I have learned to be a juggler. My teacher husband John and I have two beautiful and talented daughters, Sarah and Hannah, umpteen pets, and several acres of Suffolk that nature tries to reclaim every time we turn our backs!” Caroline also writes for the Mills & Boon® Medical™ romance series.

THE BABY SWAP
MIRACLE

CAROLINE ANDERSON

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

‘OH, STOP dithering and get it over with!’

Putting the car back in gear, Emelia turned into the IVF clinic car park and cut the engine. In the silence that followed, she could hear her heart pounding.

‘Stupid,’ she muttered. ‘It’s just an admin hiccup.’ Nothing to feel so ridiculously wound up about, but she was tempted to drive away again right now.

Except she couldn’t, because she couldn’t stand the suspense another minute. She just had to know.

She took the keys out of the ignition and reached for her handbag. The corner of the envelope stuck out, taunting her, and she stared at it for a second before getting out of the car. There was nothing to be gained by rereading the letter. She’d nearly worn the print off looking at it, but she wished she wasn’t on her own—

‘Emelia?’

‘Sam?’ Her heart stalled at the sound of his voice, and she spun round, not really believing it—but he was there, not a figment of her imagination but the real flesh and blood Sam Hunter, walking towards her with that long, lazy stride, in a suit she’d lay odds was handmade. She’d never seen him in a suit before. He’d usually worn jeans or casual trousers, but he looked good in it. More than good—he looked even more gorgeous than she’d remembered.

Broad shoulders, long lean legs, and those eyes—spectacular eyes the colour of slate, fringed with sinful black lashes. They had the ability to make her feel she was the sole object of his attention, the focus of his entire world, and as they locked with hers she felt a rush of emotion.

‘Oh, I’m so pleased to see you!’ she said fervently. ‘What on earth are you doing here? Not that I’m complaining! How are you?’

He smiled, those eyes crinkling, the tiny dimple in his lean, masculine cheek turning her legs to mush. ‘I’m fine, thanks. And you—you’re looking…’

‘Pregnant?’ she said wryly, as his eyes tracked over the lush, feminine curves that had grown even curvier, and Sam gave a little grunt of laughter and drew Emelia into his arms for a quick hug. Very quick, because the firm, round swell of her baby pressing against him sent a shockwave of longing through his system that took him completely by surprise. He let her go hastily and stepped back.

‘I was going to say amazing, but—yeah, that, too,’ he said, struggling to remember how to speak. ‘Congratulations.’

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, feeling a little guilty—which was silly, because it really wasn’t her fault that his brother’s wife still wasn’t pregnant when she was. ‘So—what are you doing here? I thought Emily and Andrew were taking some time out from all this?’

‘Yeah, they are. “Regrouping” was the word Andrew used.’

She scanned his face, really puzzled now; his smile was gone, and she felt her own fade as she read the troubled expression in his eyes. ‘So—why are you here, Sam?’ she asked, and then apologised, because it was none of her business. Only, without Emily and Andrew, the presence of their sperm donor was—well, unnecessary, frankly.

‘I’ve got an appointment to see the director,’ he said.

Hence the suit. Her heart thudded and she felt another prickle of unease. ‘Me, too. I was supposed to come this afternoon, but I couldn’t wait that long. Sam, what on earth do you think is going on? I phoned, but they were really cagey. All they’d tell me was that it’s an administrative anomaly and he’ll explain. What’s an administrative anomaly when it’s at home?’

He frowned, his dark brows drawing together, his firm, sculpted mouth pressing into an uncompromising line. ‘I have no idea,’ he said after a moment, ‘but I intend to find out. Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s trivial.’

‘So—what, then? Any ideas?’

He gave a quiet grunt. ‘Oh, plenty, but all without foundation. They’ve written to Emily and Andrew, as well, but of course they’re away for a few more days so they haven’t got it yet. And they wouldn’t tell me anything, either, but as you say, they were cagey. The only thing I can imagine is there’s been a mix-up.’

