The Baby Swap Miracle

by Caroline Anderson

  ‘And a lot more cynical, I would imagine.’

  He just smiled, a bitter smile, probably, because he still felt bitter and always would. There were some things that you couldn’t forgive, some lies that were too cruel. You just had to move on. And he had. He was.

  Sort of.

  ‘Sea bream?’

  They sat back, the plates were put in front of them and they dropped the subject and turned their attention to the food.

  She couldn’t decide, so they swapped halfway, and then he had to endure watching her struggling with the dessert menu.

  ‘The melting middle chocolate pud is amazing,’ he told her helpfully. ‘So’s the apple crumble. Or they do a selection to share that sounds interesting.’

  She nibbled her lip thoughtfully and he felt his guts clench again.

  ‘Let’s try that,’ she suggested.

  Oh, Lord. It suddenly seemed ludicrously intimate and he wanted to kick himself for suggesting it. He did it, though, holding out a spoonful of rhubarb crumble to her, stifling a groan as she closed her lips around his spoon and sighed sensuously before dipping her spoon into the tiny chocolate pudding and reaching over to feed it to him. They squabbled over the last bit of rice pudding, and she ended up victorious, then held it out to him, her eyes teasing.

  It was a wonder he didn’t choke on it.

  Emelia felt crazily full, but it had been worth every bite.

  Especially the bites from Sam’s spoon. And his eyes—

  She wouldn’t think about his eyes, she told herself, heading upstairs. It was too dangerous. She was falling for him, she realised, and it was altogether too easy.

  He was charming, funny, sexy—a lethal cocktail of masculinity mixed with a surprising sensitivity.

  Very dangerous. Dangerous because she couldn’t trust it. He was trying to convince her to stay so he’d be near the baby, sweet-talking her into thinking it would be a good idea. And it probably would, but she mustn’t let herself be lured by his charm. She had to make the right decisions for herself and the baby based on common sense. The trouble was, she didn’t seem to have any left, she thought in despair. Not where Sam Hunter was concerned.

  He was in the study—he had work to do, he’d said, and so she went to bed and fell asleep thinking about his eyes…

  Two days later, she moved into the cottage.

  Sam brought all her things down again, put them in the car and drove them round, and she unpacked them and stood back and thought of all the things she’d left behind, all the things she hadn’t thought to bring—like vases.

  She’d had some lovely vases, tall slender ones for lilies, and a lovely round tulip bowl that had been a wedding present—but she hadn’t thought of it, and now she looked around and it seemed barren. Cold and empty and soulless.

  ‘It’ll soon be home,’ he said, as if he’d read her mind—or more probably her face. James had always told her she’d be a lousy poker player.

  She gave a soft sigh. It seemed years since she’d had a home she could really call her own. Not since she and James had bought their little house in Bristol and furnished it on a shoestring. They’d stretched themselves to the limit, but it had been home, and they’d been happy there.

  It seemed so very, very long ago. She could scarcely remember it.

  ‘Hey, it’ll be all right,’ Sam said, rubbing her shoulder gently, and she gave a sharp sigh and nodded, and he dropped his hand, as if he’d only touched her because he’d felt he had to. And it would have been so nice to lean on him, to put her arms round him and rest her head on that broad shoulder.

  ‘Look, I know it’s small, and it’s probably not what you were used to with James, but it’s got lovely views, the garden could be really pretty and it’s very private, and there’s an outhouse that could possibly be turned into another bedroom if you felt it was necessary. Just—see how it goes, OK? If there’s anything you want decorated differently or changed, just say. I want you to think of it as your home.’

  The short, disbelieving huff of laughter was out before she could stop it, and he frowned and pressed his lips together.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve heard those words before, and when the chips are down, they mean nothing,’ she told him frankly. ‘So—thank you for the offer, but I’ll just settle in and we’ll see. I may want to move to something else, maybe something in the village.’

