A Love Surrendered

by Julie Lessman

“I best get ready for bed,” she said, attempting to get up.

  A firm wrist gently tugged her near. “Not yet,” he whispered, and with the grace of an athlete, he rolled on his back and pulled her along to lie on his chest. His tall frame dominated the bed, prompting Lance and Guin to find elsewhere to sleep while Emma’s body relaxed against his. His kiss was slow and sweet, and her eyelids fluttered closed while magical fingers kneaded the nape of her neck to coax her closer. His scent surrounded her, drugging her body as much as his kiss—the clean smell of soap and shaving cream and the taste of mint in his mouth. Never had she felt so alive, so loved, so beautiful as she did in Sean’s arms.

  “I love you, Emma,” he said softly, “more than Snickers and baseball and beating Brady and Luke at sports.” The tease in his words faded with another tender kiss, and when he pulled away, he caressed her with a look that nearly stole her breath. Never had she known a man who could make love with his eyes more than Sean O’Connor. “I adore you,” he whispered, “and sometimes I wonder how I survived without you.”

  She trailed fingers along his clean-shaven jaw, heart thudding and tears stinging her eyes. “And I, you. I thank God every hour of every day for the joy of being your wife, Sean.”

  In one fluid motion, he tumbled her onto her back, descending with a kiss that all but melted her to the bed. “Oh, Emma,” he whispered, nuzzling her ear, “I want to give you babies—lots and lots of babies.”

  Her eyelids closed as moisture welled. Oh God, please, I can’t break his heart.

  “Girls, boys, it doesn’t matter,” he continued, his husky chuckle warm in her ear. “Although tonight, Mrs. O’Connor—I feel like a son.”

  She couldn’t help it, her body convulsed in a heave.

  His mouth stalled on her skin before his head jerked up, face suddenly pale. Skimming the tears from her cheek, he sat up. “Emma—what’s wrong?”

  She tried, but suddenly there was no way she could contain it—her grief over the death of his children, his dream—and with one agonizing wrench of her throat, she wept. Six months of hope deferred spilled from her eyes—deep, painful tears of mourning for her loss and his.

  He cupped her face, thumbs grazing her cheeks. “Emma, please, tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I can’t . . .”

  Heaves wracked her body, and he swept her up into his arms, head tucked against hers. “Yes, you can. Whatever happens to you, happens to me.”

  A moan withered on her lips. “I c-can’t do this . . .”

  He rocked her with gentle motion, palm stroking her hair. “It’s okay, Emma,” he soothed, “we don’t have to tonight if you don’t want to, really.”

  She jerked from his embrace to clutch frantic hands to his arms. “No,” she said, his face little more than a blur. “I can’t give you children . . .”

  His ashen face stilled to stone, her words choking the air from the room before they settled on his features like an invisible shroud, proclaiming the death of his dream. His lips parted, but nothing came forth except a frail thread of air, no doubt expelling all hope. Muscles shifted in his throat and he buried his fingers into the hair at her temples. “What do you mean?”

  Tears streamed her cheeks while she reached to caress the clean line of his jaw. “I . . . want to give you children, Sean, but I . . .” She paused, eyes flickering closed to stave off more tears before they opened again to reveal her sorrow. “I’ve miscarried twice since March, and I—”she swallowed the pain in her throat—“don’t know if I can ever bring a baby to term.”

  “Twice?” he whispered, his voice strangled.

  “Yes, my love.” She clutched his hand, gripping tightly as if she could absorb some of his pain. “Once three months after we wed, but I . . . ,” she expelled a frail sigh, “couldn’t bring myself to tell you, to dash your hopes, because I’d hoped . . . prayed . . .” She stared at him through the haze of her tears. “But two months ago it happened again . . .”

  Seconds passed as he stared, grief welling in his eyes, and she knew he was mourning the loss of their children. And then without a word, he bent to kiss her with all the gentleness she’d come to expect of this man, caressing her with his mouth as he lowered her to the bed. Lying beside her, he held her close, his voice hoarse but stronger than before. “Women miscarry, Emma, don’t they? It doesn’t have to mean—”

  “No, it doesn’t mean that God can’t give us a child, but . . .” She closed her eyes, drawing strength from the steady beat of his heart. “But I have a history of miscarriage, Sean—four times with Rory and now two with you.” Her voice broke and she closed her eyes. “Six babies,” she whispered, “precious gifts from God that my violent past has stolen away.” A shudder rippled through her. “Which breaks my heart, because I so wanted to be a mother to your children.”

