Shirley Jump - Christmas Miracle - Their Christmas Family Miracle

Amelia cut her off with a laugh and a raised hand. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said firmly, remembering his bitterly sarcastic opening remarks. ‘But if we can just keep out of his way, maybe we’ll all survive.’

She handed Kate her drink, picked up her own mug and then hesitated. No matter how rude and sarcastic he’d been, he was still a human being and for that alone he deserved her consideration, and he was injured and exhausted and probably not thinking straight. ‘I ought to check on him,’ she said, putting her mug back down. ‘He was talking about malt whisky.’

‘So? Don’t worry, he’s not a drinker. He won’t have had much.’

‘On top of painkillers?’

‘Ah. What were they?’

‘Goodness knows—something pretty heavy-duty. Nothing I recognised. Not paracetamol, that’s for sure!’

‘Oh, hell. Where is he?’

‘Just next door in the little sitting room.’

‘I’ll go—’

‘No. Let me. He was pretty cross.’

Kate laughed softly. ‘You think I’ve never seen him cross?’

So they went together, opening the door silently and pushing it in until they could see him sprawled full length on the sofa, one leg dangling off the edge, his cast resting across his chest, his head lolling against the arm.

Kate frowned. ‘He doesn’t look very comfortable.’

He didn’t, but at least there was no sign of the whisky. Amelia went into the room and picked up a soft velvety cushion and tucked it under his bruised cheek to support his head better. He grunted and shifted slightly and she froze, waiting for those piercing slate grey eyes to open and stab her with a hard, angry glare, but then he relaxed, settling his face down against the pillow with a little sigh, and she let herself breathe again.

It was chilly in there, though, and she had refused to let Kate turn the heating up. She could do it now but, in the meantime, he ought to have something over him. She spotted a throw over the back of the other sofa and lowered it carefully over him, tucking it in to keep the draughts off until the heat kicked in.

Then she tiptoed out, glancing back over her shoulder as she reached the door.

Did she imagine it or had his eyelids fluttered? She wasn’t sure, but she didn’t want to hang around and provoke him if she’d disturbed him, so she pushed Kate out and closed the door softly behind them.

‘Can you turn the heating up?’ she murmured to Kate, and she nodded and went into his study and fiddled with a keypad on the wall.

‘He looks awful,’ Kate said, sparing the door of the room another glance as she tapped keys and reprogrammed the heating. ‘He’s got bruises all over his face and neck. It must have been a hell of an avalanche.’

‘He didn’t say, but he’s very sore and stiff. I expect he’s got bruises all over his body,’ Millie said, trying not to think about his body in too much detail but failing dismally. She stifled the little whimper that rose in her throat.

Why?

Why, of all the men to bring her body out of the freezer, did it have to be Jake? There was no way he’d be interested in her—even if she hadn’t upset and alienated him by taking such a massive liberty with his house, to all intents and purposes moving into his house as a squatter, she’d then compounded her sins by telling him what to do!

And he most particularly wouldn’t be interested in her children. In fact it was probably the dog who was responsible for his change of heart.

Oh, well, it was just as well he wouldn’t be interested in her, because there was no way her life was even remotely stable or coherent enough at the moment for her to contemplate a relationship. Frankly, she wasn’t sure it ever would be again and, if it was, it certainly wouldn’t be with another empire builder. She’d had it with the entrepreneurial type, big time.

But there was just something about Jake Forrester that called to something deep inside her, something that had lain undisturbed for years, and she was going to have to ignore it and get through these next few days and weeks until they could find somewhere else. And maybe then she’d get her sanity back.

‘Come on, let’s go back up and leave him to sleep,’ she said, crossing her fingers and hoping that he slept for a good long while and woke in a rather better mood …

He was hot.

He’d been cold, but he’d been too tired and sore to bother to get the throw, but someone must have been in and covered him, because it was snuggled round him, and there was a pillow under his face and the lingering scent of a familiar fragrance.

Kate. She must have come over and covered him up. Hell. He hadn’t meant her to turn out on such a freezing night with little Megan. He should have rung her back, he realised, after he’d spoken to Amelia, but he’d been high as a kite on the rather nice drugs the French doctor had given him and he hadn’t even thought about it.

Damn.

He rolled onto his back and his breath caught. Ouch. That was quite a bruise on his left hip. And his knee desperately needed some ice, and his arm hurt. Even through the painkillers.

He struggled off the sofa, eventually escaping from the confines of the throw with an impatient tug and straightening up with a wince. The gel pack was in the freezer in the kitchen. It wasn’t far.

Further than he thought, he realised, swaying slightly and pausing while the world steadied. He took a step, then another, and blinked hard to clear his head.

Amelia was right, he shouldn’t have too many of those damn painkillers. They were turning his brain to mush. And it was probably just as well he hadn’t taken them with whisky either, he thought with regret. Not that she’d been about to give him any, the bossy witch.

Amelia. Millie.

No, Amelia. Millie didn’t suit her. It was a little girl’s name and, whatever else she was, she was all woman. And damn her for making him notice the fact.

He limped into the breakfast room and saw that Edward had done a pretty good job of removing the branches and berries from the floor in front of the fire. He felt his brow pleat into a frown, and stifled the pang of guilt. It was his house. If he didn’t want decorations in it, it was perfectly reasonable to say so.

But had he had to be so harsh?

No, was the simple answer. Especially to the kids. Oh, rats. He made his way carefully through to the kitchen, took the pack out of the freezer and wrapped it in a tea towel, then went back to the breakfast room and sat down in the chair near the fire and propped the ice pack over his knee. Better.

Or it would be, in about a week. It was only a bruise, not a ligament rupture, thankfully. He’d done that before on the other knee, and he didn’t need to do it again, but he realised he’d been lucky not to be smashed to bits on the tree or the rock field.

Very lucky.

He eased back in the chair cautiously and thought with longing of the whisky. It was a particularly smooth old single malt, smoky and peaty, with a lovely complex aftertaste. Or was that afterburn?

Whatever, it was in the drinks cupboard in the drawing room, and he wasn’t convinced he could summon up the energy to walk all the way to the far end of the house and back again, so he closed his eyes and fantasised that he was on Islay, sitting in an old croft house with a peat fire at his feet, a collie instead of a little spaniel leaning on his leg and a glass of liquid gold in his hand.

He could all but taste it. Pity he couldn’t. Pity it was only in his imagination, because then he’d be able to put Amelia and her children out of his mind.

Or he would have been able to, if it hadn’t been for the baby crying.

‘Oh, Thomas, sweetheart, what’s the matter, little one?’