12 Stocking Stuffers

by Beverly Barton

Beth’s heart juddered, all her strength seeming to ebb away. Head and shoulders above her, his powerful body clothed in thigh-moulding jeans and a black roll-necked sweater, he looked terrifyingly intimidating, his hair clinging in damp tendrils to his beautifully shaped skull, his devastatingly handsome features hardened with cruel determination.

  What to say? Brand herself as promiscuous or admit the truth? Run the real risk of him trying to take her son from her?

  ‘Been struck dumb, have we?’ His velvety voice held a sardonic bite as he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look at him, to meet his cold, dark eyes. ‘Not to worry. A simple DNA test should do the talking for you.’

  Beth’s throat convulsed. She was living in her worst nightmare. But she would fight to the death to stop him doing anything to upset her son.

  James had recently started asking about his father. Guy had a daddy, why didn’t he? She’d told him as much of the truth as she felt his tender years fitted him to handle. Explained that his father was a wonderful man and that she’d loved him very much. But that their lives and backgrounds had been too different to allow them to live together, that it was best if she was both mummy and daddy. It was an explanation he had accepted without any further questions.

  So no way was she going to allow Carl to upset and confuse him, demand rights in his life, demand to have him with him for weekends or parts of his school holidays. His wife would certainly resent his very existence, and possibly show it.

  She would not allow that to happen.

  Jerking her head away from his punitive grasp, she told him fiercely, ‘James is mine. I carried him, gave birth to him, cared for him and loved him for every minute of his life. He is everything to me. He is nothing to you—how could he be? Your only input was one night of lust you immediately forgot about!’

  Momentarily pain flooded his eyes, the stab of it tightening his mouth, tugging at his breath, and Beth wished she hadn’t voiced that last statement. She had wanted to hurt him and had succeeded, but it made her feel ashamed of herself.

  She hadn’t been a victim. She had wanted him to make love to her—wanted him with a desperation she could still so clearly remember. And he had written to her from America, asking her to keep in touch. She could have told him she was pregnant, but for reasons that had seemed good at the time she hadn’t.

  She took a step towards him, wishing she could take the wounding words back, her teeth biting into her full lower lip. But Carl, obviously furiously recovered, stated lethally, ‘I take it that’s your confirmation? James is my son. I have rights. He has rights. He is the new Forsythe generation. He is all Marcus ever wanted.’

  Beth wanted to cry but wouldn’t let herself. Her voice wobbling, she threw at him, ‘Don’t drag your uncle into it! You weren’t thinking of his wishes when you decided to sell the Hall—he would have hated that!’

  She was beginning to wail. She clamped her mouth shut. If he had said James was all he, Carl, had ever wanted then she might have softened, tried to work out a way of him getting to know his son without upsetting the little boy. But he hadn’t, and it really, really hurt.

  ‘There wasn’t going to be a new generation of Forsythes,’ he answered tensely. ‘So there seemed no point in keeping the place on. The situation has now changed. I have the heir I never expected to have. The auction will be cancelled.’

  Beth sank onto the nearest chair. Her legs were giving way beneath her. She put her hands over her mouth, her fingers flattening her lips.

  She could see it now. Obviously his wife couldn’t have children and, knowing how he took pride in his lineage, that would have been a dreadful blow. But now he had his heir he would move heaven and earth to claim him, to bring him up as a Forsythe, taking no account whatsoever of her or James’s feelings. Then another thought took hold and threatened to shatter her precarious control. If his wife was barren, as he seemed to be implying, then she would resent James even more!

  She couldn’t let that happen! But how on earth could she stop it?

  There was only one way. She took it. Lowering her hands, tears now streaming unashamedly down her pinched face, she pointed out, ‘Your wife might not agree with you. I suggest you leave now, go back to the Hall and discuss it with her before you start trying to throw your weight around. And—’ she gulped back a throatful of tears ‘—I have a say in my child’s future, too.’

