12 Stocking Stuffers

by Beverly Barton, Heather Graham Pozzessere, Catherine Spencer, Diana Hamilton, Maggie Shayne, Anne Stuart, Stephanie Bond, Janelle Denison, Helen Bianchin, Rebecca Winters, Lucy Gordon, Monica Jackson

  She felt trapped. By the weather, but mostly, she admitted, by Carl. She shuddered.

  ‘I’ve decided to set a date for the wedding towards the end of January,’ Carl announced unilaterally, his back to her as he poured the coffee. ‘It will give time for the banns to be called.’ He turned, a mug in each hand, his features expressionless. ‘A register office ceremony might be more appropriate, under the circumstances, but traditionally Forsythes have always married in the village church.’

  ‘And we mustn’t go against tradition, must we?’ Beth was amazed by the strength of her sudden anger, but grateful too. At least the surge of hot, savage emotion injected life back into her wilting spirits. ‘This is all about your precious family tradition, isn’t it? Did you divorce your wife because the poor woman couldn’t produce a Forsythe heir? If you hadn’t been the last in the line of your wretched dynasty you wouldn’t have given a damn about my son, would you?’ she accused heatedly.

  Her breasts heaving, she shook her head and crossed her arms over her midriff, refusing to take the coffee he calmly held out to her.

  Carl’s impressive shoulders lifted in a slight shrug as he put the mug down on the nearest low table within her reach. His voice was as calm as his actions when he countered her blistering accusations.

  ‘Terrina refused to have children—a fact she had neglected to share with me before our marriage. She preferred to take lovers. Her primary aim in life was to look beautiful, spend money, attract men. She had her second husband lined up when she demanded a divorce. I give him six months at best. She has a low boredom threshold.’

  He took a mouthful of coffee and, cradling the mug in his hands, told her forcefully, ‘Remarriage was not on my agenda. I decided to sell the Hall because the old house cries out for a family. If I’d been so obsessed with what you choose to call the Forsythe dynasty, I’d have mothballed the place until I could find some fecund young thing willing to marry me and give me an heir. You should think things out before you make judgements.’ His face tightened, closing up implacably. ‘Now everything’s changed. I have a son. Flesh of my flesh. Satisfied?’

  Beth caught her lower lip between her teeth. She wished he’d sit down. Looming over her, he made her feel small. She already felt two inches high and shrinking after hearing what he’d had to say.

  How any sane woman could even look at another man when she had Carl’s love, his wedding band on her finger, she couldn’t begin to imagine. He must have been truly, deeply hurt.

  But that didn’t alter her own unenviable situation. She said, as calmly as her rioting nerve-ends would let her, ‘And if I don’t agree to be legally tied to a man who loathes me? I could decide to have nothing to do with your crazy ideas!’

  His mouth flattened, but there was a thread of danger in his voice as he imparted, ‘Then you will regret such a decision for the rest of your life. Be very sure of that.’

  He sank into the chair opposite hers while he waited for his words to sink in. He watched the whole gamut of emotions cross her features, like clouds racing over the landscape—saw the pain, the uncertainty in her deep green eyes, and wanted to hold her, kiss the pain away, assure her that he would care for her, always care for her.

  Clenching his hands, he reminded himself that she deserved everything he was dishing out, that in her own way she was no better than Terrina. But for some damn fool reason he heard himself qualifying, ‘I don’t loathe you. I admit I don’t want a real marriage—the Hall’s big enough for us to rattle around in without having to have much to do with each other—but I don’t loathe you. When you opened the door when I brought the boys home that first night, it was like meeting a warm ray of sunshine on a bitter winter’s day. That was before—’

  He broke off, leaving her to draw her own conclusions. She knew what he meant. Miserable guilt was written all over her pale and lovely face. ‘Why didn’t you respond to my letter?’ he pressed quietly. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were expecting my child? I didn’t just walk out on you—you knew I was due to leave for the States; I told you.’