‘A mix-up?’

She stared at him for a moment, then felt the blood drain from her face. ‘This is really serious, isn’t it?’ she said unevenly. ‘Like that thing in the news a while ago about switched embryos. That was horrendous.’

‘Yes. I saw the media frenzy.’

‘I thought it must be a one-off, because it’s so tightly regulated, but—what if it’s happened here, Sam?’ she asked, her blood running cold. ‘There were only the two of us there that day, me and Emily. What if they mixed our embryos up? What if this is their baby?’ Her knees suddenly weak, she floundered to a halt as it sank in that the baby she’d thought of as hers and James’ might not be hers to keep.

Tears scalding her eyes, she pressed her fingers to her lips, her other hand going instinctively to shield the baby. No! She couldn’t hand it over to them—but if it wasn’t hers.

Sam studied her in concern, his eyes drawn to the slender hand splayed protectively over that gentle swell. Please, God, no, he thought. The other batch of embryos had all died before they could be implanted into Emily, but if Emelia was right, then they’d been hers, her last chance to have her late husband’s child, and when this baby was born, she’d have to hand it over to Emily and Andrew, and she’d be left with nothing. All the plans, all the joyful anticipation would be crushed with a few words.

It’s not your baby.

The memory scythed through Sam, and he slammed the door on it and watched as another tear spilled over her lashes and tracked down her face. Oh, Emelia.

He lifted his hands and smoothed the tears away with his thumbs, gutted for her. ‘It may not be that,’ he offered without conviction, his fingers gentle.

‘It must be,’ she said, her voice expressionless with shock. ‘What else could it be?’

What else, indeed. He dropped his hands and stepped back. ‘Come on, let’s find out,’ he said, impatient now to get this over with. ‘It might be something else entirely—something to do with the fees, perhaps.’

‘Then it would be the finance people dealing with it, not the director,’ she pointed out logically. ‘No, it’s something else, Sam. Something much worse. I think it must be the embryos.’

Her smoky green eyes were still glazed with tears, her lashes clumped, but she sucked in a breath and her chin came up, and he laid a hand on her shoulder and tried to smile. ‘Why don’t we find out?’ he said again, more gently, turning her towards the entrance, but she hesitated, and he could feel her trembling.

‘Sam, I can’t do this on my own.’ ‘Then I’ll come with you. They can’t stop me.’ He felt her hand grope for his, and he threaded his fingers through hers and gave a quick squeeze. ‘Ready?’ She nodded, tightening her grip. ‘OK. Let’s get some answers.’

She felt shocked.

Shocked and curiously light-headed.

She shook her head to clear it as Sam ushered her out of the building into the spring sunshine. Odd, it had been cloudy before, and now it was glorious. How ironic, when her world had been turned upside down.

‘So—what now?’ she asked, looking up at him for guidance and grateful for the feel of his hand, warm and supportive in the small of her back.

‘Well, I don’t know about you but I could do with a nice, strong coffee.’ He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. They were strangely expressionless, and she suddenly realised she didn’t know him at all. Didn’t know what he was thinking, how he was feeling—which under the circumstances wasn’t surprising, because she wasn’t sure what she was thinking, either.

She tried to smile back, but her lips felt stiff and uncooperative and her eyes were prickling. ‘Me, too. I haven’t had coffee for months but suddenly I feel the need.’

‘One car or two?’

‘Two. I’ll go straight on from there.’ And it would give her the next few minutes alone to draw breath. ‘The usual place?’

She nodded, and got into her car, following him on autopilot, curiously detached. It all seemed unreal, as if it was happening to someone else—until she felt the baby move, and then reality hit home and her eyes filled. ‘Oh, James, I’m sorry,’ she whispered brokenly. ‘I tried so hard for you. I really tried.’

She felt something thin and fragile tear inside her, the last tenuous link to the man she’d loved with all her heart, and she closed her eyes briefly as she pulled up beside Sam, giving her grief a moment. It was a gentle grief, a quiet sorrow now, and it was her constant companion. She was used to it.

