The Baby Swap Miracle

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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