Operation

by Barbara Bretton

  She wouldn’t have to ask you any questions, Sam. She’d know what you were up to the second she saw your face.

  A fine mist hovered just above the lawn, giving the night a soft, almost ethereal glow. She felt like the heroine in a romance novel, gliding through the moonlit darkness in her silky robe, with her hair tumbling loose down her back. Of course, any good romance novel heroine deserved a hero. And, God knew, Duncan was certainly hero material. Not that that had anything to do with why she was outside, wandering across the damp grass toward the studio. She was simply getting some fresh air.

  Once again the door to his studio was open. She hesitated for a second then knocked.

  “Come in, lassie.”

  The sound of his voice in the dark made her shiver. This is why you came out, Sam. Admit it.

  The studio lights were so bright that she had to shield her eyes with her hand against the glare.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” she said, as she waited for her eyes to adjust to the light. “I had a question about our party.”

  “It’s after midnight,” he observed. “You should be asleep.”

  “So should you.”

  He shook his head. “I work best at night.”

  “Do you?” The slightly flirtatious lilt to her voice surprised her. Her sisters were the flirts. Wasn’t she supposed to be the serious one? She moved closer to his workbench. “Let me see.”

  His eyes narrowed and she felt the sharp edge of sexuality, the way she had the day they met. “As you wish, lassie.”

  Magic, she thought, staring at the unfinished sculpture. That was the only way to describe it. Again she found herself marveling at the way he’d somehow managed to transform cold marble into something warm and alive. The line of her throat and shoulders was more pronounced than before and she found herself touching her own throat in recognition.

  “I’ve been having trouble with the spine,” he said.

  “Not so you’d notice.” She gently rested her hand on the marble, amazed to be reminded that it was hard and cold to the touch. “This is so beautiful.” She allowed her gaze to meet his. “You truly are gifted, Duncan.”

  His expression didn’t betray his emotions at all, but Sam sensed a change in the atmosphere between them. Or at least she thought she did.

  “Imagination can take me only so far, lassie. Would you pose for me again?”

  A flutter happened deep in the pit of her stomach and she knew it was too soon to feel the baby move. What she was feeling had to do with her new husband. “I’m sure you could find a better model, Duncan.”

  “But she wouldn’t be you.”

  His words galvanized her and she had to remind herself not to ascribe a deeper meaning to his statement Not unless she wanted to complicate her life any more than it already was. “Now?” she asked him.

  He nodded. “If you’re not too tired.”

  “I’m not too tired.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so wide awake or ready for experience.

  The chaise longue was still in the center of the room. She sat down primly, tucking her robe about her knees, and waited for some direction.

  “The robe,” he said, standing over her. “Could you—”

  She undid the belt to her robe, willing her fingers to stop trembling. There was no reason to be nervous. She had her nightgown on beneath the robe. Besides, this had nothing to do with sex. At least, not for Duncan. This was about his work.

  “I need to see the curve of your spine,” he said as she folded the robe and draped it across the back of the chaise.

  She nodded and lifted her hair off the back of her neck and let it fall across her chest.

  “More than that, Samantha.” His tone was neutral. Maybe too neutral. “I need the entire line.”

  She knew what he was asking. Slowly she lowered the right spaghetti strap on her nightgown, then the left one. The bodice fell away from her body, baring her torso to the waist She felt more powerful in that moment than she’d ever felt in the boardroom. She crossed her arms over her breasts then leaned forward, elongating her spine in the way he’d told her to do.

  The night air washed over her like a welcome caress. Maybe the gentle breeze would help dispel the heat gathering inside her chest

  Then again, maybe not.

  He touched her shoulder to adjust her position and she felt as if he had set off a small fire beneath her skin. “Like this,” he said, running his hand down the ridges of her spine. “Can you hold that?”

  “Yes,” she murmured. “Of course.”

  The position was awkward at best but she didn’t care. Her back was to him yet she could sense when his eyes were skimming her body and when they weren’t. Every now and then he would shift her slightly, the tiniest adjustment of angle and line, then return to his hammer and chisel. She could hear the tap, the soft crack of marble dropping away, the sound of his breathing.

  She wondered if she would ever again hear the sound of his heart beating beneath her ear as he held her close.

  And then she wondered if she’d lost her mind.

  Chapter 12

  Sam’s files arrived the next day and her furniture the day after that, and she set about the job of arranging her office. Duncan helped her with the manual labor. He handled the desk and file cabinets as easily as she handled her laptop computer, and she found herself casting appreciative glances his way when she thought he wasn’t looking. There was something overwhelming about a man in his prime and her husband certainly was that. She was almost disappointed when the furniture was in place and she got down to work.