  ‘What say, what rights, did you allow me eight years ago, when you knew you had conceived my child?’ he demanded witheringly. ‘None. If some quirk of fate hadn’t brought us together, now, I would have gone to my grave never knowing I had a son! So don’t try to plead your case with me. You don’t have one!’

  He swung round on his heels and stalked out of the room, and Beth wrapped her arms around her body and tried to pull herself together.

  At least he’d done as she’d suggested—gone back to his wife to discuss the matter. Hopefully, she’d talk him out of what Beth was sure was in his mind—having his illegitimate son live with them. That his wife wouldn’t be able to talk him out of anything, or would raise no objections, didn’t bear thinking about.

  Carl Forsythe was a powerful man in the banking world, and centuries of believing that what he wanted was his as of right had been bred into him. How could she hope to fight that?

  Despite the roaring fire she was shivering convulsively, cold right through to the centre of her bones, and she leapt out of her skin when Carl walked back through the door. She had been so sure he’d left the cottage.

  ‘Drink this.’ He put a mug in her shaking hands. ‘Hot, strong tea. You need it; you’re in shock.’

  For a moment her bewildered eyes met his. The last thing she’d expected from him was this brusque, rough-edged compassion.

  Quelling a shiver, she gripped the mug in both hands to hold it steady. The ache at the back of her throat spread down to her chest. She couldn’t blame him for being angry, and she should have remembered that even as a young boy he’d had a caring, compassionate heart.

  A sudden memory flashed through her troubled mind, of Carl, probably nine years old at that time, finding a tiny baby frog on the gravel driveway in the full glare of the sun, the careful way he’d picked it up and carried it to the long damp grass which bordered the pool in one of his uncle’s meadows, his grin of pleasure as the little creature had hopped away to safety.

  So was it so surprising that he should put his anger aside momentarily and have a care for the mother of his child?

  Straddle-legged, his back to the fire, he hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans and told her flatly, ‘I have no wife to consider. Terrina left me for her current lover, and we’re now divorced.’

  Every scrap of colour drained from Beth’s face. When she’d heard of his engagement, his marriage, she’d been gutted, hair-tearingly jealous. She’d loved him so and had wanted him for herself, even though, deep down inside her, she’d known it could never happen.

  But she was older now, and very much wiser. Except for their son’s existence the past was dead and buried. Any residual fondness he might have felt for her had been wiped from his heart by what he had learned.

  And he was free, which put her at an even greater disadvantage. No wife’s feelings to consider meant he was free to do exactly as he wanted. He’d lost a wife but gained a son. He would do everything within his considerable power to keep him.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She muttered the expected polite response, wondering if he knew exactly how sorry she was, and why, and inwardly quaked at the harsh bitterness in his voice when he shrugged those impressive shoulders of his and stated, ‘Don’t be.’

  Beth shivered. He seemed to fill the room with his presence, his controlled anger making the air sizzle with tension, and even before he spoke again she knew he would want answers. To her own horror, her defence now seemed unbelievably shaky.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?’ he sliced rawly. ‘What did I eve
r do to make you keep my son’s existence from me?’

  Guilt swamped her. He sounded so driven. It tore her in two. She had thought at the time that she was doing the right thing, and during her years as a single parent she’d found composure, remained convinced that the decision made so long ago had been the best for all concerned.

  And now he would tear her defences into shreds.

  She lifted reluctant eyes to his, her heart thudding heavily, then heaved a sigh of cowardly relief as she heard James pattering down the stairs, his voice wobbly as he called for his mummy.

  ‘Darling!’ She was out of her chair and opening the door immediately, strength flowing back into her weakened limbs, her only thought now to comfort her child.

  Standing on the bottom tread of the staircase in his red and white striped pyjamas, his quivering mouth turned down piteously, the grey eyes beneath a rumpled lock of dark hair flooded with tears, the boisterous seven-year-old had returned to unashamed babyhood.

  Her heart swelling with love, Beth hunkered down and held out her arms, murmuring, as he launched himself into her loving embrace, ‘Bad dream, darling?’ She dropped a kiss on the side of his soft little neck as he nodded wordlessly and took a noisy gulp of air into his heaving chest, burrowing his head into her sweatshirt.