‘OK?’

Was she? Probably not, but she smiled up at Sam and got out of the car and let him usher her in. They’d gone, as usual, to the riverfront café they’d all frequented in the past. Before, she’d always had fruit tea. This time, settling into a chair opposite Sam, she had a frothy mocha with a chocolate flake to dunk, and a sticky Danish pastry, also laced with chocolate.

Comfort food.

And, boy, did she need it. Those few minutes in the car had given her breathing space but they’d done nothing to change the truth. A truth neither of them had come up with. A truth that changed everything.

She looked up and met his impenetrable slate-blue gaze, and wondered if her child would inherit those exquisite and remarkable eyes.

It was a different sort of mix-up entirely, something that had never crossed Sam’s mind.

Something that should never have happened, an accident which he’d always taken positive steps to avoid in his personal life for very good reasons, and which he’d trusted the clinic to be equally careful of, but it seemed they’d failed, because this woman sitting opposite him—this very lovely, warm and gentle woman—was pregnant with his child, and she wasn’t going to be handing it over to Emily and Andrew, as he’d feared, because it wasn’t Emily’s baby. It was Emelia’s. And his.

Our child.

He looked away, his eyes carefully avoiding the smooth, pretty curve containing a bomb that was about to blow his life apart. His child was growing inside her body—a body he’d had to force himself to ignore on every one of the occasions they’d met in the past eighteen months. Very few occasions. Hardly any, really. Just enough for her to get right under his skin and haunt his dreams…

His eyes dropped to the gentle but unmistakeable swell of their baby, and something elemental kicked him in the gut, just as it had when he’d held her. Almost as if he’d known—

Damn. He couldn’t do this. Not again. And it wasn’t how it was meant to be. It was supposed to be quick and clean and straightforward. His brother couldn’t have children. This had been something he could do, a way to give them a desperately wanted child which he could legitimately love at a distance and have no further responsibility towards except in the role of uncle.

Tidy. Clean. Simple.

Yeah, right.

And then this. Some administrative anomaly that had totally changed all the rules.

He yanked his eyes away from the evidence and put his own feelings aside for now. He’d deal with them later, alone. For now he had to think of her, the woman carrying not her husband’s child, but the child of a comparative stranger. And that wasn’t going to be any easier for her than it was for him, he realised. Probably a damn sight harder. They said it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, but to lose twice? Because she was losing James again, in a way, her dream replaced with a living nightmare, and that was just downright cruel.

He met her eyes, the muted green smudged slightly with tears of pain and bewilderment, and his heart ached for her. ‘I’m so sorry, Emelia.’

‘Don’t be,’ she said softly. ‘It’s not your fault.’

His voice was gruff. ‘I know, but—thinking it had worked, thinking all this time you were having his baby, and then to be told it isn’t—you must be just gutted.’

She felt the familiar grief amongst this new rash of emotions, but also guilt, because the man who was the father of her child was sitting opposite her and even now, with the shock of this revelation, she realised she was aware of him with every cell of her body, as she’d been aware of him every time they’d met.

She tried to speak logically, to find something sensible to say to this man when James seemed so long ago and all she could think about now was Sam’s baby growing inside her womb—

Stick to the facts!

‘Sam, really, it’s OK,’ she said eventually. ‘I never really expected it to work. The sperm quality wasn’t good, James and I knew that from the beginning. It was always going to be a long shot if we tried it, and I know it sounds stupid but I was astonished when I found I was pregnant because I never really expected it to happen, so in many ways maybe it’s for the best.’

‘The best?’

Not from where he was looking at it, but maybe she had a different perspective altogether. She shrugged, her slender shoulders lifting in a gesture almost of defeat, and he had a crazy urge to gather her up in his arms and tell her it was all right, she didn’t have to be brave, it was OK to be angry and sad and confused. But then she spoke, and it seemed she wasn’t being brave at all, she was being honest.