  Something not quite so disturbingly close. He was standing just a foot or so away, and she could smell the scent of his aftershave, clean and sharp and tangy, and beneath it the subtle undertones of warm, spicy musk from his body. She could so easily have taken that one small step and laid her head against his chest, her cheek against the fine, smooth cotton of his shirt, her ear tuned to the beating of his heart.

  She could almost feel the warmth, the solidity, the coiled masculine power of his body—

  ‘Do whatever you want. It’s not a prison, Emelia. There is no fence, imagined or otherwise. If it’s what you want, you’re free to go, but I’ll have to follow, in some degree. I can’t ignore this child, and I won’t. I take my responsibilities seriously.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. You probably think I’m being unreasonable and ungrateful—’

  ‘I don’t need your gratitude,’ he said softly. ‘I just need you to feel safe and secure and at home. If that isn’t here, then we’ll find somewhere that is.’

  He tossed the key in his hand for a moment, then put it down on the windowsill. ‘I’ll leave you to it. The phone’s connected—if you need anything, just call me.’

  ‘Sam?’

  He stopped in the doorway and turned to her, his eyes unreadable with the light behind him. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The smile was fleeting and she couldn’t tell if it reached his eyes, but he gave a brief nod and left, closing the door softly. Seconds later she heard the car start and he drove away, and she stared at the door for a moment before turning back to look at the house.

  And listen.

  It was so quiet! Utterly silent, really. She walked through it, her footfalls muffled on the new carpets, and it seemed so strange. She trailed her fingers over the woodwork, up the door frame, along the edge of the wooden worktop. Her home?

  A shiver ran over her, and she opened the back door and went out into the garden, just as the sun came out again.

  And she stood there, basking in the warmth of the sun’s rays, drinking in the peace of the garden, and gradually her heart settled to a steady, even rhythm and she felt her body relax.

  The baby stirred, stretching, and she felt a little foot sweep across the wall of her abdomen. At least she thought it was a foot. Maybe it was just her imagination, but it seemed reasonable. Whatever, it settled again, clearly content, and with a lingering smile on her face, she turned and went back inside her home.

  The kitchen, she discovered to her relief, was fully equipped. It even had the luxury of a dishwasher, only a small one, but it was enough. She’d appreciate it, she thought, when her bump got so big she couldn’t reach the sink.

  She opened the fridge to see if it was on, and blinked.

  Food? Real food. Milk and bread and eggs, and spread-able butter and bags of salad and fresh salmon and mini chicken breasts and baby new potatoes, and in the freezer section there were peas and beans and a whole host of other things, including a few ready meals. Simple, wholesome ones, not salt-laden greasy curries. Healthy, nutritious food for her and the baby. And there was even a box of chocolates in the fridge.

  Her eyes filled, and she blinked the tears away and looked around again. There was an envelope propped up against the kettle—a card from Sam with a picture of a cottage on the front, and inside, ‘Wishing you happiness in your new home.’ Beneath it, he’d written, ‘Good luck settling in. Shout if you need anything at all. Sam X’

  She stared at the X. And then the anything at all.

  A hug would be nice, she thought, and fought
down the stupid urge to cry.

  When she’d looked around it had just seemed like a haven. Now that it had actually happened, it just seemed somehow wrong. So lonely on her own. So lonely without Sam—

  No! She wasn’t going there, and she wasn’t going to wallow in self-pity. She was going to get on with it, to settle in, to make it how she wanted it, and anyway there wasn’t time to be lonely, because she had to earn her keep.

  And she’d had an idea about that, an idea she still had to run past Sam, but she was hoping he’d go for it. It would be hard, but it would be worth it.

  And if she still had time to feel lonely after that, she clearly hadn’t done enough!

  He stood at the window at the end of the landing and stared at the cottage through the trees.

