The Baby Swap Miracle

by Caroline Anderson

  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.

  ‘Thank you. That would be lovely.’

  Not nearly as lovely as you, he thought, his eyes feasting on her as she stooped again to talk to Daisy. Her hair, the colour of toffee, swung down across her face, and when she hooked it back behind her ear he could see that smile again.

  God, she was gorgeous, and he had no business eyeing up a pregnant woman he’d given sanctuary to! Especially not one he was locked in a complicated relationship with for the next twenty-odd years. And anyway, she was still grieving, he reminded himself firmly. Definitely out of bounds.

  He scrubbed the grease and dirt from the lawnmower off his hands, pulled out the frying pan, stuck it on the hot plate and started cooking.

  ‘Thank you. That was amazing.’

  ‘Good. You looked as if you needed it. And there were vegetables.’

  ‘Yeah—fried.’

  ‘Barely, in olive oil. And fats carry vitamins.’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ she said teasingly, and he wondered if he could be arrested for his thoughts, because her smile was having a distinctly unplatonic effect on him. And that was a disaster, because he didn’t do this. Didn’t get involved with nice women. Any women. Especially ones who were carrying his child.

  These days he only engaged in the kind of relationship where everyone knew the rules, where there were no expectations or hurt feelings.

  No broken hearts, his or anyone else’s.

  Been there, done that, he reminded himself, as if he needed reminding.

  ‘More coffee?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  He shoved the chair back and walked over to the stove, and Emelia watched him thoughtfully. Something had happened—some kind of sizzly, magnetic thing that left her feeling breathless and light-headed.

  Hormones, she told herself sternly, and hauled her eyes off his jeans.

  ‘No, thanks, I’m fine,’ she answered, a little on the drag and sounding just as breathless as she felt. She cleared her throat silently and sighed as she reali
sed she was staring at his shoulders now—those broad, solid shoulders that would feel so good to lean on—

  No! No, no, no! He was being kind to her, it didn’t mean anything, and she had to keep this relationship firmly on track, because if he wanted to keep in touch with his child—and for its sake she desperately hoped he would—she’d be stuck with him for the next however many years.

  ‘Sam, I need to make some decisions,’ she said firmly, and he glanced at her over his shoulder.

  ‘About?’

  ‘Where I go next.’

  He sat down again, mug in hand, and searched her eyes, his own expressionless. ‘There’s no hurry.’

  ‘Well, there is. I have to get settled somewhere and register with a doctor and a maternity unit for my antenatal care, and I need to find a house, and a job.’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  She gave a brittle little laugh and wished she had. ‘Not one—but I can’t stay here indefinitely. I ought to make a few phone calls. My mother, for one—not that I can stay with her. She lives in Cheshire, in a tiny little cottage with my stepfather who wouldn’t take kindly to me rocking up with a baby on the horizon and shattering their peaceful existence. And anyway, I’m too old to go and live with my mother.’

  Sam frowned slightly, his brow pleating as he studied the grain on the table top, tracing it with his finger. ‘Don’t rush into anything, Emelia. You can stay here as long as you need to. There are lots of things to consider, and maybe we should consider them together, under the circumstances.’

  She felt her eyes fill, and looked away before he saw the tears gathering in them. ‘You’re right. We should be thinking about this together. I just hate imposing…’

  ‘You’re not imposing,’ he said flatly. ‘And you’re welcome.’

  ‘Am I?’

  He frowned again and met her eyes, his thoughtful. ‘Yes,’ he said after too long a pause. ‘Yes, you are. The situation isn’t ideal, but we have to make it work, for the sake of the baby and our sanity. So, yes, Emelia. You’re welcome—you and the baby, for as long as you need.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said gruffly, emotion welling up and threatening to suffocate her, and as if he realised that, he moved on.

  ‘So—do you have any ideas at all? Any thoughts, long or short term?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Well, plenty of thoughts, but no constructive ones. They talked about compensation, but I don’t know how much or when it’ll come through, so I’ll have to find a job in the meantime—supply teaching’s the obvious one. I can always do that.’

  He frowned slightly. ‘You’re pregnant.’

  ‘Well, heavens, so I am. I hadn’t noticed.’ She rolled her eyes and he sighed softly.

  ‘Emelia, it will make it harder. When did you last teach? You’ll probably need a police check, and they take weeks. By the time it’s done you’ll be on maternity leave and it’ll be the summer holidays anyway. And the ordinary job market is a real scrum these days, never mind in your condition.’

  She shut her eyes briefly. She really didn’t need him pointing this out to her, she was well aware of the paucity of her options.

  ‘It’s not a condition, Sam. I’m fit and strong. I can do anything. I’m only nineteen weeks pregnant. Lots of women work right up to the end if they have to.’

  ‘But you don’t, so you could just stay here and be sensible.’

  She stared at him blankly. ‘What—till the compensation’s agreed? It could be weeks. Months, more likely.’

  ‘Even more reason. I’m sure we’ll all survive,’ he said drily.

  She wasn’t. Not if he kept on wearing those jeans—no! She mustn’t think about them. About him. Not like that, it was crazy. She met his eyes. ‘Not without money—and before you say it, I can’t just sponge off you, Sam—and even if I could, what would I do all day?’ she argued, trying to be logical in the face of rising panic. ‘I can’t just sit about. How is that sensible? I’ve got over four months before the baby comes. I have to do something to earn my keep.’ Even if I am unemployable…

  Sam scanned her face, saw the flicker of anxiety that she tried to mask, and knew before he opened his mouth that he’d regret this.

  ‘Can you cook?’

  ‘Cook? Why?’