  Or had he told her? His eyes darkened beneath clenching brows. He knew he’d meant to tell her, had taken her to that secluded place for that reason. He had already known that something pretty monumental was coming to life between them and he’d been trying, for both their sakes, to cool things down.

  He’d been nineteen years old, and pretty inarticulate as far as his emotions were concerned, but he’d known he had to make her understand that they had to be adult enough to wait until they’d both finished their education before they took their relationship any further.

  But maybe he hadn’t actually got around to it. He couldn’t clearly remember. His brain had been in a fog ever since he’d started to dance with her. Then the wine had been spilled and events had overtaken them.

  She might have seen his disappearance from the scene as desertion…

  The slight contemptuous curl of her mouth as she answered his questions confirmed exactly that.

  ‘It was days before I found out why you weren’t around. I must have been the last person to know you’d flown to the States directly after that party.’

  Even now she could recall exactly how shattered she’d felt at her own naivety. She’d truly believed that he’d made love to her because he loved her. When the truth was he’d simply used her, not even bothering to explain that he was due to leave the country. No wonder he hadn’t suggested when they would see each other again.

  He’d left the country without a word, leaving her in total ignorance, waiting for him to get in touch, tell her he loved her and wanted to be with her for ever. Fool!

  ‘And then that letter came.’ She verbalised her angry thoughts, her rage fuelled by the memory of how eagerly she’d ripped open the airmail letter, how she’d disintegrated after reading the hastily scrawled lines.

  Her eyes held emerald scorn. ‘Mostly about how well you were settling in at the home of your uncle’s banking associate, his charming wife and their daughter Terrina. How welcome they made you feel. And then the really stiff and impersonal bit!’ she lashed out. ‘You would like me to keep in touch. And contact you if there were any repercussions.’ She pushed her hair out of her eyes with impatient fingers, then knotted her hands together in her lap, her voice dry as she recalled, ‘It took me until I realised I was pregnant to understand what you’d meant by “repercussions”.’

  And then she’d been afraid. So afraid.

  Her grandparents would have to be told; they’d probably disown her…

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ He closed his eyes briefly; his face looked drawn.

  ‘After that letter? Get real, Carl! There wasn’t one word of affection, the slightest indication of caring. The dreaded “repercussions” had eventuated. You wouldn’t have wanted to know—why would you have wanted something like that to mess up your perfect, privileged life? You would have probably sent money for an abortion. I couldn’t face your doing that. I wanted my baby. I didn’t want to have you spell out that our baby was the last thing you wanted. Do you know something?’ she queried witheringly. ‘I thought it best for all of us for you to be in happy ignorance!’

  There was a beat of heavy silence, then Carl said wearily, ‘I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. When I wrote that letter I was desperately ashamed.’

  Ashamed? A vein throbbed at her temples. Her jaw clenched. Her voice shook as she came back at him. ‘Of course you were ashamed. The young lord of the manor, heir to a banking empire, having sex with the gardener’s granddaughter! Bad form, what?’ she taunted, sarcasm dripping from her shaky voice.

  Never in her life had she seen anyone move so quickly. Her eyes winged wide open as he left his seat and hunkered down in front of her, taking her hands, loosening her frantic grip, taking each of them into his own. ‘That is not what I meant. Then or now. Did I ever give you any reason to believe I didn’t think of us as equals? I was ashamed because I’d taken something precious.
You were so young and I’d taken your virginity. I’d had no control over my own desire; I’d taken no precautions. I was ashamed of myself, not of you,’ he stressed. ‘For pity’s sake, Beth, I was besotted with you, put you on a pedestal—’

  Then, just as quickly, he moved away, standing up, dropping her hands, pacing back. As if he’d suddenly remembered that, far from being besotted with her, he didn’t even like her now, not one little bit.

  The passion, the vehemence behind what he’d just said rocked her. Had he really felt like that about her? Might everything have been so different? Her eyes swam with sudden tears. The glittery baubles on the Christmas tree shimmered and seemed to lose all substance.

