A Husband For Christmas

CHAPTER TWO

‘YOU left!’ Gellis shouted. ‘Hurt me. Sent a terse little note to say you wouldn’t be back!’

Sébastien frowned. ‘No explanation? No reason?’

‘No.’

‘And so you don’t know why?’

‘No.’

‘But you would like to, wouldn’t you? That’s human nature—to want to know why. If you come with me, you might find out.’

Yes, she might find out. And if it was something she didn’t want to hear? At least she would know. Not be forever speculating. There was the future to think of. A need to put it all behind her.

Eyes too big in her white face, she slowly raised her lashes, forced herself to look at him. Really look at him. A hard face, but so very attractive. But no longer her husband’s face. Go with him? See their friends again? Be in his company? She didn’t know if she was tough enough.

‘You’re wavering,’ he said quietly.

‘Am I?’ she asked stonily. ‘All right,’ she decided.

‘I’ll come with you. But I can’t go for long—no more than a few days.’ No she couldn’t go for long.

‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord?’ he queried soberly.

‘What? No. I don’t want vengeance. Just to know the truth.’

‘As do I. Thank you,’ he added quietly. Straightening, he gave her an odd smile—quirky, a little bit wry. ‘Which way?’

Keeping her heart hard, her mind still, she pointed to their right.

He nodded. Hooking up his duffel bag and sailing jacket, he waited for her to lead the way.

‘Which is the nearest airport?’

‘Airport?’ she queried absently.

‘Yes, Gellis, airport.’

She shook her head. ‘We aren’t flying.’

‘Aren’t we?’ he mocked softly.

‘No. We’ll go by car.’

‘That will take two days.’

‘I don’t care. I’m not flying.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t like to!’ she gritted.

‘Fair enough.’

Surprised by his easy acceptance, she gave a bitter smile. This was madness.

He halted, swung her to face him, stared down into her expressionless face, then registered the pain in her lovely eyes. Big and brown and lost. Like a doe. With a muffled sigh, he turned to walk on. ‘Where are we going?’

‘To my car.’

He nodded. ‘You have a current passport?’

‘Yes.’

He smiled. ‘Didn’t even think of lying, Gellis?’

‘Would it have done me any good?’

He shook his head. ‘If I had to take your house apart to find your birth certificate, I would have done so.’

‘And then dragged me up to town to get a new one.’

‘Yes. However long it took.’

She believed him. Utterly.

‘We can get a ferry from here?’

‘We’ll go on Le Shuttle.’

He gave another odd smile. ‘Don’t like sailing either?’

‘No,’ she replied stonily.

‘How did you manage before it was built?’

‘With difficulty. My car’s over there.’

Glancing at the gleaming red sports car, he gave a silent whistle, looked at her with new interest. He’d assumed she’d have a sedate hatchback.

‘You bought it for me,’ she stated shortly as she opened the boot for him to put his belongings inside. After the birth of their son.

‘Generous of me.’

‘Yes.’ Climbing behind the wheel, she watched without amusement as he folded his considerable length in beside her. His head brushed the roof.

‘There’s a lever on your right to lower the seat.’ She had a moment’s compunction that on the long drive to the south of France he was going to be extremely uncomfortable, then dismissed it. She hadn’t asked for this. But it was something she had to do, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?

There was sexual awareness as there had been that first time they’d met, but no feeling of excitement or warmth. Just despair. And pain. And perhaps fear. She was probably still in shock. And when she came out of it? The panic returning, she slowed, whispered, ‘I can’t do this.’

‘Yes, you can,’ he argued with flat insistence. ‘It’s my life, Gellis.’

‘I know.’ But it was hers too. And, seemingly without any choice in the matter, she drove the short distance to her parents’ house.

She tried to imagine it from his point of view. Tried to imagine having no memory. And couldn’t. And if Nathalie hadn’t come to see her after she’d received that note... But she had come, and so the matter was academic. He’d cheated. Deliberately lied. And if he had been the same man she’d loved... But he wasn’t. He was a grim-faced stranger. Hard and tough. Dangerous. But they both needed to find out the truth, didn’t they?

She didn’t park directly outside the house but a few doors along, and, glancing at him worriedly, said quietly, ‘I’ll be as quick as I can. You’ll stay here?’

He nodded.

‘Give me your word.’

He looked at her, his eyes hard and direct. ‘You have it.’

