Baby's On The Way!: Bound by a Baby Bump / Expecting the Prince's Baby / The Pregnant Witness

She concentrated hard on the page; going over and over one word with her pen until he feared the paper would dissolve. But she didn’t argue with him. The best he could hope for, for now, he supposed.

‘Okay, so that’s the appointments sorted for now. What next?’

‘I want to have the baby in London.’

‘Makes sense, considering you live there.’

‘So you’ll have to make arrangements to be up there, if you want to be around when it happens.’ He nodded, able to see the logic in that. He waited, wondering whether she’d want him to make some more definite plans, but she seemed happy—or at least reluctantly willing—to leave it at that for now. Though he did notice the way her pen ripped through the paper slightly as she wrote the next word.

‘Fine.’

‘Seems to me like we can’t really decide anything to do with dates until you’ve seen a doctor, though,’ Leo said. ‘So how about we leave that for now and move on to another part of the plan? What else is on your list that needs deciding now?’

When she didn’t reply, he looked up from where his eyes had been following her pen scoring into the paper, to find her sitting with her mouth open and a hesitant look on her face. ‘What?’

‘You’re right. We don’t need to decide everything now.’ She started to close the notebook, but Leo reached out and laid a hand across the page, trying not to notice the way that his skin tingled when it accidentally brushed against hers.

‘Something’s worrying you. Why don’t you tell me what it is?’ He tried to catch her eye, but she seemed determined not to meet his gaze. An alarm bell, deep in his belly, started ringing. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘It’s not a problem. It’s just—ʼ she took a deep breath and spat the words out ‘—I had all this worked out with scenarios, and different options and choices, and now that I’m sitting here at your kitchen table it feels weird.’

‘What? Now that I’m a real person and not just an item in your schedule? Now that I get a say?’

She nodded. ‘I am sorry. For turning up with it all finished and ready to present to you. I didn’t mean to cut you out, to tell you this is the way it has to be. I just had to see for myself how I was going to make this work. And the only way to do that was to work it all out and write it down. I can see how it must have looked, as if I was dictating the whole of the rest of your life to you. But I didn’t mean it that way.’

Her honesty eased that little knot of tension from his stomach, and he couldn’t tell her how grateful he was for this acknowledgement that maybe she didn’t have it all worked out after all. Funnily, her apology for creating the schedule in the first place made him want to help her with a replacement more than ever; he wanted to do whatever it took to make this work for them, even if it felt like seeing Exit signs being ripped down in front of him. Because what was an escape to him now? Sure, he could run. He could get far away from Rachel, throw money at the situation to keep the lawyers happy and have nothing to do with this woman and her child ever again. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

And just like that his relaxed feeling was gone. He sat a little straighter in his chair, the tension in his neck and shoulders not allowing him to lounge. There was no escape now. Nothing for it but to plough on, into whatever it was his life held for him. He couldn’t escape the facts: he was going to be a father. This woman, her plans and her notebooks, would be in his life for ever.

But not every part of his life. Rachel’s presence had become an accepted fact between that Italian lunch and her turning up here. But just because he had her in his life, didn’t mean he couldn’t keep parts of it for himself. Keep part of himself safe. So she would be the mother of his child. He couldn’t change that. But that was all she would be. He would stop these daydreams and night-time fantasies about that night. Forget the feel and taste of her lips and skin. He wouldn’t fall into a relationship with her just because she was carrying his child.

‘Let’s just get this over with,’ he said, forcing out the words. ‘We have to talk about it some time, and we’re both here now. What else did you have written down before?’

‘Well...there was one part of the plan I had trouble with,’ she admitted. ‘Without knowing your financial position it was difficult to be accurate, so I came up with a number of different scenarios.’

‘You should know, I’m not as well off as you might think.’ He wasn’t sure why he just threw the words out like that. Best defence perhaps, hoping to scare her off. Instead, he could see from her scowl that he’d offended her. He cursed under his breath. How could they misstep at every turn?

‘And how would you know what I think about your financial position?’

