Morgan's Secret Son

by Sara Wood

  ‘It’s almost time for him to wake up,’ he conceded, unwillingly touched by the radiance of her smile.

  She tiptoed to the crib and crouched down, her face awed. ‘I knew it was a boy because of the blue everywhere,’ she whispered. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Jack Samuel.’

  She was too close to him. He could see each one of her long lashes as they fluttered above those amazingly clear green eyes. Her skin was flawless as a baby’s itself, her expression too eager and her lips too inviting.

  He sat the bottle in the warmer and tried to deal with the conflicting emotions roaring in his head. He wanted her to think his son was the most beautiful, most adorable baby she’d ever seen. And he also wanted her to find babies a total turn-off.

  ‘He’s just perfect!’ she said shakily, and he detected the suspicion of a tear in the corner of her eye before she brought her hand up and rubbed there, impatiently. ‘Oh, look! His lashes are fluttering—aren’t they long and black? Like yours. And all that dark, wavy hair… Is he anything like his mother?’ she asked with a laugh in his direction.

  He frowned, his mouth pinched. ‘I can’t see likenesses,’ he grated.

  ‘I’ve said something wrong! Is—isn’t she…around?’ she asked tactfully.

  Deceit… It soured everything he did: his love for his son, his relationship with Sam and now Sam’s daughter. But he couldn’t bring himself to unburden himself to Jodie, or to say anything which would ultimately result in the surrender of his son.

  Jack would be his. Always. His baby’s face was imprinted on him like a video screen constantly before his eyes. The little squirming body was as familiar to him as his own. They were one and the same, indivisible.

  ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘She’s not around.’

  Her hand enclosed his and when he met her sympathetic eyes he felt like groaning in frustrated anger and telling her that he did not deserve her compassion. She would not look on him so trustingly if she realised what he was hiding from her.

  ‘He’s waking!’ she cried in delight as Jack uttered a little squawk. ‘Oh, his eyes! Black as ink! I thought all babies were blue-eyed?’

  ‘Jack’s are. Midnight-blue,’ he managed, knowing every shade of those huge bright eyes. ‘Indigo-denim in bright sunlight. They look black in the semi-dark.’

  He lifted his son out. ‘Hello, there,’ he said softly, holding him close to his face. His hand cradled the back of the small, warm head. He could feel the curls, flattened by sleep and body-heat to the back of Jack’s scalp. ‘Look at the sunrise,’ he murmured, turning the baby around to see the rays of gold and amber pooling on the nursery floor. ‘We’ll go out later. We can listen to the birds, see the sheep and hear them bleating…’

  He remembered Jodie and glanced at her. His gaze faltered, shaken by the intensity of her emerald eyes.

  ‘I…talk to him,’ he said, explaining himself and laying Jack on the changing mat.

  A pain was racking her. It was sweet and hurting at the same time. Morgan had lost his wife—or she’d left him—and he was devastated. The hurt in his eyes had been so strong when she’d mentioned the baby’s mother that it was as if he’d been ripped apart.

  What a lot he’d had to suffer, she thought sadly, watching his deft fingers undoing the pearly buttons on Jack’s sleepsuit.

  She quivered, unbearably touched by his tenderness and the deep love he had for his child. His hands seemed huge, but he manipulated the baby with a sure confidence which suggested he’d been doing this for some time. How long? she wondered.

  ‘How old is he?’ she asked longingly, wishing with all her heart that she had a good man in her life and the prospect of a baby of her own.

  ‘Five weeks. He’s putting on weight like a Sumo wrestler,’ Morgan said, pride in every line of his face. ‘And he recognises me. He always calms down if he’s crying and I speak to him—or even if I sing. Poor child’s clearly tone-deaf.’

  She was enchanted by the picture he’d presented. She sat back on her heels and watched the cleansing and changing and hoped he’d ask if she wanted to hold the baby. But he didn’t.

  So she contented herself with enjoying the sight of Morgan, sitting in a chair and feeding his son, a quiet air of contentment pervading the whole nursery.

  ‘This is a side of you I couldn’t have imagined from our first meeting,’ she said wryly.

  ‘We are all complex people, Jodie. Multi-faceted, hard, soft, kind, ruthless, depending on the circumstances or the threat to our continued existence.’