  He rarely suffered from nightmares, and she guessed tonight’s had been caused by the excitement of the approach of Christmas and the naughtiness of the previous evening. Cuddling him closely, she could feel his slight body shivering. The upstairs rooms were decidedly chilly, and the sooner she got him safely tucked up under his cosy duvet the better.

  But first, ‘How about a drink of warm milk, poppet?’ Feeling his vigorous nod, she got back to her feet and dropped a swift kiss on the top of his head. ‘Coming right up.’

  She turned and saw Carl’s eyes fixed upon them. Dark, brooding eyes, and a line of pain around his mouth, a line of colour along his slanting cheekbones. Her heart turned over. She knew how he was feeling. Seeing his own son in distress, unable to do anything about it.

  Whether it was guilt or compassion, she didn’t know, but she heard herself calmly suggesting, ‘Jamie, why don’t you go through and sit by the fire with Mr Forsythe while I heat that milk?’

  She held her breath. Would James do that? Or would he remember the ticking-off he’d had for trespassing and hang his head, cling to her, refuse to do any such thing in case the formidable stranger started telling him off all over again?

  But James simply nodded and took Carl’s outstretched hand, and as they walked back into the sitting room Beth heard, ‘Call me Carl. I brought you a Christmas tree. I said I would, remember? I’ll come by tomorrow and we’ll put it up together.’

  And then the door closed and Beth released the breath she hadn’t known she was holding. She would have felt utterly, drainingly dreadful if James had refused to have anything to do with his father. Though why she should care about Carl’s feelings when she knew his intentions regarding the future of his son—a future which would see her relegated firmly to the sidelines, a weekend visitor at best, if he had his way—she had no clear idea. And the thought of him coming here tomorrow to help decorate the cottage for Christmas appalled her.

  There was too much between them. The past with its lovely bittersweet memories, the future with its threatened dangers, and the spiky tension of the present. She didn’t know how she would handle having him around.

  She had to get a grip, she told herself fiercely as she poured creamy milk into a pan, slid it onto the hotplate of the Rayburn and reached down a mug.

  Her emotions had been going haywire ever since she’d opened the door and found him standing there with the shame-faced little boys. Found the old attraction still alive and kicking and become the unwilling recipient of memories she’d thought she had buried, battling with the fear that he might suspect James was his son, her feelings of horror and helplessness when those fears had been verified.

  She just had to start thinking positively, she lectured herself firmly. What court in the land would take a child from its mother and hand him to his father? And if he went ahead and hired the best lawyers in the universe she would fight him.

  Never mind if all she had to offer was unstinting maternal love when Carl could offer every advantage known to man that influence, wealth and position could bring. She would still fight him!

  Her chin high, she carried the mug of warm milk into the sitting room, only to have her feeble heart melt inside her. They looked so right together, the resemblance truly remarkable.

  Carl was sitting on the chair she had used, near to the crackling fire, with James curled up on his lap, his dark head resting against the big man’s shoulder. They looked so relaxed, so peaceful. James’s tears had dried and his cheeks were flushed with pink, and Carl’s eyes were warm, his smile gentle as he helped the little boy sit upright to take the milk, his strong arms anchoring the warm little body.

  ‘Carl was telling me a story about Mole and Ratty and the riverbank,’ James announced sleepily. ‘His daddy used to read it to him when he was little.’ He took a long swallow of milk and came up with a creamy moustache. ‘I wish I had a daddy.’

  Beth’s stomach churned over. James had just unwittingly given Carl even more ammunition. She didn’t dare look at him, not even when he put the empty mug down on one of the many little tables and got fluidly to his feet, his son in his arms.

  ‘I’ll carry you up and tuck you in,’ he was saying in a low, conspiratorial whisper. ‘We’ll be very quiet, like mice, so we don’t wake Guy. And I’ll see you in the morning. Say goodnight to Mummy.’