‘It’s been harder than I thought. My in-laws were starting to suffocate me. They were completely taking over, as if it was their baby,’ she told him, realising in surprise that, despite the sadness she felt that she wasn’t carrying his child, for the first time since James’ death she felt free.

Free of the suffocating and controlling interference of Julia and Brian, free of the obligation to share her life with them for the sake of their grandchild. She hadn’t realised how much she’d started to resent it, but now, it was as if someone had opened the windows on a hot summer’s day and let in a blast of cool, refreshing air.

But the air had a chill in it, she realised as her emotions see-sawed and righted, and it dawned on her, that instead of her in-laws, she’d be linked to this man, this stranger—this charming, handsome, virile stranger with the unsmiling mouth and stormy eyes—for the next twenty years or more. The feeling of relief was short-lived, and was rapidly being replaced by some very confusing emotions.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly. ‘It must have been very difficult for you from the beginning, this whole process. Emily said you were struggling with all the emotional stuff.’

‘I was—and of course I’m sad, but maybe it’s time to let go—and anyway, it’s not just me, is it? What about Em and Andrew?’ she said, not allowing herself to think about Sam yet, thinking instead of her friends, because it was easier. Safer. ‘I’m gutted for them, because it could so easily have worked this time and the treatment’s so physically and mentally gruelling. To think they’ll have to go through it again.’ She fell silent for a moment. Poor Em. Poor all of them.

‘I’m not sure they’ll want to try again,’ Sam said after a thoughtful pause. And thinking about it, he wasn’t sure he could help them. He’d found it harder with each cycle, been more reluctant the more time he’d had to think about it, and now—

‘It’s such a mix-up,’ she said, sifting through the clinic director’s words and trying to make some sense of them.

‘Tell me about it,’ he said tautly, prodding his black coffee with a teaspoon and scowling at it.

He looked frustrated and unhappy, and she could understand that. She’d forgotten much of the conversation, the clinic director’s words wiped from her memory by the shock of his revelation, but she remembered the gist of it, and as she trawled through it again in her head she was just as bewildered as she’d been during their meeting.

‘I still can’t really see how it could have happened,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘They seemed absolutely certain about what went wrong—certain enough to check the DNA of the remaining frozen embryos—which means that everything was properly documented, so why wasn’t it picked up at the time? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘Because the embryologist was so distracted she didn’t even realise she’d made a mistake. She was clearly not fit to be at work and didn’t pay sufficient attention to detail, hence the confusion between your names.’

‘What—Eastwood and Hunter? I don’t think so.’

‘But Emelia and Emily? They’re quite similar if you’re not concentrating, and she’d missed off your surnames, and spelt your name with an “i” in the middle, which just made it worse. And it was only when the new embryologist sorted out the backlog of paperwork that the inconsistent reference numbers alerted her. Did you miss that bit?’

‘I must have done,’ she said slowly. ‘I wasn’t really listening, to be honest, after he’d told us what had happened, but if she left off our surnames it makes a mix-up more understandable, I suppose.’

‘Absolutely, but it’s no justification,’ he said flatly, dropping the teaspoon back into his saucer and leaning back. ‘It’s just attention to detail. It’s critical in a job like that. If you’re incompetent, for whatever reason, then you shouldn’t be working there. It’s inexcusable. They’ve created a child that should never have existed, put both of us in an untenable situation, and no amount of compensation can atone for that.’

There was a hint of steel in his voice, and she realised he was more than frustrated and unhappy, he was angry. Furiously angry. Because he didn’t want some random woman having his child? Reasonable, under the circumstances. She’d feel the same in his shoes. But the embryologist—

‘Don’t be too hard on her,’ she murmured. ‘She’d just learned her husband was dying. I know how that feels.’

