AFRICAN AMERICAN URBAN FICTION: BWWM ROMANCE: Billionaire Baby Daddy (Billionaire Secret Baby Pregnancy Romance) (Multicultural & Interracial Romance Short Stories)

by Carmella Jones

  He seemed almost as unsure in the relationship as she was. It was, for all intents and purposes, as though they were sharing a bed simply because that was what married couples were supposed to do. They invariably turned their backs to each other each night before going to sleep.

  Sometimes, Daniel would roll over in his sleep and drape his arm over her, waking her up. Her first instinct was always to snuggle in closer to him. But it seemed wrong to take comfort in his arms knowing why she had entered the marriage. She would roll away from him and drift back to sleep, guilt hanging heavy over her head.

  During the day she busied herself with the tasks of the household and tried not to notice the tender way that he had begun to look at her when he didn’t think she was watching.

  *****

  They had just finished breakfast one morning and Daniel sat reading the newspaper. Naomi was working up the nerve to ask him for money. She hated to do it. But she had received a letter from Matthew. Faith was still getting worse. She would die soon if she didn’t receive the care she needed.

  “I was wondering…” she began. Daniel lowered his paper.

  “Yes?” he prompted her when she didn’t continue.

  “I was wondering if I could have some money. For shopping.” The words came out in a rush. Daniel looked at her strangely and she braced herself for him to tell her no.

  “Is that all?” he said. “You had me worried there for a second. Of course. Take whatever you need.”

  Naomi blinked.

  “Thank you,” she said, relieved.

  She took as much money as she thought she could get away with and wired it to Matthew and Faith. She sent them a letter saying that she would make a wire transfer each week. She only hoped that she had sent them the money in time.

  Conflicting emotions raged inside her as she made her way back to the house on the beach. She was glad that she had finally found a way to help Faith. But guilt gnawed at her relentlessly. It worsened as Daniel smiled at her when she walked through the door.

  “Didn’t find what you needed?” he asked her.

  “Hmm?”

  “I thought you went shopping,” he said. “Could you not find what you needed?”

  “Oh. I…no, couldn’t find it.”

  “That’s ok,” he said. “Maybe next time. I’ll come with you next time and show you around. Granted, I probably don’t know the town much better than you do. But maybe I can help you find what you were looking for.”

  “That would be nice,” Naomi said, forcing a smile.

  She was afraid for a moment that he would ask her to give the money back, since she hadn’t bought anything with it. But he didn’t mention it.

  *****

  Over the next several months Naomi continued to make weekly “shopping trips”, but she was careful to always buy something before returning. Her guilt had become almost too great to bear. But she couldn’t stop. Letters from Matthew assured her that Faith was now getting stronger, and might even make a full recovery. She didn’t dare stop.

  One week, when she returned home, Daniel was waiting for her with a bouquet of wildflowers. Her heart almost couldn’t stand it.

  “Here,” he said, offering her the flowers. He seemed, for all the world, more like a hopeful school boy than her husband.

  She couldn’t force herself to take them. She didn’t deserve them. He lowered them awkwardly after a moment.

  “Will you walk with me?” he asked after a moment.

  Naomi nodded wordlessly, setting down the bundle that she had brought back from town. She followed Daniel and fell into step beside him as he walked along the beach. After a moment, he reached down and took her hand, keeping his eyes straight ahead as they walked together.

  Naomi fought down the lump in her throat and tears stung her eyes. Why couldn’t he have been someone cruel, someone that she couldn’t have grown to love? And she did love him, she realized. She loved him and she would not lie to him anymore.

  “Stop,” she said, pulling her hand from his. “Stop. I can’t do this anymore. Daniel, I have to tell you the truth. I came here to marry you for your money. I didn’t know what else to do. My sister – I have a sister back home, and a brother – my sister, she was sick. She was dying. I worked as hard as I could, but it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t get enough money for her treatments. I was desperate. I’ve been taking money from you and sending it to them every week. I’m so sorry. I know it doesn’t change what I did or make it ok, but I’m so, so sorry.”

  Daniel hung his head and closed his eyes.

  “I know,” he said hoarsely. “I saw the letters.”

  Naomi was speechless.

  “I know now that you didn’t come here for a marriage,” Daniel continued. “And I know now that you probably never considered loving me to be a possibility, I just… I don’t know. I guess I hoped that I could change your mind.”

  He pressed the flowers into her hand. She stood in stunned silence as she watched him walk away. When she found her voice again she called after him.

  “Daniel! Daniel, wait!”

  He stopped and turned to face her.

  “You did change my mind,” she said to him. “A long time ago.”

  “Do you mean that?” he asked.

  “I do,” she said. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  “I do,” he said with a smile.

  Naomi caught up to him and laced her fingers through his and they walked up the hill to the house together.

  THE END

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  I.