‘Thank you.’ Feeling sick and shaky, disbelieving, she climbed out, and he watched her walk across the road. Watched the hypnotic sway of the long, loosely woven plait that hung to her waist. The seductive movement of her hips. An exceptionally beautiful woman. Tall and slender, graceful. The sort of woman people looked at twice because she was—different. With a long neck, narrow hands and feet, she walked as though she was special. Someone he’d presumably loved.

And yet, when he looked into her face, he saw only bitterness, pain. A gentle girl, he suspected, who’d had to learn toughness the hard way. Because of him? What the hell had he done to make her look so distressed?

Shifting slightly, trying to find room for his long legs, he gave a grim smile. He should have bought her a bigger car. Driving to France in this sardine can was going to be a real test of endurance. Well, he’d suffered worse and survived. And, at the end of it, would he finally remember?

She was back in just over an hour. Hair tied loosely back now, still damp from her shower, it hung like a brown, shiny curtain. Dressed in thick black cords and a white sweater, a black leather jacket slung round her shoulders, she carefully looked both ways before crossing the road. And he felt—attracted.

After putting her small suitcase in the boot, she climbed behind the wheel and handed him a map. ‘Just in case,’ she explained.

He nodded, glanced at the house, saw the curtain twitch and a woman with short dark hair peek out.

‘Who’s that?’

Glancing across, she murmured, ‘My mother.’ ‘She lives with you?’

She shook her head. Switching on the ignition, she checked her mirrors then pulled away.

‘Did I ever meet her?’

‘Yes, and my father.’

‘And?’

‘They liked you.’

Turning his head, he stared at her profile. ‘For four months there has been no one to ask questions of. I’m sorry if you think me—’

‘No,’ she broke in, distressed. ‘But please try to see it from my point of view. I find this very hard. Ask what you need to.’

‘Thank you. Was I ever here?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed quietly.

‘They didn’t mind us living together?’

Hesitating only briefly, she shook her head.

Still watching her, he asked, ‘Were you in love with me, Gellis?’

A swift, sharp pain in her heart, she gave a bitter smile. ‘Yes.’ So much. More than life.

‘But I left you.’

‘Yes.’

‘We didn’t have a row? Anything like that?’

‘No.’

‘And I didn’t tell you I was going to South America?’

‘No.’

He was silent for a moment, and then he asked quietly, ‘Were we happy, Gellis?’

With another bitter smile, she murmured, ‘I thought so, yes.’ She’d thought it was the love story to end all love stories. And perhaps it had been. But why, then, had he behaved as he had? She had made so many excuses for him in her mind, to her parents—tried to rationalise it, come to terms with it, and didn’t suppose she ever would until she knew the truth. And he must have been an astonishingly good actor, mustn’t he? Because, that last month, never by hint or deed had he ever intimated that he no longer loved her. Or their son. A son he’d delivered...

‘Gellis?’

‘I am going to die,’ she stated confidently. ‘Gellis!’

‘If the next pain is as bad as the last, I am going to die.’

With a splutter of laughter, he climbed onto the bed beside her, held her in his arms. ‘You aren’t allowed to die,’ he said softly.

Opening her eyes, she stared at him. ‘Non?’ ‘Non.’

‘Well, if the ambulance doesn’t get here soon, or the doctor—’ Stiffening, she clutched at him, held her breath.

‘Pant.’

‘I don’t want to pant,’ she gasped. ‘Oh, boy, I need to push.’

‘Non, he denied worriedly.

‘Yes. Oh, God. Get some towels.’

‘Towels?’

‘Yes! Vite! Oh, Sébastien, quickly.’

Alarmed, he rolled to his feet, sprinted into the other room, grabbed a pile of towels and hurried back. He hovered, gave a ridiculous smile, asked foolishly, ‘What do I do with them?’

‘Oh, Sébastien!’ she exclaimed on a weak laugh. ‘Put them under me.’

‘Right. Put them under you. Be calm,’ he instructed himself. ‘Be calm.’ Gently raising her, he put several towels beneath her, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and smiled. A bit quirky, a bit lopsided, but a smile. ‘I’m all right now.’

‘Good.’

‘I must deliver it, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right’

‘Everything will be fine,’ she gasped.

‘Oui. And I remind myself that we like to do things differently. How fortunate I read the books.’ He gave a shaky grin, then kissed her. ‘Raise your knees.’