  A milky kiss brought tears that stung the backs of her eyes, her skin prickling with goosebumps. She could recognise bonding when she saw it!

  And recognise unfairness, too. She had deprived Carl of the first seven years of his son’s life, deprived her child of a father.

  Pacing the floor, feeling sick, she waited for Carl to reappear. They had to sort something out. He was angry with her, and she could understand that. She would have been spitting tacks, throwing things, had their positions been reversed.

  But when he cooled down they should be able to work something out—gently break the news that Carl was James’s father, agree on visiting rights. Weekends, certainly, and if, as he’d stated, he would be keeping the Hall on, then maybe James could spend time with him there. It was only a matter of a couple of hundred yards away…

  Then her mind went blank as she heard Carl coming down the stairs, his feet quiet on the old oak boards. Her mouth had gone dry and she couldn’t stop her fingers twisting together, over and over, as if she were trying to pull the joints out of place.

  His face, when she could see it clearly, was unsmiling now. The warmth, the softness that had been there for his son utterly wiped away.

  ‘He went out like a light,’ he informed her coolly as he reached for his coat. Shrugging into it, he turned to face her. ‘I’ll see you first thing in the morning.’ He turned the fleecy collar up and took his torch from the kitchen table. ‘As I see it, there’s only one thing to do in this situation. Marry. As soon as it can be arranged.’

  Marry him! Something inside her rose on a rushing tide of tantalising hope. It was all she’d dreamed of at one stage in her life. But the surge of hope died, dropped like a stone.

  Her mouth stiff, she parried, ‘Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with me!’ She heard the note of sarcasm in her voice and applauded it. It was the only thing that stopped her from bursting into hysterical tears.

  ‘Of course not.’ His voice was flat. ‘I want my son. And he wants a father—you heard him. He needs two parents. Full-time. To achieve that we have to live together, marry. I lost both my parents when I was a few months older than he is now. Marcus did his best to replace them, but there was a big hole in my life for a very long time.’

  He turned for the door, swung it open, and the bitter wind blew a flurry of snowflakes at his feet. ‘You can refuse,
of course, but I warn you the consequences won’t be pleasant for any of us.’ One final look speared contempt into her wide, shell-shocked eyes. ‘Don’t fight me on this, Beth. You won’t win.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  BETH was woken by muffled thumps and shrill giggles from the room next to hers. The boys were already awake, full of beans and ready to start the day.

  Christmas Eve.

  She groaned. She didn’t want to be awake yet. It was still pitch-dark. And last night she hadn’t been able to fall asleep for hours. She felt exhausted.

  Marry him!

  The reminder of what he’d said just before he’d left the cottage last night, the reason she had paced the floor for absolutely ages and been unable to sleep when she’d finally gone to bed, attacked her brain, brought her fully, stingingly and regretfully awake.

  She hadn’t wanted to have to think about it. Not again. Not yet. She’d gone over and over it last night and it had got her precisely nowhere.

  Her stomach tying itself in increasingly tight knots, she wriggled over and reached for the bedside light. A glance at her watch told her it was barely six o’clock. It wouldn’t be light for another two hours!

  Pulling a warm woollen robe over her serviceable cotton pyjamas, just as an ominous crash was followed by a breathless silence and then a crescendo of giggles, she heaved an irritated sigh. Obviously her hopes that she could persuade them to go back to sleep were dead in the water. Her opinion consolidated when she opened their door and flicked on the light.

  Mayhem. Pillows and feathers everywhere.

  James, sitting on the floor beside the upturned night-table, offered spurious innocence, making his eyes seem even bigger than they normally were. ‘I fell out of bed, Mum.’

  ‘So I see.’ She spoke repressively, but she hadn’t the heart to read the riot act. The two small faces were alight with excitement. After all, it was Christmas Eve. Consigning at least another hour of much needed sleep to the dustbin of dashed hopes, she said, ‘Get dressed. And tidy this room up before you come down for breakfast. And if you behave yourselves—and only if you do,’ she stressed, ‘I’ll help you make a snowman when it gets light.’