  Sitting on a large flat stone upon the top of one of the highest mountains in the highlands with a gentle breeze caressing her red hair, Cairistine looked out over the stone covered peaks and ridges that made up her highland home. Having developed a very shapely form during her younger years, she’d been pursued by plenty of men who might have been suitable mates, but, in truth, she only encountered the happiness that she sought by strolling in the forests, among the tall grass upon the slopes of the hills and drinking in the bounty of nature.

  With her mother having passed on to that great peace beyond while she was still young, it had driven her father close to insanity to have her gallivantin’ aboot the hills, while her older siblings tended to the chores. In spite of the numerous whippings and punishments that her father had dished out, Cairistine had not settled down, preferring to pass the entire day, from dawn to dusk, well away from the stone walls where her father hoped to keep her. In time, he had simply given up on Cairistine, though the chiding of her older sisters would likely never be given up.

  “At your age,” Emily had told her, too many times to count. “You ought to be lookin’ fer a man te star’ a home with an’ star’ in raisin’ wee ones of yer own.”

  After witnessing how much freedom was lost in the raisin’ of wee ones, she had decided that, though she yearned for a baby at some point in her future, it was something that could be put off for a good while longer, especially, when she hadn't really run across the type of man that she would even consider spending the rest of her days with.

  The crowded streets of the small village in the valley often held a bit of curiosity for her, but were typically a burden as well. The endless line of young men that saw little more than a shapely form with fiery hair and eyes of blue not only interested her little, but it was irritating to have to bite her tongue and remain civil a
s she fielded the endless stream of invitations and propositions. Can’t they just leave well enough alone? If and when I want a man, I’ll look for one.

  Worse than the stream of suitors that she had to endure, however, was the endless chatter of her siblings as they talked about those young men who had harassed her and them throughout the entire day. “Actually, Cairistine,” Amilia giggled. “You’re somethin’ o’ a bi’ o goo’ luck fer the rest of us. When a lad misses his chance wit’ ye, he terns his charms te the next in line. I’ve nearly a dozen invitations an’ propositions to consider an’ I thin’ there were a’ least three o’ them tradin’ blows to be wit’ me.”

  “Tis fine luck fer ye, then,” was Cairistine’s only response, though Amilia and the other three continued to press her.

  After the way her mother had so quickly withered away, having produced four girls and three boys before being completely spent, Cairistine had looked upon the whole scene as little more than a means to an early grave. There was so much more to the world, even within a stone’s throw of the house, than her sisters seemed to understand.

  As the morning mist began to rise up out of the valley below and spread itself out over the slope, she was drawn away from the stone covered slope and into the wood toward a small stone shack with a sod roof that was of particular interest to her. Within that shack lived a woman who might have lived a thousand years if she’d lived a hundred. Folks around considered her to be a troll or a witch of some sort and steered well clear of that particular part of the wood, but Cairistine knew her as Inghean and as one who knew how to use what could be found in nature to heal. From her Cairistine had learned a great deal about the plants and trees, but also about what secrets salves and medicines might be made from each.

  “There’s a chill in the mist this mornin’, lassie,” Inghean mumbled in place of a greeting. “Must be gettin’ on to winter soon.” The old woman was hunched over and overtaken by wrinkles and warts, but her eyes were clear and her mind steady. She tended to grumble whenever she spoke of folks about, but there wasn’t any malice in her words when she spoke to Cairistine.

  “I was hopin’ fer a stool beside yer fire,” Cairistine replied.

  “Ye haven’t a stool beside the fire in your father’s house?”

  “An listen te those aboot it gossipin’? I’d sooner freeze te death in the mist.”

  “I migh’ be talkin’ te gossip m’self this mornin’.” Inghean enjoyed something of a chuckle though it was little different sounding than a hacking cough. She often teased Cairistine in a rather crude way. It sounded much worse than it was.

  Cairistine moved closer to the fire. “How di’ our laddie get along durin’ the night?”

  “Ye can see fer yerself,” replied the hag. “But ye seem te have more interes’ in the fire.”

  Only two days before, Cairistine had found an ailing pine marten while she was wandering about and had tucked it away in the folds of her dress in order to bring it to Inghean. The old woman hadn’t held out much hope for the creature, but because Cairistine had insisted that they had to try something, she’d done the best she could. The first day hadn’t seen much improvement, but Cairistine was anxious to see if another day had made a difference.

  Squeezing through the narrow door that led from the main room of the house into what amounted to little more than a stable with a number of cages attached to the back of the shack, Cairistine moved cautiously down the aisle between the mostly empty cages. It took only a moment for her to have the answer to her question. The long narrow form of the scurrying creature quickly caught her attention and she could tell immediately that he was much better.

  “There ye go ye good lad,” she chuckled.

  “He awakened b’fore dawn, he did.” The old woman moved up behind her. “Pu’ up all kin’ o’ racket te where twas impossible te sleep. Ye’ll need te carry him te his home t’day er there’ll be nary a wink o’ sleep te be got in this old hag’s shack.”

  “But he was so hopeless yesterday,” Cairistine responded.

  “Ye ne’er know aboot critters such as these,” Inghean replied. “One minute they’re on the derstoop o’ the almighty an’ the nex’ they’re turnin’ flips.”