  They fell into a routine. Neither one talked about it but their life was acquiring a pattern as the days slid into each other. Her father had yet to return to Houston from his fishing trip but Sam was keeping up with work, thanks to her laptop and modem, her fax and couriers. She took long walks in the early afternoon. Sometimes she borrowed Duncan’s car and drove into town on the pretext of needing toner for her copy machine or a certain kind of shampoo for her hair. The truth was, she loved Glenraven and the people she’d met there. They’d made her feel one of them from the very first day. Lucy at the Heather and the Thistle never failed to make her laugh with stories about Old Mag and Robby. William at the stationery store charmed her with his courtly manners. And there was Rose from the market and Gil from the flower shop and the people who stopped her on the street to let her know just how much they loved Duncan and how they prayed the two of them would be happy together forever and ever. He deserved to be happy, they said, lowering their voices, especially after “that other one.”

  There were times when she felt as if she’d stepped back through the centuries to the era when Duncan’s castle was the center of that particular Scottish universe. He wasn’t royalty. If he had a title, he’d never told her about it. But there was still something of nobility about him, and it was clear everyone else sensed it, too. She wondered what it was going to be like, raising a child in the middle of a history she didn’t understand. She gathered up as many books of local history as she could find from Duncan’s library and stacked them on the nightstand next to the bed.

  One thing she knew was that there would be plenty of time to read.

  Every night after dinner she walked to Duncan’s studio, where she spent hours posing for him. He’d finished his first piece and was at work on a second, a frankly sensual study of her belly and hips. At first she’d resisted the pose, but her respect for his genius quickly overcame her natural reluctance and modesty, and she let her nightgown slither into a pool at her feet.

  There was no disguising the roundness of her belly anymore. She couldn’t suck in her breath and make it flatten out. She was round and growing riper every day. Her breasts were large and swollen. She could easily trace the map of blue veins beneath the surface of her pale skin. Her waistline was quickly becoming a memory. The slender, lanky body she’d known for thirty-two years was gone and in its place was the curvy shape of a fertility goddess.r />
  Which was exactly the earthy frankness Duncan seemed intent upon portraying.

  They still hadn’t decided exactly what he would do to fulfill his Wilde & Daughters Ltd. contract, but she wasn’t too worried about it. There was plenty of time to decide on a piece and begin implementing the necessary work to begin mass production. At least that’s what she told herself the rare times she even thought about that. She was so overwhelmed with the novelty of watching him at work, of being in some small measure his muse, that it was easy to let everything else slip away.

  But the one thing she couldn’t forget was the fact that he didn’t share her bed. Not really. After a few hours of posing, he would walk her across the misty lawn to the castle. He would see her upstairs to their room. And then he would say good-night.

  She’d stay awake for hours afterward, reading the history books or working on her myriad party lists, but what she was really doing was waiting for him. She knew he slept there. When she’d open her eyes in the morning, the imprint of his head on the pillow next to her was clearly visible. Did he lie there for a few minutes simply to allay any suspicions Old Mag might have? Did he sleep beside her, disappearing into his dreams? She had no idea. She hadn’t been able to stay awake long enough to find out.

  They said the first three months of pregnancy were about sleep and nausea, and she wouldn’t dispute that statement. However, she was almost into her fourth month now and the deep lassitude of the first trimester still lingered. No matter how hard she tried, she never saw him climb into bed with her.

  If Old Mag suspected anything, she never let on. Sam and the housekeeper worked a little every day on party preparations, and in doing so, began to forge a friendship of sorts. Oh, Old Mag was still watching out for Duncan’s welfare with an eagle eye, but she made it clear that Sam was a pleasant surprise.

  Even if she wasn’t a Scotswoman.

  Sam had decided she would do most of the cooking for the party. Old Mag would make some of her Scottish specialties, while Sam would turn her culinary skills toward recreating her favorite Texas recipes. She made two enormous pots of chili and tucked them into the freezer. She searched the Internet for the perfect recipe for barbecued beef and Southern fried chicken, sending her printer into overtime as it dashed out the recipes. Mag grumbled when Sam told her about the twenty pounds of potatoes they’d need for the potato salad, but Sam was insistent. “You’ll love it,” she told the housekeeper. “I promise you.”

  Of course, when it came to Old Mag, you couldn’t be sure of anything. The housekeeper was filled with secrets. Sometimes Sam had the feeling that if she pushed the old woman just the slightest bit, those secrets would tumble out. She was tempted—what woman wouldn’t want to know about her husband’s life before she came along—but Sam had the strangest sense that she wouldn’t like what she heard. Her mother’s words kept coming back to her. There’s nothing worse than loving a man who doesn’t love you…especially if you’re expecting his baby.

  But she didn’t love him, did she? They hadn’t said one blessed thing about love when they hammered out their agreement at her lawyer’s office. In fact, she thanked God every night that she didn’t love Duncan Stewart, because if she did, she’d never be able to live the way they were living.

  She didn’t understand how she could feel the absence of something she’d never had, but there it was. There was an emptiness inside her that hadn’t been there before. She’d always felt complete within herself, content to live her life alone with her work to keep her company. But it was all so different now. She longed for something she couldn’t have, something she wasn’t entirely certain existed. Something she couldn’t define in words if her life depended on it.

  She told herself it was the pregnancy, that women yearned for everything from pickles with ice cream to brand-new houses when they were carrying babies. The nesting instinct manifested itself in strange ways. Maybe the empty feeling inside her heart was nothing more than that.

