by Joan Kilby
Slippery little devil, too. He wriggled and twisted, slipping out of Darcy’s grip and flipping over with his face below the water. Crap! Darcy grabbed him and whipped him out and upside down to drain any water that might have filled his nostrils. Darcy was sweating in the humid room and he could smell his own fear.
“What are you doing?” Emma asked.
He glanced over his shoulder. The shower had stopped and he hadn’t noticed. Emma stood directly behind him, naked and dripping, watching his clumsy handling of her precious baby with a curiously detached expression. Even though she was shivering with the cold she made no move to dry herself or wrap up in a dressing gown.
She’d completely lost it. Non compos mentis. He’d been thinking he would bathe Billy, make sure Emma fed him, clean up the apartment and leave. Now he realized there was no way he could leave her on her own.
In a detached fashion another part of his brain registered her body. Her belly was still slightly rounded from childbirth, her breasts were full and the nipples bright red. Even postpartum she was sexy. Ordinarily he would feel lust seeing her fresh from the shower without a stitch on. But with her in this state it was wrong, like lusting after someone not capable of rational thought.
He averted his gaze. Even looking at her was wrong because he was doing so without her informed consent. Instead he concentrated on Billy, holding him firmly in one hand while he cleaned him with a soapy cloth, gently getting in between the crevices and folds.
“You’d better dry off and put some clothes on,” he said. “Then get ready to feed him. He feels hot.”
“I have no milk.”
Darcy glanced over his shoulder again. She’d made no move to dress. “What have you been feeding him?”
“I have a trickle. And I’m supplementing with formula.” She cupped her breasts, wincing when she touched her cracked nipples. “He won’t latch on properly so the milk hasn’t come in the way it should.”
Darcy pulled the baby from the water and looked around for a towel. “Pass me a towel? And put something on, for heaven’s sake.”
She pulled her dressing gown on over her still-wet body. “I’ll see if I can find a clean towel in the hall.” Off she went as if everyone kept their clean linen on the hall carpet.
Meanwhile Billy was shivering and whimpering. Darcy couldn’t wrap him back up in the dirty towel. Poor little sod. He unbuttoned his shirt and tucked the wet baby inside next to his bare skin, pulling the shirt over his back as far as he could. Billy stopped wriggling. He stopped crying. He snuggled in as if he belonged there.
Oh, man. Darcy could feel a tiny heart beating next to his. He glimpsed himself in the foggy mirror, a frazzled-looking man with a huge lump in his chest. And he didn’t mean the baby.
* * *
EMMA SIFTED THROUGH the piles of clothes for a clean towel. She really ought to tidy up a little. But hey, it wasn’t like Darcy had never left a dirty mug on the coffee table. She held a towel to her nose but her sinuses were too blocked to tell if it was clean or dirty.
She picked her way across the living room and drew the curtains to hold the towel up to the window. She was surprised to see daylight. What time was it? The clock on the TV read seven o’clock. Was that morning or evening?
Had she dreamed that moment in the bathroom when she’d stepped out of the shower naked in front of Darcy? Had that really happened? Maybe she’d imagined it. The past few days had been a blur. Once, she’d woken in the dark, delirious with fever, and thought she’d seen hundreds of dwarves in medieval tunics marching off to the mines with pickaxes over their shoulders.
Maybe she’d hallucinated Darcy, too. She listened. She could hear him in the bathroom, clearing his throat. Thank God. She hadn’t gone completely off her rocker. But now she cringed to think he’d seen her postbaby flabby stomach, stretch marks and heavy breasts.
Forget about her appearance, it was her emotional state she was worried about. She had to hold it together. She couldn’t let Darcy know how close she was to losing control. There must be no repeat of her earlier outburst. Cool and calm and organized, that’s what everyone said about her. And she was, really she was. This— She glanced around the room as if seeing it for the first time, and was horrified. This wasn’t like her.
At least Billy was quiet for once. When he cried and cried and cried her brain short-circuited, and she couldn’t think. The cold/flu/bronchitis—whatever it was she had—made her head ache like it was going to explode.