  He shrugged, regretting it already and backpedalling. ‘Just an idea. I thought you could pay your way by taking that over, if you really feel you have to, but it’s not very exciting. Forget it.’

  Her brow pleated. ‘Cooking for you? A few minutes a day? No, you’re right, it’s not especially exciting and it’s not much of a deal for you, I’m a rubbish cook. And anyway, I’ve done a bit of supply teaching recently to stop me going crazy, so my police checks are up to date. Maybe I’ll contact the local education authority and ask them if I can go on the supply list. There must be schools around here. Maybe one of them needs some cover.’

  She wouldn’t be underfoot. He felt relief like a physical wave—and as the wave ebbed, regret. Ridiculous. He was being ridiculous. He didn’t want her here.

  But he wanted the baby. He’d said so, in as many words, yesterday, and she seemed to be taking it on board. And of course that meant she’d be around, and he’d have to live with the consequences—

  ‘Tell me about the garden,’ she said now, cutting through his troubling train of thought. ‘Who looks after it?’

  He laughed, more than happy to change the subject for a minute. ‘Nobody. Couldn’t you tell by the weeds in the cattle grid?’

  ‘Have you tried to find someone?’

  He shrugged. ‘There’s a lad from the village who’s done a bit. He helps from time to time when it gets too bad. And I cut the grass—hence the dirty hands. I had to rebuild the mower again this morning. I hit something.’

  ‘Something?’

  He shrugged again. ‘A branch? Who knows. It was out in the wilds a bit, and I was cracking on, because it’s a heck of a task, even with a ride-on mower. There’s a lot of it.’

  ‘How much?’

  He shrugged. ‘Fifteen acres? Not all cultivated,’ he added hastily as her eyes widened. ‘There’s the old knot garden on the terrace, the kitchen garden and the walled garden by the house. That’s my favourite—it opens off my study and the sitting room we were in last night, but it’s a real mess. And then there’s the laburnum walk and the crumbling old orangery which is way down the list, sadly. The rest is just parkland—or it used to be. None of it’s been managed for years and it’s all just run wild.’

  ‘Can we look?’

  ‘Yes. Come on, I’ll show you around, if you’re interested. Daisy’s always game for a walk.’ He pushed back his chair and led her out of the front door into the sunshine, Daisy trotting at his heels, and they strolled along the weedy path at the top of the terrace, past the knot garden that desperately needed clipping back into shape, to a crooked, elderly door in a high brick wall at the end.

  It yielded to his shoulder and creaked out of the way, and ducking under the arms of an old rambling rose, he led her through into the most wonderful garden she’d ever seen in her life…

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT WAS a mess, of course—overgrown, with climbers hanging off the walls and the old gravelled paths swamped with weeds and grass, but under the chaos she could see it had once been beautiful.

  Old shrub roses in the wide borders were smothered in buds, and she could see some already starting to open. There was a lilac on the point of bursting, and amongst the weeds, perennials were struggling towards the sun.

  She closed her eyes and let her other senses take over. The low hum of bees, the growl of a tractor in the distance, a dog barking, the pure, sweet song of a blackbird. Somewhere fairly close, a cockerel crowed. Sam’s? Probably. She’d heard one this morning at some ungodly hour.

  Her eyes still closed, she breathed in deeply through her nose and caught the scent of new-mown grass and the heady sweetness of a spring-flowering viburnum. And it was warm—so much warmer than outside, the
sheltering embrace of the walls making a micro-climate where tender plants would thrive.

  All it needed was some loving care.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she sighed wistfully, looking around again and trying to take it all in. ‘A real secret garden.’

  ‘Exactly—it’s a mess,’ he said with a wry laugh, but she shook her head.

  ‘It’s full of treasures, Sam. Some of these roses are ancient, and they just need careful pruning and a bit of a feed, and they’ll be wonderful again.’

  ‘But it all takes time and I’ve been concentrating on the house. It seemed fairly important as the roof was falling in.’

  ‘Oops.’ She smiled and met his eyes, wondering yet again if their baby would inherit them. Beautiful, beautiful eyes… ‘Emily said you were a bit mad buying it,’ she said, bringing her mind back to order, and his mouth twitched.

  ‘Did she?’ He looked around, taking in the faded beauty of the house and garden—not nearly so bad if you half closed your eyes so it went into soft focus. ‘She’s probably right,’ he admitted slowly, ‘but I love it here. I bought it at auction. I was trawling the net, looking at property, feeling restless—it wasn’t a good time in my life and I just wanted—well, whatever, I saw it, and it was being auctioned that day, so I got in the car and drove out here and had a quick walk through the ground floor and the outside of the house and bid for it.’

  ‘And you got it?’

  He knew his smile would be wry. ‘There was a bit of a tussle.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ she said with a little chuckle. ‘It’s gorgeous. So—you didn’t have a survey first?’

  ‘No. No time. Literally. I had ten minutes to decide if I was going to bid or not, but they say you make up your mind about a house in the first eleven seconds or some such ridiculous thing. It didn’t even take me that long. I’d decided before I set foot in the house, after I stuck my head in here on the way round. That was enough to convince me. And there was dry rot in the roof, and the bedrooms underneath were trashed because the weather had been coming in, and it was a mess. But that was fine. Nothing that couldn’t be sorted by throwing money and a lot of effort at it, so that’s what I’ve been doing. There’s a cottage that was sort of habitable, and I lived in that and started getting the house sorted out, bit by bit, and then once the kitchen was useable and I had a bathroom and a couple of bedrooms and somewhere to sit in the evening by a fire, I moved in here and started work on the cottage.’