Miracles in the Village

Their Miracle Baby

Caroline Anderson

Sheikh Surgeon Claims His Bride

Josie Metcalfe

A Baby for Eve

Maggie Kingsley

Dr Devereux’s Proposal

Margaret McDonagh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Their Miracle Baby

Caroline Anderson

About the Author

CAROLINE ANDERSON has the mind of a butterfly. She’s been a nurse, a secretary, a teacher, run her own soft-furnishing business, and now she’s settled on writing. She says, “I was looking for that elusive something. I finally realised it was variety, and now I have it in abundance. Every book brings new horizons and new friends, and in between books I have learned to be a juggler. My teacher husband John and I have two beautiful and talented daughters, Sarah and Hannah, umpteen pets, and several acres of Suffolk that nature tries to reclaim every time we turn our backs!” Caroline also writes for the Mills & Boon® cherish™ series.

CHAPTER ONE

‘DADDY!

‘Hello, pickle!’ Mike scooped Sophie up into his arms and whirled her round, their laughter ringing round the yard and echoing off the old stone walls of the barn, bringing a lump to her throat.

These two adored each other, and now both their faces were lit up with a joy so infectious Fran couldn’t help but smile.

‘How’s my favourite girl today?’ he asked, hugging her tight and looking down into her beaming face.

‘I’m fine—Daddy, where’s Fran? I’ve got something really special to show her—Fran! Look!’ she yelled, catching sight of her and waving madly.

She wriggled out of his arms, running across and throwing herself at Fran. She caught her little stepdaughter, hugging her close and laughing, kissing her bright, rosy cheek and holding out her hand for the little box Sophie was thrusting at her eagerly.

‘It’s a model—I made it at school!’ she confided in a stage whisper. ‘It’s Daddy milking a cow—see, here’s Amber, and this is Daddy, and this is the cluster …’

She pointed underneath the misshapen reddish blob that could just conceivably have been a cow, and there was a thing like a mangled grey spider stuck on her underside. She supposed if the blob could be Amber, then the spider could be a milking machine cluster. Why not? And as for Mike …!

‘I’m going to give it to him for his birthday,’ she went on, still whispering loud enough to wake the dead. ‘We’ve got to wrap it. Have you got paper?’

Fran smiled and put the lid back on the box. ‘I’m sure we’ve got paper,’ she whispered back. ‘It’s lovely. Well done, darling. I’m sure he’ll be really pleased.’

A flicker of doubt passed over Sophie’s earnest little face. ‘Do you think so? Amber was really hard to make.’

‘I’m sure, but you’ve done it beautifully. He’ll be so pleased. He loves everything you make for him. It makes him feel really special.’

Sophie brightened, her confidence restored, and whirling round she ran back to her beloved father and grabbed his hand. ‘I want to go and see the cows—Oh, Brodie!’ she said, breaking away again and dropping to her knees to cuddle the delighted collie who was lying on her back, grinning hideously and wagging her tail fit to break it. ‘Hello, Brodie,’ she crooned, bending right down and letting the dog wash her face with meticulous attention.

‘Sophie, you mustn’t let her do that!’ Kirsten protested, but Sophie ignored her mother, laughing and hugging the dog while Brodie licked and licked and licked for England.

‘Yeah, not your face, it’s not a good idea,’ Mike chipped in, backing Kirsten up simply because he just did. It was one of the many things Fran loved about him, the way he defended Sophie’s mother’s decisions to their daughter even if he didn’t agree, and then discussed it with her rationally when Sophie wasn’t around.

The fact that Brodie washed his face whenever it was in reach was neither here nor there! Now he held out his hand to Sophie and pulled her to her feet—and out of range of Brodie’s tongue—with a grin.

‘Come on, scamp, say goodbye to your mum and then let’s go and see the cows. I’m sure they’ve missed you.’

Missed the treats, no doubt, because the six-year-old always seemed to have her little pockets bulging with pellets of feed, and she’d happily give it to them despite the cows’ slippery noses and rough, rasping tongues. Nothing fazed her, and she was deliriously happy trailing round after her father and ‘helping’ him.

‘Fran?’ Sophie said, holding out her hand expectantly after they’d waved Kirsten off, but she shook her head. This was their time, precious and special to both of them, and she wouldn’t intrude.

‘I’ve got to make supper,’ she said with a smile. ‘You go with your father and say goodnight to the cows. I’ll see you both soon.’ And with a little wave she watched them head off towards the field where the cows were grazing, Mike shortening his stride to accommodate his little sprite, Sophie skipping and dancing beside him, chattering nineteen to the dozen while her pale blonde bunches bobbed and curled and flicked around her head.

They went round the corner out of sight, Brodie at their heels, and with a soft sigh Fran went back inside, the little cardboard box containing Mike’s present in her hand. She opened the lid and stared down at the little lumps of modelling clay so carefully and lovingly squashed into shape, and her eyes filled. He was so lucky to have her. So very, very lucky.

If only it could happen to them.

They’d come so close—twice now.

It often happened, she’d been told. Miscarriages were common, and her first, three years ago—well, that had just been one of those things, they’d said. It probably wouldn’t happen again.

And it hadn’t, of course, because she hadn’t conceived again, and so they’d undergone endless intrusive and humiliating tests, all of which had proved nothing except that there wasn’t any obvious reason why they hadn’t had a baby yet.

So they’d gone through the difficult and challenging process of a cycle of IVF, and she’d become pregnant, and then, just like before, she’d lost it.

Not unusual, they were told again, especially with IVF, possibly because the embryos weren’t always as perfect as they might be with a normally conceived embryo, and this, it seemed, was probably what had happened to theirs.

All very logical, but she didn’t feel logical about it, because there was nothing wrong with either of them, they just hadn’t managed to make a healthy baby yet, and it was tearing her apart.

Looking on the bright side, they hadn’t made an unhealthy one either, so if that was why the embryos had both failed, maybe it was for the best.

Small consolation.

Whatever the reason, she’d lost the embryos, and she wasn’t sure she had the strength to go through it again. If she had another miscarriage …

And, anyway, they still had Sophie coming to visit them and bringing so much sunshine into their lives. OK, it wasn’t like having her own child, but Sophie was gorgeous, and she loved her to bits. Was it greedy to want more?

To want a child of their own who would come home from school bubbling with excitement and giving them some little blob of modelling clay to treasure?

She dragged in a breath, pressing her fist against the little knot of pain in her chest. Not now. She couldn’t think about it now. Blinking hard, she put the little box in a safe place, opened the fridge and started pulling things out.

Supper. Practicalities. Forget the rest.

Just like the funny, amazing little present, she had to put her feelings in a box and put the lid on and put them all away.

It was the only way to survive.

They were sitting at the kitchen table.

Mike had finished milking on Saturday morning and he was hurrying back to join them for breakfast. Glancing through the window, expecting to see them cooking, he was surprised to see them seated side by side, Sophie’s untamed blonde curls close to Fran’s sleek, dark hair, and he could hear them laughing.

They were busy wrapping something that could well have been the little box Sophie had been brandishing yesterday so, instead of kicking off his boots and going in, Mike opened the door a crack to give them warning and said, ‘Just going over to the shop to make sure everything’s OK. Anything you need?’

‘Daddy, go away, you can’t see!’ Sophie shrieked, plastering herself over the table.

‘I’m not looking, I’ve got my eyes shut,’ he said, squashing a grin and screwing his eyes up tight. ‘Want anything, Frankie?’

‘Bacon?’ she said, a smile in her voice. ‘I thought we could have a nice cooked breakfast if you’ve finished milking.’

‘OK. I’ll be five minutes.’ That should give them long enough to wrap whatever it was, he thought with the smile still tugging at his mouth.

‘Fine.’

He went out, leaving Brodie behind to fuss over Sophie, and had a quick chat to his sister-in-law, Sarah, in the farm shop. She was just about to open up, and she threw him a smile as he went in.

‘Hiya. How are you? Looking forward to tomorrow?’

‘What—getting older, you mean? I can’t wait.’ He chuckled and picked out a packet of local dry-cured bacon. ‘I’ve been sent to fetch breakfast,’ he told her. ‘You OK here? Need anything?’

‘More blue cheese from the store, when you’ve got time. It’s gone really well this week and we’ve only got half a wheel left.’

‘I’ll drop it in later,’ he promised.

‘Oh, and eggs? We’ve had a run on them—must be all those desperate women in Penhally making you a birthday cake in the hope of tempting you away from Fran!’

He chuckled again. ‘Hardly. But I’ll get Sophie on it right after breakfast. She likes collecting the eggs. We’ll do it in the next hour or so, OK?’

‘Fine. See you later.’

He sauntered back, whistling cheerfully so they could hear him coming and get the present out of the way, and when he opened the door a crack and called through it, Sophie dashed over and opened it, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

‘We’re all finished. You can come in now,’ she said primly, and he tweaked one of her curls and hugged her against his side.

‘I’m glad to hear it. Give this to Fran, could you, sweetheart?’

She skipped across the kitchen with the bacon in her hand. Fran turned and met his eyes over her head, and they shared a smile.

‘Here,’ Sophie announced, handing it over, then sat down on the floor next to Brodie and sang, ‘Bacon, bacon, bacon, we’re having bacon! Do you want some?’

‘Of course she does but she’s not allowed,’ Mike reminded her.

‘Not even just a teeny, tiny, weeny little bit?’

‘Not even a sniff.’

‘Oh. Never mind, Brodie,’ she said comfortingly, and cuddled the dog, who promptly rolled over and sprawled right in front of Fran.

‘Come on, guys, out of the way,’ she said patiently, and they decamped to the far end, Sophie propped up against the wall, Brodie propped up against her, both watching the bacon intently.

‘Time to wash your hands,’ Mike reminded her, washing his own and laying the table while Fran finished the cooking. He made a pot of coffee, poured some juice for Sophie and they settled down to eat.

Well, he and Fran did. Sophie couldn’t even eat quietly, humming and jiggling while she ate, making appreciative noises and pretending that she wasn’t sneaking bits of food down to Brodie, clamped firmly to her side.

‘Brodie, go and lie down,’ he said, and the dog, crestfallen, went and flopped apparently casually in a pool of sunshine and watched Sophie’s every move.

Poor old thing. She adored Sophie, loving every moment of her visits, and she’d wander around like a lost soul after she’d gone, looking for her.

She wasn’t allowed in the bedrooms but somehow, when Sophie was here, she seemed to find her way out of the kitchen door and up the stairs to the foot of her bed, and there she slept, one eye on the door and grinning manically every time they went in to tuck Sophie up, rolling onto her back and wiggling her tail, her melting amber eyes beseeching.

And getting away with it, because Sophie adored her and he couldn’t see any harm in it, so they turned a blind eye, even to the point where they’d bathe Brodie before Sophie’s visits. She’d been in there last night, and Mike had no doubt she’d be in there tonight, but he didn’t care. Kirsten didn’t approve, but she’d made her choice and she’d chosen to leave, and he’d moved on.

He’d met Fran four years ago when she’d come back to the village; they’d fallen in love on sight and were blissfully happy.

Or they had been.

If only they could crack this baby thing …

He put their plates in the dishwasher, bent and kissed Fran on the forehead and ushered Sophie towards the door. ‘We’ve got to pick up eggs and take some cheese to the shop. Want to join us?’

Fran shook her head and smiled. ‘I’ve got things to do. You go and have fun,’ she told him, but the smile didn’t go all the way to her eyes, and in their depths was something he couldn’t bear.

He loved his present.

Sophie came creeping into their bedroom with the first rays of the sun, Brodie on her heels, and they ended up with her in the bed between them, with Brodie lying on Mike’s legs and Sophie snuggled under his arm, watching in a dreadful mixture of excitement and trepidation as he slowly, carefully peeled the wrapping paper off and opened the box.

A frown creased his brow, and then a smile, and then a great big laugh as he hugged Sophie hard against his side and kissed her. ‘It’s me and Amber, isn’t it?’ he said, and Sophie turned to Fran with a huge grin before bouncing up and taking the models from Mike’s hands and showing him the intricacies of her design.

‘Look—see the cluster.’ She showed him, turning Amber over. ‘And you’ve got your hat on. It was meant to be red but I’d used up all the red making Amber and there wasn’t enough, so you had to have pink.’

‘Close enough,’ he said, but Fran could see his mouth twitching and she had to bite her lip to keep the bubble of laughter inside.

‘Do you like it?’ Sophie asked, bouncing on the spot, and he reached out and hugged her again, his eyes suspiciously bright.

‘I love it. Thank you, darling. It’s really nice.’

‘I was going to make Brodie too but Mrs Pearce said I couldn’t have any more clay, so you’ll have to have her for Christmas.’

His lips twitched again. ‘I’m sure she won’t mind waiting.’

Sophie sat back on her heels. ‘So can I help you milk the cows today?’

‘I’m not doing it. My brother’s doing it so I can have a lie-in,’ he said, and Fran, glancing at the clock, stifled a sigh.

It was only five-thirty. So much for his lie-in! And Sophie was looking crestfallen. ‘Does that mean I have to go back to bed?’ she asked. ‘Because I’m wide awake now.’

Mike wasn’t. He looked exhausted, and without his usual alarm he might well have slept another couple of hours.

‘I tell you what,’ Fran said quickly. ‘Why don’t you and I go downstairs for a little while and see if we can find something to do while your daddy has a birthday lie-in, and then, when he’s up, maybe we can go to the beach?’

‘Brilliant! We can make sandcastles!’ Sophie shrieked, leaping up and down on the bed until his present nearly fell off the edge. He made a grab for it, and Fran threw back the bedclothes and got up, holding out her hand to Sophie.

‘Come on, you, I’ve got something I want us to do together.’

Sophie slid over the bed, bouncing on her bottom until her skinny little legs hung off the side. ‘What?’ she asked.

Fran bent over and whispered in her ear, ‘We’ve got to make his birthday cake.’

Sophie’s eyes sparkled. ‘Can I help?’

‘Of course. I’ll need your help—lots of it.’

She spun round, kissed Mike and pulled the bedclothes back up round his chin. ‘You go back to sleep, Daddy, for a nice long time,’ she ordered. ‘And don’t come in the kitchen without knocking. We’re going to be busy making a secret.’

He winked at her, and Fran ushered her away, throwing him a smile over her head as she closed the door.

‘Dog!’ he yelled, and she opened the door again, called Brodie and they went down to the kitchen and left him in peace.

‘How many eggs?’ Sophie asked, kneeling up on a chair at the table to help.

‘Three.’

‘Can I break them into the bowl?’

‘No—break them into this cup, and we can check they’re all right before we add them to the mixture, just in case.’

‘Just in case what?’

Just in case she mashed the shell, Fran thought, but couldn’t dent her pride. ‘In case one’s a bit funny,’ she flannelled.

‘Funny?’ Sophie said, wrinkling her nose.

‘Sometimes they smell a bit fishy or they have bits in.’

‘And we don’t want a fishy, bitty cake,’ she said sagely, and Fran suppressed her smile.

‘We certainly don’t.’

‘Can I measure the flour and the sugar and the butter?’

‘Sure.’

It took longer—much longer—and they didn’t use the mixer but a wooden spoon in a bowl, the way Fran’s grandmother had always done it, because that way Sophie could be more involved and Mike got a longer lie-in. They grated the rind of an orange, and squeezed in some juice, and then, when it was all mixed together they spooned it into the tin, put it in the top oven of the Aga and set the timer.

‘An hour? Really? That’s ages! Can we make Daddy breakfast in bed?’

‘We can make him breakfast in bed if you like, but not yet. He’s tired, Sophie. He works very hard.’

Too hard, for too long, and the strain was beginning to tell. And no matter how badly she wanted to crawl back into bed beside him and go back to sleep herself, for now she had to entertain his daughter and keep her out of his way so he could rest.

‘Want to help me make some things for the project I’m doing with my class?’ she suggested, and Sophie, bless her, responded with her usual boundless enthusiasm.

If only Fran could say the same for herself …

‘Bye-bye, sweetheart. Love you.’

‘Don’t forget I’m coming next Sunday for tea ’cos I’m going on holiday the next week!’

‘I haven’t forgotten. You take care.’

Fran watched as Mike kissed his little sprite of a daughter goodbye and closed the car door, lifting his hand to wave farewell. Sophie waved back, her hand just visible through the water streaming down the car window, and Fran waved too, her feelings mixed.

She adored Sophie; she was a lovely girl, sweet and bright, just like her mother to look at, and for that Fran was profoundly grateful. If she’d been the image of her father, the knife would be twisted every time she looked at her. As it was, it was easy enough most of the time to pretend she was just another little girl, just like the many little girls Fran taught all day.

But delightful though Sophie was, the very fact of her existence only served to underscore Fran’s own failure to successfully carry a baby to full term.

Having Sophie to stay every other weekend, for a couple of weeks every holiday and at half-term once or twice a year was like a two-edged sword. When she was there, she brought sunshine and laughter into their lives, and after she’d gone, the house—a beautiful old house that should have been filled with the sound of children—rang with silence.