‘Well, we met at a fundraiser where the tickets cost two hundred quid a plate. It would be reasonable on your part to assume that I was loaded. I’m not,’ he added, watching her carefully to see her reaction. She didn’t even look surprised, never mind disappointed.

‘If you remember, I thought you were crashing. So the price of the ticket is neither here nor there.’

She was impossible to second-guess this morning, Leo realised. But nothing he’d seen so far screamed gold-digger. He was cautious of money, and those who wanted it. And he had every reason to be. He’d grown up surrounded by it, rich and miserable. When he’d turned twenty-one, and for the first time could decide for himself how much of the family money he wanted to use, he’d decided the answer was ‘none of it’.

He’d been selling his artwork since school, and when he’d left had set up a website and taken a few commissions, still trying to decide what he wanted to do with his life. When the paperwork had come through authorising his access to his trust fund, he’d decided once and for all that he didn’t want a penny of it for himself. So he’d set up donations to charities, funded a few local projects he was interested in, and left the remainder in the bank, waiting until he could decide the best place to send it.

He’d saved almost every penny he’d earned, and as the commissions for his work increased, so did the nest egg he was building up. He’d wanted to buy a home, somewhere completely his, where he could feel safe. All he could afford was this wreck, a shell of a place when they’d exchanged the contracts, but it was his, and he loved it. He worked the renovations around his commissions, and the time that he spent in his studio, so progress had been slow, but he had relished every minute of the work.

His art had gained a reputation now, and it had been a long time since he’d had to worry where that month’s mortgage payment would come from. And he could certainly support a child.

But he wouldn’t see his son or daughter grow up with the sense of entitlement—to money, to people, to anything they wanted—that he’d seen from the boys at school.

‘I’m not loaded, and I can’t give you a specific figure right now,’ he said eventually. ‘I pretty much just turn everything over to my accountant and let him worry about it. But I’ll do my bit, I can promise you that.’

* * *

Rachel reached down and pulled off her flip-flops; she threaded her fingers through the straps as she walked along the beach, swinging her arms and enjoying the feel of the sand between her toes. Well, Leo didn’t seem to be in any hurry for her to see whatever he wanted to show her, she thought, as they ambled down across the sand. The tide was out, and the beach stretched before her, flat and vast. A dark stripe of seaweed bisected the view, and as they grew closer she detected its smell—raw, salty, and not entirely pleasant. She couldn’t help but notice that Leo seemed to be getting more interested the closer they got. His eyes scanned the beach.

‘Looking for something?’

‘For anything,’ he corrected, though Rachel wasn’t any the wiser for this clarification.

‘Looking for anything.’ She spoke seriously and nodded as if this made perfect sense to her.

‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

Leo grabbed her hand and towed her the last few yards across the sand, dragging her, as far as she could tell, to the largest pile of stinking seaweed.

‘Ah, now I understand,’ she lied, looking down and laughing, still completely clueless about what they were doing here. She could hardly be expected to play detective when her hand was trapped in his. When her every nerve ending and neuron seemed intent on those few square inches of skin where their bodies were joined. ‘You love the seaweed. You think a city girl like me will be impressed by its...pungency?’

He laughed. ‘Exactly. I brought you all the way down to the coast to enjoy the finest seaweed this country has to offer. No, don’t be daft.’ He threw her another smile, and gestured to the stinking pile with their joined hands. ‘Let’s get stuck in.’ Abruptly, he dropped her hand and to his knees, before picking up a huge handful of the slimy green fronds and throwing it to one side.

She let out a bark of laughter, unable to hide her amusement at this grown man’s pleasure at rooting through rubbish. ‘And what exactly are we looking for?’ She crossed her legs and dropped beside him, gingerly picking through the nearest weeds.

‘Whatever the sea has sent us.’

She sat with the idea for a moment, trying to see if she could leave that statement as it was. If she could accept it. Nope.

‘You’re sure you’re not looking for something in particular.’

‘I’m sure. I’ve found all sorts down here. You never know what will turn up.’ He looked up and his gaze met hers. When he saw that she still didn’t understand, he rocked back on his heels. ‘If it helps you to have a bit more of a plan, look out for driftwood. Something big, rubbed smooth by the sea.’

