Caroline Anderson, Sara Morgan, Josie Metcalfe, Jennifer Taylor

by Brides of Penhally Bay Vol. 01 (lit)

  He swore, then thought for a moment. ‘Kate, I’m worried. I can’t get her. Her phone might not be working. Can you try and find her? I’m on my way but I might need help. She might have gone into labour—you’re a midwife, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t worry, we’ll come. I’ll bring a delivery pack just in case. And I’ll call the ambulance. You just get to her.’

  He drove fast—probably faster than was truly sensible, but not so fast that he was likely to end up in a ditch.

  ‘Lucy!’ He pulled up behind her car, ran to the door and yanked it open, but the car was empty, canted over at a crazy angle and filling with water. Hell. He dropped the door and looked round, then spotted the barn. Would she have gone there?

  He looked around again, then noticed something on the side of the car. Writing. IN THE BA. Barn? The barn!

  He wrote it again, clearing the fresh snow from the letters, and then got back in his car and shot down the road, pulling up outside in a slither of slush and gravel. ‘Lucy!’ he yelled, and he heard an answering sob.

  ‘Ben! In here—I’m having the baby.’

  Dear God. And he had nothing with him—no gloves, no sterile drapes, nothing to protect her from contamination. He ran into the barn and found her huddled against some straw bales, and gathered her, sobbing, into his arms. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No—but the baby’s coming, Ben. I can feel it—I can feel the head. It can’t come now, I’m only thirty-four weeks! It’s too early.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ he said, giving her one last squeeze. ‘There’s an ambulance on the way, and I’ve called Kate, just in case. You stay there. I’m going to sort these bales out and then have a look at you.’

  He stood up, shifted a few bales to make a flat, clean area of fresh straw, then stripped off his coat and laid it on them, scooped her up and set her down in the middle of it. ‘We need to get these wet trousers off you,’ he said, and peeled them down her legs, taking the tiny lacy knickers that he adored with them.

  Hell. She was right. The baby’s head was crowning, and there was no time to do anything except catch it.

  ‘I want to push.’

  ‘No. Just wait—if you can. Pant. Wait for Kate, she won’t be long.’

  ‘Lucy?’

  ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘He’s your father.’

  ‘He didn’t want to see me again.’

  ‘Lucy?’ Another bellow from Nick.

  ‘In here,’ Ben yelled, thinking that he’d never expected to be pleased to see Nick Tremayne, but, by God, he was. And Kate—dear, sensible Kate, who elbowed them both out of the way, thrust a delivery pack in Nick’s hands and told him to unwrap it, sent Ben to hug Lucy up at the other end and took over.

  ‘The cord’s around its neck,’ Kate said. ‘Lucy, I’m just going to put my finger in and free it, then you can push again, darling, all right? Just hang on, just another minute, there’s a good girl.’

  She wriggled a loop of cord free, worked it over the baby’s head, felt again, and then smiled. ‘Right, my love. In your own time, when you feel the next contraction, just pant and push gently with your mouth open—That’s it, lovely, nice and steady—Well done. Ben, can I have your jumper, please?’

  He peeled it off over his head and handed it to her, and with the next contraction she delivered the baby onto the jumper, lifted it and laid it on Lucy’s abdomen, tucking the warm fabric round it.

  ‘I need to suck it out,’ Kate said, taking the aspirator from Nick and clearing the baby’s nose and mouth of mucus while Ben held his breath and prayed.

  And then there was an indignant squall, and Lucy sobbed with relief, and he closed his eyes, hugged her close and wondered if he’d ever heard anything more beautiful in all his life.

  ‘Well, I have to say, if you were going to have a baby in a stable at Christmas, you could have had a boy,’ Kate murmured, and Lucy gave a fractured little laugh and peered in amazement at the baby.

  ‘It’s a girl?’

  ‘Yes—yes, it’s a girl,’ Kate said gently. ‘Congratulations.’ She turned. ‘Nick, could you go and flag down the ambulance? I can hear it coming.’