Something flickered in his eyes, and he nodded briefly. ‘Sorry. Of course you do. I didn’t mean to sound harsh, and it was the clinic managers who were at fault. They should have given her compassionate leave or someone to work with to keep a quiet eye on what she was doing, not just left it to chance. But that doesn’t alter what’s happened to you and the situation you’ve been left in.’

And him, of course. She wasn’t the only one who was affected, but she was the only one who couldn’t walk away—the only one in what he’d called an untenable situation. And he looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world but here, so she owed him that chance.

‘Sam, this needn’t make any difference to you,’ she said carefully. ‘I’m not asking you to sign up to any kind of responsibility for the baby—’

He gave a hollow grunt of laughter and drained his coffee.

‘Emelia, I signed up to give my brother a child. A child who’d be brought up by a loving, devoted couple. A child who’d have not only a mother, but a father. I didn’t sign up to be a sperm donor, to hand over my genetic material to a stranger and take no further part in my child’s life. That was never on the agenda and it’s not something I’d ever do, but that’s not the point now. The point is you’re having my baby, and I won’t walk away from that. From either of you.’

A muscle worked in his jaw and she swallowed. Was that what she wanted for her child? A dutiful, angry father stomping about in their lives? She wasn’t sure. She didn’t know him—and he was right, he didn’t know her. Time to change that, maybe.

‘I’m not that strange,’ she said, trying for a smile, and he laughed again, but his voice was gentler this time.

‘No. No, you’re not that strange, but you are alone, and you didn’t sign up for this either, Emelia. You were supposed to be having your late husband’s baby, with the support of his parents. Now, there’s no possibility of that ever happening, and you’re pregnant with a stranger’s child—a stranger who’s very much alive and involved with this, and I can’t imagine how you feel about it. About any of it. Or how your in-laws will feel, come to that.’

Good question. How did she feel? She didn’t know yet. It was far too complicated and she needed time to sift though it and come to terms with it before she could share it with Sam. Her in-laws were another question altogether, and she had a fair idea how they would feel.

‘It’s going to be horrendous breaking it to them. They’ve grown so used to the idea that this was James’ baby, and they keep feeling my bump, Julia especially. Really, you’d think it was hers the way she just assumes she can touch me.’

He felt a stab of regret, because he’d wanted to ask if he could feel it, felt a crazy need to lay his hands on the beautiful, smooth curve that held his child, but of course he couldn’t. It was far too intrusive and he had no right to touch her. No rights over her at all. Lord, what a crazy situation.

‘So what do you do? When she does that?’

‘I let her. What can I do? She smiles this proud, secret little smile, as if it’s all her doing, and she’s constantly buying things—the nursery’s so full I can hardly get in there.’

‘And they’re all things for James’ baby, not mine,’ he murmured, realising that this mix-up was going to have a devastating effect on so many people.

She nodded.

‘That’s right. And they need to know.’

She swallowed. She couldn’t put this off any longer, and she needed time alone to think. Sam sitting there simmering with anger and some other emotion she couldn’t get a handle on wasn’t helping at all. ‘I ought to get back and tell them.’

‘Do you want me to come?’

She stared at him, wishing he could, knowing he couldn’t, and he realised that, obviously, because he went on hastily, ‘No, of course you don’t. Sorry. You have to tell them alone, I can see that, but we need to talk sometime, Emelia. This won’t go away.’

She nodded. ‘I know—but not yet. I need time for it to sink in, Sam. Give me a while. Let me tell them, try and explain, and let me think about my options, because this changes everything. My whole future.’

Sam searched her soft, wounded eyes. She was being so brave about it, but what if it wasn’t what she wanted? What if, when she’d considered her options—?

‘If you don’t want to go through with this, if you want to take the clinic up on their offer—it’s your decision,’ he said brusquely, a painful twisting in his gut as he said the words—words that could end his child’s life. Words he’d had to say, even though they went deeply against his every instinct.

Her eyes widened, her hand flying down to cover the little bump that he so wanted to lay his hands against, and she stood up abruptly.