It might be better if she didn’t come, Fran thought, and then shook her head. No. That was ridiculous. They both loved her to bits, and without her their lives would be immeasurably poorer. They’d had a lovely weekend, and even the rain today hadn’t spoilt things, because by the time it had started they’d finished at the beach and were home, making sandwiches to go with Mike’s birthday cake for tea.

And Sophie had been an absolute delight.

The car moved off across the streaming concrete yard, and Fran turned away from the cover of the doorway, steeling herself for the silence. Not that she had time to sit still and listen to it. She had a lot to do. Mike’s parents and Joe and Sarah had joined them for tea, and the sitting room was smothered in plates and cups. Brodie went with her, tongue lashing, and cleared up the dropped birthday cake crumbs from the floor while she dealt with everything else.

She saw Mike’s feet come into range as she was fishing for a fallen knife beside the sofa. There was a hole in the toe of his left sock, she noticed absently. Another failure in her wifely duties. She gave a muffled snort, and Mike dropped down onto his haunches beside her, his hand warm on her shoulder.

‘You OK?’

Her fingers coaxed the knife closer. ‘Of course. Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘I just—I thought you looked—’

‘I’m fine, Mike,’ she said firmly. ‘I just have a lot to do and I’m a bit tired. I didn’t get a lie-in.’

He sighed and stood up, and she could hear him scrubbing his hands through his damp hair in frustration. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll go and get the cows in, then. I’m late starting the milking.’

She straightened, the errant knife in hand at last, and threw him a tight smile. ‘Good idea. I’ll do supper for seven.’

‘Don’t bother to do much, I’m really not hungry after all the cake. Come, Brodie.’

And that was it. No offer of help. No thanks for his birthday tea, or having Sophie for the weekend.

No hug, no cuddle, no ‘Don’t worry, darling, it’ll be all right.’

Not that she’d believe him, anyway. How could it be all right? They’d run out of time on the NHS, and she was wondering if she could psych herself up for another IVF cycle and failing miserably. Not that they could afford it, although the way things were going, she wasn’t even sure Mike wanted a child with her. It was so much hassle and, despite his assurances, he seemed more than happy with just Sophie.

And why wouldn’t he be? She was gorgeous.

Gorgeous, and his, and if she was honest Fran had to admit that she was simply jealous of his relationship with her. They’d spent hours together over the weekend, and every time she’d looked up they’d been there, giggling about something, Mike chasing her, catching her and throwing her up in the air, turning her upside down, leading her by the hand and showing her the chicks, showing her how to feed a calf—just being the doting, devoted father that he was, with Sophie right there being the doting, devoted daughter.

And every laugh, every hug, every smile had turned the knife a little more. Sure, Sophie spent time with her, and they’d had fun, but it wasn’t the same as Sophie’s relationship with Mike. That relationship was special, different, and Fran yearned for one like it.

Yearned and ached and wept for it.

She picked up a plate, catching it on the edge of the table, and it flew out of her fingers, clipped the edge of the hearth and shattered. She stared at it, at the wreckage of the plate, splintered into a thousand pieces, just like her dreams, and a sob rose in her throat.

She crushed it down, threw the bits back onto the tray and carried it through to the kitchen. She didn’t have time to be sentimental and stupid. She had a pile of project work to mark before school tomorrow, and the house hadn’t seen the vacuum cleaner in nearly a fortnight. Not that they’d been in it much. Mike was busy on the farm, she was busy with the end of the summer term coming up and lots of curriculum work to get through in the next week. And just as if that wasn’t enough, they’d extended the farm shop in time for the summer influx of tourists and were run off their feet.

Which was just as well with the amount of money they’d sunk into that and the new cheese-making equipment, not to mention last year’s investment in the ice-cream venture that her sister-in-law, Sarah, was running, but the result was that there weren’t enough hours in the day.

So she needed to clean the kitchen, which was pointless since it was raining and Brodie coming in and out didn’t help in the least, even if Mike wiped the dog’s feet on an old towel, and she needed to clean the bathroom and their bedroom and change Sophie’s sheets. That pretty much was it, because they hadn’t had time to make the rest dirty.

Except for the sitting-room floor, of course, which now had crumbs, dog hair and bits of broken plate all over it.

She got the vacuum out and started in there.

‘Hello, my lovely,’ Mike murmured, wiping down Marigold’s teats with a paper towel before attaching the cups to them. He rested his head against her flank for a moment, feeling the warmth of her side and the gentle movement of her breathing. She smelt safe and familiar. Nothing unexpected there, no emotional minefield, just a cow doing her job, as he was doing his.

He pulled the cluster down and slipped the cups over her teats, one at a time, the suction tugging them rhythmically, and watched in satisfaction as the milk started to flow in a steady, creamy stream.

Beautiful. He loved his Guernseys. Their milk was fantastic, the cheese and ice cream and clotted cream they made from it a lifesaver in the current dairy-farming climate. ‘Clever girl,’ he murmured, running his hand over her rump and patting it before moving on. Clever, uncomplicated, undemanding, a lovely old girl who still, after six calvings, delivered the goods better than any other cow. If only his own life were as straightforward.

Her daughter Mirabelle was next to her, her head in the trough, and he ran his hand over her udder and frowned. There was heat in the right front quarter, and when he tugged the teat down gently, she raised her head and lowed in protest.

She had mastitis. Damn. As if he didn’t have enough to do.

‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ he murmured, and he wiped her other teats, attached the cluster to the three which were OK and then, taking advantage of the let-down reflex which the routine of the milking parlour always stimulated, with gentle, rhythmic movements he stripped out the infected quarter, discarding the milk. After dodging her disgruntled kick, he carefully inserted the nozzle of an intermammary tube of antibiotic ointment into the teat canal, squirted it into the udder and left her to finish.

The others were waiting patiently, the sound of their gentle mooing and soft, warm breath endlessly relaxing.

Funny. Most people who came to watch him milk, and it could be hundreds over the course of the summer, were fascinated from a distance, but thought it was smelly and dirty and couldn’t understand why anybody in their right mind would want to get up at four-thirty in the morning and work right through till seven at night.

Including his ex-wife.

Kirsten had thought he was insane, but he loved it, and couldn’t imagine doing anything else in the world. He could have been a vet, and he’d thought about it long and hard. He was clever enough, his school exam grades more than adequate for the entry requirements, but he’d gone instead to agricultural college because the farm was in his blood.

OK, it was hard work, but he was young and fit and it didn’t hurt him. You had to do something with your waking hours, and the warmth of the animals and the relationship he had with them was all the reward he needed.

It was servicing the investment in the ice cream, clotted cream and cheese-making equipment and expanding the farm shop that made him tired and brought him stress, but that was only the other side of the coin, and he could deal with it.

Or he would be able to, if only Fran wasn’t so stressed out herself.

He let the first batch of cows out and let the next ten in. It never ceased to amaze him the way they came in, all bar the odd one or two, in the same order, to the same places every time. It made his job that much easier.

Too easy, really. So easy that he had far too much time to think, and all he could think about was the look in Fran’s eyes every time she saw him with Sophie. Which, when she was with them, was always. Sophie was his shadow, trailing him, helping with the calves and the chickens and the milking, asking endless questions, nagging him about having a pony, tasting the ice cream and chattering about the cheese, wanting to stir it and cut it and sieve it.

She was too small to reach right across the vat so he had to lift her and hold her, and she’d been known to drop the spoon into the vat. Not that it mattered if the paddles weren’t turning, but if they were still at the mixing stage, he had to strip off to the waist, scrub his arm and plunge it nearly to the armpit in warm milk to fetch the spoon out so it didn’t foul on the paddles.

Yes, she was a hazard, but he missed her now she was gone, and he knew Fran missed her too, although her presence just rubbed salt into the wound.

He sighed and let the last ten cows in. They were nearly all pregnant now. The last three had calved in the past six weeks, and it would soon be time to artificially inseminate them.

He was trying to build the herd on really strong genetic lines, and he’d got a young bull growing on his brother’s farm which had excellent breeding and was showing promise. When he was mature, they’d see about using him, but until then they did it the clinical way, in the crush, with a syringe of frozen semen.

He gave a hollow laugh.

Not quite the same, not for the bull or the cows. He could empathise. He’d done his share of producing semen for his and Fran’s fertility investigations and treatment, and it was the pits.

It was all the pits, the whole damn process. So many questions, so much personal intervention that in the end they’d felt like lab rats. He couldn’t remember the last time he and Frankie had made love for the hell of it.

Not had sex, not timed it to coincide with her ovulation, or gone at it hammer and tongs for a fortnight in an attempt at quantity rather than quality, or done it out of duty and guilt because it had been months since they had, which was the current state of affairs, but made love in the real sense of the words, slowly, tenderly, just for the sheer joy of touching each other.

Or, come to that, clawed each other’s clothes off in desperate haste to get at each other! There hadn’t been any of that for ages.

Years. Two years? Three? Damn, so long he couldn’t even remember what it had felt like. Certainly he hadn’t touched her at all since the miscarriage in April.

He propped his head against Amber’s flank and rubbed her side absently. The calf shifted under his hand, and he swallowed the sadness that welled in his throat. Would he ever feel his own baby like that, moving inside Fran, stretching and kicking and getting comfortable?

‘You’re getting a bit close, aren’t you, girl? Last milking tonight, and tomorrow you can go and munch your head off in the meadow till you have your baby.’

She mooed, a soft, low sound of agreement, and he laughed and let them out.

He still wasn’t finished. He’d milked them, but he had to flush the lines through and hose down the yard before he could go in for supper.

Not that he minded. The longer the better, really, because Fran would be in a foul mood and they’d eat their supper in an awkward, tense silence.

It was always the same after Sophie had been to stay.

‘Mirabelle’s got mastitis.’

‘Oh. Badly?’

‘No, just one quarter. I’ve given her a tube of antibiotic. It might be enough. I’ll watch her.’

‘Mmm.’ Fran poked the cake crumbs around on the plate and pushed it away.

‘Don’t you want that?’ he asked, and she shook her head.

‘No. I’ve had too much cake.’ Which was a lie. She’d hardly had any, but he wouldn’t know that. She pushed the plate towards him. ‘Here, finish it off. I know you’re always starving.’

He picked up the almost untouched slice of cake and bit into it in silence while she cleared her plate away and put it in the dishwasher, then she heard the scrape of his chair against the tiles as he stood. ‘That was lovely. Thanks.’

She took the plate from him. ‘Don’t lie,’ she said with a pang of guilt for giving him such a scratch supper on his birthday. ‘It was just a slice of cake, not a romantic candlelit dinner.’

The sort of dinner most wives would give their husbands on their birthdays. Shortly before they went to bed and made love …

A puzzled frown flickered across his face and was gone, leaving his eyes troubled. ‘Fran, what’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ she said, shutting down her runaway thoughts in case he could read them.

‘That’s not true. You didn’t eat your cake just now, you hardly had anything this afternoon—And don’t argue,’ he added, as she opened her mouth. ‘I saw you give that sandwich to the dog. And except for the time this morning when I was having my lie-in, you spent the whole weekend sending me off with Sophie and keeping out of the way. What the hell is it, love? Talk to me.’

She looked away, her conscience pricking. Had it been so obvious? She didn’t want to hurt Sophie, but having her there …

‘Frankie?’

She couldn’t. It was a real Pandora’s box and there was no way she was opening it now. ‘I’m fine. Just preoccupied. I’ve got a lot to do before tomorrow morning. You know what the end of the summer term is like—so many things to finish off.’

He just looked at her for a long moment, then turned away with a sigh. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, her peripheral vision picking up the moment he gave up. Damn her, then, she could almost hear him thinking. Damn her, if she wants to be like that.

‘I’ll be in the farm office,’ he said. ‘Don’t wait up.’

And he went out, the dog at his heels, the door banging shut behind them. She felt the tears threaten, but swallowed them down, straightened her shoulders and got her class’s project work out, spreading it out on the dining-room table and forcing herself to concentrate. The last thing she could afford to do was neglect her job and end up losing it. At the moment, with the farm overstretched because of the expansion, her income was the only thing keeping them afloat.

She gave a ragged little laugh. Perhaps it was just as well she wasn’t pregnant.

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS obviously going to be one of those weeks.

Mirabelle’s mastitis had cleared up overnight, but Betsy had gone down with milk fever and needed IV calcium. Guernseys were prone to milk fever, and Betsy had had it before. And Mike should have been on the alert for it as she’d just calved, but his mind had been elsewhere.

Still, he’d caught her in time and given her the injection, so she’d made a rapid recovery. And he’d turned Amber out that morning to await the arrival of her calf. Her milk had dwindled to a halt, and it was time for her to rest and gather her strength. He’d have to take a walk up there later and check on them. They were near Ben and Lucy Carter’s, grazing on the field by Tregorran House, the one with the barn where Lucy had had her baby at Christmas.

He could go with Fran when she got back from school—or perhaps not. It was a gorgeous day today, unlike yesterday, and no doubt Lucy would be out in the garden with the baby and would want to say hello.

He didn’t think either of them needed that at the moment.

Fran had been moody for the past week, short with him for no particular reason. And every time he tried to talk to her, she changed the subject. Whatever it was.

He went into the farm office and put a mug under the spout of the coffee-machine. It was one of those new pod ones, which meant he could have real coffee without fiddling around too much, and when reps from the wholesalers and farm shop outlets came to visit, he could give them decent coffee quickly that hadn’t been stewing for hours. It also meant they didn’t have to go into the house.

And recently, for some reason, he just didn’t want to go into the house if Fran was around. She was always busy making something for school, and it was simpler to keep out of her way.

Not that that was going to sort anything out, but if he left her alone, she’d get over it. She always did, but usually quicker than this.

He was just taking the milk jug out of the little fridge when there was a tap on the door. Since it wasn’t closed, knocking was a bit of a formality, but nevertheless he was surprised to see Nick Tremayne there.

‘Hello, Nick,’ he said, summoning up a smile. ‘Come on in. Coffee?’

‘Oh—yes, why not. Thanks.’ He propped his hips against the battered old desk and Mike could feel the searching stare of those dark brown eyes burning into his back. They’d seen enough of their GP in the previous three years to know that Nick Tremayne never did anything without a reason, and Mike had no idea what it could be. Not unless Nick knew something that he didn’t.

‘So—what can I do for you?’ he asked, turning round with the coffee in his hand and holding it out to Nick.

‘Oh, nothing. I’ve just finished my visits and I was just passing, thought I’d have a look in the farm shop, pick something up for Ben and Lucy. You’ve got some interesting things now.’

‘We try. The ice cream’s going well, and the blue cheese is a runaway success. We can’t keep up with the demand—but I’m damn sure you aren’t here to talk about that.’

Nick’s smile was wry. ‘Am I so transparent?’

Mike just grunted, and Nick smiled again. ‘OK. Point taken—but I really was just passing!’ He hefted the farm-shop paper carrier in evidence. ‘Ben’s got a few days off and my daughter’s invited me for lunch, and I didn’t want to go empty-handed. And as I was here, I thought I’d just see if you were around. We haven’t seen you recently—I wondered if you were both OK.’

Mike snorted softly and stared down into his coffee-cup, swirling the dark brew while he tried to work out how to reply. Honestly, he decided, and put the cup down.

‘Not really. We haven’t been since the miscarriage. Fran’s preoccupied, her temper’s short, she’s lost all her sparkle—I don’t know, she doesn’t have anything to say to me any more, and I think it’s pretty mutual. Frankly, Nick, I’m beginning to wonder if the strain of all this isn’t going to be too much for our marriage.’

‘Do you still love her?’

He hesitated, his eyes locked with Nick’s, and then he looked away, scrubbing his hand through his hair and letting his breath out on a harsh sigh. ‘Yes. Yes, I still love her. I just don’t know if she still loves me.’

He swallowed hard, emotion suddenly choking him, and Nick tutted softly and put his cup down as well. ‘Time for a stroll?’

‘Yeah. You going to Tregorran now?’ Mike asked.

‘I am.’

‘I’ll come with you. If you give me a lift there, I’ve got some stock to check and I’ll walk back. It only takes five minutes across the fields.’

They pulled up on the drive at Tregorran House, and while Mike stood waiting by the car, Nick handed over the bag of shopping to Ben. ‘There’s some strawberry ice cream in there that needs to go in the freezer,’ he said. ‘Back in a minute. Mike’s just going to show me something.’

A likely story, Mike thought with a mental snort, but he raised his hand and dredged up a smile for Ben. He liked his neighbours, and he was delighted they’d bought Nick’s old family home, but it would have been easier if Ben hadn’t come to the door with baby Annabel gurgling on his hip and rubbing salt into the wound.

‘Mike, I’m glad I’ve seen you,’ Ben said now, coming out onto the drive. ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. Any chance we could have a chat some time?’

He nodded. ‘Sure. Give me a call when you’re not busy, or drop round. I’m usually about.’ Mike gave him his mobile number and Ben keyed it into his own phone, then slipped it back into his pocket and smiled.

‘Cheers. I’ll call you.’