“Did you find a towel?” Darcy stood in the doorway, his shirt half-open revealing olive skin flecked with dark hair. For a moment she couldn’t figure out what the bulge in his shirt was. Then she saw it move and whimper. A fleeting revulsion made her look away.
Billy was her baby, the child she’d wanted so badly she’d basically sacrificed her marriage to have. She didn’t love him. She wanted to, and Lord knows, she’d tried. Sasha, who knew all about maternity matters, had told her that sometimes it took time, that once he was nursing well, the love would fall into place.
What about women who didn’t nurse, who fed their babies formula from the beginning either because they couldn’t, or didn’t want to, nurse? They still loved their babies and bonded with them. What was wrong with her? Billy was a squalling bundle of noise who was driving her insane. Oh, she took care of him, made sure he was fed and clean—or at least she had before she got so sick—but the horrifying truth was staring her in the face—she was an unnatural mother. What kind of woman didn’t love her own child?
“Here.” She thrust the towel at Darcy, hoping he wouldn’t expect her to take the baby.
“You need to dry off yourself.” He pushed aside the clutter on the couch and sat with the towel spread over his lap. Then he gently extricated the baby from inside his shirt and laid him on the towel.
Emma curled up in a chair by the window and watched, winding a piece of wet hair around and around her finger. This was the first time Darcy had handled Billy. Even though he was awkward, how could he not want to be a father? What chance did her poor baby have with a mother who couldn’t, and a father who wouldn’t, love him?
Darcy had found a clean diaper and was trying to put it on Billy. Not surprisingly, he was doing it wrong. She could count on one hand the number of times he’d changed Holly’s diaper.
“You’ve got it backward.” Emma covered her mouth to hide a smile. There was nothing funny about it except that Darcy looked sweet, his forehead furrowed in concentration, his big hands surprisingly gentle.
Darcy glanced up, flushed and scowling. “Maybe you’d like to do it. Make sure it’s done right.”
“No, no, you’re doing fine.” Her hands went up as if warding off the child. She noticed and dropped them back in her lap where they twisted themselves into knots. “The tabs wrap toward the front, is all.”
He eyed her narrowly for another moment then flipped the diaper around. Then he turned his attention to the clean sleeper. As he tried to stuff a foot inside, Billy snapped awake. He glanced up at Darcy and started crying.
“He’s hungry.” Emma instinctively wrapped her dressing gown tighter around her. She wanted to nurse him but her nipples were sore and bleeding. Every time he latched on, the pain made her tense up and her milk wouldn’t let down.
Darcy abandoned the sleeper and wrapped the towel around the baby. He started to rise. “I’ll bring him to you—”
“No.” Emma shrank away. Seeing the shock in Darcy’s eyes, she quickly made excuses. “I have germs. It wouldn’t be good for Billy.”
“I meant you could hold him while I get a bottle ready.” Darcy’s frown deepened as he studied her.
“Oh. Okay. I could do that.” Emma reached for Billy and laid him across her lap. She felt no desire to comfort him. She wasn’t capable of giving comfort. Once Darcy got the bottle he would probably leave again. What could she do to make him stay? She was afraid for Billy’s sake. But she couldn’t tell Darcy how she felt. He would be so angry. He’d
told her having a baby was a mistake. He hadn’t wanted it and now he’d been proven right. He would hate her and resent Billy....
Tears leaked from her eyes and dripped onto her baby. His wriggling had loosened the towel and his bare legs kicked free. Suddenly she realized how cold it was in the apartment. She was shivering herself but that could just be her cold. If only she could go to bed and all this—the baby, the apartment, her solitary life—would go away and she would wake up in her old house, wrapped in Darcy’s arms and Holly sleeping down the hall....
The tears flowed faster. She was so weak. When had she become so weak?
She looked at Darcy and pleaded silently, Please don’t leave me alone with this baby. I might do something terrible. I might not do something and that could also turn out to be terrible. Darcy looked so stern, so angry, as if he was disgusted with her for screwing up their lives and being such a miserable mother.
“Emma, can you hear me?” He had a hand on her shoulder and was gently shaking her. “Do you have formula?”