‘No way. This is my baby, Sam,’ she said flatly. ‘I haven’t asked you to get involved in its life, and I don’t expect you to if you don’t want to, but there’s no way I’m taking them up on their “offer”, as you so delicately put it. I’ll have it, and I’ll love it, and nothing and nobody will get in the way of that. And if you don’t like it, then sue me.’

And lifting her chin, she scooped up her keys, grabbed her bag off the other chair and walked swiftly out of the café, leaving him sitting there staring after her. The relief left him weak at the knees, and it took him a second, but then he snapped his mouth shut, got up and strode after her.

‘Wait!’ he said, yanking open her car door before she could drive off. ‘Emelia, that’s not what I was trying to say. I just thought—’

‘Well, you thought wrong,’ she retorted, and grabbed the door handle.

He held the door firmly and ignored her little growl of frustration. ‘No. I thought—hoped—you’d react exactly as you did, but you needed to know that you have my support whatever course of action you decide to take. This thing is massive. It’s going to change the whole course of your life, and that’s not trivial. You have to be certain you can do this. That’s all I was saying—that it’s your call, and for what it’s worth, I think you’ve made the right one, but it’s down to you.’

He thrust a business card into her hand. ‘Here. My contact details. Call me, Emelia. Please. Talk to me. If there’s anything you need, anything I can do, just ask. If you really are going to keep the baby—’

‘I am. I meant everything I said. But don’t worry, Sam, I don’t need anything from you. You’re off the hook.’

Never. Not in his lifetime. He hung on to the door. ‘Promise me you’ll call me when you’ve spoken to them.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged, reluctant to let her go like this when she was so upset. Concerned for her. Nothing more, he told himself. Just concerned for her and the child. His child. His heart twisted. ‘Because you need a friend?’ he suggested warily. ‘Someone who understands?’

Her eyes searched his for the longest moment, and then without a word she slammed the door and drove away.

He watched her go, swore softly, then got into his car and followed her out of the car park. She’d turned left. He hesitated for a moment, then turned right and headed home, to start working out how to fill his brother in on this latest development in the tragic saga of their childless state.

Better that than trying to analyse his own reaction to the news that a woman he found altogether too disturbingly attractive was carrying his child—a child he’d never meant to have, created by accident—that would link him to Emelia forever…

‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

‘Well, before you do, come and see what Brian’s doing in the nursery,’ her mother-in-law said, her face beaming as she grabbed Emelia’s hand and led her through the door.

Why not? she thought bleakly. Why not do it there, amongst all the things gathered together to welcome their new grandchild? The child they’d thought they might never have.

The child they never would have. Not now. Not ever.

She sucked in a breath and stood there in the expectant silence, aware of their eyes on her face, their suppressed excitement as they eagerly awaited her reaction. And then she looked at the room.

He’d painted a frieze, she realised. Trains and teddies and alphabet letters, all round the middle of the walls. A little bit crooked, a little bit smudged, but painted with love. Stupidly, it made her want to cry.

She swallowed hard and looked away. Oh, this was so hard—too hard. ‘I had a letter—from the clinic director,’ she said bluntly, before she chickened out. ‘I had to go to there and talk to him. There’s a problem.’

‘A problem? What kind of problem? We paid their last bill, Brian, didn’t we? We’ve paid everything—’

‘It’s not the money. It’s about the baby, Julia.’

Her mother-in-law’s face was suddenly slack with shock, and Emelia looked around and realised she couldn’t do this here, in this room, with the lovingly painted little frieze still drying on the walls. ‘I need a cup of tea,’ she said, and headed for the big family kitchen, knowing they’d follow. She put the kettle on—such a cliché, having a cup of tea, but somehow a necessary part of the ritual of grief—and then sat down, pushing the cups towards them.

They sat facing her, at the table where James had sat as a boy, where they’d all sat together so many times, where they’d cried together on the day he’d died, and they waited, the tea forgotten, their faces taut with fear as she groped for the words. But there was no kind way to do this, nothing that was going to make it go away.