Ben waved, lifting the baby’s chubby little hand as Mike himself had done with Sophie so many times, and Mike waved back to them both, his breath jamming in his throat as Annabel’s face split into a cherubic smile, and he turned away.

Nick fell in beside him, and they went down the track at the side of the house and to the field at the side. It wasn’t right on the cliff top, because that field had a footpath through it, part of the Cornish Coastal Path, and he didn’t want his dry cows disturbed in their last few weeks of pregnancy by all the walkers.

‘Here we are—my ladies-in-waiting,’ he said to Nick, his eyes scanning the field to check that the six cows in there were all looking well. Amber came over to him, her gorgeous coat, fox-red splashed with white, gleaming with health in the summer sun, and he rubbed her poll and spoke softly to her for a moment.

‘You love your farm, don’t you?’ Nick murmured, and Mike nodded.

‘Can’t imagine doing anything else, but it’s a constant reminder of our own failure. With a dairy herd, all you do all the time is monitor their pregnancies and deliver their calves and manage their lactation. And it’s impossible not to draw parallels.’ He smiled, but he could feel it was off kilter. ‘If we were livestock, Fran and I would be shot. It seems we’re useless together. Giant pandas have more success.’

‘That’s not true. Fran’s been pregnant before, and you achieved a pregnancy on your first cycle of IVF.’

‘Yeah—which we also lost. We can’t afford another cycle at the moment, and we’ve run out of NHS funding, so where do we go from here? It wouldn’t be so damned frustrating if they could find anything wrong with us! But they can’t, Nick. We’re both well, there are no physical problems, we just can’t seem to get it right. And right now I’m not sure I even want to, the way we are. Well, the way Fran is, anyway. I just can’t get through to her at all.’

‘But that’s probably just a reaction to the miscarriage. Perhaps she needs to talk it through. Will she come to see me?’

Mike snorted again and shook his head. ‘Not a chance. She might talk to Kate—woman to woman and all that.’

Nick’s mouth tightened, and then he nodded. ‘That could work. She knows Kate. It’s an idea.’

One that was growing on Mike by the second. Kate was working as a midwife again now, and Fran had known her for years because of her son, Jem, who was at the school. Maybe she’d be able to get through to her. ‘She could catch her at school,’ he suggested, but Nick shook his head.

‘Not really the place. But she could call in—maybe one day after school? On her way to see Ben and Lucy? Kate does drop by from time to time to cuddle the baby. I could make sure she doesn’t have Jeremiah with her, and maybe you could make yourself unavailable?’

He laughed shortly. ‘That won’t be hard. I don’t have a lot of time to hang around. By the time Fran’s home, I’m usually milking so Kate should be able to talk to her undisturbed between four-thirty and six, and if I know she’s going to be here, I can always drag it out.’

‘Sure. Give me your mobile number. I’ll let you know what she’s planning so you’re forewarned.’

He pulled out his phone and they swapped numbers, and then Mike turned his back on the cattle and stared out over the sea, which was flat and smooth and sparkling, the lazy swell scarcely visible. The surfers wouldn’t be happy today, but the families with little children would be having a great time, just as they themselves had had with Sophie last weekend—just as they might one day be doing with another child of their own. His chest tightened with longing and he hauled in a breath and turned back to the GP.

‘Thanks, Nick,’ he said gruffly. ‘I don’t know if it’ll do any good, but thanks for trying.’

‘You’re welcome. And you can call me whenever you want a chat, you know. Any time.’

Mike nodded, and they strolled back to the house in thoughtful silence. Nick went in, lifting his hand in farewell, and Mike nodded and set off back across the fields to the farm.

Fran would kill him for interfering, but he couldn’t watch her falling apart any longer. He just hoped that Kate was able to reach her, because frankly he was at a loss, and if something didn’t happen soon, the remains of their marriage would be unsalvageable.

He tried a little salvage that night.

They’d had supper, and for once they were sitting down together in front of the television. There was nothing on that either of them really seemed to want to watch, though, so he turned it off, found an easy-listening CD, soft and lazy and romantic, and instead of going back to his chair he went over to the sofa and sat down beside her, giving her shoulder an affectionate little rub.

‘You OK, my love?’

She nodded, but she didn’t meet his eyes and there wasn’t a trace of a smile. ‘Just tired. I’ll be glad when the holidays come.’

‘So will I. You can give me a hand—we’ll try that new fresh curd cheese you’ve been talking about.’

Beneath his hand her shoulder drooped a little, then she straightened up. ‘Yes, we can do that. I might give Sarah a hand with the ice cream as well. See if we can get the raspberry one smoother. It’s a bit too juicy and it tends to get ice crystals.’

‘It’s gorgeous. Maybe it just needs stirring for longer as it cools, and agitating more often. You’ve got it cracked with the strawberry, doing that. Maybe it just needs more of the same.’

‘Maybe. We’ll try a few things, see how we do.’

She stood up, moving away from him, and went out, coming back a moment later with a book. So much for cuddling up together on the sofa. He peered at the cover.

‘Anything interesting?’ he asked, and she lifted the book so he could see it.

‘CBT—cognitive behaviour therapy. One of my pupils is having it, so I thought I’d read up a bit.’

And she curled up in the corner of the sofa again, opened the book and shut him out as effectively as if she’d left the room.

So he did.

He went upstairs, had a shower for the second time that day and came back down in a clean pair of jeans. He hadn’t bothered with a T-shirt. It was still hot and, anyway, she’d never been able to keep her hands off him when he took his shirt off. All that rippling muscle, she’d say with a smoky laugh, and grab him.

But she didn’t even look up.

The CD had finished, so he put the television back on and settled down to watch a repeat of something he hadn’t enjoyed a lot the first time round.

Anything rather than be ignored.

What was happening to them?

She raised her eyes slightly from the book and let them dwell on his body. Long, lean and rangy, his muscles sleek and strong, not the muscles of a weightlifter but of a man who worked hard with his body, and it showed.

Lord, it showed, and there’d been a time not so very long ago when she would have got up and gone over to him and run her hand over that bare, deep chest with its scattering of dark hair, teasing the flat copper coins of his nipples until they were tight and pebbled under her fingertips. Then she’d run her hands down his ribcage, feeling the bones, the muscles, the heat of his body radiating out, warming her to her heart.

He would have pulled her onto his lap, his eyes laughing, and then the laughter would fade, and he’d kiss her, his hands exploring her body, searching out its secret places, driving her crazy with his sure, gentle touch.

What was that song about a lover with a slow hand? That was Mike—or it had been. Just lately he didn’t seem to be interested, and if he had been, she wouldn’t have. Just the thought of him touching her so intimately made her shrink away. She didn’t think she could cope with the intimacy, baring her soul to him as well as her body. Not when her soul was hurting so much and her body had become public property with all the investigations. Even the idea of being touched there …

And he’d give her a lecture on getting too thin, which probably wasn’t unjustified but wouldn’t make her feel sexy. Right now, she didn’t think anything would make her feel sexy.

Not that he’d tried recently. He’d been too busy, and every night he was buried in the farm office until late. It was almost as if he was avoiding her. Hard to say, when she was so busy avoiding him, holding herself back because if she did that, if they didn’t try, then it didn’t hurt so much.

If you didn’t try, you couldn’t fail, could you?

The book—interesting under other circumstances—couldn’t hold her attention, so she shut it and unfolded herself from the corner of the sofa and winced as the circulation returned to her foot. ‘I’m going to have a bath,’ she told him, limping for the door. ‘Don’t bother to wait up for me. I feel like a wallow.’

He flicked her an enigmatic look, nodded and turned his eyes back to the television, and swallowing down her disappointment she headed up the stairs.

‘Kate, have you got a minute?’

She paused and glanced at Nick, then at the clock. ‘Literally. I’ve got a meeting with Chloe—’

‘It won’t take long,’ he said, holding open the door of his consulting room, and after a tiny hesitation she braced herself and went in, wondering what was coming as he shut the door behind them.

‘I saw Mike Trevellyan yesterday.’

‘Oh.’ She felt the tension drain out of her shoulders and turned to face him. ‘How are they?’

‘Not sure. He’s worried about Fran. They don’t seem to be talking.’

She gave a soft snort. ‘There must be something in the water.’

Nick’s mouth tightened and he looked away, but not before his eyes flicked over her in contempt. ‘You’ve had nearly ten years to talk to me about that, so don’t get stroppy if I don’t seem to be in a hurry to talk to you about it now.’

‘That? It? We’re talking about your son, Nick.’

‘We don’t know that.’

‘We do.’

‘It was just the once.’

She sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘How many times have I heard that from a pregnant woman? And you only have to look at him. His eyes …’

A muscle worked in his jaw, and she gave up. For now. A gentle sigh eased out of her and she squared her shoulders. ‘So—about Fran. What do you want me to do? She had a follow-up appointment with me after her miscarriage and she cancelled it. I don’t know if I can get her into the surgery.’

‘No, we thought of that. I’ve got Mike’s mobile number. I thought if you could drop by there after school one day, when Fran’s around and Mike’s milking, maybe you could engineer the conversation.’

She stared at him in silence for a long moment, and eventually he turned and looked at her.

‘Well? What do you think of it?’

‘I think it’s a conversation I should have without Jem—your son—since I’ll have him with me after school.’

‘Well, perhaps you could find someone to leave him with for an hour.’

‘Mmm. His father springs to mind.’

His eyes widened with horror. ‘I can’t.’

‘Well, then, neither can I,’ she retorted. ‘Not at short notice.’

‘He must have school friends,’ Nick said, looking a little desperate, but she wasn’t going to back down.

‘I’m sure he does—but I need to save them for emergencies, and my childminder’s not feeling great at the moment so I can’t ask her. Besides, Jem needs me. It’s our time together—so if you want me to do this, and I agree it seems like a very good idea, then I think it would be an excellent opportunity for you to get to know him a little bit better. As his other parent.’

She watched him struggle, knew the moment he gave in. His jaw tightened, his eyes became shuttered and he gave a curt nod. ‘Just don’t let it become a habit.’

She laughed. ‘What—dropping in on Fran?’ she said, deliberately misunderstanding him. ‘Hardly. She’ll smell a rat before I get up the garden path! What am I supposed to tell her, Nick?’

‘Tell her you’re visiting Ben and Lucy. Tell her you’re going to the farm shop and wondered how she was.’

‘I’ll tell her I was worried about her, because I am. I’ve been watching her at school, and a couple of times when she’s been outside when I’ve picked Jem up, she’s looked very tired. Don’t worry, Nick,’ she said soothingly, with only a trace of patronage. ‘I’m sure I can manage to manoeuvre the conversation in the right direction.’

He shot her a blistering look and opened his mouth, then clearly thought better of it as a fleeting, rueful smile cracked his face just for a second. ‘Thank you. When were you thinking of doing it?’

‘Tonight? I can’t tomorrow,’ she said, thinking ahead. ‘I’ve got a clinic, and on Thursday there’s the school sports day, and Friday’s the end of term.’

Nick nodded, a muscle working in his jaw. ‘OK. I’ll get Hazel to shift my patients to Dragan or Oliver. You can drop Jeremiah round to me on your way there, and I’ll give him supper.’

‘I’ll do that. Now, if that’s all …?’

‘That’s all,’ he agreed, opening the door for her with something that could have been relief. Poor Nick, she thought as she walked away. He really, really didn’t like this. The truth was obviously much too much to take, but that was tough.

He was going to have to get used to it, no matter how unpalatable—get used to the fact that ten years ago this summer, on the very night of the storm that had torn a hole in their community, while his father and brother had lain cooling in the mortuary and her husband’s body was being sucked out to sea and shattered on the rocks, their frenzied, desperate coupling had given rise to a child.

And that child was their son.

She looked out of the window, across the bay to the headland where Nick had found her staring out to sea, her body drenched and buffeted by the wild storm, her eyes straining into the darkness. Not that there had been any hope. Even the coastguard had given up, at least for the night, but she hadn’t been able to tear herself away.

So Nick had taken control—taken her back to her house, stripped off her sodden clothes, dried her—and then somehow, suddenly, everything had changed. It could have been put down to that old affirmation-of-life cliché, she thought, but it had been more than that. She’d loved him since she’d been fifteen, had wanted him for ever, and it had seemed entirely natural to turn to him for comfort.

And it seemed he had felt the same, because, laid bare by their emotions, when the world had been falling apart all around them and it had seemed as if they were the only people in the world left alive, they’d finally done what they’d come so close to before he’d gone to university and met Annabel. The timing had been awful, but maybe it had been because it was so awful that they’d been able to break through those barriers and reach for each other. And in that moment, when they’d both been too racked with grief and guilt to know what they were doing, they’d started another life.

Like it or not—and he clearly didn’t—Nick Tremayne would have to acknowledge the result of their actions that night, and learn to live with it every day of his life, just like she had for the past ten years. After all, it had given her a son, a child she’d never thought she’d have, and he’d brought her so much joy.

So she’d learned to live with herself, with the shame she felt at having given in and taken comfort from Nick at that dreadful time, and she’d slowly, painfully, learned to forgive herself.

Now it was Nick’s turn. He’d have to learn to live with himself, too, and maybe, with time, forgive himself.

And perhaps, in the end, he could even learn to love his son.

‘Fran!’

She heard the knock, heard the voice calling and went to the window, leaning out and seeing Kate there, to her surprise. ‘Kate, hi! Come in, the door’s open. I’m just changing Sophie’s sheets—Come on up, I’m nearly done.’

And then she wondered why on earth she’d said that, because the house wasn’t looking fantastic and Kate wasn’t a close friend, not the sort of person who you just invited in—although maybe she was exactly the sort of person, she amended as Kate arrived in the bedroom with a smile, got hold of the other side of the quilt cover and helped her put it on.

‘Thanks.’

‘Pleasure. It’s always easier with two.’

Fran plumped up the pillow and straightened up. ‘I only did it yesterday, that’s the frustrating thing, in time for Sophie’s next visit, but the dog sneaked up here last night with filthy feet, and I didn’t realise till this morning. So—what brings you here on a Tuesday afternoon?’ she asked, finally voicing the question that had been in the forefront of her mind ever since she’d heard Kate calling her.

‘Oh, I was just passing. I’ve been to see Ben and Lucy and I popped in at the farm shop. I thought I’d say hello and see how you are. It’s always so busy at school and I haven’t seen you for ages, not to chat to.’

Not since before the miscarriage but, then, you didn’t really need antenatal care when there wasn’t going to be any natal to worry about, Fran thought with a sharp stab of grief.

‘I’m fine.’

She scooped up the washing and carried it downstairs, leaving Kate to follow. She ought to offer her a cup of tea, but that would open the door to all sorts of things she didn’t want. A cosy chat. A more penetrating ‘How are you’. A ‘How are you really, now your dream’s been snatched away’ sort of ‘How are you’.

But the teapot was there on the side of the Aga, and the kettle was next to it, and without being offered, Kate went over to it, lifted it and raised an eyebrow at Fran. ‘Got time to give me a cup of tea?’ she asked, and put like that, it would have been too rude to refuse.

She gave in.

‘Of course. I’ll make it.’

‘No, you deal with the washing. I can make a cup of tea. I spend my life making tea and drinking it. That’s what midwives do—didn’t you know that?’

‘Really? I thought they interfered.’

Kate met her eyes and smiled. So the gloves were off, their cards were on the table and they could both start being honest.

Kate lifted the hotplate cover and put the kettle on the hob. ‘Fran, I haven’t seen you for ages—not since the miscarriage. I’m worried about you,’ she said gently.

Fran looked up from the washing machine, slammed the door on it and stood up. ‘Don’t be.’

‘I am. You’ve got a lot of pressures on you. Sometimes talking them through can help.’

‘Kate, I don’t need counselling,’ she said firmly and a little desperately.

‘I never said you did. But a friend who understands the pressures you might be under and the choices open to you might be a help—a sounding board, someone to rant at that isn’t your husband?’

Had Mike been talking?

‘I don’t rant at him.’

‘But maybe you want to. Maybe you need to—not because he’s done anything wrong but just because you need to rant, to let out your anger. It’s all part of the grieving process, Fran. And you have to grieve for your baby.’

Fran swallowed. ‘It was just a failed embryo—just like my other miscarriage. There was no baby.’

‘But there was—there were two, and you loved them,’ Kate said gently, and that was it. The dam burst, and Kate took the washing powder out of her hands, wrapped her arms firmly around her and held her tight. At first Fran could hardly breathe for the wave of pain, but then it got easier, just slightly, so she could actually drag in the air with which to sob.

And sob she did, cradled against Kate’s comforting bosom, her hand smoothing rhythmically up and down her back, telling her without words that it would be all right.

‘That’s it, let it go,’ Kate murmured, and when the tears had slowed to a trickle, when the pain had eased to a dull ache instead of the slice of a sword, Kate let her go, and she sat down at the table and groped for a tissue.

‘Sorry—heavens, I must look a wreck,’ Fran said, sniffing and patting her pockets until Kate handed her a clump of kitchen roll. She mopped her face, blew her nose, sniffed again and tried to smile. It was a wobbly effort, but it was rewarded by an answering smile and a mug of tea put in her hand.