  Was she all right? He hadn’t heard a word, and he’d been standing by all day for her to call to say she couldn’t find the immersion heater switch or a light bulb had blown or the dishwasher wasn’t working, but there had been nothing. He’d been deafened by the silence, and the urge to go over there and check up on her was overwhelming.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, he was going insane! He’d go over there now and talk to her, he decided, heading down the stairs and out of the front door. She might have slipped and fallen, or had a haemorrhage or any one of a million things—

  He stopped on the path and frowned. The gate of the rose garden was open. Just a touch, but enough to let a rabbit in, and he went to close it and heard the unmistakeable sound of digging.

  Digging, for heaven’s sake! There was only one person who could be doing it, and she had no business doing anything so strenuous in her condition. He pushed the door open and went in, and saw her standing there with one hand on a garden fork, her cheeks rosy with effort, her eyes bright, a huge weed dangling from the other hand.

  And she was grinning victoriously.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ he asked softly, and Emelia felt her colour deepen as she dropped the weed on the pile like a hot potato.

  ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist it. I brought the book out here the other day, and most of the plants are still here! It’s amazing. Some of them must be over a hundred years old. I think this one’s Celestial; it’s the most exquisite old shrub rose. And there are several musk and gallica roses, and I think that one’s Old Blush China…’

  She trailed to a halt. He was cross. She could see he was cross, even though his lips were pressed firmly together and he wasn’t saying anything. He walked over to her and took the fork out of her hand, hooking it out of the ground easily and leaning on it as he studied her.

  ‘You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?’ he said thoughtfully, trying to banish the picture of the puggling, muddy child and the pram under the tree that was still haunting him days later, and she nodded.

  ‘Yes, I am, but it’s going to take a while, and I thought— I don’t want to cook for you. That’s never been my strong point, and supply teaching doesn’t seem to be a likely option, but I can garden,’ she went on, her eyes alight as she made her pitch. ‘And goodness knows this place needs it. I could earn my keep, Sam. Pay my rent, my running costs, so I don’t feel I owe you anything. And you’d get your garden.’

  He hesitated, horribly tempted because it was a mess and all his spare time at the moment was channelled into the house. In the face of that, the garden was way down the list of his priorities, and in any case he had no idea where to start with restoring it. But apparently Emelia did, and she was looking at him expectantly, her eyes bright, enthusiasm shining from her eyes, and he almost buckled. Almost.

  He sighed. She was tiny, a good head shorter than him and fine-boned and—dammit, thoroughly pregnant, even if it wasn’t a condition!

  ‘It would be too hard for you,’ he said flatly, but she shook her head.

  ‘No. It would be a labour of love. I could do it, Sam—I could rescue it,’ she told him earnestly, feeling the surge of enthusiasm, the prickle of excitement at the prospect. ‘I’d love to do it. At least let me try. Please?’

  ‘What if I get someone to help you?’ he offered, before he knew what he was going to say. ‘There’s a lad in the village—he cleared the kitchen garden for me. Want me to give him a ring? It’s either that or I get in someone much more expensive, and they’ll have their own ideas, of course,’ he added, taunting her deliberately when she still hesitated.

  She chewed her lip, and he felt a twinge of guilt, but he wasn’t going to let her hurt herself, and at the same time he couldn’t bring himself to deny her the pleasure it was obviously bringing her. Never mind denying himself the pleasure of watching her…

  ‘It might be helpful,’ she conceded. ‘Just to do the heavy stuff—’

  ‘I’ll call him,’ he said, grabbing the advantage while he had it, and changed the subject. ‘How’s the cottage?’

  She smiled again, her eyes—such expressive, beautiful eyes, he thought distractedly—softening. ‘Lovely, thank you. And thank you for the food. You even thought of chocolates.’

  ‘I’m learning.’

  Her mouth twitched, and he felt his joining in. He shook his head and let himself smile. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’

  ‘Actually, that would be lovely.’

  ‘I’ll go and make it. Why don’t you pack up for today and come and find me in the kitchen? Daisy’s missed you.’ It was a lie. He didn’t even know where Daisy was, until she emerged from the undergrowth wagging her tail and smiling at him, and Emelia bit her lip and looked guilty.