‘There was a mix-up,’ she said quietly, her heart pounding as she yanked the rug out from under them as gently as possible. ‘In the lab at the clinic. They fertilised the eggs with the wrong sperm.’

Julia Eastwood’s hand flew up over her mouth. ‘So—that’s another woman’s baby?’ she said after a shocked pause.

Oh, dear. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s my baby.’ And then, because there was no other way to say it, she added gently, ‘It’s not James’ baby, though. It’s someone else’s.’

‘So—where’s his baby?’ she demanded, her voice rising hysterically. ‘Has some other woman got his baby? She’ll have to give it back—Brian, she’ll have to, we can’t have this—’

‘Julia, there is no baby,’ she said, trying to firm her voice. ‘The embryos all died before they could be implanted.’

She let that sink in for a moment, watched Brian’s eyes fill with tears before he closed them, watched Julia’s face spasm as the realisation hit home. The wail of grief, when it came, was the same as when James had taken his last breath. It was as if she’d lost him all over again, and Emelia supposed that, in a way, she had.

She reached out and squeezed the woman’s hand. ‘Julia, I’m so sorry.’

She didn’t react, except to turn into Brian’s waiting arms and fall apart, and Emelia left them to their grief. There was nothing she could add that would make it any better and she just wanted to get out before she drowned in their emotion.

She was superfluous here, redundant, and it dawned on her that their only thought had been for the baby. Not once in that conversation had either of them expressed any concern about her, about how she might feel, about where she would go from here.

Not surprising, really, but it was a very good point. Where would she go? What would she do? She could hardly carry on living here, in the annexe they’d created when James was ill—the annexe where he’d lost his fight for life and which after his death, with the IVF conversation under their belts, they’d told her she should think of as her home.

But not when she was carrying another man’s child.

So she packed some things. Not the baby’s. As Sam had said, they belonged to a child who never was, and they would no doubt be dealt with in the fullness of time. She closed the door without looking at the little frieze in case it made her cry again, and put a few changes of clothes in a bag, enough for a week, perhaps, to give her time to think, although with very little to her name she wasn’t quite sure where she’d go. She just knew she had to, that staying, even one more night, simply wasn’t an option.

She put her case in the car, then went through all the contents of the annexe, piling the things that were hers alone into one end of the wardrobe so they could be packed and delivered to her wherever she ended up, but leaving James’ things there, lifting them one at a time to her lips, saying goodbye for the final time.

His watch. His wedding ring. The fountain pen she’d given him for his birthday so he could write the diary of his last months.

She stroked her fingers gently over the cover of the diary. She didn’t need to take it, she knew every word by heart. Julia needed it more than she did. She touched it one last time and walked away.

Leaving the bedroom, she went into the kitchen and turned out the fridge, staring helplessly at half a bottle of milk and an opened bag of salad.

There was no point in taking it, but it seemed silly to throw it out, so she put it back with the cheese and the tomatoes—and then got them all out again and made herself a sandwich. It was mid-afternoon and she’d eaten nothing since she’d left Sam, but she couldn’t face it now. She drank the milk, because she hadn’t touched her cup of tea, and then put the sandwich in the car with her case for later, had one last visual sweep of the annexe and then she went to say goodbye.

They were in the kitchen, where she’d left them, as if she’d only been gone five minutes instead of two or three hours. She could hear raised voices as she approached, snatches of distressed conversation that halted her in her tracks.

Julia said something she didn’t quite catch, then Brian said, quite clearly, ‘If I’d had the slightest idea of all the pain it would cause, I never would have allowed you to talk him into signing that consent.’

‘I couldn’t bear to lose him, Brian! You have to understand—’

‘But you had lost him, Julia. You’d lost him already. He hardly knew what he was signing—’

‘He did!’

‘No! He was out of his head with the morphine, and telling him she was desperate to have his child—it was just a lie.’