She frowned a little. His answer had taken her by surprise, and she didn’t like the feeling. ‘What do you want it for?’

‘To make something beautiful. Something for the house, or something to sell. I’ve found all sorts out here,’ he went on—he must have seen she wasn’t yet convinced. ‘Jewellery, pottery, beautiful rocks and shells. Just have a dig around.’

Sitting on the sand, she couldn’t do more than pick through the pile directly in front of her, so she clambered up onto her knees, getting used to the feel of the weeds slipping through her fingers. She snuck a glance at Leo from the corner of her eye, still trying to see where this exercise was leading. As if there was some part of him that was a complete mystery to her. He was wandering along the line of debris, kicking it with his toes at times. Unable to see anything but weeds and the odd carrier bag, she decided to catch him up.

‘Any luck?’ he asked as she reached him.

‘Not—’ She started to speak but then a glint of something on the sand caught her eye. She dropped to a squat on her heels like a toddler and carefully pulled the glass out from under the detritus. As she cleaned it off, an antique bottle emerged in her hand. She stared at it, taken aback by the appearance of this beautiful object. Leo came to stand behind her and peered at the bottle over her shoulder.

‘Very nice.’ He reached out to take it. ‘May I?’

She handed it over and he turned it in his hands, brushing off a little more sand and scrutinising the lettering.

‘It’s been in the water a long time, I think,’ she said, just making out the figures ‘1909’ on one side. She took it back from Leo and tested its weight in her hands. ‘No message, though.’ She peered into the neck, wondering if it had once carried a slip of paper.

Energised by her find, hitting gold her first time beachcombing, she started walking again, stopping often to pull aside some stone or vegetation, offering up shells and rocks for Leo’s admiration.

Before long, she had pockets full of pretty shells, and her bottle tucked safely under her arm. She could feel the waves and the sand working their magic on her and Leo, as an easy chemistry and camaraderie grew between them. ‘Do you find a lot of stuff out here?’

‘Enough to keep me in hot meals and building materials.’ She raised an eyebrow in question, too relaxed to be frustrated by his cryptic answer. But then she’d been so...abrasive, that first time they’d met, she couldn’t blame him for being reticent about telling her about his life.

‘You know, you never really explained what you do. I know I wasn’t helping, being snippy about a trust fund and everything. I realise I got it wrong, then.’

He halted suddenly, evidently taken by surprise. When he started walking, there was something a little stiffer about his stride. ‘Not entirely wrong.’

‘But you said—’

‘I said I’m not loaded. What I didn’t tell you is that it’s out of choice.’

Her brows drew together in confusion, and she glanced at Leo, encouraging him to continue.

He sighed before starting to speak again. ‘My family has plenty of money. Pots of it, in fact. Too much. And I do have a trust fund.’ Not something that would normally cause such distress, she thought. ‘But I haven’t spent a penny of it for years.’

‘Why not?’ It was none of her business, but she could tell this was something big, for Leo. Perhaps the tip of an emotional iceberg, something he didn’t often talk about. And she wanted to know him.

‘It’s hard to explain. I want you to understand. I want you to know why I find it hard for you to pull out that plan... I’m not making life hard for the sake of it. It’s all connected.’

Her heart ached at the note of vulnerability in his voice, the pain that he was clearly hiding. And it soared a little, too, at the fact that he was sharing this with her. Opening up to her. But Leo’s shoulders had fallen forward, and a haunted look had crept over his face. She reached for his hand, refusing to acknowledge what that contact might signify, but needing him to know that she was there to support him. ‘I want to understand, Leo. Tell me anything you want.’

* * *

‘The money,’ Leo said. It seemed as good a place as any to start. He led them both away from the water, to the very edge of the beach, with the cliff creating a natural shelter around them. He sat on the warm sand, and pulled gently on Rachel’s hand until she was sitting beside him. ‘I grew up with people who had it—lots of it. Far too much. It didn’t make them happy, and it didn’t make them good. And there were people who thought I needed it, desperately...’ He paused but she didn’t say anything, just waited for him to continue. ‘I went to a very good school—and it was hell.’

