The Baby Bond. Sharon Kendrick

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      Why, in the way she had always responded to something which might cause her pain. Ignore it and it might go away.

      She had never brought the subject up again.

      Part of that had been embarrassment, of course. Fear that Chad might have thought her some big, old-fashioned country bumpkin—eager to become barefoot and pregnant as soon as possible. Which wasn’t, of course, the modern way, but—if she was being entirely honest—had, in fact, been her way. And one of her reasons for getting married.

      Angel had always adored babies, and it was more than being the oldest of six; it was in her make-up. But all her adult life she had been fighting a feeling of inferiority whenever she suffered from feelings of broodiness. Because it seemed to her that a woman was made to feel inadequate unless she wanted to compete in a man’s world. To work all the hours that God sent and earn far more money than was good for her.

      Angel couldn’t think of anything worse!

      She made a pot of tea, cut and buttered several wedges of the freshly baked soda bread and placed a jar of Mrs Fitzpatrick’s bramble jelly on the table. She was in the process of deciding whether or not to add a big hunk of farmhouse cheese—just in case Rory was hungry after his long drive—when she heard a snuffling sound from the carrycot, which was swiftly replaced by a raucous cry. Angel scooted across the kitchen to where the baby lay, and stood staring down at him.

      The tiny scrap was yelling, already bright red in the face, and she hesitated for no more than a second before bending over to carefully pluck him out of the cot and to clutch him tightly against her chest.

      The baby was hungry, yes, but perhaps he felt safe within her firm embrace, maybe he heard the reassuring drumming of her heart as she cradled him. Whatever the reason, his frantic cries lessened by a fraction, and Angel found herself speaking to him in a sing-song voice as she stared down at him.

      ‘Hello, little fellow,’ she crooned softly. ‘Who’s a handsome-looking baby, then?’

      The baby wailed.

      ‘Are you a handsome little fellow, then? Are you?’ she persisted quietly. ‘And are you going to let me get a good look at your face, instead of screwing it all up like a prune?’

      And the baby opened his eyes and looked at her.

      Just for a moment—that was all it was—a moment frozen in time.

      Angel found herself staring into eyes as darkly blue as the deepest ocean, and a skitter of awareness skated down her spine as she recognised that this baby might have Chad’s eyes—but they were Rory’s eyes, too.

      Mandelson eyes.

      Angel gripped the baby tighter as she acknowledged how defenceless he was, how vulnerable and frail, and she was so lost in her thoughts that she failed to hear the sound of footsteps as Rory returned to the kitchen.

      In fact, the only thing which did alert her to his presence was the growing certainty that she was being watched, and she spun round, still holding the baby, to find Rory behind her, his eyes fixed on her with a curiously intent look. She had seen it on his face before, only this time he seemed even more watchful than usual, with an air of complete stillness about him.

      ‘Did you mind me picking him up?’ Angel found herself asking.

      He shook his dark head. ‘Of course I didn’t mind, Angel. Why on earth should I? You’re absolutely brilliant with babies.’

      ‘Am I?’ she asked, his approval making her feel absurdly pleased. She looked down at the soft, dark hair of the baby and felt strangely reluctant to relinquish the warm and tiny bundle. ‘How do you know?’

      ‘Well, I can see for myself,’ he told her quietly. ‘And Chad always said that you were the most sought-after nanny in London.’

      ‘Did he?’ asked Angel, surprised to hear that Chad had given her such unqualified praise—but that was what separation did, didn’t it? Made you forget all the good bits of a relationship and concentrate on the nasty ones instead. ‘Did he really?’

      ‘Yes, he did,’ he agreed, his dark blue gaze still fixed with fascination on the tiny bundle she had clasped tightly to her.

      Could he see his late brother in the child? wondered Angel, ruthlessly swallowing down the tears which threatened to rise in her throat. For it would be nothing more than self-indulgence to cry now. This was Rory’s grief, not hers, and she must appear strong. Chad had been no part of her life, not really, even before his tragic death.

      As if on cue the baby began to scream again, his little head moving frantically as he instinctively tried to steer his mouth towards Angel’s breast.

      ‘He’s hungry,’ she said awkwardly, lifting her head to meet Rory’s rueful gaze and wishing that the ground would open up and swallow her.

      ‘Yes.’

      She would die if he referred to the baby’s butting and rooting frantically against her empty breast.

      But he didn’t. He merely gave a brief, sad smile and reached into the large holdall he had obviously left in the kitchen with Mrs Fitzpatrick. From the depths of the bag he produced a bottle of milk, in the manner of a magician producing a rabbit from a hat, and Angel’s relief knew no bounds. ‘I had a rapid introduction to learning how to make up baby formula,’ he told her drily. ‘And I’m now an expert.’

      ‘Can I heat it for you?’ she questioned eagerly, keen to push the questing baby away, even while part of her longed to cradle his head there and soothe him.

      ‘Sure.’ He raised his dark brows in query. ‘Unless you want me to do it—while you hold him?’

      But Angel shook her dark head reluctantly. ‘I think that I’m proving a bit of a…distraction,’ she finished stumblingly.

      He shot a swift stare of comprehension at her flushed face. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said swiftly. ‘Here. Let me take him.’ He held his arms open and Angel carefully bent down and placed the white-swathed bundle in the crook of his elbow.

      ‘I think he’s wet,’ she murmured apologetically as she took the bottle from him in exchange.

      ‘So that’s why you couldn’t wait to off-load him,’ he joked softly, and his teasing seemed to evaporate some of the tension which the hungry baby had unwittingly provoked.

      ‘He must be desperate for his mummy,’ observed Angel, trying to keep the tremble in her voice at bay. ‘Doesn’t he miss her like anything?’

      Rory shook his head. ‘Not really, no. I spoke to a child psychiatrist just after the accident. He told me that babies this young have just one thing that drives them—and that’s survival. They’re tough—tougher than we think. He may have missed his mother very briefly, but he’s too young to have formed any kind of deep attachment to her. He just transferred his dependence onto the next stable figure to come into his life.’

      ‘And that’s you, I suppose?’ she asked, as she heated up the bottle on the range.

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