When had Kate made it? In the few seconds she’d been mopping up? Must have. God, she was losing it.

‘Thanks,’ she said, wrapping her nerveless hands around the mug and hugging it close.

‘Better now?’

She nodded, and Kate smiled sympathetically.

‘Good. It always helps to get all that backed-up emotion out of the way. Helps you see things more clearly. Was that the first time?’

‘Since April? Yes. Properly, like that, yes. I’ve always tried to stop it before, because it didn’t help with the first miscarriage, and I cried so much then. Silly. I might have known it would come out in the end.’

‘And Mike’s too close to allow him to see it. Because he’s hurting, too, and you don’t want him to feel bad for you.’

‘When did you become so clever?’

A fleeting shadow passed over Kate’s face, and Fran was so preoccupied she nearly missed it. Not quite, though, but she had no idea what had prompted it, and Kate was smiling now.

‘Oh, I’m not clever, Fran,’ she said softly. ‘Just human. Maybe I just try and put myself in someone else’s shoes, and I know the difference Jem’s made in my life, so it’s not hard to imagine how I would feel if I’d been unable to have him.’

Fran didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t been in Penhally when Kate’s husband had died, but she’d heard about it from her parents, and how sad it was that he couldn’t have known that Kate had been pregnant after several years of marriage. But she didn’t feel she could say anything about that now. It had been years ago, intensely private and nothing to do with her.

So she sipped her tea, and sniffed a bit more, and blew her nose again, and all the time Kate just sat there in a companionable silence and let her sift through her thoughts.

‘Have you noticed,’ Fran said finally, as the sifting came to a sort of conclusion, ‘how just about everybody seems to be pregnant at the moment? I don’t know if it’s just because I’m hypersensitive, but there seems to be a plague of it right now, especially among the school mums. Every time I look up, there’s another one.’

Kate nodded. ‘And it hurts.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Fran said very softly. ‘It really hurts. You have no idea how much I want a baby, Kate. It’s like a biological ache, a real pain low down in my abdomen—No, not a pain, it’s not that sharp, but a sort of dull awareness, an emptiness, a sort of waiting—does that sound crazy?’

‘No,’ Kate murmured. ‘It doesn’t sound crazy at all. I’ve heard it before, so many times.’

‘The frantic ticking of my biological clock—except it’s not ticking, is it? The spring’s broken, or it needs oiling or something, but nobody can find out what exactly, and sort it out. And in the meantime we’ve run out of time on the NHS, we don’t have any money to pay for another cycle of IVF privately, and even if we did, Mike’s been so odd recently I don’t even know if he wants a baby with me!’

Kate studied her tea thoughtfully. ‘Do you want a baby with him?’ she asked gently. ‘Or do you just want a baby?’

That stopped her. She stared at Kate, opened her mouth to say, ‘Of course I want a baby with him!’ and then shut it again without saying a word, because suddenly she wasn’t sure, and she felt her eyes fill again.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied instead, looking down and twisting the tissue into knots. ‘I really, really don’t know.’

‘Do you still love him?’

Again she opened her mouth, then shut it, then said softly, her confidence wavering, ‘Yes. Yes, I do, but I don’t know if I can live with him like this. And I don’t know if he loves me any more.’

‘Then you need to talk. You need to spend time together, find out if you’ve still got what it takes, because there’s no point killing yourselves to have a baby together if you don’t in the end want to be together. If being with Mike, with or without a child, is the first and most important thing in your life, then go ahead and keep trying for a baby. But if it’s not, if the baby’s more important than being together, then you need to think very carefully before you go ahead. And so does he.

‘Think about it,’ she went on. ‘Talk to Mike. Take some time together. And play, Fran. Take time out. The weather’s gorgeous now. As soon as you break up at the end of the week, try and find some time away from the farm and all its distractions. Is there any chance you can get away?’

She laughed, but with very little humour. ‘Not exactly. There’s the milking, and the cheese making, and then we share the weekends with Joe, so they each get one weekend off in four. Well, Saturday afternoon and Sunday.’

‘And when’s your next one?’

‘This weekend,’ she said slowly. ‘But Mike won’t stop. He’ll just use the time to catch up on paperwork.’

‘So stop him. Find a little hotel or a guest house or something, and go away for the night.’

‘I doubt if he’ll wear that. Anyway, we’ve got Sophie coming for tea on Sunday because she’s away the next weekend.’

‘You can be back by teatime.’ Kate stood up and put a hand on Fran’s shoulder. ‘Try it. You’ve got nothing to lose. And you might have everything to gain. And in the meantime, I’ve heard some very interesting things about miscarriage and diet and the relationship to damaged and defective sperm.’

Fran frowned. ‘Are Mike’s sperm defective? I don’t think they said anything about it at the fertility clinic—well, not to me, anyway.’

Kate shook her head. ‘Not particularly, according to the report from the clinic, but although there were a good number, a slightly higher proportion than one might hope for were defective or sluggish. That in itself might have been enough to cause your miscarriage, if it was a damaged sperm that fertilised the ovum. And this diet is supposed to reduce the numbers of defective sperm quite significantly, according to the study I’ve heard about. If you’re going to try again, maybe you need to take a while to make friends again, and while you do that, you could try the diet to boost Mike’s sperm production. It might as well be as good as it can be, and even if you decide not to go ahead and try again, it won’t do either of you any harm.’

It sounded a good idea, but she wasn’t sure she’d get it past Mike. ‘Is it freaky?’ she asked. ‘I don’t want to start giving him weird stuff. He’ll ask questions or refuse to eat it. You know what men are like. And he’s always starving.’

Kate laughed softly. ‘Typical man, then—and, no, it’s not freaky. It’s more a supplement to his normal diet rather than any radical alteration. I can let you have all the details, if you like—why don’t you come and see me tomorrow after school? I’ve got time, and we can go through it then properly.’

Fran nodded slowly. ‘OK. Thanks. I will.’

And in the meantime, she’d try and talk him into going away. Just a few days, right away from the pressures of the farm.

She felt a shiver of something that could have been fear and could have been excitement. Maybe both. Probably.

She’d ask him tonight.

CHAPTER THREE

‘THIS is ridiculous.’

Fran stared out across the yard. She couldn’t see the farm office on the other side, but she could see the spill of light from the window, and she knew exactly what he’d be doing.

Avoiding her.

Night after night, week after week for months now.

It was becoming a pattern. He’d get up at the end of their evening meal, kiss her absently on the cheek and thank her, then go out, Brodie at his heels, to the farm office.

And he’d stay there, wrestling with the accounts and the endless paperwork, until nearly midnight. Sometimes she’d hear him come to bed, sometimes she wouldn’t. And in the morning, when the alarm went at five, he’d get up and go into the bathroom and dress, then go out and do the milking.

On a good day, or at the weekend, she’d see him for breakfast before she went to work herself. On a bad day, and there were increasingly more of them, she wouldn’t see him at all.

Tonight was no exception. He’d kissed her vaguely on her cheek, said, ‘Don’t wait up for me, I want to get those quota forms filled in,’ and he had gone.

Well, she was sick of it.

Sick of not having a relationship, sick of not having anyone—not even the dog, for heaven’s sake!—to talk to in the evenings, sick of going to bed alone. Even on his birthday.

No wonder Kirsten had left him.

She sighed and turned away from the window, sick, too, of staring out and willing him to come back in. It hadn’t always been like this. At first, when they’d started going out together, he’d been able to find time for her, and after they’d married he’d been lovely. OK, he’d worked late and started early, but when he’d come to bed he would wake her, snuggling up, either for a cuddle or to make love to her, slowly, tenderly, languorously—or wildly, as if he couldn’t get enough of her.

When had it changed? she asked herself, but she knew.

The miscarriage—the most recent one, three months ago.

That was when it had changed—when he’d withdrawn from her so completely. When she’d lost the baby she’d thought they’d been so thrilled about.

Except maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe he hadn’t been thrilled at all. Maybe this last miscarriage had been a lucky escape, a narrow squeak in the midst of all the happy, fluffy stuff—choosing the colour of the paint for the nursery, discussing names, telling both sets of parents. Thank God they hadn’t told Sophie, but they’d been waiting till after the three-month watershed, till it was safe.

Except it hadn’t been.

She scrubbed away the sudden, unexpected tears and swallowed hard.

No. She wouldn’t cry again. Not after all this time. She’d cried all over Kate today, embarrassingly, but she wasn’t doing it again. It didn’t help. She’d cried an ocean after the first miscarriage, and it hadn’t done any good.

And neither had anything else they’d tried, because she still hadn’t conceived again until they’d gone down the IVF route.

Of course, the opportunity wouldn’t have gone amiss and, looking back on it, she realised that ever since the first miscarriage things had been different. She’d put it down to too much work and the pressure of the farm, but really he’d been avoiding her for years, she thought with shock, and she’d been more than happy to let him, because it meant she didn’t have to confront her fears and feelings.

Well, not any more.

She stared out of the window again, and decided it was time to act. If she was going to save her marriage, she was going to have to fight for it—she just wished she knew what it was she was fighting …

‘We can’t go away!’

‘Why not?’

Mike stared at her, puzzled by her sudden insistence, but maybe more puzzled by his own curious reluctance.

The truth was, with Joe already fixed to cover him for the coming weekend there was no reason at all why they couldn’t go away. Sophie was coming on Sunday afternoon, but otherwise they were free—the animals were taken care of, and Brodie would be perfectly content down at Joe and Sarah’s house with their two dogs. They spent a lot of time together anyway.

So there was no reason, no reasonable excuse he could give, and he wasn’t sure why he wanted to get out of it, but he did.

‘I’ve got a lot of paperwork.’

‘You always have a lot of paperwork.’

‘Yes, and it won’t just go away because we have!’

‘No, it won’t,’ she agreed. ‘It’ll still be there when we come back. Mike, nobody’s going to die if you don’t do the paperwork this weekend. We can do it together.’

‘No. Fran, I can’t go.’

‘Or won’t.’

He met her eyes, wondered what the hell was happening to them, and, abandoning his coffee, he walked out of the farm office and headed for the machinery store. ‘I haven’t got time to talk about this now,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ve got to get on. Brodie!’

And he walked away, haunted by the look of hurt in her eyes and kicking himself, but he couldn’t imagine what the hell they’d do for the whole weekend.

He laughed bitterly. His own wife, the woman he loved, and he couldn’t work out what they’d do alone together for a night? ‘Hell, man, you’re losing it,’ he muttered, and Brodie nudged his hand, her face anxious.

‘It’s all right,’ he said reassuringly, giving her a pat, but it wasn’t. It was far from all right, and he didn’t quite know how they’d ended up there.

He threw the chainsaw into the back of the pickup, loaded in the other tools he’d need for his day’s work, opened the cab door for Brodie and followed her in, starting up the engine and getting out of the farmyard before Fran came up with any other excuses for—what? Finding time with him?

Was that really such a bad thing?

Yet just the other night, when he’d sat with her and tried to get through to her, she’d stonewalled him and got a book out. Well, let her run after him. Maybe she’d find she wanted him after all …

‘So how did it go with Fran?’

Kate gave a ‘so-so’ shrug. ‘Not sure, really. I think I gave her something to think about. She’s coming in to see me at the end of the afternoon, before my clinic. I’m going to give her the details of that fertility-boosting diet I was telling you about, so that if they decide to go down the IVF route they’re starting from the best possible position.’

‘Do you think they will? IVF’s not cheap and they’ve invested a lot in the farm recently. I don’t know if they can afford it.’

‘I don’t know if they even want it,’ Kate admitted quietly.

Nick sighed. ‘It seems such a damn shame that they got pregnant and then she lost it.’

‘But at least we know she can get pregnant, which is a good starting point.’

Nick nodded and pushed a hand through his hair, the fingers parting it, leaving it rumpled. It was greying now, pepper and salt, but still thick, and her fingers itched to feel it, to thread through it as his had, to see if it still felt as soft and heavy as before …

She was going crazy. She had no business thinking things like that. She had to get on.

‘Just seems so tough, when the rest of the world seems to have babies at the drop of a hat.’

‘Well, you would know,’ she said, a touch bitterly, reminding herself of all the reasons why Nick was so very bad for her. ‘And at least if and when they have a child, it’ll know it was wanted.’

‘My children are wanted!’ he retorted.

‘All of them?’

He coloured and turned away, staring out of the window and stabbing his hand through his hair again. ‘We still don’t know—’

‘Yes, we do,’ she said with quiet emphasis. ‘James was sub-fertile. He’d had a test.’

Nick turned slowly and stared at her, his eyes carefully expressionless. ‘So—he really is mine?’

She felt her heart kick. ‘Yes, Nick. He really is. There’s no doubt at all. Jem is your son.’

The colour seemed to drain from his face, and for a moment he just stood there, rooted to the spot. Then he swallowed, dragged in a breath, straightened his shoulders. ‘Right. Um—got to get on.’

‘That’s it—run away.’

He stopped, paused, then started walking again, then paused once more with his hand on the doorhandle. ‘I’m not running, Kate,’ he said, defeat in his voice. ‘There’s no point. There’s nowhere to go.’

And, opening the door, he strode out into the waiting room and left her there.

‘Brodie, get out of the way! Come on. Stupid dog—what the hell are you doing?’

Brodie was tugging Mike’s trousers, trying to get him to play, but he wasn’t interested. He’d been clearing up fallen and dead timber all day, and he’d just found an old willow which had snapped halfway up the trunk but stayed attached, the top swinging down to make a ragged arch, but it was still hanging by a thick rope of twisted wood and bark, propped on a lower branch that had dug into the ground and broken its fall.

Under normal circumstances he’d get up the tree and cut it off at the trunk, but it was straddling the river, one end high in the air, the other, in a tangle of broken branches and twigs, sprawled across the ground on this side. There was no way to get to it without crossing the river, and he didn’t have time to keep driving backwards and forwards over the nearest bridge.

And Joe had the forklift with the long reach for bringing in the hay and silage bales, otherwise he could have used that. No, he’d just have to tackle it from this side.

But it was big.

He’d tried levering it off the supporting branch with a smaller branch wedged under it and over another log, but he wasn’t heavy enough to shift it. He couldn’t leave it there, though, because it was unstable and if the wind got up again, it could fall—and the cattle had been grazing down here around it. So he had to shift it now, before the end of the day, so he could let the cows back into the field in safety.

He tried Joe again, but he wasn’t answering his mobile. Probably couldn’t hear it. Damn. And the dog was still begging for a game.

‘Brodie, give it up,’ he said crossly, and, picking up the chainsaw, he cut away a few more branches so he could roll the tree when it fell. But the dog was in the way, and he’d get her with the saw in a minute, so he put her in the cab and told her to stay, then went back to it.

‘Right, you stubborn bloody thing,’ he said, glaring at the tree, and touched the underside with the saw. It creaked, sagged a fraction.

Better.

He touched it again, but the tree was weaker than he’d thought, and the creaking was more ominous.

Too ominous.

He looked up, to where the fallen part of the tree was joined to the trunk on the other side of the river, and watched in horror as, almost in slow motion, the wood started to split away and flip up, freeing the hugely heavy upper section of the tree. It was going to fall, and he was right in its way.

He didn’t have time to think. He didn’t have time to do anything but turn and run, throwing the saw aside, and as he turned, he heard a loud crack and a sound like thunder, then a branch whipped round and felled him at the same time as the trunk rolled down and came to rest across his legs.

The pain was blinding, but the adrenalin was kicking in, his heart racing, and gradually the pain receded to a dull scream.

He lay motionless, waiting, listening, but apart from Brodie’s frantic barking, there was silence. The tree had settled, and he could still feel his feet. And his legs. Hell, he could definitely feel his legs, especially the right one.

Well, the ankle really. The left one was OK, and he could even move it a little. It was in a bit of a hollow, but the right—there was no way he could move that, and no way he was going to try. Just lying there was agony.

So now what?

He was lying there, contemplating his very limited options and trying not to retch with the pain, when he felt the vibration of his phone against his hip. Great. It might be Joe. He’d be able to get him out of this mess. He wriggled around a little, gasping at the pain in his ankle and his ribs, and the tree creaked again and shifted in a little gust of wind, sending pain stabbing through him.

Hell! He’d thought it had settled! He tried again for the phone, and finally managed to get it out of his pocket. ‘One missed call,’ he read, and tapped the keys with a shaking thumb to bring up the number. Not Joe.

Ben Carter.

Well, it was a start. If that tree kept shifting, an emergency consultant might not be a bad man to have around. He called him back. ‘Ben? It’s Mike.’

‘Mike, hi. I was just calling to have that chat—is this a good time?’

Mike gave a strangled laugh, his breath constricted by the branch over his back. ‘Um … I’ve had better. Bit … um … stuck at the moment.’

‘Oh, I’ll call you later—’

‘No! I mean—really stuck. I’m lying under a tree.’

There was a pause. ‘As in lying under a tree on the grass, contemplating the meaning of life, or—?’

‘Lying under a fallen tree that I was cutting up,’ Mike finished for him. ‘Sort of literally stuck. And I think my leg might be broken, and the tree’s not stable.’

