The Baby Bond. Sharon Kendrick

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СКАЧАТЬ to be wearing those horrible black mourning clothes. ‘Pretty much,’ he agreed.

      ‘And what would you have done if she had refused to babysit for you and told you she hated babies? Or what if she’d looked like an axe-murderer?’

      This time he actually laughed, and that simple, un-complicated sound of mirth reassured Rory more than anything else could have done. For it told him that heartache—even the intense, almost unendurable heartache of a sibling’s tragic and premature death—could heal eventually. And that the human spirit was a most resilient thing.

      ‘Well, I presumed that you wouldn’t have sought employment under an axe-murderer, Angel, though I suppose one can never tell,’ he mused. ‘But if I’d thought that Mrs Fitzpatrick was unsuitable to babysit for half an hour—or was unable to cope with the demands of a new baby, or if I’d had any reservations about her whatsoever—then naturally I would have brought him in here with me.’

      ‘But you didn’t want to do that?’ she guessed, narrowing her green eyes as she wondered why.

      ‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘I didn’t.’

      ‘Because?’

      ‘Because I thought that it would be too much for you to handle—on top of everything else I had to tell you.’ His face had resumed its sombre expression.

      ‘That was very thoughtful of you,’ observed Angel, hoping that her expression didn’t show the surprise she felt at his concern for her feelings.

      He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Not really,’ he murmured, and something in the husky quality which tinged his voice made Angel feel suddenly and inexplicably aware of him as a man, and not just as a man who had been related to her by marriage.

      She swallowed down her confusion, pushed the troubling thought away. ‘C-can I see him?’ she asked tentatively.

      Again, that fleeting smile. Only this time it was like the sun breaking free from behind a cloud, thought Angel, before she drew herself up quickly. What on earth was she thinking of? Just because she had been behaving like a nun since her marriage had broken down, that didn’t mean she had to undergo a complete personality change now. Fancy analysing the man’s smile when there was a poor little orphaned baby waiting!

      ‘Of course you can see him,’ said Rory softly. ‘He’s asleep in the kitchen. Or rather—he was asleep when I left him.’

      ‘Then what are we waiting for?’

      Angel led the way downstairs to the kitchen, which looked as though it was straight out of a brochure on the joys of rural Ireland. There was an old-fashioned dresser covered with many plates—some chipped—and from the range drifted a soft heat and the unmistakable smell of soda bread baking. The vast wooden table which dominated the room was scratched and carved, and carried the marks of generations of children who had written their homework on it.

      And there, in the centre of the table, sat a dark blue carrycot, with a white bundle swathed inside.

      Mrs Fitzpatrick had been bending over the cot, but she straightened up as soon as she heard their footsteps. Her expression wasn’t just curious as she glanced from one to the other of them; she was obviously bursting to know why this tall, handsome Englishman had arrived with a baby, asking to see Angel.

      All Angel had told her was that her husband was dead, and that his brother would be arriving to see her. Molly Fitzpatrick had planned to find out more from the brother himself, but something in Rory’s eyes had cautioned her and she had refrained from asking any questions. For the time being, anyway.

      ‘I left him on the table because I didn’t want the dog licking at his face!’ she declared, in her thick Irish brogue. ‘The kettle has just boiled and there’s soda bread cooling on the side. I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be changing linen upstairs if you need me, Angelica.’

      ‘Thanks,’ nodded Angel, but her attention was all on the sleeping bundle, which was mostly obscured by a snowy fleece blanket, so that she barely heard Mrs Fitzpatrick leave the room.

      Angel walked over to the cot and stood silently over it, unable to see more than a tiny tuft of dark, silky hair and two sooty half-moon eyelashes which swept onto perfect pale cheeks. One little fist was clenched and visible, each finger so tiny that it would have looked more at home on a doll.

      Angel had always adored babies, but this baby was her late husband’s son, and despite all her mixed-up emotions concerning the ending of her marriage something stirred in her heart as she watched the barely perceptible rise and fall of the little boy’s chest. How she wished that he would wake so that she could pick him up!

      She glanced up to find that Rory’s eyes were fixed unwaveringly on her, and she felt uncomfortable under that brief, hard scrutiny. Colour rushed vividly into her cheeks, in a way it hadn’t done for years. ‘W-will we wait until he wakes?’ she whispered.

      ‘Yes,’ he whispered back, his eyes glittering, though he made no mention of the fact that she had been blushing in a way he hadn’t seen a woman blush for a long time. ‘His lungs are far lustier than you would imagine for such a little fellow. Such a tiny little fellow,’ he added almost dreamily, as he gazed down at his nephew.

      Angel watched the almost reluctant softening of Rory’s features with something approaching astonishment. But there again newborn infants had the ability to grab your complete attention, didn’t they? Even from people who never normally gave babies a second glance. There was some quality in their cry which always alerted an adult to their plight. She had learnt that from looking after her younger brothers when they were growing up—long before she went to London and became a nanny and met Chad.

      And this little baby in particular would surely still be missing his mother. Only an adult with a heart of stone would fail to be moved by that fact. ‘Will I make you some tea?’ she asked Rory softly.

      He nodded, seeming to come to his senses as he raked his hand rather distractedly back through his thick, dark hair. ‘I’d love some tea. But first I need to freshen up. It was a long drive and the crossing was rough. Could you point me in the right direction?’

      ‘Sure I can,’ she murmured automatically, while wondering just how he could manage to look so cool and unruffled after such a long, unbroken journey and with a brand-new baby in tow. She frowned. Were all barristers as commandingly in control as Rory Mandelson appeared to be?

      She directed him to the grandest bathroom in the hotel, which she hoped might appease Mrs Fitzpatrick for having let him drink out of inferior crystal! Then she set about busily making tea, her mind working overtime, running round and round in circles as she tried to take in the significance of everything that Rory had told her.

      Every now and again she sent over a curious glance at the sleeping bundle in the cot, but the baby slept on and she left him to it, even though part of her was longing to see what he really looked like.

      How strange to think that Chad had a son now, and that his own life would continue through that son. He must have loved Jo-Anne very much, Angel decided, with an odd sort of pang, because she remembered his reaction to her tentative query about when the two of them would have a baby of their own. They had been married just a month when Angel realised that they had never brought up the subject of children. Not once.

      She would never forget the look on his face when she had posed her innocent question. She’d seen incredulity and then, unmistakably, sheer horror. СКАЧАТЬ