The Baby Swap Miracle

Well, she could have wept anyway, what with one thing and another, but the bed was just the last straw.

He put her case on a padded ottoman at the foot of the bed, and opened a door and showed her the bathroom on the other side.

‘It communicates with the room I’m using at the moment, but there’s a lock on each door. Just remember to undo it when you leave.’

‘I will.’

‘And if there’s anything you need, just yell. I won’t be far away.’

Not far at all, she thought, her eyes flicking to the bathroom door.

‘I’ll be fine. Thank you, Sam. For everything.’

He gave a curt nod and left her alone then, the door closing with a soft click, and she hugged her arms and stared at the room. It was beautiful, the furnishings expensive and yet welcoming. Not in the least intimidating, and as the sound of his footfalls died away, the peace of the countryside enveloped her.

She felt a sob rising in her throat and squashed it down. She wouldn’t cry. She couldn’t. She was going to be fine. It might take a little time, but she was going to be fine.

She washed, a little nervous of the Jack-and-Jill doors in the bathroom, then unlocked his side before she left, turning the key in her side of the door—which was ludicrous, because there was no key in the bedroom door and he was hardly going to come in and make a pass at her in her condition anyway.

She climbed into the lovely, lovely bed and snuggled down, enveloped by the cloud-like quilt and the softest pure cotton bedding she’d ever felt in her life, and turning out the light, she closed her eyes and waited. Fruitlessly.

She couldn’t sleep. Her mind was still whirling, her thoughts chaotic, her emotions in turmoil. After a while she heard his footsteps returning, and a sliver of light appeared under the bathroom door. She lay and watched it, heard water running, then the scrape of the lock on her door as he opened it, the click of the light switch as the sliver of light disappeared, and then silence.

How strange.

The father of her child was going to bed in the room next to hers, and she knew almost nothing about him except that he’d cared enough for his brother to offer him the gift of a child.

A gift that had been misdirected—lost in the post, so to speak. A gift that by default now seemed to be hers.

And now he was caring for her, keeping her safe, giving her time to decide what she should do next.

Something, obviously, but she had no idea what, and fear clawed at her throat. Her hand slid down over the baby, cradling it protectively as if to shield it from all the chaos that was to follow. What would become of them? Where would they go? How would she provide for them? And where would they live? Without Sam, she had no idea where she would have slept tonight, and she was grateful for the breathing space, but her problem wasn’t solved, by any means.

‘I love you, baby,’ she whispered. ‘It’ll be all right. You’ll see. I’ll take care of you, there’s nothing to be afraid of. We’ll find a way.’

A sob fought its way out of her chest, and another, and then, with her defences down and nothing left to hide behind, the tears began to fall.

He heard her crying, but there was nothing he could do.

She was grieving for the child she’d never have, the man she’d lost forever with this last devastating blow, and there was no place for him in that. All he could do was make sure she didn’t come to any harm.

He didn’t know how he could protect her, or what she’d let him offer in the way of protection.

His name?

His gut clenched at the thought and he backed away from it hastily.

Not that. Anything but that. He’d been there, done that, and it had been the most painful and humiliating mistake of his life. He couldn’t do it again, couldn’t offer the protection of his name to another pregnant woman. The first time had nearly shredded him alive and he had no intention of revisiting the situation.

But there was a vital difference. He knew this child was his. There was no escaping that fact, however shocking and unexpected, and he couldn’t walk away. Didn’t want to. Not from the child. He’d do the right thing, and somehow it would all work out. He’d make sure of it. But Emelia—hell, that was a whole different ball game. He’d have to help her, whatever it cost him, because he couldn’t see a pregnant woman suffer. It just wasn’t in him to do so. But his feelings for her were entirely inappropriate.

He nearly laughed. Inappropriate, to be attracted to a woman who was carrying his child? Under normal circumstances nobody would think twice about it, but these circumstances were anything but normal, and he couldn’t let himself be lured into this. It would be too easy to let himself fall for her, for the whole seductive and entrancing package.