She raised them, eyes fixed trustingly on her husband.

Walking to the other end of the bed, he took another deep breath, and rested both hands heavily on the counterpane. ‘Mon Dieu!’ he exclaimed weakly. ‘I can see the head.’

‘Is that good?’

‘Certainly,’ he said with more confidence than he was feeling. ‘Now you must push. It will be all right, my darling.’

‘I know,’ she whispered. She gave him a shaky smile, gasped on another sudden pain, and he smiled, tried to sound confident. But there was anxiety in his eyes as there was in her own. A slight shake to his voice. ‘That’s fine; keep pushing. Gently, gently...’

Oh, God. ‘It hurts.’

‘I know.’

Gripping the bed-head with hands that trembled, she waited for the next pain, then pushed and, astonishingly, felt the head emerge.

Eyes wide, they stared at each other.

‘Oh, mon dieu!’ Gently supporting the head with his large hands, he instructed anxiously, ‘One more.’

She pushed, and the baby slid out with no trouble at all.

‘It’s a baby,’ he whispered in awe.

Supporting herself on her elbows, she peered down, gave a shaken laugh. ‘What were you expecting? And is it all right?’ she queried worriedly. ‘Shouldn’t it be crying or something?’

‘Not if you’re lucky,’ a dry voice said from the doorway. ‘And I suggest you wrap him up instead of marvelling at the commonplace.’

‘Commonplace to you,’ Sébastien said in soft awe. ‘Not commonplace to me. I’m shaking.’ Gently wrapping the baby in a towel, he halted, glanced at the doctor. ‘The cord?’

‘I will deal with the cord,’ he said wryly. ‘How are you, madame?’ he asked as he deftly dealt with it and handed the baby to Sébastien.

‘Fine,’ Gellis said weakly.

‘Bien. Another push, if you please, for the afterbirth.’

Gellis obliged, and glanced at her husband as he cradled their new-born child in his arms. He looked—amazed. He glanced up, gave her an uncertain smile. ‘I can’t believe I did that.’

‘I can,’ she said softly as she held out her arms, gave him a smile that was soft with love. ‘What is it? Boy or girl?’ And he gave a comical blink.

‘I forgot to look,’ he murmured sheepishly. Lifting the towel, he smiled. ‘A boy. Oh, Gellis, we have a son. So perfect,’ he added almost reverently as he gently handed him over. Perching on the edge of the bed, he put his arm round her, lingeringly kissed her temple. ‘I was frightened to death.’

‘I was a bit nervous myself,’ she confessed.

‘Don’t get comfortable,’ the doctor warned Sébastien. ‘I need you to get some hot water, and then to ring the nurse.’ Dragging a piece of paper from his crumpled jacket, he handed it over. ‘Tell her to get her pretty little derrière over here tout de suite.’

And when Gellis had been cleaned up, the baby checked and washed, she stared down at the little miracle in her arms and gave a contented sigh. ‘He looks like you, don’t you think?’ she asked Sébastien softly as he came to sit beside her once more.

‘Gellis! He looks like a—’

‘Don’t say it,’ she warned.

‘But he does!’

‘He has your nose,’ she said decisively.

He smiled, glanced at the doctor. ‘The nurse will accompany us to the hospital? When the ambulance gets here,’ he added pointedly.

‘Hospital?’ the doctor asked blankly. ‘Why would you want to go to the hospital?’

‘Because we’ve just had a baby?’

‘A quite natural event, I assure you; women do it every day.’

‘Not this woman!’ Gellis said fervently.

‘True.’ Closing his bag with a snap, the doctor looked at her, smiled. ‘And I could have wished you had not done it at four o’clock in the morning. However, an easy birth,’ he informed her. ‘No complications, no stitches, no tears. Do you want to go to the hospital?’

A bit bemused, she shook her head.

‘Then I’ll cancel the ambulance. And I’m quite sure that monsieur is capable of changing the bedding, doing all that needs to be done. Congratulations,’ he added belatedly, then grinned. ‘I will forgo the customary drink until a more reasonable time. I’m going back to my bed. The baby will do very well until the nurse arrives. Don’t fiddle with him! Goodnight.’

Fiddle with him? A bit nonplussed, they stared at each other and burst out laughing. The baby gave a start, a little cry, and went back to sleep. Gazing down at him in wonder, neither of them really believing it, Sébastien gently touched the baby’s cheek. ‘I’m glad the ambulance was late,’ he said softly. ‘A special moment. I want to go and tell the world.’