“What? Oh, in the cupboard to the right of the stove.”
“Once he’s fed we’re leaving.”
“What? Who’s leaving? No! Where to?” The words came out in a squawk and she put a hand to her sore throat. Was he taking Billy away from her? She was a mess, but she wasn’t giving up on her baby. Her brain was too muddled to make sense of what was going on.
“I’m taking you and Billy to my place.” He swore under his breath. “God knows how I’m going to look after you both, but I’ll figure it out.”
“No, Darcy.” She rallied the last crumb of her strength and dignity to protest. “Thank you for bathing Billy. I can take it from here. You don’t owe me anything.”
“I’m not walking away from you when you’re this sick. Maybe you should even be in the hospital. When we get you to my apartment I’ll get Dr. Maxwell to check you out.” He cupped her cheek in his warm palm, his fingertips slightly raspy, and his voice was low and rumbling. So gentle she could weep. “Don’t worry, Em. Everything’s going to be all right.”
Emma closed her eyes. She wanted to believe him so badly. And for the moment she did. He’d saved Billy from her. Thanks to him, their baby was going to be all right.
Darcy went into the kitchen to hunt for formula. She was beyond caring whether a clean sterilized bottle was on hand. Normally she wasn’t the sort of woman who relied on a man. But just this one time she would let Darcy sort it out.
CHAPTER NINE
DARCY BUMBLED HIS way through sterilizing the bottle in the microwave and preparing the formula. Luckily the unit was sitting on the counter with the instructions written on the lid. No doubt Emma could do it in a fraction of the time, but for once she was biting her tongue. She probably didn’t mean to make him feel inadequate around children, but her sheer competence was hard to measure up to.
In the living room, Billy was fussing. Darcy hurried. He didn’t think it was a good idea to leave him with Emma for too long. He tipped a measured amount of formula powder into the bottle and mixed it in with the boiled water. Even he knew that was going to be too hot. But how did he test the temperature—with his elbow again? No, the wrist, stupid. He splashed a few drops onto the inside of his wrist. Way too hot. With ice from the freezer he made an ice bath and plunged in the bottle.
Then he went to get Billy. He stopped short.
Emma’s eyes were closed, her head resting against the high back of the chair. Her limbs were loose, but even in sleep her hands curled protectively around Billy, tightening reflexively when the baby squirmed too much. She might be sick and behaving oddly, but she was instinctively a good mother.
“Come here, little mate.” Darcy carefully eased the baby off Emma’s lap. Her fingers fluttered, grasping the air, and she moaned in her sleep. With his free hand he captured hers and laid them back in her lap.
Darcy sat on the couch with Billy tucked in the crook of his elbow. He was still crying fitfully. If Emma could sleep through that, she was even more exhausted than he’d thought. Right up until this moment he’d actually hoped she would wake up and feed the baby. Now he knew that was wishful thinking.
He tilted the bottle over his inner wrist to double-check. The drops that fell on his skin were pleasantly warm. “Right. Here goes. Insert nipple A into mouth B.”
Gingerly he touched the bottle to Billy’s tongue. Instantly Billy stopped crying and started sucking urgently. “Whoa, steady on, little guy. No one’s taking this away from you. If you eat at that rate, you’ll give yourself gas.”
With the baby nursing in his arms and Emma asleep in the chair, silence settled on the apartment. Dusk darkened the room. Darcy leaned over and switched on the table lamp. In the glow, Billy’s tear-filled eyes gazed up at him reproachfully as if to say, It took you long enough to get here.
With a fingertip Darcy wiped away the moisture from his hot cheek. “I know, buddy. But I’m here now.”
He gazed at his infant son and his chest bloomed with a nameless ache. Was that love? Surely that was impossible. How could he feel an instant bond with a baby he didn’t even want? But it brought home to him how much joy had gone out of his life. First Holly, then Emma.
Billy stopped sucking. His eyes closed briefly and his chest heaved with a gusty sigh. Then he opened his eyes again and resumed feeding. He gazed up at Darcy sleepily, his eyelids heavy. Trusting. Darcy held out a baby finger and Billy casually wrapped his tiny fingers around it and hung on. Darcy’s vision blurred.
