Their Miracle Baby

by Caroline Anderson

  Except she couldn’t take it away, of course, and, besides, he’d lain down with his back firmly towards her, discouraging any repeat of their earlier cuddle. But then he mumbled something in his sleep, and she reached out a hand and laid it gently on his side, and he sighed softly and went quiet.

  Comforted by her presence? She felt a tear leak out of the corner of one eye. She’d missed him so much. He’d only been gone two nights, but they’d been lonely and endless. Crazy when, apart from their earlier hug, they’d hardly even touched each other by accident in bed recently, never mind deliberately, but nevertheless she’d missed his presence there.

  He murmured again, and she moved closer, curling her body behind his and snuggling up, her hand resting lightly on his hip, afraid to wake him. But the painkillers must be keeping him under because he didn’t stir, just sighed and relaxed against her, the tension she hadn’t even been aware of seeping out of him, and she felt her own tension dissipate into the night.

  Her eyes drifting shut, she laid her cheek against his shoulder and fell asleep…

  He woke to find her curled around him.

  It was his leg that had woken him—that and the ribs he

  She’d move away—he knew that, knew she must have ended up lying against him by accident, because, God knows, apart from their cuddle when she’d got home from work and the briefest of brief kisses in the kitchen, if there’d been a way to avoid it she hadn’t touched him in ages. There could have been chainlink fencing down the middle of the bed since April for all the difference it would have made, they’d kept so strictly to their own sides of the bed.

  He straightened his leg a fraction and, as if she’d read his mind again, she shifted away, giving him room.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Mmm. Just need to move my leg.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She scooted across to the far side of the bed, and he rolled carefully over towards her.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Mmm,’ he said again. Better, but too far from her. He lifted a hand, almost reached for her, then, letting his breath out on a silent sigh, he lowered his hand back to the mattress. No. Too dangerous. He didn’t trust himself, and the last thing he wanted to do was drive her away.

  He shifted a fraction, trying to get comfortable, and listened to the sound of her breathing. It took her ages to fall asleep again, and he wondered if she was listening to him breathe as well, so he deliberately slowed his respiration rate down and after a few more minutes he heard a subtle change in hers as she slid into sleep.

  But it wasn’t a happy sleep. She was restless, murmuring, and he reached out a hand. Should he?

  Yes.

  Lucky her. He didn’t. He couldn’t.

  It had been so long since he’d touched her. She was wearing a nightshirt, not much more than a long T-shirt, and it had ridden up so that the soft, bare skin of her bottom was against his legs, silky smooth and unbelievably arousing; he ached to rest his hand on her thigh, to slide it up and round her slender, tiny waist, up over her ribs, curling his fingers round to cup one of her small, firm breasts in his palm—

  His body reacted instantly, and he felt his erection brush against her, sending shockwaves racing through him. Dear God, he wanted her. Wanted to hold her, touch her, bury himself in her, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t put her in that position again.

  He shifted his hips, pulling back away from her, but she followed him, her bottom bumping against his penis, and then he heard a soft gasp as she came suddenly, instantly awake.

  Fran froze.

  What the hell was she doing? Snuggling against him, her back against his chest, her bottom spooned—oh, lord. She couldn’t move away. If she moved, he might know she was awake, and if she didn’t…

  If she didn’t, and he reached out for her again, wanted to make love to her—could she do that? Let him? After so long, she really wasn’t sure, wasn’t sure at all that she could let him touch her, kiss her…

  Oh, dear God. She couldn’t deal with this. Her emotions were too close to the surface, and if he touched her, all hell might break loose. So she faked a mumble, shifted away, rolling onto her front with her head turned away from him, and after an endless moment she heard him sigh.

  Had she fooled him? She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut against the threatening tears, and after a few more minutes she heard the rustle of the quilt, felt the mattress shift and heard him grunt with pain as he sat up.

  What was she to do? Pretend he’d disturbed her and get up and help him? Stay put with her eyes closed and listen out for him until he’d got down the corridor to the bathroom?