‘Start with my parents.’

‘Oui,’ he smiled, but he didn’t immediately move.

She didn’t know how long they sat there, just staring at their baby, but it seemed a long time, until Sébastien stirred, gave a rueful smile. ‘Monsieur had better change the bedding.’

‘Yes.’ Reaching out her hand, smiling up at him with as much love and wonder in her face as his, she murmured gently, ‘You were brilliant. Thank you. If you hadn’t been here...’

Squeezing her fingers, then raising them to his mouth, he answered huskily, ‘I will always be here. Thank you for our son. And now I will go and get the Moses basket, blankets, nappies...’ With a laugh, a little shake of his head, he said wryly, ‘And so it begins. A new life. Don’t stop loving me, will you?’

Eyes filmed with tears, she shook her head.

‘Bien.’ Dropping a warm, lingering kiss on her mouth, he went to get all the necessary bits and pieces, and, when the nurse arrived, the baby was wrapped warmly in his cot, Gellis was asleep and Sébastien was watching her.

Don’t stop loving me...

‘Gellis,. Gellis!’

With a little start, she blinked, turned to stare at him.

“The lights are green.’

‘What?’

‘The traffic lights. They’re green.’

‘Green? Oh, green.’

Feeling stupid, she quickly set the car in motion.

‘What were you thinking about?’ he asked quietly.

‘Thinking? Oh, nothing,’ she sighed. ‘Nothing at all.’ And wanted to weep. Had it all been acting? All of it? He’d been loving, kind, tired, because the baby had kept them awake at night—and during the day—but there had only ever been the normal difficulties associated with having a new baby. He hadn’t been impatient, or irritable. Just wry.

He’d given no clue at all that he was intending to walk out on them both. Or had he not been intending to? Had it just been impulse? Because he’d had enough of domesticity? Certainly he didn’t look like a domesticated animal. Glancing at him, at that strong profile, firm mouth, she sighed.

They didn’t speak after that, but she was aware of the puzzled glances he gave her from time to time, the brooding intensity that emanated from him. And his bewilderment must be far greater than her own, mustn’t it?

As she began picking up the signs for the terminal, she asked quietly, ‘Have you seen the Shuttle? Used it?’

He shook his head. ‘Not to my knowledge. Have you?’

‘Mmm, a few months, ago. I came—on holiday.’ As she had kept coming on holiday to France in the small, useless hope that one day she might see him, find out the truth. ‘It’s brilliant.’

‘Good. A new experience for me.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed helplessly. Halting at the booth, she purchased their tickets with her credit card, was advised on the times of the trains and wished a good journey.

‘Do you want anything from the duty-free shop? Or shall we go straight to the train?’

When he didn’t answer, merely frowned, she bit her lip, wondered if he actually had any money on him. ‘I can lend you some money...’ she began awkwardly. ‘I mean...’

Glancing at her, he smiled. But it wasn’t Sébastien’s smile. It wasn’t gentle, just rather mockingly amused.

‘I wasn’t a deck hand for free. I got paid.’

‘Oh.’

‘But thank you anyway. I need to change it into francs. And I’ll pay you back for the tickets when I come into my—“inheritance”.’

She nodded, drove round to the parking area beside the duty-free shops.

Queuing up for coffees, she watched him, watched other people watch him. He didn’t look like a tourist. In fact, he looked like an extra from a movie. One about mercenaries, or piracy on the high seas. People gave him a wide berth. Probably wisely. There seemed very little of the old Sébastien left. This man was bigger, tougher. Harder.

‘Yes?’

Swinging around, she quickly apologised. ‘Sorry. Two coffees, please.’

After paying for them, she carried them over to a vacant table, and continued to watch Sébastien, tried so very hard to come to terms with this unreality. She didn’t honestly know how she felt about him. In an odd sort of way, he fascinated her—perhaps because he was so very different from the man she had once known. Maybe she was still in shock.

As her mother had been—and then thoughtful, understanding. ‘Go,’ she had finally urged. ‘If you don’t, you will always wonder. Go, and be very careful.’

Yes, she would be careful.

He finished changing his money, put it carefully in his wallet and returned it to his back pocket. Looking round, he spotted her, began strolling towards her. Lithe, at ease, yet somehow alert. There was an arrogance about him, a look of indifference, dismissal, almost, of others. He looked as though he didn’t give a damn about anybody, but cross him at your peril.