He gripped her hand, and she squeezed it back. The warmth and comfort of her touch flowed from her skin to his—he couldn’t have let go of her at that moment if he’d had to. He wanted to pull her close, to bury his face in her hair and his body in hers. Forget everything about his past; ignore everything about their future. He wanted her lips on his, wanted to hear her chuckle with pleasure and sigh with satisfaction.

But he also wanted her to understand him. Wanted her to see why any hint of feeling trapped scared him so much. He needed her to know why he would never allow himself to be trapped in a relationship he couldn’t get out of. And he knew he had to tell her everything.

‘For some reason the other boys saw me as an easy—and early—target. To start with it was whispers about money. People accusing me of stealing from the other boys. Suggesting that money had gone missing from pockets and dorms. I tried to ignore it, thinking it would pass. And then they started talking about my mum. Insinuating that my “greed” ran in the family, that she was a shameless gold-digger who’d ensnared my dad for his money.

‘She’s from a different background from my dad, her family wasn’t well off and his is loaded, and she married him when he was a widow with a three-year-old. That seemed to be all the evidence the boys needed.

‘I couldn’t ignore these whispers. I started to fight back, to defend my mum and myself, and it escalated. The older boys were determined to show me that answering back would get me nowhere. It turned violent, and nasty. I hadn’t told anyone what was going on, but after a beating that left me bruised and heaving, I knew that I had to do something. My older brother—half-brother—was at school with me.’

‘Did he help?’

Leo steeled himself to answer, but found his throat was thick, and his eyes stung. Even after all this time, he still couldn’t think about what had happened without being close to tears.

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ Rachel said gently. ‘I’m sure it must have been terrible, but it was a long time ago. You left that place—’

‘Yes, and I will never go back.’

‘Of course not, Leo. You’re a grown man. No one can make you go back to school.’

He snatched his hand back, frustrated that after explaining the parts of his past that still caused the occasional nightmare, she could brush it off with ‘you don’t have to go back to school’.

‘But I had to go back then.’ The words burst out of him, just short of a roar. He’d had to go back time after time, year after year. Stuck in that place every day with the boys who hated him. Who thought up new and different ways to torture him.

‘Couldn’t you have left?’

‘You think I didn’t want that? Even when I eventually told my father what was going on he didn’t take it seriously. The bullies closed ranks when my parents spoke to the school. Told the headmaster that the bruises were from rugby. Or that I’d started a fight. They were so convincing. All the teachers fell for it. Sometimes even I found myself wondering if I was imagining it all. If I was going mad.

‘I was trapped. Every morning I’d wake up in that dorm, and knew how my torture would pan out for the day. Taunts in the bathroom during break. Starving at lunch, too scared to risk the dinner hall. A few kicks in the changing rooms after games, somewhere it wouldn’t show when I was dressed. And at night, I was locked in with them.

‘The days the school knew where I would be and when, they would know, too. And ever since—I’ve needed a way out. The thought of being trapped—’ He stopped abruptly. ‘It terrifies me, Rachel.’

‘You think I trapped you?’ Her voice was flat and sad, more disappointed than angry.

‘It doesn’t matter, does it? Whether you did or not, it doesn’t change the fact that—’

‘That you want to escape and you can’t.’

He rubbed his head in his hands, fighting against the fear to find the logic in his argument. ‘I don’t even know if I want to escape. What I would want if I wasn’t...’

‘Stuck.’

He nodded. ‘You probably think I’m a complete jerk for telling you all this.’ He felt like one. For admitting all the reasons he was terrified of what their lives were going to become.

She shook her head, though her expression was grim. ‘I don’t. I’m glad you told me how you feel. You can’t help thinking the way that you do. I just wish it were...different.’

He reached past her to pluck a small piece of driftwood from the sand. The light played on it as he turned it over, and he kept his eyes focused on that, rather than meeting Rachel’s gaze.

‘How did you cope—at school?’

He looked across at her now, surprised she wanted to know more after what he’d just told her.