  His arm tightened at her waist. “And so you will,” he said quietly, stroking her hair. She felt the shift of his throat and when he spoke, his voice carried an assurance that seeped into her soul like the warmth of his body against hers. “You are the greatest blessing God has ever given me, Emma, and although my heart mourns over the loss of our babies and the prospect that we may never have children of our own . . . ,” he kissed her lips before his mouth tipped in a tender smile, “God created you to be a mother, and I know he will give us children to love.”

  She sat up in his arms. “But—”

  “No ‘buts,’ ” he said with a tender stroke of her jaw. “Whether our children have our blood in their veins or someone else’s, they’ll still be our children and you’ll still be their mother.”

  She blinked, not sure she’d heard right. “What are you saying?” she breathed.

  He studied her for a long while, as if memorizing every nuance of her face. With the barest of smiles, he lifted her hand to his lips, lids closed as he kissed her palm. When his eyes opened, a sheen of moisture accompanied his gaze. “We’ll adopt,” he whispered.

  Her pulse stopped . . . and then in a violent surge of joy, it pounded in her ears until she thought she would faint. “Oh, Sean!” Lunging into his arms, she began to weep again, her sobs in beautiful harmony with his husky chuckles. “I was so afraid—afraid you’d be crushed, afraid you wouldn’t consider adoption.” She pulled away, pushing the tears from her eyes. “When?”

  He laughed outright and tucked a finger to her chin. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve already thought this all out?”

  Heat braised her cheeks, and he pulled her into his arms with another deep chuckle, holding her close. “You’re spending entirely too much time with Charity, you know that?” He kissed the tip of her nose and cocked a brow. “When? Well . . . why don’t you tell me?”

  Barely able to contain herself, she bounced up to sit cross-legged, taking his hands in hers. “Well, as a matter of fact,” she began in a rush, “Charity and I visited St. Mary’s Home for Unwed Mothers a few times—”

  “Oh, you have, have you?” Elbow cocked, he slanted back with a ghost of a smile.

  She bit the edge of her lip and offered a shy smile. “Just to see the babies sometimes, that’s all. Charity and I like to hold them.”

  He quirked a thick blond brow. “Just hold them, huh, and nothing else?”

  She giggled and bent to give him a quick kiss, then inhaled deeply to calm her racing heart, her smile fading. “Oh, Sean, my heart breaks for those little ones, all alone in the world, no family of their own. If we can give our home and our hearts to just a few—”

  “A few?” The whites of his eyes expanded. “More than one? All at once?”

  She clasped his hands with a smile. “No, not all at once, my love. But . . . if I am truly unable to give you sons and daughters of your own, then yes, more than one.” She blinked to ward off the prick of more tears, unable to fight the quiver of her lips any more than she could stem the flow of love in her heart. “Until our hearts and our home are so full of love, we fairly burst with joy.” She clasped his hands. “Just think, Sean—a
family like your parents gave you, the greatest gift we can give to a forgotten soul who has no family of their own.”

  In a clutch of her heart, Sean tugged her into his arms before toppling her onto her back to thread gentle fingers into her hair. “And this, Emma O’Connor,” he whispered, love glowing in his eyes, “is only one of the many, many reasons I had no choice but to fall desperately in love with you.” In slow motion, he leaned in to fondle her lips with his own, his kiss warming her skin while his tenderness warmed her soul.

  Her arms curled around his neck. “So, you’ll go with me tomorrow . . . to see the babies?” The air hushed in her lungs while she awaited his answer.

  That easy smile she’d fallen in love with slipped across his lips as he bent to feather her jaw with kisses. “Tomorrow, yes.” His fingers trailed down, skimming across the first button of her blouse to loosen its hold. “And tonight?” His lips returned with a languid kiss that quickly focused her mind on the present. “Tonight we work on hedging our bets.”