  He was standing with his back to her, staring out of the window into the wintry darkness, as if the cluttered room stifled him and he wanted out. Out of the mess they had made of their lives. She could see the tension in the hard, high line of his shoulders, in the taut muscles of his back and long, lean thighs.

  Beth blinked, scrubbed the wetness from her cheeks with the back of her hand and forced herself upright, taking a couple of paces towards him, talking to the back of his head. ‘I know you’ll never forgive me for not telling you about James. But, in my defence, the first time I held our son in my arms I knew I was going to have to. You deserved to know that between us we’d made such a perfect baby. That first time I held him I felt very close to you. It was almost as if you were in that hospital room with me.’

  ‘Really?’ His voice was flat. ‘Then what stopped you?’

  He didn’t turn. She could see the reflection of his grim features in the darkened window. She’d been right; he would never forgive her.

  But now, while they still had to agree how and when to tell James that Carl was his father, was probably the only chance she’d ever get to put her side of the story. Already he would be regretting having confessed how he had once felt about her, wishing he could take the words back because his youthful emotions had no relevance now.

  Her voice unconsciously low and soothing, she told him, ‘As I said, my grandparents didn’t ask me to leave. But they made their disapproval so obvious it was the only thing I could do. I found work, a room to live in, and a couple of months before James was born I was given a one-bedroom council flat in a high-rise building that was more than half empty and mostly boarded up because nobody who had any choice wanted to live there—’

  ‘And you took my child to a place like that?’ He swung round, and she was sure the hands that were pushed into the pockets of his jeans were bunched into fists. There was a savage glint in the eyes that raked her face.

  ‘What other option did I have?’ she demanded rawly. She had hated that flat—the eerie, evil-smelling staircases, the lifts that had almost never worked, the wrecked cars in the street outside, the dubious-looking characters who’d inhabited the flats that were occupied. Did he think she’d lived there because she’d wanted to? He knew nothing—nothing about the real world!

  ‘You could have contacted me. You said you were going to, so what stopped you?’ he asked icily. ‘Stubborn pride or a need to punish me?’

  Beth gasped as a tide of anger hit her. Resentment and agonising pain flooded through her as she remembered how she’d felt at that time. She wanted to kill him for always putting her in the wrong! ‘You know nothing!’ she snapped through gritted teeth. ‘Two days before James was born Gran phoned to say Grandad had died. I was admitted to the maternity ward soon after—and the nurses were willing to look after James while I went to his funeral. My baby was three days old then. I’d meant to phone your uncle, to ask for your current address, but as I was going to the funeral I decided to ask him in person.’

  Her cheeks burned furiously, her eyes brilliant with rare temper. ‘I never got round to it. After the service one of your uncle’s outdoor staff told me—in passing, as it were—that you’d just got engaged to some American beauty who could trace her ancestors back to the Mayflower and beyond, and your uncle was over the moon about it!’

  Unaware that tears of rage and remembered pain were falling in a torrent, she slapped the open palm of her hand against the side of her head. ‘So what was I supposed to do? You tell me! Announce that I’d just given birth to your bastard? That would have ruined your engagement, disappointed Marcus—even turned him against his blue-eyed boy!’ She was almost sobbing now, her breath catching, her lungs heaving. ‘So I held my tongue—for your sake. Not for mine. Not because I was devious or twisted enough to believe I was somehow punishing you.’

  She gulped in a long, shuddering breath, oblivious to the sheer anguish in Carl’s eyes. ‘We managed, James and I. The job with Angela and Henry was a godsend. I must have been with them for around three years when I read an account of your marriage in Henry’s morning paper. A high society affair—and in the photograph you both looked so happy. I knew I’d been right to keep silent.’

  He took a step towards her, but she backed away, her body quivering with tension. ‘I loved you, Carl, even then. I wanted you to be happy.’ Her voice broke. ‘Only that!’

