Liz Fielding - The Bride's Baby

Yet even when he’d been granted a last-minute reprieve he’d still fought against feelings he did not understand. He’d been emotionally incapable of saying the words that would have made everything right. Had instead, for the second time in his life, reduced a woman to tears.

His punishment was to watch helplessly as she planned her wedding. A wedding that she didn’t appear to be anticipating with any excitement, or pleasure, or joy.

He clung to the edge of the sink, reminding himself that she was pregnant. That whatever she was doing, for whatever reason, her baby had to come first.

He turned on the tap but, instead of filling the kettle, he scooped up handfuls of water, burying his face in it to cool the heat of lips that still tasted of her.

And then, when that didn’t help, ducking his head beneath the icy water.

Sylvie abandoned her burden on the library table and gave herself up to the comfort of one of the old leather wing-chairs pulled up by the fire and closed her eyes, but more in despair than pleasure.

The intensity of the attraction had not diminished, that much was obvious. It wasn’t just her; it was a mutual connection, something beyond words, and yet it was as if there was an unseen barrier between them.

Or perhaps it was the all too visible one.

One of the things that Candy had been most happy about her ‘arranged’ marriage was the fact that Tom wasn’t interested in children and her figure was safe for postperity.

But that was the thing about arranged marriages. There had to be something in it for both parties. This house was a pretty clear indication of what Tom had in mind. Posterity. An heir, and almost certainly a spare. Maybe two.

The family he’d never had.

So what was his problem?

If it was a business arrangement he wanted, she had the same class, connections, background as Candy and she was nowhere near as expensive. On the contrary, she was entirely self-supporting. And the heir was included.

Maybe it was her lack of silicone implants that was the deal-breaker, she thought, struggling against a yawn. Or the lack of sapphire-blue contact lenses.

‘If that’s what he wants, then I’m sorry, kid, we’re on our own,’ she murmured.

Tom pushed open the library door and stopped as he saw Sylvie stretched out in one of the fireside chairs, limbs relaxed, eyes closed, head propped against the broad wing.

Fast asleep, utterly defenceless and, in contrast to the hot desire he’d done his best to drown in a torrent of cold water, he was overwhelmed by a great rush of protectiveness that welled up in him.

Utterly different from anything he’d ever felt for anyone before.

Was that love?

How did you know?

As quietly as he could, so as not to disturb her, he placed the tray on a nearby table and then took the chair opposite her, content just to watch the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. Content to stay like that for ever.

But nothing was for ever and after a few minutes her eyelids flickered. He saw the moment of confusion as she surfaced, then the smile as she realised where she was.

A smile that faded when she saw him and, embarrassed at being caught sleeping, struggled to sit up. ‘Oh, Lord, please tell me I wasn’t drooling.’

‘Hardly at all,’ he reassured her, getting up and placing a cup on the table beside her. ‘And you snore really quietly.’

‘Really? At home the neighbours complain.’

‘Oh, well, I was being kind…’ He offered her a plate of some home-made biscuits he’d found as she laughed. Teasing her could be fun…‘Have one of these.’

‘Mrs Kennedy’s cure-alls? Who could resist?’

‘Not me,’ he said, taking one himself. Then, as it melted in his mouth, ‘I can see how they got their name. Maybe she should market them? A whole rang of Longbourne Court Originals?’

‘With a picture of the house on the wrapper? Perfect for the nostalgia market. Except, of course, that there won’t be Longbourne Court for much longer. Longbourne Conference Centre Originals doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it?’

He didn’t immediately answer. And, when he did, he didn’t answer the question she’d asked.

‘When you asked me if I bought the house for Candy, I may have left you with the wrong impression.’

The words just tumbled out. He hadn’t known he was going to say them. Only that they were true.

‘You always intended to convert it?’

‘No!’ He shook his head. ‘No. I told myself I was buying it for her. The ultimate wedding present. But when I walked into the house, it was like walking into the dream I’d always had of what a family home should be like. There were old wax jackets hanging in the mud room. Wellington boots that looked as if somebody had just kicked them off. Every rug looked as if the dog had been sleeping there just a moment before.’

‘And all the furniture in “country house” condition. In other words, tatty,’ Sylvie said.

‘Comfortable. Homely. Lived in.’

‘It’s certainly that.’

‘Candy would have wanted to change everything, wouldn’t she? Get some fancy designer in from London to rip it all out and start from scratch.’

‘Probably. It scarcely matters now, does it?’ She lifted a brow but, when he didn’t respond, subsided back into the comfort of the chair. ‘This is total bliss,’ she said, nibbling on the biscuit. ‘Every winter Sunday afternoon of childhood rolled into one.’ Then, glancing at him, ‘Is it raining?’

‘Raining?’

‘Your hair seems to be dripping down your collar.’

‘Oh, that. It’s nothing. I missed the kettle and the water squirted up at me,’ he lied.

‘And only got your hair?’ That eyebrow was working overtime. ‘How did you get so lucky? When that happens to me, I always get it full in the face and chest.’

‘Well, as you’ve already noticed, I’ve got a damp collar, if that helps.’

‘You think I’m that heartless? Come closer to the fire or you’ll catch a chill.’

He didn’t need a second invitation but took another biscuit and settled on the rug with his back propped up against the chair on the far side of the fireplace.

‘Tell me about your winter Sundays, Sylvie.’

‘I’d much rather hear about yours.’

‘No, believe me, you wouldn’t. They are definitely nothing to get nostalgic over.’ Then, because he didn’t even want to think about them, ‘Come on. I want everything, from the brown bread and butter to three choices of cake.’

‘We never had three choices of cake!’ she declared in mock outrage. ‘According to my mother, only spoilt children had three kinds of cake.’

‘I’ll bet you had toasted teacakes. Or was it muffins?’

‘Crumpets. It was always crumpets,’ she said, still resisting him. ‘I will have your story.’

‘You’ll be sorry if you do.’ But for just a moment he was tempted by something in her eyes. Tempted to unburden himself, share every painful moment. But he knew that, once he’d done that, she’d own him, he’d be tied to her for ever, while she belonged to someone else.

‘Did you toast them on one of those long toasting forks in front of the fire?’ he asked.

And, finally, she let it go with a laugh.

‘Oh, right. I remember you, Tom McFarlane. You were the grubby urchin with your face pressed up against the window-pane.’

Her laughter was infectious. ‘I wish, but I was running wild, scavenging in Docklands while you were still on training wheels. But if I had been standing at the window, you’d have invited me in, wouldn’t you? Five or six years old, a little blonde angel, you’d have given me your bread and honey and your Marmite soldiers and a big slice of cherry cake.’