  ‘I don’t think so. She’s been with me most of the day. Sorry. I should have told you.’

  He shook his head at the dog. ‘You faithless hound,’ he said softly, and scratched her ears. ‘So—tea in ten minutes?’

  ‘Tea in ten minutes would be lovely,’ she agreed, and smiled again.

  She’d caught the sun, and there was a streak of dirt across her brow and down one cheek, and she looked happier than he’d ever seen her. Happy and beautiful, and he had to drag himself away.

  So she was beautiful. So what? There was no way he could let himself act on this. Not with the baby complicating it so much. It would be a complete and utter emotional minefield, and he was never going there again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  EMELIA slept like a log.

  She woke up the following morning for the first time in her little cottage, blissfully comfortable—until she tried to move. She was so stiff she could hardly get out of bed, and she vowed to take it a bit easier in the garden in future.

  But he’d agreed to her suggestion! She was delighted by that, not only so she wouldn’t be beholden, but also because she was excited by the challenge, and she got up and made herself tea and sat at the table in the window overlooking the rolling parkland and fields in the distance, and planned how she was going to tackle the garden.

  Only a rough idea. She’d need more time to work it out properly. Then she showered—a power shower that drenched her and eased some of the aches, and she realised she felt better than she had in ages. Since before James had died, in fact.

  The last three years had been hard—desperately hard, in so many ways—but they were over, and her life was entering a new phase. And for the first time since she’d been given the shocking and life-changing news that she was having Sam’s baby, she was looking forward to the future with real enthusiasm.

  She decided not to overdo it, though, that morning, and so after she’d dressed and had breakfast, she went and enrolled with a doctor and a midwife, and got her next scan booked at the local hospital, then changed, ate one of the bananas Sam had bought for her and tackled the garden gently.

  And Sam appeared, just after she’d just started work, and brought her a cup of tea.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

  She brushed off her hands and smiled. ‘OK. I’ve only just started. I’m sorry I wasn’t here first thing but I had other things to do, and I’m going to have to skive on Monday, too, I’m afraid. I’ve got my
twenty-week scan.’

  His eyes tracked down and hesitated, then he lifted his head and searched her face. ‘I don’t suppose—’

  ‘Would you like—?’ she asked, speaking at the same time, and he gave a quiet laugh.

  ‘Please—if you won’t find it intrusive?’

  Intrusive? The father of her child being present? Odd word, but somehow appropriate under the circumstances. She thought about it for a second, then shook her head.

  ‘No, I won’t find it intrusive, Sam,’ she said gently. ‘You’re more than welcome to come. In fact, you can help me. It’s at the local hospital and I have no idea where to go.’

  ‘I’ll take you. Just tell me when. And I don’t expect you to be here nine to five, Emelia,’ he added, a slight frown pleating his brow. ‘Do as much or as little as you want. I’m just grateful for your input because this has been niggling at me for years.’

  ‘OK.’ She eyed his hands and smiled. ‘So—is that for us, or are you just taunting me with the biscuits?’

  He chuckled and sat down on the arbour seat, put the tea and biscuits down, and then vanished through the French doors into the sitting room, returning seconds later with a cushion.

  ‘Here,’ he said, shoving it behind her with a little frown, and she leant back on it and smiled.

  ‘Thanks. You’re a star,’ she murmured. ‘It seems ages since anyone spoilt me.’

  ‘James?’ he asked, wondering if she’d tell him to butt out, but she nodded, and she didn’t look put out, so he went further. ‘Tell me about him,’ he suggested quietly, and then waited.

  She smiled—that told him a lot, for a start. ‘He was crazy. Clever, interesting, but he had some wacky ideas. We didn’t always see eye to eye, but living with him was never boring. He always wanted to travel, to work his way round the world. We were going to save some money and go.’ Her smile faded. ‘We never got there. He found the lump the day after he brought the brochures home, and he was in hospital a fortnight later having surgery. We didn’t get another chance.’