  10

  Any questions?” Director Hackett scanned the cramped meeting room, beady black eyes daring anyone to say a word. Most of the Prohibition agents slouched in their rickety wood chairs, faces grim while the director’s eyes disappeared into slits, thunderous black brows slashing downward. His bald head gleamed with sweat. “Good. Because the last thing I need right now is the DA breathing down my neck ’cause somebody got greedy.”

  A loose filament in the tungsten lamp overhead flickered, casting an eerie mirror-ball effect on the man whom no agent with half a brain would want to cross. Especially on Monday morning after a weekend of foiled raids. Sweat stains circled beneath meaty arms propped on rumpled gray trousers as the director continued to glare as much as the light above. “Philly and New York have thrown the book at 10 percent of their force, but if it happens here, on my watch?” His words chewed the air like a buzz saw, their gravelly tone suggesting the man devoured 16-penny nails for breakfast. “You’ll go to the slammer, all right, but not until I rip your tonsils out and wrap ’em around your neck, got it?”

  Joe elbowed Steven, leaning close with a smirk on his face. “Almost wish the Hack was on the take himself, so he’d lay off these bribery rants. My eyes are glazing over.”

  “You think this is funny, Walsh?”

  Joe froze in the back row, his face suddenly as pale as the chalk diagrams Hack scrawled across the portable blackboard at the front of the room. “Uh, no sir.”

  Steven stared straight ahead, lips clamped hard to keep from laughing.

  The director folded beefy arms matted with black hair that matched a thatch peeking over a tie loosened so much, it sagged like the bags under his eyes. “That’s good, Walsh, ’cause I doubt you’ll be laughing if you pull detail this weekend.”

  A nearly silent groan echoed in Joe’s chest. “Yes, sir.”

  “If you were smart,” Hack continued, his tone as surly as his scowl, “you’d take this job a little more seriously, like your partner there. We’re not pussyfooting here, Walsh. I need tough federal agents who can get the job done, not a vaudeville act, ya got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “O’Connor.” The director cocked his head, lips pursed as he honed in on Steven.

  Steven sat up, spine rigid and jaw tense. “Yes, sir?”

  “You’re the brains on your team—use ’em. I expect you to rub off on Walsh, not the other way around, understood?”

  A reedy sigh escaped Steven’s lips, his suit coat stifling his air. “Yes, sir.”

  Hackett back-fisted the blackboard. “Before we break, I need six volunteers for a special assignment this weekend. Rumor has it there’s a frat shindig in Duke’s County Friday night, complete with stills and wild women, so I’ll need one or two pretty faces to pass for fancy frat boys.” The edge of his lip curled as he leveled a sharp gaze in Joe’s direction. “Not you, Walsh, with that mug, but O’Connor would fit right in, so let me know by five or I’ll pick who I want. Saturday night, I’ll need six more because we’ll be working overtime on the North End. The commissioner’s due for inspection in the next two weeks, and I aim to make this a record month. We’ll comb the North End all week, paying some surprise visits to a few blind pigs.” He rapped the board with his knuckles. “The assignment sheet’s posted, so break’s over.”

  Joe waited till the director left before turning to Steven, mouth skewed. “I swear that guy hates me.” He slid Steven a narrow look and loosened his tie. “And it’s all because of you, O’Connor, always toeing the line. You make Eliot Ness look like a slouch.”

  Steven slapped Joe on the back, grinning as they strolled from the room. He slipped his suit coat off and slung it over his shoulder, checking the roster on Hackett’s door. “Come on, Joe, don’t give me all the credit—you have a true talent for making yourself look bad.”

  “Very funny. And the boss thinks I’m the comedian. He’s so sure I’m the bad influence on his golden boy, but that’s a laugh. Can’t even get you to Ocean Pier for some fun.” Joe squinted at the list and groaned. “Man alive, we’re on the docket with Raby—I can’t believe it.”

  Steven ruffled Joe’s hair with a chuckle. “Come on, Joe, grow up. Lee’s a good agent and I’d take detail with him anytime.”

  “Hey, knock it off, ‘pretty boy.’ ” Joe patted his sandy hair back down. “This thatch is hard enough to keep combed without you messing it up, making me look like some country yokel. Not everyone looks like you, O’Connor, so have some respect.” He followed Steven to their back-to-back desks and dropped into his chair, propping his feet on the drawers. “And the only reason you like Raby is he’s just like you, so straitlaced he’s got a rod up his back.”