  ‘And you were prepared to growl like a bear and yell at any flibbertigibbet who threatened my father’s well-being,’ she said with a grin.

  ‘I’d defend the people I love with every last breath in my body,’ he replied.

  ‘You’re very loyal.’

  ‘I love very deeply.’

  An older man, a tiny child. The strong caring for the weak. She smiled warmly and was delighted when he smiled back.

  ‘You can be very intimidating! I like you best like this,’ she said.

  He laughed. ‘Me too!’ He crossed his long bare legs at the ankles and gazed fondly down at his son.

  Jodie’s heart lurched and she recognised that she was dangerously on the brink of finding Morgan too appealing for her own good. Looking around, she found something to defuse her sentimental yearning.

  ‘He’s a lucky little boy,’ she mused, admiring the cheerful trees which had been painted on the walls, with their huge eyes and smiling mouths. ‘This is a wonderful nursery!’

  Morgan looked pleased. ‘I did it,’ he said in an off-hand manner which didn’t deceive her at all.

  ‘You?’ she cried, in amazement. ‘But you’re a brilliant artist! I especially like the fat robins. And that’s the fairy castle of any child’s dreams.’

  ‘I enjoyed doing it. Didn’t take long,’ he mused.

  She turned around, seeing that the bright, primary colours of the landscape had been continued across a bank of cupboards, and a bookcase had been disguised as a mountain.

  ‘Are you a professional artist?’ she wondered.

  ‘In a way. An architect, like your father,’ he replied.

  She gave a surprised gasp. ‘Morgan, that’s what I wanted to be!’

  ‘There’s nothing to stop you, if that’s what you want to do,’ he pointed out.

  ‘No, there isn’t!’ she cried, her face aglow with the sudden realisation. ‘It’s been my ambition ever since my teacher said I had talent in that direction.’

  ‘So what did stop you?’ he enquired.

  ‘My foster-parents. They needed me to leave school and go to work so I learnt to type instead.’

  ‘How did you feel about that?’

  ‘Sad,’ she acknowledged. ‘But they were short of money. I felt it was right that I should contribute to the family income.’ She smiled. ‘I was always drawing as a kiddie. I longed to create something that I could walk past every day of my life,’ she said passionately. ‘It must be a wonderful feeling to know that a building is your concept, your idea turned into reality.’

  He laughed. ‘You sound just like your father!’ he said in amusement. ‘That’s how he inspired me. And you’re right. It’s one hell of a buzz to see your dream, to walk around it and into it, to see it working on a practical scale and filled with people.’

  Envious, she brought her knees up to her chin. ‘Tell me more about my father and his work,’ she begged.

  ‘How about a description of him first?’ Morgan lifted an expressive eyebrow and smiled when she nodded eagerly. ‘OK. He’s sixty, with all his own teeth and a good deal of thick white hair which flops on his forehead and he keeps sweeping back impatiently.’ He grinned fondly. ‘When he’s working it often ends up streaked with the colours he’s used.’

  Jodie laughed with him at the picture he was painting. ‘I can almost see him,’ she said softly. ‘Is he tall, short?’

  Morgan’s voice grew quieter than before. �
��Tall. He used to have a powerful build but now he’s thin and drawn, all cheekbones and jaw. He has your eyes. Less bright, not as clear, but still with the ability to sparkle when he’s excited about something. I suppose…I suppose he has a similar character to you.’

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked warily.

  ‘Honest, good, kind, generous…’ He stopped the surprising list of attributes and let his mouth curl wickedly. ‘Stubborn, passionate, single-minded and occasionally impossible!’ he added.

  She giggled. ‘There could be fireworks if he and I ever disagree! But…I’m glad to hear he’s a good man. Mom never said anything about him, but when I grew older I put two and two together. Knowing what I did of Mom, I assumed that he told her to leave because she was having an affair.’

  ‘I believe that might be true,’ he said with great tact. He lifted Jack up a little once or twice and was rewarded with a small belch and a dribble of milk. Jodie then realised why his jumper had been slightly stained at their first meeting. ‘Good boy!’ he said approvingly, as if, she thought with a smile, the baby had successfully mastered algebra.