Dangerously, terrifyingly easy, and he wasn’t going there again. Even if she would have had him.

So he lay there, tormented by the muffled sobs coming from her bedroom, wanting to go to her and yet knowing he couldn’t because she wasn’t crying for him, she was crying for James, and there was nothing he could do about that. And when finally the sobs died away, he turned onto his side, punched the pillow into shape and closed his eyes.

She must have slept.

Overslept, she realised as she struggled free of the sumptuous embrace of the bedding and sat up.

Sun was pouring through a chink in the curtains, and she slipped out of bed and padded over, parting them and looking out onto an absolutely glorious day. Everything was bathed in the warm and gentle sunshine of spring, and in the distance, past the once-formal knot garden on the terrace below with its straggling, overgrown little hedges, and past the sweeping lawn beyond, she could see gently rolling fields bordered by ancient hedgerows, and here and there a little stand of trees huddled together on a rise.

It was beautiful, in a rather run-down and delightfully bucolic way, and she wanted to explore it. Especially the walled garden over to her right, which drew her eyes now and lured her with the promise of long-forgotten gems hidden by years of neglect.

However it wasn’t hers to explore and she reminded herself she had other priorities, as if she needed reminding. She had nowhere to live, no clear idea of her future, and that had to come first. That, and food.

She was starving, her stomach rumbling, her body in mutiny after yesterday’s miserable diet of junk food and caffeine, and she bit her lip and wondered where Sam was and how she could find him, and if not, if it would be too rude to raid his fridge and find herself something to eat.

Clothes first, she told herself, and went into the bathroom, tapping on the door just in case. It was empty, but the bathmat was damp, and she realised she must have slept through his shower. She had no idea what the time was, but her stomach told her it was late, so she showered in record time, looked in her suitcase for a pretty jumper and some clean jeans with a really sexy stretch panel in the front to accommodate the baby—just the thing for reminding her of all the good reasons why it didn’t matter what she looked like—and then in a moment of self-preservation she dabbed concealer under her eyes, added a quick swipe of mascara and lip gloss and made her way down to the kitchen.

Daisy was there, thumping her tail against the cupboard doors in greeting, and as she straightened up from patting the dog she saw Sam lounging against the front of the range with a mug cradled in his large, capable hands.

His rather grubby hands, to go with the worn, sexy jeans and the battered rugby shirt. He looked light years from the suave and sophisticated man of yesterday—and even more attractive. He smiled at her, and her heart gave a little lurch of recognition.

‘Hi. How did you sleep?’ he asked, his voice a little gruff.

‘Well. Amazingly well. The bedding’s blissful.’ ‘It is good, isn’t it? I can’t stand rubbish bedding. Hungry?’

‘Mmm. Have you got anything healthy?’ His mouth twitched. ‘Such as?’ She shrugged. ‘Anything. Yesterday I had chocolate, cheese and caffeine!’

‘So—does healthy rule out local free-range eggs?’ ‘How local?’

‘Mine.’ Her eyes widened, and Sam laughed at her. ‘Everyone around here has chickens.’

‘There is no one round here,’ she pointed out, but he shook his head.

‘There are lots, and it’s only a mile or two to the village. I’ve got local home-cured bacon from pigs that grub around in the woods, sausages ditto, mushrooms, tomatoes—’

‘Whoa!’ she said, laughing now, and he felt his gut clench. ‘I said healthy!’

‘It is. The bread’s local, too, so’s the butter.’

‘You’re going to tell me next that you grow the coffee, and I’ll know you’re lying.’

He felt his mouth tilt into a grin. ‘The coffee’s Colombian. So—are you up for it? Frankly, as it’s three hours since I had breakfast, I’d happily join you and we can call it brunch, if it helps.’

She gave in. He watched it happen, saw the brief internal tussle and the moment she surrendered, her body relaxing as the fight went out of her and a smile bloomed on her lips, making his body clench.