Just to underline that fact, the tree groaned again, and he felt sweat break out all over him. ‘I’m down by the river—only a short way from you over the fields, but you’ll need help. I’m trying to get hold of Joe, but maybe we need the fire brigade—they’ve got a few strong lads who could help shift this thing.’

‘Tell me where to come, and I’ll get them on their way, too,’ Ben said, his voice all calm business, and Mike felt his confidence like a soothing hand.

‘Out of your drive, turn left, down the hill to the river, then there’s a track to the right. Follow it—shut the gates behind you—and you’ll find me there. You’ll see the pickup and hear the dog barking.’

‘Right. Are you bleeding?’

He considered that for a second. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘OK. Stay still, don’t move and I’ll be with you.’

‘Like I can move,’ he said, but the line was dead, and he tried Joe again, getting him this time. Joe’s language was colourful, and he could hear the fear in his brother’s voice, but he’d know what to do and how to get him out, and he could use the chainsaw.

They arrived simultaneously, Joe on the tractor, Ben in his BMW, grounding on the track, and Mike felt a stupid, stupid urge to cry with relief.

‘Nice one, guys,’ he said, cracking a grin, and Joe swore and knelt down beside him, reaching through the twigs covering him to squeeze his shoulder hard.

‘Stupid bastard. This tree’s huge, far too big to tackle alone—why didn’t you call me?’

‘I did. Several times. You weren’t answering.’

Joe swore again. ‘Sorry, I was clearing the auger. Right, let’s have a look at this tree. If I could only get the tractor in here I could lift it off you with the forks, but there isn’t enough room. The other trees are too close.’

‘So what’s plan B?’

Joe looked around. ‘I’m going to get this branch off you first, so you can breathe better. Then we can get a closer look.’

‘Great.’ Mike grunted. ‘Just make sure it’s not holding up the tree.’

‘It’s not. There’s a good-sized branch wedging it.’

‘Good. Cut this one off, then, because I really can’t breathe. The chainsaw’s about somewhere.’

He got up, and Ben took his place, hands running confidently over Mike’s body. ‘Tell me what hurts.’

‘My leg? My pride?’

‘Idiot. Not your back? Only your legs?’

‘No, my back’s fine—well, in comparison to my legs. The right one, anyway—and, believe me, it’s enough,’ he said, fighting down bile and wondering how the hell Joe was going to get him out. The scream of the saw sounded, and the pressure on his back and ribs eased, but it didn’t take away the other pain.

‘What kind of pain is it?’ Ben was asking. ‘Sharp? Sickening? Dull? Raw? Tender?’

‘No. More—excruciatingly sharp. And sickening, yeah.’

‘Right. Sounds like a fracture.’

‘Feels like it, but I’m not an expert.’

‘Can you feel your foot?’

He gave a choked laugh. ‘All too well.’

‘That’s good.’

Good? Mike snorted and turned his face down, resting his head on the back of his hand and closing his eyes. He felt sick—sick and scared. If he’d died, what would have happened to Fran? Or the farm? Joe couldn’t cope alone, and his father was too old to want to start all over again. He’d just retired, handed over the reins to his sons and put his feet up.

That damn tree had better not fall any further, he thought, and, craning his neck, he saw Joe shifting logs, making a pile under the trunk so it couldn’t roll any further and couldn’t sag any more.

Or that was the theory, but it was so heavy it could probably shift the logs quite easily.

Then he heard a fire engine lumbering down the track, felt the ground tremble under the weight of it, and the tree shifted again. Just a fraction, but enough to make him swear and eye the pile of logs nervously. Would they hold?

‘We need to clear these branches to get the airbags under it,’ someone said, and he could hear people running, and then the sound of the saw, then the weight shifted again and he groaned as pain shafted up his leg.

‘Stop! It’s moving on him. He needs pain relief—where are the paramedics?’ That was Ben.

‘There’s been a big pile-up. All the ambulances are out. They’re having to send one from Plymouth. It’ll be another twenty minutes, and I don’t think we’re going to be able to use the airbags. There isn’t enough room to get them underneath without cutting off the branches, and they’re supporting it. We need to get heavy-lifting gear and it’ll take a while—it’s at the pile-up too.’

Great. Sweat dribbled down his face and into a graze, stinging it. He turned his cheek against his sleeve to wipe it away and caught Ben’s troubled eyes. He smiled reassuringly but for some reason it didn’t work. Nothing to do with the tons of timber hovering over his body just waiting to crash the rest of the way down and kill him …

‘Right. I’ll get Nick.’

Mike heard Ben key in a number, then heard rapid instructions, and a hand came back on his shoulder. ‘Nick’s going to bring some drugs.’

‘Excellent,’ he mumbled. ‘I love drugs. Drugs are good.’ The tree creaked again, and he bit down on his hand and gave a grunt of pain as the fire crew started to shift whatever they could to prop the broken trunk.

‘Fran, come on in, have a seat,’ Kate said, her smile welcoming, and Fran sat down at the desk, her fingers knotted tightly together in her lap.

‘Are you OK?’

She consciously relaxed her hands and smiled back. ‘Fine. So—tell me about this diet.’

‘I’ve got the details here for you.’ Kate straightened up and reached for a sheet of paper, sliding it across the desk towards her. ‘It’s very simple—suggestions, really, for how to include certain things, trace elements and so on which, although probably present in your diet, might not be there in sufficient quantity.’

‘Things?’

‘Zinc, selenium, folic acid, vitamin C. You need Brazil nuts and shitake mushrooms and oysters—not together, obviously,’ she said with a chuckle, and Fran smiled with relief.

‘I wondered how I was going to work them in!’ she said.

‘Well, oysters are out of season at the moment, you’ll have to wait until the end of October if you want local ones, but the mushrooms and Brazil nuts you can get any time. And fruit smoothies. Fruit and veg smoothies—do you eat a lot of fruit and veg?’

‘I do. Mike’s usually crunching an apple and he eats what I give him but he’s not over-fond of salads so he tends to eat cooked veg. He drinks apple juice sometimes—does that count?’

‘Not really, but it makes an excellent base for the smoothies, so make him smoothies with apple juice instead of giving him coffee—it’s hot now, so you’ve got the perfect excuse. And you should both be avoiding having a high caffeine intake as well. It’s been related to delayed conception, so avoid coffee if you can, and also colas, dark chocolate and black tea—that’s not tea without milk, by the way, but any tea that isn’t green, white, fruit or herbal. Oh, and cut out alcohol. It can reduce a man’s sperm count by half.’

‘Good grief. I don’t mind that but I think he’ll kill me if he can’t have tea or coffee! Apart from the odd glass of wine and the occasional apple juice, that’s all he drinks!’

‘He’ll love the smoothies. You can use the veg ones as chilled soups—lovely in the summer. And they’ll do you good as well—boost your vitamin levels. If they help sperm production, they might have a beneficial effect on your ovaries, too. Just try, Fran. If it does nothing else, it’ll improve your general health and make you feel much better. In fact, it’ll do you a power of good to eat something nutritious. You’ve lost too much weight recently, and being underweight can harm your chances of conception—did you know that?’

She shook her head, wondering why they were having this conversation when Mike clearly didn’t even want to spend one night—one miserable, solitary little night!—alone with her, without the dog or his daughter or the endless bloody paperwork to hide behind.

‘Encourage him to take cool showers and not hot baths—does he have baths?’ Kate went on.

‘Sometimes—if he’s been doing something very strenuous and he’s aching. Usually he showers.’

‘What about underpants? Does he wear loose boxers or tight briefs? Because if they’re too tight, the testicles can overheat and that can affect the sperm count as well. The whole design of the scrotum is to allow the testicles to be at a slightly lower temperature, but because we wear clothes and bundle them up nice and tight, they cook a bit. Of course, going commando is the best answer, but I can imagine he might object if you steal all his underwear.’

Fran chuckled. ‘I’ll just steal the tight stuff and tell him it was worn out. To be honest, as long as there’s something in the drawer I don’t think he’d care what it was. I can tell him I had a crisis with the washing machine or the dog ate it or something.’

Or she could just tell him the truth, but the whole thing was irrelevant at the moment. She was hardly going to get pregnant if they didn’t—

‘You need to eat lots of dairy, too,’ Kate was saying, ‘but be careful with the soft cheese and unpasteurised milk products if there’s the slightest possibility you might be pregnant.’

A humourless little huff of laughter escaped from Fran’s mouth. ‘Chance’d be a fine thing.’

Kate clicked her tongue sympathetically. ‘Did you broach the subject of going away?’ she asked gently.

Fran laughed again, but it was just as bad as the last one and utterly unconvincing. She swallowed hard. ‘He’s—He hasn’t got time.’

‘Is that true?’

‘Probably, but if he wanted to, he’d make time—wouldn’t he?’

Kate smiled. ‘Don’t ask me. Men are a mystery.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Fran murmured.

‘So do something romantic at home. Cook a nice meal, put something pretty on …’

‘He’ll think I’ve run up a credit card,’ she said dryly, and then felt saddened that they’d come so far down the line that they’d come to this, her talking about her marriage to a woman she hardly knew, trying to gain insight into her husband’s behaviour. Not to mention her own …

‘Kate, sorry—Ah. Fran. I’m glad you’re here,’ Nick said, his face troubled. ‘Um, I’ve had a call from Ben. Mike’s got a bit of a problem. He was apparently cutting down a tree—’

‘What?’ The word came out soundlessly from lips suddenly numb. She felt the colour drain from her face, her limbs curiously heavy and her heart lumping with dread. She lifted a hand to her mouth. ‘Not the chainsaw …’

‘No—no, a branch rolled onto him and it’s pinning his leg down. Ben’s with him—thinks he’s got a fracture but the ambulances are all out on a big RTA and it’ll take them ages to get to him, so I’m going to pop over there with a bit of pain relief while the fire crew get the branch off him. I’m taking morphine, but I just wondered if we’d got Entonox, Kate.’

‘Yes—I’ll get it. And we’ll come. Come on, Fran, I’ll drive you.’

The props weren’t working. The weight of the upper trunk was too great, and they couldn’t shift enough wood to secure it. The fire crew was gathered round Mike, having a muttered conference that didn’t inspire confidence. He just wanted to get the hell out, and he needed those drugs.

‘I’m going to dig it out,’ Joe said. ‘If I undermine it, under that leg and foot, we can ease him out. The other one’s free.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ he mumbled, but the fire officer in charge had other ideas.

‘Sorry, I can’t let you get that close,’ he said.

Joe’s reply was pithy and not in the least bit polite, and it made Mike smile. Seconds later he felt him digging, felt Joe’s hands under his leg while Ben supported it, stripping away the shale that was digging into his shin, and then his foot moved a fraction and he let out a whimper as he felt his leg sliding down gradually, away from the weight of the trunk.

He bit down on his lip, knowing it was necessary to dig around his foot so he could wriggle free but not sure he could take it.

Not without pain relief, but Nick was there, bringing him Entonox. He knew about that—Kirsten had had it when she’d been in labour with Sophie, and he sucked greedily on the mouthpiece while Joe tunnelled away like a mole, shifting the stony soil away from his leg and foot while he tried not to yell. Nick was putting something in his hand—some kind of IV set—and then injecting something that made him feel woozy and lightheaded.

‘Whazat?’ he mumbled.

‘Morphine, and metaclopromide, to stop you feeling sick from the morphine.’

‘’S lovely,’ he replied. It was. The pain was going, fading a bit, less global.

‘Right, that’s as good as it gets,’ Joe said.

‘OK.’ That was Ben. ‘Mike, can you get your legs out yourself? Just slowly and carefully.’

He took a deep breath of the Entonox, wriggled his left leg free, took another suck of the gas and tried to move.

Pain lanced through him despite the drugs, and he swore viciously, suddenly wide awake. ‘I need a hand, guys,’ he said, sweat beading on his brow. ‘Just pull me out, nice and carefully. I can’t do this myself.’

‘It is free,’ Ben said, feeling round his leg gently. ‘We should be able to do it. It’s a very unstable fracture, though, and I don’t want to drag you. And you need a spinal board.’

‘To hell with that. What I need is to get out of here now,’ he muttered as the tree groaned again. He felt it shift against his calf, and yelled, ‘Just get me—Joe and Nick maybe?—and he could feel Ben’s hands on his leg, steadying it. On the count of three they pulled, he gasped and swore and bit hard on his lip, and then he was free, and they were dragging and lifting him away from the tree while everything went black for a second and he fought the urge to scream with the pain.

As they put him down and shifted him to his back, Fran’s white, terrified face swam into view. He thought she was going to yell at him, but she just smiled a little shakily and said, ‘I didn’t know you knew half of those words.’ And then with a last tortured groan the tree slipped and fell the last few feet with a thundering crash, and she burst into tears.

‘What the hell were you doing down there on your own with the chainsaw?’

He gave a rueful smile, and Fran felt a terrible urge to smack him. She’d hung on as long as she could, but the ‘what the hell’ question just wouldn’t stay locked up any longer, and she sat by his bed in the hospital and clamped her hands together. So she didn’t strangle him, or so they didn’t shake?

She didn’t know. She didn’t care. All she cared about was that Mike was alive—damaged, but alive—and only because Ben, Joe and Nick had got him out when they had.

She and Kate had got there just as he had been yelling at them to pull him out, and she’d watched in horror as his face had blanched and he’d let fly a string of words she’d never heard him use before.

And then the trunk had dropped, right where he’d been lying, and one of the firemen had been lucky to duck out of the way of the flying branches.

It could have been so, so much worse.

Infinitely worse. Unimaginably worse—

‘I’ve done the milking for you, you idle skiver—and can you stick to Monopoly and not pick-up-sticks in future?’ Joe said, walking up behind her and saving him from the strangling he so surely deserved.

‘Hi, Joe,’ she said with a smile of welcome. ‘Give your brother a hard time for me, could you? I’m just going to ring your mother again and let her know they’ve moved him.’

‘She’s here. She and Dad have just pulled into the car park. I told them where to come.’

Ensconced in his hospital bed, Mike groaned. ‘Did you have to? They’ll make such a fuss.’

‘A fuss? A fuss!’ Fran all but shrieked. ‘I’ll give you fuss, Michael Trevellyan! If that tree had fallen a minute earlier—ten seconds, for heaven’s sake—’

‘Michael! Oh, my goodness, are you all right? We came as soon as we heard but we were on our way back from Plymouth and there was a huge tailback because of this accident—’

‘I’m fine, Mum,’ he said, grimacing as he caught sight of his father’s stern face.

‘How many times have I told you—?’ Fran’s father-in-law started, and Fran just smiled, stepped back and left them to it. She didn’t need to strangle him. His parents would do it for her. In the meantime, she might go and get herself a cup of coffee.

‘So how’s the invalid?’ Ben asked as she bumped into him at the ward entrance.

‘Getting an earful from everyone,’ Fran told Ben with a wry smile.

Ben smiled back, but his eyes were gentle with concern, and she felt hers fill again. ‘You OK?’ he asked, and she nodded, then shook her head, then shrugged a little helplessly and laughed, her traitorous eyes welling.

‘I don’t know. Yes. Maybe. At least he’s alive.’

‘He’ll be fine. He’ll be going to Theatre shortly to have it plated, and he’ll be in for a couple of days, then they’ll send him home in a cast to rest.’

‘He’ll be horrible. He’ll be so bored,’ Fran said with a sigh, and Ben raised an eyebrow.

‘So entertain him,’ he said with a smile. ‘He’ll be laid up and fizzing over with all that pent-up energy. I’m sure you’ll be able to find something to do together to alleviate the boredom!’

She felt herself colour slightly, and found a smile. If only, she thought. ‘I’ll buy him a Sudoku book,’ she said, and Ben chuckled.

‘Yeah, right. Like that’ll do it!’ He tipped his head on one side. ‘You going anywhere important?’

‘Yes—to get a coffee,’ she said, wondering if it mattered if she started Kate’s diet a day later and deciding that today justified it. She could have lost Mike—so easily. And today had proved to her beyond any doubt that she wasn’t ready to lose him. Not in any way. There was nothing like staring that dreadful possibility in the face to bring it home to her, so, yes, today justified a delay in the start of the diet, because at the moment whether or not they had a child was way down the list of her priorities.

And Mike—her beloved, darling, infuriating, broken Mike—was right at the top.

‘Mind if I join you?’ Ben was saying. ‘I was just about to make a drink when I called him, and I still haven’t had one yet. I’ll even treat you to a chocolate muffin.’

She laughed. ‘You truly know the way to a woman’s heart,’ she replied, and wondered when she and Mike had last laughed like that, about nothing in particular, just for the sake of laughing. Ages. A lifetime.

But they would again. She’d make sure of it …

CHAPTER FOUR

THEY were sending him home on Friday, and he couldn’t get out of hospital quickly enough.

Not that he’d really known that much about it for the first twenty-four hours, because he’d been in so much pain he’d been drugged up to the eyeballs.