  ‘You dote on that baby!’ she teased.

  He shot her a sharp look from under his brows. ‘Yes,’ he said, looking defensive.

  ‘Calm down! I approve,’ she giggled.

  He gave a thin smile. ‘I get a bit protective,’ he explained a little sheepishly, and hastily changed the subject. ‘We were talking about you, though. You said your mother died when you were six?’

  ‘That’s right—eighteen years ago. I’ve wanted to belong to someone ever since,’ she confided. She leant forward, once more hoping he’d ask her to hold the baby. Instead, he stood up with Jack tucked in one arm, dealing efficiently with the debris around him. ‘Can I help?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’ He amended that rather curt refusal. ‘Thanks. Tell me about your foster-parents.’

  Diverted, she made a face. ‘They were tough on me. Sometimes I wondered if they only wanted the money I brought into the house. I can’t remember either of them ever playing with me or cuddling me. Still,’ she said cheerfully, ‘they did give me a home, and I learnt to be self-sufficient and how to do chores.’

  ‘But not to cook?’ he asked drily, putting a cute little hat on Jack’s head.

  Jodie jumped to her feet and pre-empted Morgan, handing him the warm jacket he’d set his eyes on. But he wouldn’t let her help to put it on the baby.

  ‘My foster-mother taught me basic cooking. I always did our supper when I came in from school. When I left home, fancy cooking was beyond me because I was always scared of ruining expensive ingredients.’ She grinned. ‘I set the kitchen alight when I was doing a special meal for my boyfriend because I was so desperately anxious to please him. From then my nerves were so bad I seemed hell-bent on cremating everything, including lettuce!’

  Morgan laughed long and loud, disconcerting Jodie utterly. The frown had been obliterated and replaced by appealing laughter lines, and the sparkle in his eyes and the dazzling whiteness of his teeth made her chest tighten up as if it were in a vice.

  ‘I’m going to throw on some clothes and then we’re going out for a blast of fresh air,’ he announced. ‘A walk along the footpaths and across the fields. Do you want to come?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said happily. ‘I’ll fetch a jacket from my case.’

  ‘Nothing else you need?’ he murmured.

  ‘Maybe a scarf. Why?’

  ‘Sturdy shoes might be an idea, too,’ he said drily.

  She looked down at her bare feet, her face pink at her forgetfulness. She was too eager. She must throttle back or he’d think she was making a play for him.

  ‘Shoes! Huh! You are so conventional!’ she said in mock scorn, and ran quickly to her room before he changed his mind, his warm chuckle echoing down the corridor and making her skin tingle.

  A little while later she heard him making his way downstairs and whistling up the dog, who had been sitting with resigned patience at the bottom of the stairs waiting for Morgan to reappear.

  And she thought fondly of a time when they’d all be living here together: she and her father, Morgan and his baby. She knew that day would come about. Because she wanted it to, so very much.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE air was fresh and sharp when they walked down the drive. Morgan had shrugged on a Barbour over jeans and a navy sweatshirt and tucked Jack into a baby pouch, which he’d slung across his chest. He chatted to his son with a natural ease that Jodie admired and envied. Loping by his heels, shadowing his every move, was Satan, totally devoid of a lead or any other restraint.

  ‘Is he all right out here?’ she asked doubtfully, when they came to the lane.

  ‘Fine. He’s intelligent enough to know that he must stay close to me, in case of a stray car. I’ll let him run free when we’re in the fields.’

  ‘Unnervingly obedient,’ she commented.

  He must have noticed—and correctly interpreted—her askance look, because he smiled and said, ‘Nothing to do with me. He’s not my dog. Sam trained him. He and Sam went to classes and Sam learnt how to be consistent and clear, and not muddle his dog with confusing messages, and Satan responded with his utter devotion.’

  Absorbing this, she happily breathed in the wonderful smell of the early morning—damp earth, the faint hint of pine—and thought how glad she was that Morgan wasn’t a tyrant.

  ‘And Satan accepted you, it would seem.’

  Morgan rubbed the dog’s head affectionately. ‘Poor old chap. He couldn’t understand it when Sam went into hospital. I had to spend some time getting him to trust me. We went for a lot of walks and I hurled a lot of balls before he did.’