‘But you went along with it! You never said anything—’

‘Because I wanted it, too, but it was wrong, Julia—so wrong. And now…’

Her thoughts in free-fall, Emelia stepped into the room and cleared her throat, and they stopped abruptly, swivel-ling to stare at her as she fought down the sudden surge of anger that would help no one. She wanted to tackle them, to ask them to explain, but she wasn’t sure she could hold it together and she just wanted to get out.

Now.

‘I’m leaving,’ she said without emotion. ‘I’ve put all my things in the end of the wardrobe. I’ll get them collected when I know where I’ll be. I’ve left all James’ things here for you. I know you’ll want them. I haven’t touched the nursery.’

‘But—what about all the baby’s things? What will we do with them?’ Julia said, and then started to cry again.

Brian put his arms round her and gave Emelia a fleeting, slightly awkward smile over the top of Julia’s head. ‘Goodbye, Emelia. And good luck,’ he said.

So much for ‘think of it as your home’, she thought bitterly as she dropped the keys for it on the table. That hadn’t lasted long once she was no further use to them. She nodded and walked away before she lost it and asked what on earth he’d meant about Julia talking James into signing the consent—for posthumous use of his sperm, presumably, to make the baby they’d told her he’d apparently so desperately wanted her to have.

Really? So why hadn’t he said anything? Why hadn’t he ever, in all the conversations they’d had about the future, said that he wanted her to have his child after his death? Asked how she felt? Because he would have done. They’d talked about everything, but never that, and it was only now, with it all falling apart around her ears, that she saw the light.

And they’d told him—had the nerve to tell him!—that she was the one who so desperately wanted a baby? Nothing had been further from her mind at that point, but they’d got her, still reeling with grief on the day after the funeral, and talked her into it.

And she was furious. Deeply, utterly furious with them for lying to her, but even more so because it seemed they’d bullied James when he was so weak and vulnerable, in the last few days or hours of his life.

Bullied their own son so they could have his child and keep a little part of him alive.

She sucked in a sobbing breath. She’d been through hell for this, to have the child he’d apparently wanted so badly, and it had all been a lie. And the hell, for all of them, was still not over. It was just a different kind of hell.

She scrubbed the bitter, angry tears away and headed out of town, with no clear idea of where she was going and what she was going to do, just knowing she had barely a hundred pounds in her bank account, no job and nowhere to stay, and her prospects of getting some money fast to tide her over were frankly appalling.

Her only thought was to get away, as far and as fast as she could, but even in the midst of all the turmoil, she realised she couldn’t just drive aimlessly forever.

‘Oh, rats,’ she said, her voice breaking, and pulling off the road into a layby, she leant back against the head restraint and closed her eyes. She wouldn’t cry. She really, really wouldn’t cry. Not again. Not any more. She’d cried oceans in the past three years since she’d known James was dying, and it was time to move on.

But where? It would be dusk soon, the night looming, and she had nowhere to stay. Could she sleep in the car? Hardly. It was only April, and she’d freeze. Her old friends in Bristol and Cheshire were too far away, and she’d lost touch with most of them anyway since James had been ill and they’d moved back to Essex. The only person who would understand was Emily, and she and Andrew were away and in any case the last people in the world she could really turn to. It just wouldn’t be fair.

But Sam was there.

Sam, who’d as good as told her to get rid of the baby.

No. He hadn’t, she thought, trying to be fair. She’d thought he meant that, but he hadn’t, not that way. He’d come after her, offered his unconditional support, whatever her decision. Said he thought she’d made the right one.

If there’s anything you need, anything I can do, just ask… Promise me you’ll call me… You need a friend—someone who understands.

And he’d given her his card.

She looked down and there it was in the middle, a little white rectangle of card lying in the heap of sweet wrappers and loose change just in front of the gear lever where she’d dropped it. She pulled it out, keyed in the number and reluctantly pressed the call button.

CHAPTER TWO

‘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.’

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