In clean jeans and a grey T-shirt, he wore them with the same ease he wore everything, whether it be dinner jacket or cords. Clothes didn’t make Sébastien. Sébastien made the clothes. Or had.

‘I got you a coffee,’ she told him quietly. ‘I didn’t get anything to eat. I didn’t know if you were hungry.’

He shook his head. Still standing, he picked up his coffee, tasted it, choked and replaced it on the table. ‘How can anyone make something so good taste so bloody awful? Don’t tell me you like it.’

‘No,’ she replied with a small smile. ‘I think that has to be the worst coffee I have ever tasted in my life.’

‘For sure,’ he agreed fervently. ‘I sometimes think the English make ruining coffee into an art form.’

‘Probably. Shall we go?’

She had a moment’s fear when they drove through the British and then the French frontier controls, but their passports were merely glanced at and then returned.

‘You’d make a terrible smuggler,’ he observed almost scathingly.

‘How would you know? Been one, have you?’

‘No,’ he denied dismissively. ‘And you’re being waved on.’

Staring at the official, and then at the raised plates she was being asked to drive over, she bit her lip. ‘I hope the car will go over them.’

‘You didn’t use this car when you came before?’

‘Yes, but it only just cleared them. I should have checked the tyres, made sure they were fully inflated.’ Too late now. Easing cautiously forward, teeth clenched in anticipation of a crunch, ignoring the impatient official, she didn’t breathe easily until she’d driven over the last one, and began following the signs towards the waiting area. ‘They have them so that they know a car will have the necessary clearance on the train.’

‘So I assumed.’ Turning a mocking glance on her, he added softly, ‘Loss of memory doesn’t make me stupid.’

‘I didn’t say it did.’

‘Was I stupid before?’

‘No,’ she denied stiffly. Neither were you so hatefully mocking.

They waited ten minutes, and then drove onto the train. The journey was smooth, silent, efficient, and, thirty-five minutes later, they were in France. Fortunately for her peace of mind, he hadn’t stayed in the car with her. That would have been too much to bear. Whilst she was driving, concentrating, she could shut him from her mind. But, once she stopped, awareness stole back, cramped her muscles, filled her mind with memories.

‘Impressive,’ he murmured.

‘Yes. I told you it was brilliant.’

‘So you did.’ Consulting the map, he ordered, ‘Take the autoroute; it will be quicker.’

‘I was intending to. I’ll drive until it gets dark and then we’ll find somewhere to stop for the night.’

‘I’ll need to stop for petrol...’

‘And something to eat.’

‘Yes.’

‘You know the way? Which turn-offs to take?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed quietly. ‘I know the way.’ She’d been this way so many times she could do it in her sleep. Looking for him. Always looking for him. And now she’d found him and didn’t know him at all.

CHAPTER THREE

THEY spent the night in a small motel, in separate rooms, and, in the morning, they breakfasted together—as strangers. The last time they had driven this route, stopped overnight, there had been laughter and teasing. Love. Now there was just tension.

‘Ready?’

Sébastien nodded.

‘Over halfway,’ Gellis added inanely as they made their way to the car.

‘Yes.’

Climbing behind the wheel, she waited until he was settled, then pulled onto the road that would take them back to the autoroute.

Hours passed. Silent hours, tense hours, and the further they drove, the tenser it became. Stops for petrol or meals weren’t much of a relief, and when they did speak conversation was stilted, unnatural. He, presumably, because he was nearing his goal and so much was riding on it. She because of the close proximity, the realisation of what she was actually doing.

And then there was only one last stop to make.

‘Not much further,’ she murmured as she stood beside him whilst he filled the car with petrol.

‘No. I expect you’re tired.’

‘Yes, a bit.’

‘Your French is very good.’

‘Thank you. You taught me.’

‘Did I? I wonder I had the patience,’ he retorted a trifle bitterly.

Glancing at him, she saw that he was frowning, fingering the white stripe of hair.

‘You cut your head in the accident?’

‘Hmm? Oh, yes. Fourteen stitches,’ he added absently. Removing the nozzle, he fitted it back in its slot, looked at her, then away.

With a little sigh, she walked to the booth to pay, and when she returned to the car she delayed a moment before climbing in, to stare round her. She loved France. Loved the people, the language. And now she was back. Briefly.