  He was naked. If he was still aroused…

  She stayed put, her ears straining as he picked up the crutches, took a step, swore softly and moved again. The bedroom door was open and as he went unsteadily down the corridor, she turned her head and watched him until he was in the bathroom.

  The door closed softly, and she dropped her face into the pillow and sighed. What now? Pretend she’d been asleep? If she was a decent wife she’d get up and make him a drink, but that would mean talking to him, and she felt awkward—gauche and nervous and oddly apprehensive. What if he said something about it?

  What if he knew she’d been awake?

  Oh, why on earth had she wriggled up against him? Because she had, of course. She’d been right on her side of the bed after he’d rolled towards her, and when she’d

  No wonder he’d had an erection. He’d have to be dead not to react to that, whether he’d wanted her or not. He was a relatively young man after all, fit and healthy and in the prime of his life. And it had been literally months since they’d made love. After such a long time, he’d surely react to anything female.

  He came back to bed, and she heard the crackle of the pill packet, heard the swallow as he took his painkillers, felt the mattress dip slightly as he lay down with a muffled groan.

  She cracked an eye open. He was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling with one arm flung up over his head.

  ‘Fran?’

  His voice was soft, little more than a breath, but she ignored it, afraid to answer, afraid to open that Pandora’s box.

  After an age, he sighed quietly, the arm settling over his eyes, and eventually a soft snore heralded his slide into sleep.

  She wasn’t so lucky. Every cell of her body was aware of him, every breath he took, every slight shift, every grunt. She daren’t relax, daren’t go to sleep in case she ended up curling into his side. So she lay awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to him breathe, until the sky lightened and she could creep away…

  Mike woke alone.

  Odd, that. He was always the first to wake, the first to get up, the last to come to bed. He was never alone in bed.

  He hated it.

  He thought back to the night, to the way she’d recoiled from him, pretending to be asleep and rolling away from him—because she had pretended, she had been awake, and in the end he’d had to get up and move around or he’d have screamed with frustration.

  So he’d gone to the bathroom, and the pain in his leg had dealt with his untimely arousal, and he’d gone back to bed and stared at the ceiling for ages while Fran had lain rigid beside him and feigned sleep. Again.

  He swore, softly and comprehensively. Where on earth did they go from here?

  The kitchen would be a good start. He could hear voices, and he got up, slowly and carefully, and struggled into his boxers. He didn’t bother with his dressing-gown. It was hot today, and he needed a shower. Maybe Joe was about.

  He made his way slowly and carefully downstairs, shuffling down on his bottom because he’d been warned in no uncertain terms not to put any weight through his leg yet—not that he needed warning. Even resting it on the floor made it ache like hell.

  The kitchen, when he eventually got there, was rammed again. It had obviously become Party Central since his accident, he decided, and discovered that he was relieved, because otherwise he’d have
to deal with Fran without anyone to run interference.

  Except she wasn’t there.

  ‘Morning.’

  They looked up, Joe and his father from breakfast, his mother from the sink, Sarah from sorting a pile of vegetables

  ‘Um—thanks,’ he said, sinking gratefully into the chair Joe had vacated and stretching his leg out cautiously. Brodie propped herself against the other one and gazed soulfully up at him as if she couldn’t understand why he’d deserted her. He rubbed her behind her ears, and she washed his hand, her eyes still on him anxiously. Sarah brought his tea over, set it down and stared at him open-mouthed.

  ‘Wow,’ she said, and his brother grunted.

  ‘That’s my brother you’re eyeing up,’ he reminded her, and she laughed.

  ‘Really? I thought he was a refugee from a film set. The last time I saw bruises like that was a post-mortem in a forensic science drama. Impressive. You ought to take photos.’

  ‘Don’t overdo the sympathy,’ Mike said, but he was smiling, knowing that in her way Sarah was telling him how sorry she was that he was hurt. ‘Any more of that bacon, Mum?’

  She dragged her eyes from his side and tried for a smile. ‘Coming up. Want it in a sandwich?’