  Steven hooked his coat over his chair and sat down to shuffle through papers. “It’s called being an exemplary civil servant, Agent Walsh, something that’s actually considered a good thing.”

  “Yeah?” Joe’s feet thudded to the ground as he leaned in, arms flat on his desk. “So be a good influence like Hackett said, Steven—go to Ocean Pier with me this weekend and keep me in line.”

  “Sorry, buddy, can’t—got something else in mind for Saturday night.” Steven peered up. “Hey, you remember the address of the speak we raided last week on the North End?”

  Joe stared, mouth swagging open. “Yeah, Steven, let me get my typed log where I list every second of every day.” He shook his head. “Criminy, I’m surprised you don’t keep one.”

  Steven grinned. “I do—left it at home this weekend when I did paperwork.”

  Slumping into his chair, Joe dropped his head on the back with another groan. “Come on, Steven, you’re my best friend. Don’t make me go to the Pier with Zuchek—he hogs all the girls.”

  Steven laughed, a definite ribbing to his tone. “So do I, Walsh, so what’s the difference?”

  A grunt erupted from Joe’s lips. “Yeah, but you’re a nice guy who shares. Besides, you’re so gunshy with women right now that you draw ’em like flies, then turn ’em over to me.”

  “How ’bout Harper?” Steven asked, filling out his report. “He’d jump at the chance.”

  A wrinkle appeared at the bridge of Joe’s nose. “Yeah, but he’s so homely, girls don’t even come around.” He eyed Steven with a dubious look. “I bet you’re planning to take on both of those special assignments on Friday and Saturday nights, aren’t you? You already got the boss in your hip pocket—why volunteer for every detail there is?”

  “I’m not,” Steven said with half a smile. “Just Friday night ’cause Saturday night I have plans.”

  Joe sat up, a plea in his tone. “Come on, you’re not going to spend another Saturday night with Gabe, are ya? You spent last Saturday night with the kid, so you owe me.”

  “Owe you?” Steven said with a lift of brows. “How ya figure?”

  The smile faded from Joe’s face as the tease left his tone. “Because we’re best friends, Steven, and best friends do things together besides raid spe
akeasies. They talk, they go to the gym, they go out with girls.” His hazel eyes reflected a hint of hurt that Steven noticed for the first time. “They have fun together.” A sigh withered from Joe’s lips. “You spent almost three years dodging the social scene and me along with it, and to be honest, I’m worried about you. And it’s not just ’cause I miss the fun we always had, even though I do.” He snatched his time sheet from his drawer and started filling it out, pausing to glance up while concern shaded his eyes. “You haven’t been yourself since college—quieter, more introspective, almost like you’re far away. I thought once I got you back to the Pier again, you’d get back to normal. I was even encouraging Erica to go for you because I thought you needed a woman in your life, but that hasn’t worked. And I sure don’t want to see Erica hurt any more than you, but I gotta tell ya, buddy, you need to get back in the game and start seeing women again.”

  A heavy exhale gusted from Steven’s lips as he sagged back in his chair. He mauled his face with his hands and then looked up. “I’m sorry, Joe. And you’re right, I have been a bore, but I promise that’s all going to change. I’m ready to move on and start dating again, so you and I will be able to double like old times.” He drew in a stabilizing breath and locked gazes with his partner, a hint of a smile on his lips. “And I already have somebody in mind, which is why I can’t go to the Pier Saturday night.”

  Joe’s mouth went slack, along with the pen in his hand. “Good grief, O’Connor—you holding out on me?”

  Steven shook his head. “Nope, just too stupid and scared to realize something I should have figured out before now.”

  “Yeah?” Joe leaned in, interest piqued. “And what’s that? You’d make a lousy priest?”

  Steven laughed, giving his partner a wayward smile. “Uh, yeah, I’d say that’s pretty conclusive—celibacy is not my idea of happily ever after.”

  “I’ll go along there,” Joe said with a grin. He cocked his head, eyes in a squint. “So who’s the doll? You got me on pins and needles here. And how exactly did this revelation hit?”