  ‘Beth—’ His face was drained of colour and he looked bone-weary; only the dark glittering eyes spoke of emotions too raw to articulate. ‘I—’ Whatever he’d been about to say, he obviously thought better of it. His lips tightened into a long straight line and his voice was flat when he told her, ‘I’ve misjudged you badly. For the first time in my life I’ve let emotion override logic. You haven’t a mean bone in your body. I should have remembered that before dishing out accusations and orders. I take them all back. Unreservedly.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Beth voiced the question even though she already knew the answer as she watched him walk to the door.

  Her stomach lurched. Everything he’d said, his insistence that they marry for the sake of their son, had been ruled out of order by his final taut statement. She should have been feeling a rush of happy relief instead of being emotionally gutted.

  ‘Home.’ He took his coat from the hook on the back of the kitchen door. ‘I’ve inflicted too much on you for one evening.’

  ‘What about James?’ Her voice was high and wild. She pressed her fingertips to her temples. Was she going mad? He was walking away from them, no doubt thinking he was doing the honourable thing in view of how he’d admitted he’d misjudged her. She’d been praying for just such a scenario ever since he’d guessed that James was his son. So why was she feeling so churned up and desperate because what she’d wished for with all her heart was coming true?

  ‘We’ll arrange for access through our solicitors.’ He sounded so controlled and sensible she wanted to strangle him. ‘There’ll be a generous financial settlement. You’ll never have to work again, unless you want to, and my demands regarding the time I spend with my son will be reasonable.’

  He had the door open. The freezing wind gusted in. Beth watched him walk out, her mouth dry, a sick feeling in her stomach, saw him turn, heard him say, ‘I’ll leave it to you to judge when and how to tell him he has a father who loves him.’ And then she closed the door, nearly wrenching her arms from their sockets in the violent process, shutting him out before he could witness her tearful and utter disintegration.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THERE had been another heavy snowfall during the night. It bowed down the branches of the trees and glittered in the thin winter sunlight.

  Beth winced at the noise coming from the parlour. James and Guy were enjoying Christmas morning with a vengeance and it was time to put the chicken in the oven, the pudding on to steam. She passed her fingers over her aching forehead. She hadn’t slept last night, but she’d dressed in a figure-hugging cream-coloured cropped sweater and a calf-length swirly scarlet skirt. A heavier hand with her make-up than normal, and her hair falling softly around her face, went some way towards hiding the havoc of lack of sleep.

  For the boys’ sake she had to pretend she was loving every minute of the day. It wasn’t their fault she felt half-dead and more than ha
lf-crazy.

  She had to be half-crazy to be feeling this way. After she’d met up with Carl again she’d spent all her time wishing he’d disappear, and had been scared witless when he’d insisted on marriage. Yet as soon as that demand had been taken back she’d felt as if half of her life had been sliced away with a very sharp knife.

  But she still had James. James was all she had ever wanted.

  Not true, she acknowledged as she slid the roasting tin into the oven. She had wanted Carl as well. As a lover, a best friend, her husband, the father of her child.

  She still did.

  She banged the over door shut, her face flushed. But she couldn’t have him. Didn’t she know that? She hated herself for thinking like a fool. He had always been out of her league; deep down she’d always known that. If she hadn’t she would have contacted him the moment she’d discovered she was pregnant.

  Besides, she reminded herself with conscious cruelty, it was just as well he had withdrawn his threat to marry her. Quite rightly, the thought of it had terrified her. Living with the man she still loved—and a plague on her for being such a fool—having him treat her like an only-just-tolerated stranger, would have been torture. She was being a drama queen, pretending to herself that she had lost something wonderfully precious.

  It was time to start getting her life back to the way it had been before he had walked in and unsettled it.

  Listening to the noise level from the parlour, she wondered whether she could safely leave the boys playing with their new toys for another ten minutes while she prepared the vegetables. She decided to risk it.

  As she took potatoes from the vegetable rack the phone rang. She picked the instrument up off the table, stamping firmly on the fluttery hope that it might be Carl. He didn’t have her mobile number; the caller couldn’t be him.