  ‘Lovely. With an egg in it. You’re a star.’

  And then Fran was back, with a box full of fruit, and he stared at it in surprise. ‘Is that all close to its sell-by date?’ he asked. They often got a surplus of one kind of fruit or another, but not normally so much at once unless it had been over-ordered, and they tried not to do that. It dented profits.

  But to his surprise she coloured a little and put the box down on the side. ‘There was a lot and I just thought it looked nice,’ she said, avoiding his eyes. ‘Fruit’s good for

  What for? he thought. What have you got in mind for me? Because it’s clearly not sex…

  He felt his body reacting at the thought, and regretted leaving his dressing-gown upstairs, but his mother put the sandwich down in front of him and he leant forwards, giving himself a bit of privacy until he got his crazed libido under control. Hell, he must be nuts, but all he could think about was her bottom, soft and warm and snuggled up to him…

  She bent over, putting the fruit in the fridge, and he was treated to the curve in question, her jeans, loose now since she’d lost weight, pulling taut as she bent and giving him a tempting view of the very part of her that was giving him so much trouble.

  He yanked his eyes off her and concentrated on not dribbling the softly fried egg down his chest.

  ‘You around for a while?’ he asked Joe around a mouthful of sandwich.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need a shower.’

  Joe arched a brow. ‘Long time since we shared a shower,’ he said dryly, and Mike felt himself colour.

  ‘I don’t want to share it with you, you jackass. I need someone to grab me when I fall over, and Fran’s too little. I’d squash her.’

  Joe looked disbelieving, but he shrugged and nodded. ‘I can give you a hand. Be more fun with Fran, though.’

  He felt himself colour again, his neck reddening, and his

  ‘Don’t tease him, Joe,’ their mother said gently, and Mike heard something else in her tone. A warning? A warning to tread softly?

  So maybe their problems weren’t as private as he’d thought.

  Damn.

  He pushed the plate away. ‘That was lovely, Mum. Thanks. Right, Joe, are you ready? I don’t want to hold you up, I know you’ve got loads to do.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Joe said, dropping his mug into the sink and handing his brother the crutches. ‘Come on, then, Hopalong, let’s get you scrubbed. Pity we haven’t still got the sheep-dip.’

  ‘Ha-ha. I need a bin bag and some elastic bands,’ he said, and while Joe found those, he headed upstairs the same way he’d come down.

  He turned the shower on, got the temperature right and then Joe trussed his leg up like a turkey and he swung round into the bath, getting awkwardly to his feet and pulling the shower curtain closed. ‘So how are we going to manage this, Joe?’ he asked.

  ‘Hell, you want me to wash you?’ Joe asked in disbelief.

  ‘Not the shower—the farm,’ Mike retorted, struggling with the soap and wondering if a little help wouldn’t go amiss.

  There was a heavy sigh from Joe, and the curtain twitched back a little. ‘We’ll cope, bro. You get yourself right. Don’t worry about the farm. Dad’s quite enjoying having a bit to do with it again, and at least the weather’s nice.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. There’s always another day. Want a hand with your hair?’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ he lied, struggling to scrub it with one elbow propped against the tiles so he didn’t lose his balance. He rinsed it quickly, swilled the water over his body one last time and turned off the taps. ‘Might need a hand getting out,’ he confessed, and Joe steadied him while he sat on the edge and swivelled round, grunting with the pain in his side.

  ‘Your ribs OK?’ Joe asked, giving him a searching look.

  ‘Not really, but what are you going to do about it? What I could really do with is a good night’s sleep. I couldn’t get comfortable last night.’

  Except when I was snuggled up to Fran, he thought, but didn’t voice it. Too much information, and he didn’t want to think about it when he was stark naked. His body was all too keen to betray him at the moment.

  Joe towelled off his back and leg, took the bin bag off his cast and washed his toes carefully with a flannel, then looked round. ‘Got any clean boxers?’

  ‘In the bedroom. It doesn’t matter, I’ll go like this.’

  ‘What, and shock Mum rigid? You’ve grown up a bit since she changed your last nappy.’