  He turned and went without a word, but Ben caught a glimpse of his face, taut with emotion, and wished he could unsay the words he’d said that morning. However true.

  ‘I love you,’ Ben said, pressing a lingering kiss to his wife’s brow, and she looked up at him, her eyes filled with wonder, and smiled.

  ‘I love you, too. Oh, Ben, look at her, she’s beautiful.’

  She wasn’t. She was streaked with blood and mucus, covered in the creamy vernix that protected her skin in utero, and her face was screwed up with indignation, and he’d never seen anything so amazing in all his life.

  ‘Ben? Ben, can you get the door?’

  Lucy was lying propped up in bed, the baby in her arms, and she didn’t know where Ben was. He’d gone downstairs to start cooking their lunch some time ago, and there wasn’t a sign of him.

  ‘Ben?’

  ‘I’ve got it,’ he yelled, and she heard the front door creak open, and then silence.

  Silence?

  ‘Ben, who is it?’ she called, but there was no reply, and she slipped out of bed and padded to the top of the stairs, the baby in her arms.

  She could hear voices, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying until she reached the end of the landing, and then she saw them. The big front door at the foot of the stairs was closed, and Ben and her father were standing there in front of it, talking in hushed tones.

  ‘I’ll quite understand if you want me to go.’

  ‘No. No, I don’t want you to go, Nick, but I’m not going to let you upset Lucy.’

  ‘I won’t. I promise. But I must see her—and you. I owe you both a massive apology. You were right—I neglected Annabel, and I didn’t want to see it, so I made you the scapegoat. And I don’t know how you can ever forgive me for that. It was unforgivable—’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. You were blinded by grief, and you were lashing out. I don’t have that excuse. I was really hard on you—I said dreadful things, and I’m really sorry.’

  ‘True things. I was busy with my empire.’

  ‘No, you were busy setting up a vital community health centre, and you took your eye off the ball. We all do it. And really the fault, if any, was Annabel’s for downplaying it too long. It was just one of those terrible things, Nick. I’m just so sorry that I couldn’t do anything about it.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ her father said, gruffly uttering the words Lucy had given up hoping he would say, and she must have made a noise because they both lifted their heads and looked up at her.

  ‘Hello, Dad,’ she said, and his face twisted.

  ‘Hello, Lucy. Happy New Year. I’ve brought something for the baby.’

  He seemed so uncertain, so uncharacteristically unsure and, tucking the baby more securely in her arm, she went carefully down the stairs and into his arms. ‘Happy New Year,’ she said softly, going up on tiptoe and kissing his cold cheek. ‘Here—say hello to your granddaughter.’

  He bent and touched her little face with a blunt fingertip, and his mouth compressed. ‘She’s lovely. May I hold her?’

  ‘Of course. Ben, can you take Dad’s coat? Come through to the sitting room, we’ve got the fire going.’

  And she led him through into the room where he’d spent so much time in his own childhood, and there, in a chair by the fire, she settled him down and laid the baby in his arms.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ he said gruffly. ‘Just like you were. Does she have a name yet?’

  Ben came up beside her, one arm around her shoulders, holding her close. ‘We thought—if you didn’t mind—we’d like to call her Annabel.’

  Nick’s throat worked, and when he lifted his head, his eyes were filled with tears.

  ‘I think Annabel would be a lovely name for her,’ he said. ‘A very fitting name. And I’m sure your mother wo
uld think so, too.’ He cleared his throat. ‘So—should we wet the baby’s head?’ he suggested. ‘I brought you a bottle of champagne as a peace offering. Not much of one, but I thought you could always hit me over the head with it—it’s nice and heavy.’

  Ben laughed, dispersing the tension, and disappeared, coming back moments later with glasses. He opened the bottle with a soft pop and filled them, then lifted his glass.

  ‘To Annabel,’ he said, and her father’s jaw tensed.

  ‘To Annabel,’ he echoed, and pressed a kiss lightly to the baby’s forehead. ‘Both of them.’