  * * *

  DUNCAN WATCHED his wife with a kind of wonder as she moved through the days before the party. The differences between her old life in Houston and her new life at Glenraven were unfathomable, and yet she seemed to have settled in with more grace and enthusiasm than he would have imagined possible. Certainly more than he would have been able to manage were the situation reversed.

  She worked for her family’s company. She helped Old Mag with the party preparations, even though he’d insisted they hire help for the big day. She went into town on numerous errands and charmed everyone she met.

  And she posed for him.

  In the evening, long after supper was over, he’d hear a tap at the door to his studio. Then the door would swing open and she’d step inside, into the shimmering light, and he felt as if she’d brought the moon and the stars with her. They’d exchange a few words and then she would drop her robe into a pale blue puddle at her feet and stand there naked before him. More beautiful, more radiant than anything he’d ever seen.

  He would position her on the chaise, his hands lingering on the outward flare of her hips, the glorious swell of her breasts. One time, two nights ago, their eyes met and he saw recognition in hers, the sense that she knew what he was feeling and that she might be feeling the same thing herself. He cursed himself for letting the moment pass. She would have been his if he’d asked.

  He’d never been an indecisive man. He knew what he wanted and he took the shortest route to obtain it. But since Samantha came into his life, it seemed as if he moved two steps back for every one that brought him closer to her. They moved through their days on parallel tracks, and he wondered if he would ever find the way to bring those tracks together.

  The party was set for Saturday evening. On Friday morning Samantha was scheduled for her first appointment with the gynecologist Lucy had recommended to her.

  “You don’t have to come along,” his wife said to him as she fixed her hair in front of the bedroom mirror. Long strands of pale gold shimmered over her shoulders and down her back, and he frowned as she gathered it into sections and began to braid it close to her head. “You don’t like French braids?” she asked his reflection.

  “Nothing wrong with braids,” he said. “But not for you.”

  Her hands worked swiftly, crossing and recrossing the sections into an intricate weave. “This is neat and functional, Duncan. Businesslike.”

  “That’s why it’s not right for you.” A calculated risk, that statement. He’d jumped the track.

  She said nothing. Her fingers continued braiding.

  “I’ll bring the car around,” he said as she finished up.

  She nodded. “I’ll be right down.”

  Thirty minutes later they were ushered into the doctor’s office. They called Duncan into the examination room once Sam was in position on the table. He waited while the doctor attached sensors to her belly then began the ultrasound process.

  Duncan and Samantha watched the flickering images on the monitor then looked at each other. Neither one could make sense out of the amorphous shapes and shadows, and they waited quietly for the doctor to identify what they were seeing.

  “Over here,” said the doctor, pointing to the lower right portion of the screen. “See? Those are the feet.”

  Duncan narrowed his eyes and leaned closer to the monitor and suddenly, miraculously, the image rose up before him and everything else snapped into place.

  Next to him he heard a small cry from his wife, a sharp note of joy he would remember for the rest of his life. He reached for her hand and she clasped it tightly.

  “Oh, Duncan—” Her voice caught and she stopped.

  He bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead, imprinting the warmth of her skin, her sweet scent, to memory. Few moments in life presented themselves with such singular clarity, such life-changing certainty. A man’s first glimpse of his child was one of them.

  * * *

  THEY LEFT the doctor’s office an hour later and drove deeper into th
e Highlands. They didn’t talk about it but Duncan knew he’d made the right decision when he saw the way Samantha settled, deeper into her seat and smiled.

  He loved this wild and rugged land with his whole being and he wanted her to love it, too. If she couldn’t love him, if that wasn’t in their future, then maybe his beloved Scotland could work its magic and draw her closer.

  Bailey Park was to the west, facing the sea. He parked near an outcropping of rock then went around to open her door for her. There was a peacefulness to her expression that he’d never seen before, and she gave him her hand as if she’d been doing so every day of their lives.

  In a way he could no longer remember those days before he met her. A man would be wise to remember the darkness even in the face of radiant light, but it was already too late. She was in his blood now, even if she never knew it.

  * * *

  THEY SAT TOGETHER on the cliff and watched the angry waters slam against the rocks below. Duncan kept his arm around her, and Sam found herself leaning against him. It wasn’t a conscious choice. Her body simply moved toward him as if doing so was the most natural thing on earth.

  Every now and again she’d glance in his direction and invariably he was looking at her, those beautiful eyes of his filled with so much emotion that she had to look away.

  It’s not for you, Sam, and don’t go thinking it is. It was for the baby. The child they’d made together.

  The baby was real to her in a way it hadn’t been until that moment in the doctor’s office with the gel and the sensors and that gauzy, miraculous picture that now rested in the back seat of Duncan’s car. She wondered if he felt the same way. The baby they’d talked about in Houston and married for in Las Vegas and come to Scotland to raise—that baby was a living, breathing human being who sucked its thumb and changed position with the restless grace of a dancer on a very small stage.