  ‘Well, then, hopefully she won’t be foolish enough to be in my bedroom.’

  She wasn’t. Fran was, bending over the laundry basket, and he grabbed another pair of new boxers out of the drawer, struggled into them and then lay back under cover of the quilt to get his breath.

  He nodded. ‘Thanks, Joe. You go and get on. I’m sorry to hold you up—and I’m sorry about all this…’ He waved in the general direction of his leg, and Joe shot him a wry grin.

  ‘Could have been a whole lot worse, big bro,’ he said softly, and left them.

  Alone.

  Fran stood up, washing in her arms, and eyed him warily. ‘Are you OK? You have to go to the fracture clinic in a bit.’

  He nodded. ‘Can you take me?’

  ‘Of course I can,’ she said, frowning slightly. ‘I need to put the washing on. Can you manage to dress yourself?’

  He nodded again, not wanting to make her do anything intimate for him—not if it was so repugnant to her—and her recoil in the night couldn’t have been clearer. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll come down in a little while,’ he said.

  ‘Take your painkillers first,’ she advised, and left the room as if it was on fire.

  The fracture clinic seemed happy with him.

  He told them he was having trouble getting comfortable, and they gave him some advice for propping up his leg in the night—advice which Fran was relieved to know would make it impossible for her to end up snuggled on his lap, thank goodness, because he’d have to lie on his back. At least it didn’t seem to be swelling, so long as he kept it propped up, and that seemed to be what worried them most.

  She drove him home, and when they were almost

  ‘What, the tree?’ she asked, a cold shiver of dread running over her. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘To know how big an idiot I was?’

  She gave a strangled little laugh. ‘Oh, I can tell you that.’

  ‘I thought you had,’ he pointed out. ‘But I want to see for myself.’

  So she detoured, turning left instead of right and running down past Tregorran House to the gate at the bottom of the hill, opening it and driving along the river until they reached the fallen tree.

  ‘Here you go,’ she said. ‘The crime scene.’
r />   He opened the door, got out with difficulty and swung himself over to the tree on his crutches, standing there and staring down at it for an age.

  He could see the depression where Joe had dug away the ground under his leg. It was about five feet from where the tree had ended up—which would put it right across the back of his shoulders, maybe even his head. Whatever, he wouldn’t have survived it.

  He felt goose-bumps coming up all over him, and he gave a sudden shiver.

  Fran took his arm. ‘Come on, Mike. You’ve seen enough,’ she said softly, and he looked at her and realised she was as white as a sheet.

  Poor Fran. He wanted to hug her. Was it wise?

  ‘Ah, hell,’ he muttered, and turned back to the Land Rover. He couldn’t hug her, could he, with the crutches hanging on his arms? And anyway, she probably wouldn’t

  She walked round the bonnet, giving the tree one last wary look, and slid behind the wheel, starting the engine and heading back towards the road.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She shot him a startled look. ‘What for?’

  ‘Being so bloody stupid. Scaring the living daylights out of you. Making you come back here when you obviously didn’t want to. Take your pick.’

  She sighed softly and gave him a hesitant little smile. ‘Idiot. Put your seat belt on. I don’t want you flying through the windscreen if we meet a lunatic tourist. We’ve all got enough to worry about at the moment.’

  He fastened his seat belt obediently, tried to find a comfortable position against the backrest as they jolted down the track and then sighed with relief when they hit the flat, even surface of the road again. They were home in moments, and he slid down out of the Land Rover and swung himself towards the back door.

  ‘Gosh, it’s hot,’ Fran said, following him in. ‘Fancy a drink?’

  ‘Coffee would be good.’

  There was a second’s hesitation, then she said, ‘Oh. I was thinking more of something cold—a fruit smoothie? Use up some of that lovely fruit I sorted out this morning.’

  He would rather have had a coffee, but she was right, the fruit needed to be used up and with all the painkillers he was on, if he didn’t have fruit his system would grind to a halt. ‘Sounds good,’ he lied, and eased himself into a