  More pressures, she thought. Sam, Teresa, Jack…the loss of his wife, coping with a bewildered dog—and now a long-lost daughter turning up.

  It pleased her that she could stay and help. Keeping house would be a joy. And perhaps she’d get up the courage to cook something simple and get her confidence back. She beamed, feeling content for the first time in years.

  Apart from the liquid sound of birdsong it was silent in the deep-cut lane. Morgan told her that it was an ancient Neolithic trackway, once cobbled with flintstone from quarries on the Downs.

  ‘The area was heavily forested then,’ he explained. ‘So the tracks to and from settlements ran along the tops of the ridges and only occasionally dropped lower to the wild, muddy parts—perhaps to cross a river. We go over this stile. Satan goes under it.’

  He held out his hand to help her over and once she’d dropped to the other side he did not relinquish it. For a short way they walked through the wood, while Morgan pointed out the snowdrops and emerging shoots of daffodils to the totally unaware Jack, with an engaging lack of self-consciousness.

  ‘Why do you talk to him when he doesn’t understand what the devil you’re talking about?’ she asked in amusement.

  ‘So he can learn my voice,’ he said, gazing tenderly at his son. ‘I don’t want him ever to forget it.’

  ‘He’s not likely to,’ she said softly, loving the velvety tones now he wasn’t angry and tense.

  ‘No. It will be part of him. And all his brain cells will be alert and receptive because of the stimulation he receives—sound, sight, touch, smell… I’ve read a lot about this, you see,’ he said earnestly.

  ‘I’m impressed. I know nothing about babies or children,’ she said, her face wistful.

  ‘Neither did I. It was something of a crash course.’

  ‘Oh. Yes, of course. How awful.’

  ‘Jack had needs. I had no choice.’ Deftly he turned the conversation away from himself. ‘You and your boyfriend didn’t…uh…consider a family?’

  ‘I’d only have a child if I was married,’ she replied firmly. ‘And he wasn’t interested in marriage or children. But…I’d love to have babies…’

  ‘You will,’ he said abruptly. ‘When you meet the man you want to spend the rest of your life with.’

&n
bsp; Suddenly he fell silent and she was left to wonder. Morgan was so near to her idea of the perfect man that she couldn’t imagine herself with anyone else. She tried to block such inappropriate thoughts from her mind but failed miserably.

  And she knew with a heart-thumping sadness that Morgan might be pleasant to her but he didn’t exactly find her a turn-on. She didn’t know what had happened to his wife, but he probably still loved her—and it would take a long time before he got over her.

  ‘I want you to close your eyes,’ he said suddenly.

  Jodie opened them wider. ‘What?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Trust me,’ he said with a faint smile. ‘Something I want you to see at its best. A surprise. Close them.’

  Pretending to grumble, she did so, and his arm came around her waist to guide her along the path. They must look like lovers, she thought, her heart thumping hard.

  Beneath her feet she felt the twigs, leaves and mud of the woodland suddenly change to springy turf. ‘We’re out of the wood,’ she declared, when they came to a halt.

  There was a long pause. ‘Not entirely,’ he replied, in a cryptic tone.

  ‘Well, it feels different,’ she demurred.

  ‘Yes. It does feel different to what’s gone before,’ he agreed huskily. ‘Wait. Keep your eyes closed.’

  It was hard. He was breathing softly beside her, his hand warm and firm, his thigh against hers. The breeze whispered over her face, making her lips tingle. And as his hand moved away to her shoulder she let out an involuntary sigh of disappointment.

  ‘Come forward a little,’ he said, loath to release her, longing to watch her expressive face unobserved for a few more moments.

  She stood there in her scorchingly bright yellow trousers, red boots and an orange jacket, which she’d teamed with a fuschia-pink scarf and gloves, and the whole ensemble made him want to smile in sheer delight at her outrageously determined cheerfulness.

  Her childhood had been hard and almost loveless, and yet she’d emerged as a positive, outward-looking person. He admired her tenacity, her joie de vivre, the way her hair curled in little wisps around her forehead, how her cheeks glowed from the walk, the soft lusciousness of her lips…