It was the bottom of his fibula where it joined the tibia on the outside of his ankle—the lateral maleolus, or some such bone—that had sheared off, and his fibula was fractured again just above the ankle joint. Such a skinny little bone to cause so much pain, although the ligaments between the two bones hadn’t ripped. This, apparently, was a good thing, or it would have been ages before he could bear weight.

Even so, he’d have to be in a cast for weeks.

Fabulous. In the summer, when he relied on the longer hours of daylight to do all those endless jobs about the farm that he couldn’t simply do in the dark. Hedging, fencing, repairing the fabric of the buildings—cutting up fallen trees?

But on the bright side, luckily the skin hadn’t broken. It seemed a very slight thing to worry about, considering they’d had to cut it open anyway, but apparently it made a great difference to the sort of repair they could do, and it meant it could be plated and screwed, and he didn’t have to have an external fixator.

Thank God, because there was no way he could work on the farm with a metal frame on the outside of his leg and pins going through into the bone, carrying filth and infection right into the heart of the injury. And, anyway, even the sight of them made him feel sick. There were several people in the orthopaedic ward with them on, and others in traction, even one screwed into a special revolving frame, bolts into his head and shoulders and hips and legs …

Hideous. God only knows what it must feel like to be in there, he thought, but the man didn’t seem to be aware of too much. That had to be a good thing—probably the only good thing, if the drawn faces of his relatives were anything to go by.

He glanced across at the man. On second thoughts, maybe it wasn’t a good thing. He discovered he was extremely grateful he wasn’t in so bad a way that he wasn’t aware of his surroundings, never mind his ankle.

Although he felt all too aware of it most of the time, and he was desperate for a good night’s sleep in his own bed, with soft cotton sheets, their lovely down duvet and his own pillow.

And Fran.

God, he missed her. She’d been in to visit him each evening, but it wasn’t enough, and he couldn’t believe he’d been so reluctant to go away with her this coming weekend for the night. He’d give his eye teeth for the chance to do it now, he thought, lying there waiting for someone to come and discharge him.

And then Ben strolled in, hitched his hip onto the edge of the bed and grinned. ‘Want to cut loose?’

‘Oh, do I ever!’ he said fervently. ‘Got the power to spring me?’

‘Absolutely. Well, not really, but I’ve just seen your consultant and he’s happy to lose you. They’re just filling in the paperwork, and I thought, as I’ve got the afternoon off, I’d give you a lift—unless you’re organised?’

He shook his head. ‘No, not at all. I was going to ring my father or my brother, but I haven’t done that yet. I’m supposed to be getting a lesson on my crutches.’

‘Yeah, the physio’s on her way. I’ll get them to give me a call when you’re done, and I’ll get you out of here.’

‘You’re a star. Cheers.’

‘My pleasure.’

It took another hour, but finally he was ready to go, and Ben came up, put him into a wheelchair and trundled him out into the fresh air. He dragged in a great lungful of it, closed his eyes and sighed hugely. ‘Oh, that feels so good. You can’t imagine what it’s like when you’re used to being outside all the time, to be cooped up in there without feeling the wind in your hair and the sun on your face. I just kept telling myself I was lucky not to be six feet under.’

‘Shouldn’t think you needed to,’ Ben said dryly, pushing him through the car park to his BMW. ‘I would have thought you’d got Fran doing that for you, on the minute every minute. She was beside herself, you know, when she realised how dangerous it might have been.’

Mike gave a rusty chuckle. ‘She wasn’t alone. When I heard that tree go—well, let’s just say I won’t be taking chances like that again.’

‘Good. I’m glad to hear it, and I’m sure she will be. Right, shift across and I’ll get rid of the wheels while you settle yourself.’

Easier said than done, he realised. God, how could anything so simple be so profoundly awkward? It took him ages, while Ben stood holding the wheelchair and telling him to take his time.

But so much? Finally there, he slumped back in the seat, his skin breaking out in a cold sweat, and concentrated on getting his breath back. Not easy with his ribs screaming in protest.

He was shocked at how hard he’d found it, how even such a comparatively minor injury could have taken such a toll on him. And once he was at home, he’d have to go up and down stairs. How the hell was he going to manage that? And bathing, for crying out loud. He’d have to shower with his leg in a bin bag.

He gave the cast a jaundiced look and wondered for the umpteenth time how he could have been so stupid. It was going to be weeks before he was fixed—months, even. Certainly a couple of weeks before he could do anything even remotely useful on the farm. Even the dreaded paperwork would be too much for him at the moment.

He swore under his breath, hauled his broken leg into the car, swung the comparatively uninjured one in beside it and eyed the bruises with disgust.

Pity he couldn’t have worn trousers to hide them a bit, but he didn’t have any that would go over the cast, so he was wearing shorts and a T-shirt and his Technicolor injuries were all on display.

Well, not quite all of them. His body under the clothes was also black and blue all over, a million points of pain and mutilation. He’d caught a glimpse of the bruises over his cracked ribs in the bathroom mirror this morning and had nearly had a fit. Fran would take one look at him in the nude and run, if she had any sense. Probably just as well, because he didn’t have the strength to argue with her about how stupid he’d been and just now she wasn’t wasting a single opportunity to lecture him.

He closed his eyes and dropped his head back against the seat. He just wanted her to come home and hug him. He’d missed her so much, and his family had all been in telling him off, so their visiting times had hardly been cosy, intimate occasions.

‘Come on, Ben,’ he muttered. ‘Take me home.’

As if he’d heard him, Ben opened the driver’s door, slid behind the wheel and shot him a smile. ‘Sorry about that. Somebody wanted the chair and then couldn’t manage to get her husband into it. As he was having a heart attack, I didn’t feel I could leave them.’

‘Of course not,’ Mike said, trying for a smile and probably producing a grimace.

‘Right, let’s get you home.’

He hadn’t heard anything so good in ages.

‘Mike?’

Fran ran lightly up the stairs, crept down the landing and pushed open the bedroom door, tiptoeing round the bed so she could see his face.

He was fast asleep, his lashes dark crescents against his cheeks. He looked pale under his tan, drained of warmth, and she bit her lip and blinked back tears. He looked awful. Washed out and exhausted, and it made her want to cry.

She’d been fighting the urge since it had happened, moaning at him about being stupid when all she’d really wanted to do was curl up in his arms and howl her eyes out.

She backed away, meaning to leave him alone, but her foot hit the creaky board and his lids fluttered open, those gorgeous brown eyes fixed on hers.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi,’ she replied softly, perching carefully on the edge of the bed and giving him a shaky smile. ‘Welcome home.’

His answering smile was tired but contented. ‘Thanks. It’s good to be back.’

‘How long have you been home?’

He glanced at his watch. ‘Two hours? Ben gave me a lift.’

‘Ben?’ she echoed, surprised. ‘That was kind of him. I thought Joe or your father would do it.’

Mike shrugged. ‘He was there, he offered, and they were busy.’

‘Can I get you anything—a drink?’

He shook his head, his eyes intense. ‘Not yet. The first thing I want is a hug from my wife without an audience.’

‘Oh, Mike …’

She kicked off her shoes, lifted the quilt and slid carefully under it, turning towards him as his arms reached for her and he gathered her up against his chest with a sigh. She breathed deeply, drawing in the scent of him, a strange mixture of hospital and warm, earthy man, and she squeezed her eyes shut and slid her arms carefully round him and hugged him.

He grunted, and she froze, lifting her arms away. ‘Mike?’

‘It’s OK. I’ve got a few bruised ribs.’

She lifted the quilt back and propped herself up, staring down at the vicious bruises over his side and back, a huge spreading stain of vivid, deepest purple where the branch had fallen on him, the bruises so many they’d all run together in a great blotchy sheet. She hadn’t seen them before, because he’d been in a T-shirt and boxers in the hospital, but now, with his T-shirt removed and just the boxers on, she could see them, and they brought tears to her eyes.

‘Bruised?’ she questioned sceptically, a give-away shake in her voice. ‘Is that what you call it? Just … bruised?’

His smile was a little crooked. ‘Well, the odd rib might be cracked.’

She shut her eyes again and lay down, keeping her arms well away from his ribs, one hand lightly resting on his shoulder, her face cradled against his chest. It rose and fell slowly, then stopped, and she looked up and saw his lips pressed hard together.

‘What is it? Are you OK? Where do you hurt?’ she asked, panicking, and he turned his head and stared at her, his eyes raw with emotion.

‘It’s just so good to be home—to hold you,’ he said, and she was stunned to hear a catch in his voice. ‘I’ve missed you.’

‘Oh, Mike …’ She broke off, the words dammed up behind the tears, and she lifted a hand to his cheek, letting it linger as she feathered a kiss over his lips. ‘I’ve missed you, too,’ she said, knowing that they weren’t just talking about this last two nights but the months and months before, the aching void since things had been good between them, natural and relaxed and just plain happy.

A sob broke free, and his arms tightened around her, easing her closer. ‘Don’t cry,’ he murmured gruffly. ‘I can’t bear it when you cry. It tears me apart.’

‘You could have died,’ she whispered, her chest shuddering, and his arms squeezed tighter.

‘But I didn’t, and I’m home now. Stay with me, just for a while. Dad’s here, doing the milking, and Joe and Sarah have still got Brodie—it’s just us, Fran, and we don’t have to do anything or be anywhere. So stay with me. Let me hold you—just for a little while.’

It had been so long since he’d held her that she’d have been happy to stay there for ever. He didn’t need to talk her into it. She tilted her head and kissed him again. ‘Just for a while,’ she agreed, and, closing her eyes, let herself relax against him.

She was asleep.

It felt so good to hold her after all this time, but he needed the bathroom, and he didn’t think he could get up without help. He couldn’t bear to disturb her, though.

Not that they could stay there for long, because he could hear his mother moving around in the kitchen, and his father would have finished milking now. With a sigh he bent his head and brushed his lips against her cheek.

‘Wake up, darling,’ he murmured.

‘Mmm,’ she said, snuggling closer and ignoring him.

‘Fran, I need a pee and I can’t get up when you’re holding me.’ He probably couldn’t get up at all, but they’d cross that bridge when they got to it.

She eased away, lifting herself up on one arm and turning back the quilt, her eyes widening as he sat up with his back towards her and she saw the full extent of his bruises. Her lips pressed together but she didn’t say a word, just slid out of bed and came round to his side, moving the quilt the rest of the way off him and helping him shuffle forwards to the edge of the bed.

‘Stay there for a moment, give yourself time,’ she said, and handed him a clean T-shirt. ‘Here, put this on. You don’t want to frighten your mother to death.’ When he’d carefully eased his way into it, trying not to wince, she gave him his crutches. ‘OK?’

He nodded, shifted his weight to his left foot and the crutches and stood up carefully. Hell. He was still wobbly, and she was so tiny that if he started to go he’d crush her.

He gave it another second, then tried a step. Fran reached up, steadying him by the shoulders as he adjusted his weight and swung slowly forwards on the crutches. OK. So far, so good. He took another step, then another, and he was at the bathroom door in a few more steps without incident.

‘Can you manage?’ she asked, and only his pride made him say yes.

‘I’ll be fine,’ he assured her with more confidence than he felt.

‘OK. I’ll go and put the kettle on.’

‘Great. I could kill a decent cup of tea,’ he said. Shutting the bathroom door, he leant on it quickly before he fell over. Damn.

Triple damn with a cherry on top.

He eyed the loo in disgust. Who on earth had decided to put it right on the other side of the bathroom?

‘How is he?’

Fran shook her head, sat down at the kitchen table and smiled unsteadily at his mother, still ridiculously close to tears after watching him struggle to the bathroom. ‘OK, I suppose, but he’s very sore. I didn’t realise—I thought it was just his legs, but it’s everywhere. He says he might have a cracked rib.’

Joy nodded. ‘Joseph said there was a big branch across his back. He was lucky—’

She broke off, biting her lip, and Fran realised she wasn’t the only one who’d been through hell. And it was so stupid!

But she wasn’t going to fight with him any more about it, or tell him off. He was well aware of how close he’d come—he had to be, he wasn’t an idiot. Although how anyone as clever as him could be so frustratingly dense was incredible.

His father, Russell, came in, followed by Sarah and Brodie, and then Joe, shucking off his overalls and grinning at her.

‘You look a bit rumpled,’ he said, and she ran a hand through her hair and smiled self-consciously, colour warming her cheeks.

‘I just lay down next to him for a minute and fell asleep,’ she said, oddly embarrassed to have been caught napping with her own husband, but Sarah hugged her as if she understood.

‘Are you OK?’

‘I am now he’s home. He’s in the loo—I must go and help him back to bed.’

But he was there, in the doorway, as white as a sheet and fending off Brodie with one hand while he leant heavily against the doorframe.

‘So where’s that tea, then?’ he said, cracking a smile. ‘I don’t know, five of you in the kitchen and the kettle isn’t even on.’

‘We were just debating on the slowest and most painful way to kill you,’ Joe said mildly, scrubbing his hands in the sink. ‘I’ve cleared the slurry pit.’

‘I can tell—I can smell it on you,’ Mike said, wrinkling his nose.

‘The lengths some people will go to to get out of the worst jobs,’ Joe quipped, and, shaking his hands, he wiped them on his jeans and gave his brother a crooked smile. ‘Take a pew, for God’s sake, before you fall down.’

He pulled a chair out, steered his brother towards it and propped his broken leg on another chair while Joy put the kettle on. Fran moved to his side, laying her hand gently on his shoulder, afraid to hurt him until her mental map of his bruises was more accurate, but he just tilted his head and smiled at her, covered her hand with his and squeezed her fingers.

In the busy, crowded kitchen you would have thought such a tiny gesture would go unnoticed, but suddenly you could have heard a pin drop. Everyone stopped talking and stared at them, then looked away, finding things to do, a burst of conversation ending the brief, deafening silence.

Was it really so strange that she should go to him, that he should touch her, that his entire family had stopped in their tracks and stared?

Evidently it was.

Mike, looking up at her, hadn’t even noticed, but she had, and it made her wish they’d all go away. Their marriage felt so fragile at the moment; they needed to work on it, to find out if they had anything left, to piece together, slowly and painstakingly, the fragments of their love, and she wasn’t sure she could do that under the penetrating gaze of their relations.

Because what if, like Humpty Dumpty, they couldn’t put it together again? If, at the end, they found there simply weren’t enough pieces left to make it work …?

They had to make it work. Anything else was unthinkable. And so, burying her natural reticence, she bent her head and kissed him. It was the merest touch of her lips to his, but it was a sign, and a promise, and his eyes met hers and held them for a long moment. Then he squeezed her hand again where it rested on his shoulder, and the world started to breathe once more …

CHAPTER FIVE

‘SHALL I sleep in the spare room?’

Mike looked up, frowning, but Fran’s eyes were unreadable. ‘You don’t have to do that.’

‘I didn’t want to crowd you. With your foot—if I hit it in the night, I might hurt you.’

‘You won’t hurt me. It’s all pinned and plated, Fran—it’s not going anywhere. You’re more likely to stub your toe on the cast.’

‘But what about your ribs? If I shift around …’

‘You won’t. You never disturb me. Anyway,’ he added, sure that there was more to it than just concern about hurting him but not knowing what, or how to deal with it, just that he had to keep her with him come hell or high water, ‘what if I need to get up in the night? I might need help.’

For the longest moment she hesitated, then with a tiny, almost imperceptible sigh her shoulders sagged in defeat and she nodded.

‘You’re right. I’ll try and keep out of your way.’

‘You’re not in my way,’ he said, feeling a wave of relief at her submission. He’d really thought she was going to sleep in another room, and it had scared the living daylights out of him.

It was the thin end of the wedge, the beginning of the end, and for all they were hovering on the brink, he couldn’t let it go that far. Not yet. Not now. Hopefully not ever.

He was curiously reluctant to let her out of reach, even though he’d actively avoided her for months. But he’d better not scare her off. Shucking off his dressing-gown and letting the new, loose boxers she’d got him that fitted over his cast fall down around his ankles, he kicked them carefully away and lay down, wondering if he could find a position that didn’t hurt his leg and then deciding that it was his leg and not the position that hurt, and it wouldn’t frankly matter if he hung the damn thing out of the window …

‘You haven’t had your painkillers, have you?’ she said, and he wondered if she was a mind-reader.

‘I didn’t think I needed them,’ he lied. He knew perfectly well he needed them, but they made everything blurred at the edges and he was worried he’d say or do something—

What? Something affectionate? Romantic?

Desperate?

Damn. Perhaps he should have kept the boxers on.

She handed him the pills and a glass of water, and he swallowed them down. What the hell. He’d just lie with his back to her and keep his hands to himself and his mouth shut, and hopefully he’d be asleep soon …

He was restless.

Fran lay awake beside him, keeping a careful distance and wondering how much pain he was in.

A lot. He must be. She’d seen the X-rays, seen the metal framework holding his leg together, seen the screws that went right into the bones …

It made her feel sick just to think about it, sick and scared and as if she wanted to gather him up against her and hold him close, to ease it, to take away the pain in any way she could.

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 was lying on—and he really needed to turn over, but she was in the way and he couldn’t bear to wake her.

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.