‘I spent a lot of time at the beach.’

‘Surfing? Swimming?’

‘Some of the time. I was lucky in a way— the school was only a couple of miles from the coast, so I was able to spend a lot of time there. When I had to be on campus, I escaped to the art studio.’ She looked at him in surprise. For some reason, he enjoyed that, throwing off her preconceptions of him. He was even able to crack a smile at her gaping expression.

‘The art studio?’

‘Yes—I’m an artist, didn’t I mention that?’

‘An artist.’ She said the word as if it were something alien, obviously not believing him. He nodded, still playing with the driftwood as he took in her dropped jaw, her hands indignantly planted in the sand either side of her. ‘You’re an artist.’

A laugh escaped him, surprising him as much as her. ‘I’m sure I mentioned it before.’

‘And I’m certain that you didn’t. What sort of artist?’ She still hadn’t wiped the incredulity from her face and he wasn’t sure whether to be amused or annoyed that she found the idea of his occupation, vocation—whatever you wanted to call it—so laughable.

‘A successful one, thankfully. That’s what I wanted to show you this afternoon—my studio’s down here rather than up on the cliff.’

‘Right.’ She drew the syllable out, as she examined his face, looking for hints of his artistic temperament perhaps. ‘And the beachcombing, where does that fit into this?’

He breathed a sigh of relief that they were back on safer conversational ground. That she’d listened to his painful story, offered support, but moved on when he needed to. And his work he could talk about for hours. ‘It’s one of my favourite ways to find inspiration for my work and materials for the house. I’ve incorporated a lot of driftwood in the build. It’s an ecologically sound way of working.’

‘But doesn’t it leave you at the mercy of the tides, or the water gods, or whatever force it is that throws up driftwood onto beaches? Wouldn’t it just be easy to order the whole lot at once? I’m sure that there are suppliers with good green credentials.’

‘I could do, I suppose, but I’m happy just taking opportunities as they arise. You never know what you’re going to find. Like the floorboards for the living room. They just turned up in a reclamation yard. I could have bought brand-new timber last week and would have missed out on all that gorgeous character.’

‘Yes, but you would have had a floor for a week by now.’

He threw her a grin and nudged her with his shoulder. ‘What is it, princess? Upset that the place wasn’t perfect for you?’

‘Oh, don’t give me “princess”. I just think that while your way of doing things sounds lovely, in theory, when you have no real responsibilities, sometimes practical matters have to take a higher priority. Like a roof that doesn’t leak. And a floor beyond the front door.’ Not in the mood to joke about the house, then, he surmised.

‘Well, then, I count myself lucky that you don’t get a say in how I renovate my house.’

He stared her down, daring her to argue with him, so that he could remind her again that he would not be tied down by her. She might be carrying his baby, but that didn’t mean that she could come down here and start telling him how to live his life, any more than he would dream of going up to London and telling her how to live hers.

She didn’t take the bait. Instead she stood and started brushing sand from her jeans, and then walked back to the cliff path. He watched her for a few moments; then jogged to catch her up.

‘Wait, I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair of me. If you still want to, I’d like to show you the studio.’

She paused and glanced up at the house. Then looked back at him and softened. ‘I’d like to see it. I can’t believe I didn’t know you’re an artist. You didn’t finish telling me how that happened.’

He started down the twisting path that led along the bottom of the cliff to his studio and workshop, wondering whether he could talk about his introduction to the world of art without reliving more of the pain he’d suffered at that time. He’d try, for her, for them.

‘I told you I used to hide out in the art studio... None of the other boys seemed too keen to follow me there. Perhaps something to do with the belligerent old teacher who rarely left the room, Mr Henderson. I found it peaceful—it had these huge windows that let in the light, and you could see the sea in the distance. I’d spend lunchtimes hiding out in there and playing around with whatever materials the professor had in that week. One week, when I arrived, this huge hunk of driftwood was sitting on one of the tables. When I walked in the room, Mr Henderson looked at me, then at the wood, and then walked into the store room and left me there with it. Does that sound weird?’

She raised her eyebrow slightly. He’d take that as a yes.