  Lucy didn’t speak. She just lifted the glass and touched the champagne to her lips. Just a tiny taste, because of her milk. And she thought of her mother, of the terrible bitterness of the last two years now finally laid to rest, and as Ben’s arm came around her shoulders again, a tear slid down her cheek.

  ‘To both of them,’ she echoed softly.

  THE ITALIAN’S NEW-YEAR MARRIAGE WISH

  BY SARAH MORGAN

  Sarah Morgan trained as a nurse, and has since worked in a variety of health-related jobs. Married to a gorgeous businessman, who still makes her knees knock, she spends most of her time trying to keep up with their two little boys, but manages to sneak off occasionally to indulge her passion for writing romance. Sarah loves outdoor life, and is an enthusiastic skier and walker. Whatever she is doing, her head is always full of new characters and she is addicted to happy endings.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘I WANT a divorce, I want a divorce, I want a divorce…’

  Amy recited the words in her head as the taxi wound its way along the small country roads that led towards the North Cornish coast. The snow that had fallen overnight had dusted fields, trees and bushes with a wintry layer of white that now glistened and sparkled under the bright early morning sunshine. It promised to be a perfect day—perfect for people who weren’t about to end their marriage.

  She felt sicker than she’d ever felt in her life and the brief glimpse of the sea in the distance increased the tension in her stomach until it felt as though she’d swallowed a loop of knotted rope. No amount of logical reasoning or deep breathing produced the desired feeling of calm and suddenly Amy wished she hadn’t chosen to come in person. But what else could she have done when he’d refused to respond to her letters or phone calls?

  He’d left her no choice.

  Staring out of the window at the familiar landmarks, she admitted to herself that his protracted silence had surprised her. It was so unlike him. He was Italian after all, and she’d braced herself for an ongoing display of simmering, volcanic passion.

  Marco was single-minded and determined. A man who knew what he wanted from life and took it.

  Which just went to prove that he clearly hadn’t wanted her.

  Amy felt her throat close and she swallowed hard, controlling the tears, aware that she was being completely illogical. It wasn’t as if she’d wanted him to put up a fight. It would have made it so much harder to do what had to be done.

  Amy curled her hands tightly over the edge of her seat. She wanted to tell the taxi driver to turn round and take her back to the station but she knew that she couldn’t give in to that impulse. If she didn’t do this now then she’d only have to do it later and she’d already put it off as long as possible.

  It was time to finally end their marriage.

  She was so lost in thought that it took a moment for her to realise that the taxi driver was speaking to her. ‘I’m sorry? Did you say something?’

  The taxi driver glanced in his mirror. ‘Just wondering if you live in Penhally.’

  Amy managed a polite smile. ‘No.’ She consciously relaxed her hands. ‘Not any more. I used to, before…’ Before her entire life had fallen apart. ‘I lived here for a while.’

  ‘So…’ He drove carefully down a road still white with snow. ‘I expect you’re home to celebrate New Year with your family? Are you staying long?’

  No family. No celebrations.

  ‘It’s just a short visit,’ she said huskily. ‘I’m here until this evening. My train is at eight o’clock.’

  Which left her just enough time to confront her husband and say, ‘I want a divorce.’ And then she would never see Penhally again.

  ‘Well, keep an eye on the weather. Can you believe that it snowed again last night? I mean, when did we last have snow like this on the coast? When was it last this cold?’ He shook his head. ‘Global warming, that’s what it is. Our entire climate has gone bonkers. And there are severe storms forecast. Leave plenty of time or you’ll find yourself stranded and miss that train.’

  Barely listening, Amy glanced out of the window. She’d be leaving Penhally that evening even if it meant walking.

  As the taxi turned into the main street, her heart rate doubled, as if her body was instinctively bracing itself for conflict.

  She slid down slightly in her seat and then frowned with exasperation and sat up again. What was she doing? She was behaving like a fugitive, not a thirty-five-year-old doctor with a responsible career!