This time, he let himself touch her, let his fingers curl over the slender, fragile curve of her shoulder, and with a contented little sigh she wriggled backwards until she was touching him, the soft roundness of her bottom brushing his thighs, her back against his chest, and she relaxed again.

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 … She felt the brush of his erection again, felt the stillness in his body and knew he was awake. Awake, and aroused, and waiting for her to make the next move.

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 woken, she’d been slap in the middle, her bottom rammed firmly up against him—as in, Sit on my lap and we’ll talk about the first thing that comes up, she thought, and groaned with embarrassment.

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 had no idea where Fran was, what she was doing, and how she’d greet him when he finally caught up with her.

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 by the fridge. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Fran’s gone over to the shop to get some fruit. Joe, shove up, let him sit down. Want a cup of tea, Mike?’

‘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 you, and I’ve got some cheese and yoghurt as well. You need all those vitamins and minerals to help you mend and build your strength up.’

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 hands itched to strangle Joe. Not that his brother realised he was being tactless. How could he? Only they knew their marriage was in tatters.

‘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.’

‘Yeah—and Mum was probably planning all sorts of work on their house in the next few weeks and it won’t get done.’

‘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.

‘You OK now?’

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 there, he asked her to drive down to the river. ‘I want to see it,’ he said.

‘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.’

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 want it. He got back in, swung his legs in—he was getting good at it now, although his ribs still hurt like hell to do it—and Fran shut the door.

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 chair. Brodie wasn’t around—gone off with Joe and Sarah, probably, so it was just him and Fran and a rather awkward tension between them which he’d never felt before.

She peeled and chopped the fruit—strawberries, a chunk of melon, two bananas and a handful of blueberries—threw in a good glug of locally sourced apple juice and turned on the liquidiser.

At least it drowned out the silence, he thought, and then she handed him a glass of purplish mush, clinked hers against it and said, ‘Welcome home, Mike.’

What could he do? He picked up the glass, took a breath and sipped, then frowned at it. ‘This is really nice,’ he said, surprised, and she smiled—in relief?

‘Good. Drink up, and you can go and have a lie-down. You look tired.’

He was, and, curiously, what he wanted more than anything was to ask her to join him, but he didn’t think he could. Not easily. Not after last night.

So he drank up, took some more painkillers and went to bed.

Alone.

CHAPTER SIX

HE SLEPT most of that day, and the night was made easier by the stack of pillows under and around his leg, propping it up and protecting his toes from the pressure of the quilt. Not that he needed it, because it was hot, and in the end they abandoned it in favour of a sheet.

But then it grew cooler, the wind picking up a little, and because their bedroom was on a corner and there was a cross-draught from the windows, Fran found herself snuggling closer to him for warmth.

Only her head and shoulders, her body carefully kept out of reach, but he slid his arm round her and held her, and together they slept the rest of the night till the fingers of light crept over the horizon and woke them.

Well, woke her. And when she looked up, Mike was watching her, his eyes curiously intent, and her heart thumped.

‘Want a drink?’ she asked him, easing away and stretching out the kinks in her neck.

‘Mmm. Tea would be nice.’

She hesitated. ‘How about juice? It’s quicker and it won’t keep you awake.’

He gave a short laugh. ‘Fran, I’ve slept for nearly eighteen hours straight, apart from waking up for supper. I don’t think sleep’s an issue.’

‘OK.’

She slipped out of bed and went down to the kitchen, foraging in the back of the cupboard for the decaf tea bags she’d bought for them. ‘Oh, Brodie, it would be so much easier if I could tell him what I was doing and why, but I don’t know if I can. What do you think he’ll say?’

And that was the trouble, of course. Mike was avoiding her, she was avoiding him, and they just weren’t talking. Not that they ever had, really. Maybe that was the trouble, but once the lid was off that box …

‘I can’t talk to him, Brodie. Not about getting pregnant again. Not until I know how he feels about me.’ And, of course, without talking to him, she never would.

‘So—what are we going to do today?’

Mike dragged his eyes from the window and looked at her. They were in the sitting room overlooking the garden and the sea in the distance, the church and lighthouse just visible on the horizon.

‘I don’t know. You tell me,’ he said, wondering if he sounded like a spoilt brat. He felt like one. If it wasn’t for the physical impossibility, he would have stamped his foot, but because he couldn’t he just ground his teeth and crossed his arms over his chest, drumming his fingers on the other arm.

God, he hated the inactivity! Hated sitting still, being unable to do anything, just—sitting, for heaven’s sake! He never sat! Well, not unless he was in front of the computer, filling in endless farm returns and tweaking the farm-shop website. Maybe he should do that.

‘How about going for a drive?’

He thought about it, but his ribs probably weren’t up to being jostled and he’d quickly discovered that if he didn’t have his foot up, the cast got uncomfortably tight. Although comfort wasn’t really a word he could have used truthfully and it was all a matter of degree.

‘We could play Scrabble.’

Fran stared at him. ‘You hate Scrabble.’

‘Not as much as I hate lying here doing nothing. Got any better ideas?’

She looked away, and he was stunned to see a warm sweep of colour brush over her cheeks. Fran, blushing? She got up hastily and crouched down, rummaging in the cupboard where the games were kept, and by the time she straightened up her colour had returned to normal.

She still didn’t look at him, though, and he was fascinated. Fascinated, and very curious, and strangely a little edgy.

‘If I move the coffee-table over by you, can you manage on that?’ she asked.

‘I’ll give it a try.’

It worked. Sort of. It was a little low, but that was fine, because every time she leant over to put her letters down on the board, he got a view straight down the V of her T-shirt, and it was worth every second of the discomfort he felt when he put his own letters down.

Especially when she realised it was hurting him and started taking the letters from him and putting them down for him. So he got twice as many opportunities to see the soft, warm shadow between her breasts.

The effect was predictable, and he shifted a little on the sofa, pretending it was to do with his ribs but actually trying to ease the tension in his boxers.

‘Grackle? You can’t have that!’ she said. ‘It doesn’t exist.’

‘Want a bet?’

‘What is it, then?’

‘It’s a type of mynah bird.’

She sat back and stared at him. ‘Really?’

‘Look it up.’

‘And lose my go? No way. I know you and animals.’ She added the score, and he leant over and shifted one of the letters to expose the coloured square.

‘Don’t forget it’s on a double word score,’ he pointed out, and she scribbled out the score and wrote the correct one in.

‘I’m not going to let you win,’ she said fiercely, scowling at her letters and checking the board. ‘You always win—even though you hate it, you always win.’ She put down ‘lathe’, and he added an ‘r’ to it and got another double word score.

‘Don’t sulk,’ he teased, and she glared at him, then laughed and threw a letter at him.

‘Don’t gloat, then! I was going to do that when I got an “r”.’

‘You should have hung on.’

‘No doubt.’ She shuffled her letters, grinned and hung ‘runcible’ on the ‘r’ of ‘lather’, getting a triple word score and a bonus for using all her letters.

‘Runcible? You can’t have that, it’s not a proper word!’ he protested.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Rubbish. It’s Edward Lear—he has a runcible spoon in “The Owl and the Pussycat”—“They dined on mince and slices of quince which they ate with a runcible spoon.” It’s just nonsense.’

‘And a runcible cat in “The Pobble Who Has No Toes”,’ she said, and quoted back at him, ‘“He has gone to fish, for his Aunt Jobiska’s runcible cat with crimson whiskers.” I rest my case,’ she said smugly.

He tried not to laugh. ‘It’s not in the dictionary.’

‘Oh, yes, it is.’

‘I bet it isn’t.’

‘What do you bet?’

He took a slow breath, his eyes locked with hers. ‘A kiss.’

She coloured, and then looked away and laughed a little oddly. ‘You’re on.’ And she handed him the dictionary.

Except he didn’t take it. He caught her wrist, gave it a gentle tug and toppled her towards him. She gave a little shriek and grabbed the back of the sofa with her free hand so she didn’t fall on him, but his nose ended up in her cleavage, and he turned his head and brushed his lips against the soft, shadowed skin.

She caught her breath and straightened, sinking down onto the edge of the sofa, and their eyes locked. Slowly, carefully, he leant forwards, stifling the groan as his ribs pinched, and touched his mouth to hers.

For an endless, aching second she was still, then she moved away. ‘Uh-uh,’ she said, her voice over-bright and her smile pinned in place. ‘You have to win a kiss, and you haven’t looked it up yet.’ And she stood up and moved back to the other side of the coffee-table and safety.

He found it—of course. She was never so definite if she wasn’t sure about something, and he’d bet she’d looked it up recently when they’d been doing Lear at school.

‘See? It’s a three-pronged fork with a curved edge on one side.’

‘Shame,’ he said softly, closing the dictionary, and her eyes flew up and met his, then slid away again, but he’d had his kiss. Sort of. And it had left him aching for more.

He wanted to drag her off to bed, kiss her senseless and drive out this reluctance of hers, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t and, anyway, it was as much as he could do to drag himself there, never mind an unwilling woman.

Besides, he didn’t want to. Not if it meant her going through hell again with another failed pregnancy somewhere down the line because of him.

He reached out, letters in hand, but she tutted and put another word down before him. ‘My turn,’ she pointed out. ‘You forfeited your turn when you looked in the dictionary.’

He gave up trying and let her win, as much as anything because he couldn’t sit there any longer and look down her cleavage at something he wasn’t able to touch …

Sophie came later, running into the sitting room with her eyes wide with worry and fascination. ‘Wow, you’ve got a proper cast!’ she said in awe. ‘Can I draw a picture on it?’

‘Sure—when I’ve had a hug.’

‘Mind his ribs, darling,’ Fran warned her. ‘He’s a bit sore.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Will I hurt you if I hug you?’ she asked, nibbling her lip, and he shook his head and pulled her up onto his lap, snuggling her close on his right side, the side that didn’t have the bruises. Well, not so many, anyway, and he needed a cuddle from his little girl.

She wriggled down tighter, burrowing under his arm, and then lay almost motionless, even breathing carefully in case she hurt him. It made him want to laugh and cry at the same time, and he hugged her gently.

‘So—are you all ready for your holiday?’ he said, and she shuffled round so she could see him, gently kneeing him in the groin as she did so. He grabbed her leg and held it still, and over her shoulder he could see Fran biting her lip and trying not to laugh.

‘Yup. I’ve packed my things already. I want to see Nessie again. Last time we went to Scotland we saw Nessie,’ she said. ‘Didn’t we, Mummy?’

Kirsten smiled. ‘Well, there were some ripples on Loch Ness that might have been caused by an animal, but they could have been the wind.’

‘It was Nessie, I know it was,’ Sophie said adamantly. ‘And we had haggis. I’m not eating that again!’ She pulled a face, and Mike chuckled.

‘Didn’t you like it?’

‘It was disgusting!’ she said. ‘All greasy and smelly and made of a sheep’s stomach! It was horrid. But we had lots of shortbread and I like that. Mummy says we can go back to the shop we bought it from and get some more. Oh, and we’re going up Ben Nevis again! We walked halfway up last time, to the little lake, and Andrew had to carry me down ’cos I had bendy legs, but I’m bigger now. Maybe we’ll even get to the top!’

He smothered the laugh and hugged her again. ‘Poor old Andrew! Let’s hope you make it both ways this time. Coming down’s always the hardest bit.’ He knew—he’d carried Sophie down his fair share of hills over the years, and it got your knees like nothing else. ‘Hey, how about some cake? I know Fran’s brought some over from the shop and I’m getting really hungry.’

‘Good idea,’ Fran said with a smile. ‘Come on, guys, let’s go and make tea for Mike.’ She held out her hand to Sophie, who slithered over his chest, grabbed her hand and cuddled up to her side.

‘Can I make him banana sandwiches?’

‘I expect so.’ Fran chuckled, and Mike listened to them making their way towards the kitchen and smiled at Kirsten.

‘Sounds like you’ll have a busy holiday.’

‘Well, we will if she has anything to do with it, but we all love Scotland and Andrew’s parents spoil her to death. So—are you OK to have her for the week when we get back?’

‘Fine. Make it Sunday afternoon, can you? I should be able to help out in the shop over the weekend by then, and I feel I ought to be pulling my weight.’

‘Sunday’s fine. It’ll give me time to unpack and wash her stuff.’ She stared at his leg. ‘I’m sorry about your accident.’

He shrugged. ‘I was being stupid.’

‘So I gather. And I always thought you were clever. Maybe we should get Sophie screened for the reckless gene.’

He snorted. ‘So rude.’

‘You asked for it.’ She stopped smiling and perched on the edge of the sofa. ‘Actually, I’ve got something to tell you.’

He looked up into her face, and his heart sank. He knew, before she opened her mouth, what she was going to say.

‘When’s it due?’ he asked.

She frowned, then said sadly, ‘Is it so obvious?’

He nodded. ‘I’ve seen that look in your eyes before, don’t forget. So when is it? February? March?’

‘February—the very end. We haven’t told Sophie yet, but I wanted to warn you, because of Fran and—well, you know.’

Yes, he knew. What he didn’t know was how on earth he was going to tell Fran. He dredged up a smile. ‘Congratulations, Kirsten,’ he said softly, and, drawing her down, he hugged her gently and brushed a kiss against her cheek. ‘I hope it all goes well for you. Sophie’s dying for a little brother or sister and we don’t seem to be getting any closer to achieving that for her, so I’m really pleased for you.’

She blinked hard and smiled. ‘Thank you. I know it isn’t easy for you.’

‘Mummy—Mummy! It’s a chocolate fudge cake! Absolutely my favourite! And I’ve made some banana sandwiches, and Fran’s made a huge pot of tea—she’s bringing it on a tray.’

‘How lovely—I’ll help her,’ Kirsten said, standing up and giving him another slightly worried smile. ‘Mike, are you sure you’re OK about it?’

‘About what?’ Sophie asked, bouncing around the room with the dog on her heels.

‘Having you for the week once you’re back,’ he said quickly. ‘I think if Fran’s OK with it, we could have you from the weekend after next? I should get a walking cast so I might be a bit more mobile by then. And we’re pushed on the farm at the moment, because one of the shop ladies is off on holiday, so we’ll have you from Sunday afternoon, perhaps? Then we’ll have plenty of time to hear about your holiday.’

Kirsten shot him a grateful look for his hasty intervention. ‘That would be fine. I’ll bring her over—we’ll go and talk to Fran now and sort out the times,’ she said, and went out to help with the tea things.

Sophie went too, dithering and skipping and chatting to Brodie as she went, and Mike laid his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes.

Pregnant.

Hell. It was going to kill Fran—and he was going to have to strike the fatal blow …

Mike seemed much more comfortable with the new cast.

Maybe it was because his leg was starting to recover from the insult of the fracture and the repair, or maybe he was giving in and taking the painkillers regularly and not trying to be heroic.

Whatever, he was sleeping better, and that meant Fran was too.

Just as well, she thought, because with him out of action, now she was on holiday from school she was doing as much as she could on the farm to help out. She didn’t do the milking—Russell seemed more than happy to do that, and she didn’t like to stop him. She sensed that he missed the farm, and also that he needed to be needed, something that Mike wasn’t very good at understanding.

He was so busy trying to take the pressure off his father that sometimes she wondered if they’d taken too much too soon, but it was certainly back on now, and Russell seemed to be thriving on it.

And Joy was helping in the farm shop, as usual, and so Fran ended up making the cheese.

She didn’t mind. It was quite therapeutic, really, and because of the tight timings—adding the starter culture once the milk was the right temperature, then stirring it, then leaving it, then adding the rennet, and the mould if it was to be a blue cheese, then cutting it, then scooping out the curds into the strainers, and all the time checking the temperature of the various processes, washing out the vats, scrubbing down the tables, sterilising everything, endlessly hosing the floor and brushing it clean—there was no time to think and yet the steady rhythm of the work was curiously restful.

There was all the work in the cheese stores as well, turning and salting and testing, and then packaging the cheeses for sale, either in wheels or cut into wedges and shrink-wrapped.

It all took time, and as they were so busy with the summer tourist influx it kept her well out of Mike’s way, but it was quite hard physical work, and she was feeling drained this week. Just because it was another thing, another turn of the screw at a time when things were already tough enough, she’d started her period on Sunday evening, and although she knew she couldn’t be pregnant—well, after all, how could she without any contact with Mike?—nevertheless it still made her feel down.

She’d just finished a long session of salting and turning in the blue cheese store on Thursday and was cooking their supper when she saw Ben heading towards the house with a book in his hand. She went to the door and opened it with a smile. ‘Hi, Ben!’ she said, and he smiled back.

‘Hello, Fran. Is Mike in? I’ve got something for him.’

‘Yes—go on through. He’s in the sitting room. He’s bored to death. He’ll be delighted to see you. Want a cup of tea?’

He shook his head. ‘No, I won’t hold you up, I can see you’re cooking. I’ll just go and have a chat for a few minutes.’

‘If you’re sure?’

‘I’m sure. You carry on, I won’t be long.’

‘Is the invalid up for a visit?’

Ben was standing in the doorway, and Mike chuckled and shifted up the sofa, propping himself up against the backrest and moving his leg into a more comfortable position.