“Just don’t get used to me being around long-term because that’s no part of your mother’s plan.”
* * *
EMMA WOKE UP in her marriage bed. Wonderingly, she smoothed her fingers over the handmade coverlet of muted greens traced with dark red she and Darcy had chosen together from a market stall in Mornington.
Just for a moment she wanted to believe the past couple of years were nothing more than a horrible dream. She closed her eyes, picturing Darcy in the kitchen making coffee and Holly softly babbling to herself in her room down the hall. In a moment she would get up, pick Holly out of her cot and head to the kitchen for breakfast. Outside, a warm spring sun would be shining and the sliding doors open onto the deck where bees were busy in the flowering shrubs. Darcy would kiss her and tell her that instead of watching the grand final football game with the guys he would rather go on a picnic with her and Holly—
The baby cried.
The dream evaporated.
Her eyes opened. The pillow next to hers was plump and empty, the other side of the bed not slept in. The furnishings were familiar, but the room itself, white walls and dark wood trim, she’d never seen before.
Where was she? Through the window she could see a huge gum tree and the flat roofs of buildings. Oh, right. Darcy’s apartment over the pub. He must have brought them here. Muted sounds drifted up through the heating vents, the clink of beer glasses being stacked, the quiet murmur of conversation, the TV.
The nightmare of reality came flooding back. Her fever, Billy’s colic, her unfinished term paper...
Billy was crying in the room next to hers. She had to get up. Somehow she had to find the strength and the will to nurse him. She pushed the coverlet back and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her head spun as she weakly pushed herself to a sitting position. Her thin camisole was damp with perspiration and her pulse was racing. Every joint and muscle ached.
Darcy had been amazing yesterday—was it yesterday?—bathing Billy and feeding him. She never would have thought Darcy capable of such—well, she couldn’t call it competence, but he’d managed, somehow, and done so with surprising tenderness. No, she wouldn’t have thought that possible given he didn’t want anything to do with Billy. Yet in a crisis he’d stepped up.
Billy’s cries became louder, more insistent.
Today would be different. She couldn’t rely on Darcy to keep on taking care of Billy. He needed to be downstairs in the pub, tending to his customers. The pub would b
e his first priority, as always.
“I’m coming, Billy.” Stifling a groan, she slowly pushed herself off the bed and stood, swaying dizzily. She tried to take a step, stumbled against the nightstand and fell onto the bed. Head bowed, knees on elbows, she tried to gather the strength for another attempt.
Miraculously, the crying stopped.
Huh? Billy never stopped once he’d started, not until he was picked up and fed. Sometimes not even then.
Something must be wrong. Maybe he’d fallen, though she hadn’t heard a thump. Where had Darcy put him to bed? Oh, God, maybe he’d choked. Maybe—
The door opened. Darcy had Billy in his arms and was feeding him from a bottle. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay.” She was so startled to see Darcy with the baby she hardly knew what she was saying. Penetrating the fog of her illness was a sharp stab of joy at seeing Darcy holding his son. Never in a million years would she have chosen to get this sick, but maybe her illness would have a silver lining.
“Can you manage him for a while?” Darcy said. “It’s lunchtime and Kirsty hasn’t come in yet.”
She nodded and climbed beneath the covers. He walked over and laid Billy in her arms, taking a moment to adjust him properly. With his head bent close, she could see the tiny whirls of dark hair on the back of his neck.
She shouldn’t notice such things about Darcy. It only made it harder that they weren’t together. Dropping her head weakly on the pillow, she turned to the baby in her arms. “Hey, little guy.”
“Here, let me help you sit up.” Darcy stacked another pillow behind her shoulders and brought over a couple of cushions lying on a chair to support the arm that held the baby. “Better?”
“Much, thank you.” She looked into his dark eyes. With his face close to hers, the look that passed between them felt intimate. Mother, father, baby. Man and woman. Familial images were mixed up with sexual feelings—all emotions she wasn’t supposed to be having.