  “I best be getting’ him back te his family then,” Cairistine said.

  “I thought ye was seekin’ a fire te warm ye?” the old woman chuckled.

  “A fire could ne’er warm me the way seein’ this wee one happy does.”

  “Ye won’ be takin’ him back in the fold o’ yer dress, lassie,” Inghean warned. “He’ll have ye in tatters before yer away from the shack.”

  “But ye said, yerself that I need te be takin’ him home.”

  “I did, indeed,” she cackled. “I’ve a basket fer the task, though I fear it no is gonna be an easy task getting’ him in it.”

  With the basket placed near the opening of the cage where the marten was being kept, the two of them started into what seemed, after the first dozen tries, to be entirely impossible. The narrow, wiry body of the largest member of the weasel family would enter the basket, but before either of them could get the lid closed, he was loose and scurrying to the other corner. By some pure luck, he finally entered the basket and happened to jar it in such a way for the lid to close. Cairistine dove on the basket and held it closed until Inghean could get it latched.

  “We’ll be needin’ te tie a lengt’ o’ cord aboot tha’ basket, lassie,” the old woman said, nearly out of breath from the activity. “Wit’ his narrow body, he can scurry through a keyhole, I don’ doot.”

  Cairistine held the basket lid closed while Inghean found some cord to wrap tightly about the lid. The basket bucked and jumped in her grasp, a certain testament to the fact that the creature inside was in good health. Inghean wrapped three cords over the basket and tied them tightly before stepping away.

  “A’righ’ then, lassie, let’s see if that’ll hold him,” she said, watching the basket closely as Cairistine loosened her grip on it.

  Though the basket tumbled several times, the lid held shut and the marten was unable to find a crack to slither through.

  “It seems te be holdin’ him,” Cairistine commented.

  “Ye bes’ be on yer way, then, lassie,” the old woman commented. “Who knows how much longer twill hold with him raisin’ the devil in there?”

  Cairistine scooped up the wildly dancing basket. It wasn’t easy to hold onto, but she managed to wrap her arms around it and hold it fast. “Ye healed him fer certain,” she laughed.

  “Ye don’ be wastin’ time gettin’ him te where he belongs,” Inghean warned. “An’ tis bes’ ye no are wanderin’ the wood t’day, lassie. There’s Campbells aboot an’ they’re a huntin’ somethin’. Won’ be doin’ ye no goo’ te come across a Campbell when yer alone in the wood.”

  “A Campbell don’ stan’ a chance again the likes o’ me.” Cairistine raised her chin slightly.

  “Jest the same, lassie, be on yer guard an’ keep yer eyes open. They believe themselves te own all o’ the highlands and they won’ have secon’ thought aboot takin’ advantage o’ a girl alone in the wood.”

  “I’ll be careful.” Cairistine knew that there wasn’t any point in discussing it further. She started out of the stable using the stable door rather than going back through the house and started on her way back to where she had found the marten.

  II.

  The mist had thickened since she’d gone into the shack, and along with it the cold. It seemed to crawl through her garments and nip at her even through her flesh and into her bones. She was beginning to wish that she had put off returning the marten to his home and enjoyed the warmth of the fire instead. However, there was little that she could do, but hurry on her way. If she did, perhaps she could return to the fire more quickly. With that as her goal, she moved quickly through the trees.

  She knew that Inghean’s warning against bumping into a group of Campbells out hunting was something to be taken seriously. They tended
to load up on plenty of whiskey before setting out and didn’t keep the bottle corked long before taking another nip. Though they were of questionable report when sober, they would certainly be worse while drunk.

  The Campbells, for several generations, had claimed lordship over Scotland. Their claim was a flimsy one, but their numbers and the fact that they had little compunction against asserting their claim through violence made their argument difficult to refute. England, to be sure, had the more powerful claim over the land, however, enforcing their claim had always proven to be extremely difficult given the terrain and the overall attitude of the free-thinking highlanders. The only real rival to the Campbells, in the highlands, came in the form of the sons of Clan Gregor, who descended from King Alpin himself, and by true right, were the rulers of the highlands, but they had their own problem. The entire clan of Gregor had been outlawed by the English crown and therefore lent legitimacy to something that the Campbells would have gladly done without the edict; kill MacGregors.

  Hunching herself against the cold as she moved through the woods, thoughts of the Campbells were in her head, though she had little to worry about. The mist was so thick that a person might move three strides in any direction and not be able to see the place that they had just left. Fortunately, for Cairistine, she knew the direction that she must take and the landmarks along the way. Within minutes of leaving the old woman’s shack, she forgot about Campbells in the woods and focused all of her attention upon navigating her way back to the marten’s home.

  Though it took longer than normal to find the small glade with the crumbling stone where the young marten had been lying when she’d stumbled across it, she found her way there and dug through the folds of her clothing until she found the small dagger that she kept hidden away there. With the dagger in hand, she slipped the blade under each of the cords and cut them free of the basket before cautiously grasping the latch that would open the lid.