  But the thought of actually seeing Marco again shredded her self-control, confidence and dignity into tiny pieces. For the past two years she’d dreamed about him, thought about him and cried about him. No matter what she’d been doing, he’d dominated her thoughts, but she’d spared herself the torture of actually bumping into him by taking herself as far away as possible.

  Unable to trust herself not to weaken, she hadn’t just left the village or the country—she’d left the continent.

  ‘Stop here.’ Suddenly anxious that she might bump into Marco before she was ready to see him, she leaned forward. ‘Thank you, this is perfect. I can walk from here.’ She fumbled in her bag for her purse, paid the taxi driver and slid out of the back of the car, clutching her small bag.

  She waited for the taxi to pull away and stood for a moment, staring down the main street of Penhally. It was still too early for the shops to open but Christmas lights twinkled in the windows and decorations glittered and winked. The addition of snow produced a scene that could have been taken straight from a Dickens novel and Amy gave a tiny smile, suddenly feeling more Christmassy than she had over Christmas itself. Memories slid into her head: memories of walking hand in hand with her grandmother, choosing decorations for the Christmas tree; collecting the turkey from the butcher.

  She’d always thought that Penhally was a magical place.

  Her few happy childhood memories were centred on this Cornish fishing village.

  She’d wanted her own children to grow up here.

  ‘Amy? Amy Avanti?’

  The voice came from directly behind her and she turned, her palms damp with sweat and her heart pounding frantically against her chest. It was as if she’d been caught shoplifting instead of just returning home unannounced.

  ‘Tony…’ She managed a smile even though she was secretly wishing that the landlord of the Smugglers’ Inn hadn’t chosen this particular moment to walk up the street. ‘You’re up early.’

  ‘Busy time of year.’ The collar of his coat was turned up against the winter chill as he studied her face, a question in his eyes. ‘So that’s it? I haven’t seen you for ages and all you can say is, “You’re up early”?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Feeling suddenly awkward, Amy huddled deeper into her coat. ‘I suppose I don’t really know what to say…’

  ‘You always were a woman who listened more than you spoke…’ Tony grinned ‘…which makes a pleasant change. Does Marco know you’re home?’

  ‘No.’ She hadn’t wanted him forewarned. Her only hope was to catch him off guard. She was banking on the fa
ct that he’d be so shocked to see her that he wouldn’t say much. Wouldn’t make things difficult. ‘It was an impulse thing. We have things to discuss.’

  ‘Well, I heard the Maserati roaring down the street earlier so he’s probably already at the surgery. They’re busy over there.’

  His words brought a disturbingly vivid memory to life. A memory of a hot summer’s day two and a half years before when she and Marco had just arrived in Penhally, newly married and full of plans. Full of hope and optimism. Marco had taken her for a ride in his beloved Maserati, a car that perfectly matched his testosterone-driven approach to life. He’d driven the car along the coast road, one hand on the wheel, the other laid possessively over the back of her seat, and Amy had been so madly and crazily in love with him that she’d spent the entire trip gazing in disbelief at his profile.

  And he’d guessed how she’d felt, of course, because he was a man who knew women and his cool sophistication and greater life experience had just increased her own, deepseated insecurity.

  Why was he with her?

  How many times had she asked herself that question? Amy swallowed hard and pushed the thought away. He wasn’t with her. Not any more. And although it had been her decision, she knew that by leaving she’d simply hastened the inevitable. ‘I’m surprised he’s driving the Maserati. It always hated cold weather.’

  ‘It still hates cold weather. Last week it died by the side of the road and your husband was gesticulating and letting out a stream of Italian. The entire village was in the bookshop looking up words in the Italian dictionary but we all know that when it comes to his precious car, Marco doesn’t always use words that are in the dictionary.’ Tony scratched his head. ‘I suggested he buy a traditional English car designed to cope with traditional English weather, but he treated that suggestion with the contempt that it probably deserved.’

  ‘I can imagine he wasn’t enthusiastic.’

  ‘It’s good to see you back, Amy. We were surprised when you went.’