‘Absolutely. Come on in, make yourself at home.’

‘So how are you?’

‘Oh, you know—bored, sore, frustrated with the ceaseless inactivity …’

‘Peachy, then.’

‘Oh, utterly.’

Ben grinned and dropped into the armchair opposite. ‘Thought so. I’ve brought you a book—it’s an autobiography I’ve just finished reading. The guy was unfortunate enough to become one of my patients and he gave it to me. Nice man. I thought you might enjoy it. It’s quite funny and very touching—he used to be a farmer.’

He slid it over the coffee-table and Mike picked it up, flicked through the pictures and put it down. ‘Thanks. I’ve heard about it—if I’d thought I’d have the time, I would have bought a copy, so I’ll enjoy reading it. God knows, there’s not much else to do at the moment.’

Ben chuckled. ‘I can imagine. So when did they change your cast?’

‘Tuesday. It doesn’t seem to be swelling too much, so they were happy to do it. I have to say it looked pretty grim.’

Ben nodded. ‘I expect it’s black.’

‘Mmm—like this,’ he said, lifting up his T-shirt and making Ben wince.

‘That’s a goody. You were lucky your chest didn’t cave in. You could have had a flail segment there and it would have made it much more exciting.’

Mike groaned. ‘No, thanks. It was quite exciting enough. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve thanked you for coming to my rescue.’ He tipped his head on one side. ‘Actually, I seem to remember you rang me at a rather opportune moment for that chat, and you never did say what it was about.’

‘Oh, that. It’s nothing to worry about—it’ll keep.’

‘Well, if it’s nothing to worry about, bring it on, frankly, because all I’ve had to do for the last week is sit here and worry about all the things I should be doing and can’t, and how much work this has put on everybody else, and how far behind we’ll be if I can’t get all the summer jobs done—so, please, if it’s something to think about that isn’t a worry, tell me!’

Ben laughed and sat back, studying him for a moment. ‘OK. It’s about the field in front of the house. Well, all round it, really, but especially the bit between the house and the road. It’s not huge, but when we had the christening you let us use it for parking, and it was hugely helpful. The drive’s really not big enough if we have more than one visitor, and if we had that field, we could extend the parking at the front and make a bit more of a garden on that side of the house. And if you got really carried away and wanted to sell the bit between us and the clifftop, and maybe a little strip round each side too …?’

Mike thought about it for a moment, then nodded slowly. ‘It would make a lot of sense for you, but we tend to move the cattle through from one side of you to the other along that field, and if you’ve got the whole section from the cliff to the road, we’d have to move them on the lane, and we try to avoid that. And it wouldn’t help you with access to the beach—I take it you’ve found out how steep it is there? You can’t walk down.’

‘No, I know. It was just an idea. It’s the other bit, really, that’s the most significant, and Lucy’s decided she loves gardening—takes after her grandmother, I think, and she really wants to expand it. She says I only want it so I can have a little red tractor mower and drive around on it, pretending to be a farmer—’

Mike laughed out loud at that. ‘Any time you want to play at being a farmer, give us a shout and you can get up at five and do the milking.’

Ben grinned. ‘I’ll stick with the mower,’ he replied. ‘So—think about it, ask Joe what he thinks. There’s no rush, and we certainly don’t want to put any pressure on you, but if the land’s going begging, we’d be more than happy to pay you amenity rates. We’d have to get it valued to make it fair.’

Amenity rates? They doubled the price of agricultural land, sometimes more than doubled it. And the land Ben was talking about wasn’t in any way fundamental to the running of the farm. They had plenty of grazing, and certainly the area between the house and the road was only ever grazed just to keep it down. It wasn’t good enough for hay, it wasn’t big enough for crops and the most sensible thing would be to sell it to the Carters.

And, God knows, cash at the moment was tight.

‘Have you got a plan of the plot?’

‘Not here,’ Ben said. ‘I have at home. Want me to draw it up so you can see?’

‘Or I can walk over it with you.’

Ben arched a brow ironically, and Mike sighed. ‘Well, drive, then. I can get Joe to bring me up. We could all talk it over on site. I’ll speak to him and Dad first.’

‘Do that. And now I’m going to leave you in peace. Fran was cooking something that smelled really gorgeous, and I don’t want to be responsible for ruining your supper. Enjoy the book—and drop in when you’re next in the hospital. The fracture clinic’s right next to A and E, and if I’ve got time, I’ll stop for a coffee with you.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Mike promised.

Ben went out, and he could hear his voice in the kitchen, talking to Fran for a moment before the back door shut.

So Ben wanted to buy the land.

And if he did, Joe and Sarah would get enough money to refit their kitchen, which was absolutely falling apart, and he and Fran—they’d have enough money, he thought, the realisation slowly dawning, to pay for another cycle of IVF.

He swallowed. If Fran felt brave enough to go for it. And if she did, he’d have to find the strength from somewhere to support her when it all went wrong.

Assuming she even wanted a baby with him any more. Right now, he wasn’t sure she did. He didn’t know what was going on in her head, and that made life with her an absolute minefield.

And to make matters worse, Sophie was coming back on Sunday week and he still hadn’t worked out how to tell Fran that Kirsten was pregnant.

Oh, damn.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THERE was only one way to do this, Mike decided, and that was to tell Fran straight.

So he did—eventually.

She’d prepared a lovely meal—chilled watercress and tomato soup with basil and garlic croutons, a really tasty chicken dish in a creamy blue cheese sauce with shiitake mushrooms on a bed of wild rice served with the freshest, crunchiest runner beans out of their own garden, and then a fabulous fruit salad rammed with fresh summer fruits topped with a dollop of clotted cream. It was streets away from the usual food they ate, when she was up to her eyes in schoolwork and he was milking until six-thirty and then fighting with the paperwork. He didn’t care if it was geared to helping his leg mend, it was gorgeous, and he scraped the last dribble of cream off the edge of the bowl and pushed it away with a sigh of regret.

‘That was delicious, darling, thank you,’ he said with a smile, and she smiled back and took his plate.

‘You’re welcome,’ she said.

It would have been easier if he hadn’t felt so guilty because he was about to wreck it all by telling her about Kirsten. In fact, he was so preoccupied with working out how to do it he was surprised she hadn’t picked up on it.

But apparently she hadn’t, because she cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher and topped up his glass of apple juice without commenting on his silence.

He wished he didn’t have to do this. Telling her about the baby was going to spoil their evening, and good times between them were so few and far between. She’d made a real effort tonight—did he really have to say anything to spoil it?

Yes, because otherwise Sophie would come next weekend and if she knew she was bound to say something, and he owed Fran a few days to get used to the idea without having to pretend enthusiasm to a delighted little girl who was finally having her dream realised.

But not now. Later, perhaps. When they’d gone to bed. When he could lie there and hold her, and hug her when she cried—because she would, of course. She was bound to, and if she was already in his arms, maybe she wouldn’t run away and cry in private.

Although he hated it when she cried, he hated even more the idea that she’d run away and do it in a corner somewhere, like a wounded animal. That he really, really couldn’t bear.

‘Coffee?’ he suggested.

She hesitated, then smiled. ‘OK. Just a little one. I don’t want to keep you awake.’

He’d love her to keep him awake, but that wasn’t what she was talking about, and, anyway, there was still this whole pregnancy minefield.

Oh, hell. Life was so incredibly complicated.

‘What’s wrong, Mike? You’ve been frowning all evening.’ He turned towards her in the darkness. With the bedroom curtains open, as they always were, he could just about make out her features, but he couldn’t read her expression. That was a definite disadvantage of doing this in the dark, but it was more intimate, easier to say the things that would hurt her so badly.

‘Nothing’s wrong, exactly,’ he said, not knowing where to start. He reached out and found her hand, curling his fingers round it and squeezing gently. ‘It’s just—Kirsten’s …’

He let it hang, and after a few seconds she sucked in her breath and he knew she’d worked it out.

‘When?’ she said, her voice almost inaudible.

He ached to gather her into his arms. ‘February,’ he told her, although he couldn’t see that it made any difference, but it had been his first question, too, and he supposed it was only natural, part of the process of establishing just when the changes would start to show. Soon, he thought, remembering Kirsten’s first pregnancy.

Fran’s fingers tightened on his, and he squeezed back and didn’t let go.

‘Does Sophie know?’ she asked eventually, her voice hollow.

‘I don’t know. She didn’t when Kirsten told me.’

‘When did she tell you?’

‘On Sunday.’

‘Sunday?’ she exclaimed, pulling her fingers away. ‘But—it’s Thursday!’

‘I know,’ he said heavily. ‘I didn’t know how to tell you.’

‘Oh, Mike, that’s silly,’ she said, her voice more normal now—or was it? ‘It’s lovely for them. And Sophie will be delighted.’

‘Are you going to be OK with it?’ he asked, wishing to God he could read her face. If only he’d done this in daylight …

‘I’ll live. It was always going to happen, Mike.’ But this time there was a little wobble in her voice, and without thinking about it, because if he did he’d talk himself out of it, he reached out and gathered her against his chest.

For a moment she resisted, then he felt her chest hitch, and her arms slid round him and she squeezed him tight. Right over his cracked ribs, but he stifled the groan and held her, running his hands gently up and down over her back to comfort her.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he murmured, and she sniffed and her chest jerked again, but she wouldn’t let the tears fall, wouldn’t give way to them.

Damn, she was so ridiculously brave! If only she’d cry—let it out, let him hold her while she worked through all her feelings, but she wouldn’t, and he could understand that. He wouldn’t lie and cry in her arms either. It was just all too revealing.

‘I knew it would happen,’ she said finally. ‘I mean, why not? Everyone else in the world seems to be pregnant.’

Everyone but her. He knew that, knew without a shadow of a doubt that she wasn’t pregnant because she’d had a period this week. Not that it made any difference without the means to conceive, but it must just rub it in when something like this happened.

And she’d been in a foul mood earlier in the week, distant and unapproachable, and he didn’t know if she was still angry with him about the accident or unhappy because she wasn’t pregnant again or if it was just PMT.

In the good old days, if she’d been grumpy like this he would have made a wisecrack about her hormones. Not now. He knew better now, because PMT was an indicator of just how monumentally unsuccessful they were being in the baby department, and frankly it just wasn’t funny.

He pressed a kiss to her hair, and she snuggled closer, letting him hold her. He wasn’t really comfortable. He should have had his leg up on a pillow, but it wasn’t as bad as it had been and for now it wasn’t his priority.

Fran was, and he wasn’t going to do anything that might make her leave his arms. He wished he knew what to say, how to comfort her, but he didn’t, so he just held her, and after an age she fell asleep.

It was hot—too hot to lie so close—and he shifted slightly, easing away from her and stretching his leg out, wishing he’d propped it up on the pillows first before they’d started this conversation.

She’d rolled to her side away from him, and he shifted to face her, hunting for a better position. It wasn’t, but his good leg brushed hers, and she wriggled back towards him, seeking him out in her sleep the way she always did if things were tough.

The way she always had, he corrected himself, and let his arm circle her waist, drawing her back more firmly against his chest. To hell with the heat. She needed him, and it was little enough to do for her.

Even if the feel of her soft, warm body in his arms was killing him …

Fran woke to Mike’s arm around her, his fingers curled gently around her breast, the insistent nudge of his erection against her bottom.

Heat speared through her, flooding her with a fierce, desperate need, a hollow ache that only he could fill. It was so long since she’d felt it, felt anything at all except empty and cold. And she wanted him—wanted the old Mike, the man who laughed and chased her around until she let him catch her, who made love to her, tormenting her until she was sobbing with need, then taking her with a wild and uncontrolled passion that left her spent and boneless in his arms.

Where was that man? Gone for ever? Or was he still here? If she only had the courage to reach out …

‘Mike?’ she whispered.

For a moment he said nothing, so she almost wondered if he was asleep, but he was too still, too silent, and then he spoke, his voice gruff and low.

‘I’m sorry. It’s just—I’ll move.’

‘No!’

The word was out before she could stop it, and he froze again. ‘Fran, please. I can’t do this. Can’t lie here night after night, wanting you like this, and—’

‘Wanting me?’ she breathed, stunned. Turning, she stared at him in the moonlight. ‘Do you want me? I thought you didn’t.’

‘Of course I want you,’ he whispered roughly. ‘I’ll always want you.’

‘But—you’ve been avoiding me. Going over to the farm office, telling me not to wait up, getting out of bed in the morning without waking me.’

‘I’ve always done that. I never wake you that early.’

‘Not like this, Mike. Not like this, so I thought you didn’t love me any more.’

‘Oh, Frankie, of course I love you.’ He sighed. ‘I just …’

‘Just can’t bring yourself to touch me?’ she said, her voice hollow to her ears—hollow and empty, like her heart.

‘No! How could you think that?’

‘Then why are you avoiding me?’ she wailed softly, ridiculously, all but inviting him to make love to her when she couldn’t even contemplate his intimate touch.

He sighed again, his hand coming up, the knuckles grazing her cheek with infinite tenderness. ‘It’s not that I can’t bring myself to touch you, Fran. It’s—oh, hell, much more complicated than that.’

‘Then tell me! Talk to me, Mike!’

He didn’t answer, but she could hear the cogs turning, feel the tension radiating out of him.

‘Mike?’

‘Frankie, I’m no good with words. I’m a farmer, for God’s sake. I don’t talk about my feelings.’

‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Why not? Dammit, I’m not enjoying this either, but we have to talk. Our marriage is in tatters, we’re falling apart and I’m trying here, really trying to get through to you, to sort it out, to find out if we’ve still got anything, and I can’t do that on my own! I can’t lay myself bare, wide open to you—not on my own! You have to do it too, Mike. You have to tell me how you feel. You have to share. Please …’

Her voice cracked, and with a ragged sigh he reached out and found her hands in the darkness, gripping them so tight she nearly cried out, but she wasn’t letting go, not now, when they were so close …

‘It’s not that I can’t bring myself to touch you,’ he said gruffly. ‘Far from it. It’s more that—I daren’t.’

‘Daren’t?’ she breathed. ‘Why ever not?’

He hesitated an age, then said, so softly she could hardly hear him, ‘In case you get pregnant.’

She froze with shock. So she was right, she thought numbly, her eyes searching his but unable to read them in the shadows. Her voice cracking, she said desperately, ‘I knew you didn’t want a child with me—’

‘Oh, Frankie, no!’ He reached out, wrapped her in his arms, dragged her against his chest with a groan of protest. ‘Of course I want a child with you. But every time you’re pregnant, every time you lose it—I just can’t bear to watch you go through that, sweetheart—not again. I can’t bear watching you fall apart, seeing what I’ve done to you destroying you—’

‘What you’ve done?’ She pushed away, tilting her head so she could look into his eyes, her hand cradling his face. ‘Mike, don’t be silly! You’ve done nothing to me.’

‘Except get you pregnant with dodgy sperm.’

‘We don’t know that. It could be my eggs. Maybe they’re dodgy. What makes you think it’s you? There’s nothing dodgy about Sophie.’

‘Maybe she was a one-off. My lucky break. And anyway, you’ve been avoiding me, too,’ he added softly. ‘Sometimes, when I’ve reached the end of my tether and I really, really needed you, you’ve turned away, reading a book or going to have a bath or—I don’t know, almost anything rather than be alone with me. I’ve even wondered …’

‘Wondered what?’ she asked, when the silence stretched on.

‘If there was someone else.’

‘Mike! You know I wouldn’t!’

‘I know. I do know. Or I know you wouldn’t have an affair, at least, but—you can’t stop yourself falling in love, Frankie. And if there’s someone else—someone you’d rather be with—I know you don’t want me to touch you. I’ve felt you recoil …’

‘When?’

‘The other night?’

‘Oh, Mike.’ She felt tears fill her eyes, felt the anguish in his voice cut through her like a knife. ‘It wasn’t that.’

‘What, then? What is it that makes you flinch away from me as if I’m somehow … repugnant to you?’

‘Oh, darling, you’re not. Not at all. It’s just—I feel like a medical investigation. As if so many people have looked at me there, touched me, talked about me—as if the part of me that had belonged to us is suddenly public property. And I don’t know if I could bear for you to touch me, or if it’ll just bring it all back—’ She broke off, biting her lip, then went on unsteadily, ‘Mike, I don’t know if I can respond to you any more. I don’t know if it hasn’t just killed it for me, and I’m scared to find out.’

His breath sighed against her face, warm and reassuring. ‘Oh, Frankie. Oh, my love—what’s happened to us?’ he whispered, folding her against his chest again and rocking her. She could still feel the brush of his erection, but softer now, less urgent, and as he cradled her so her confidence grew, her need to hold him, to touch him building until finally she found the courage to reach out.

‘Mike?’ Her voice was soft, gently questioning, and her hand stroked against his shadowed jaw, the rasp of stubble unbearably erotic against her palm. Leaning in to him, she brushed her lips lightly against his, tentatively, not sure of her reception or how she’d react if he took it further than this, but he wasn’t going to let her find out.

He drew back, taking her hand and turning his face into it, pressing a kiss against her palm. ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘Not tonight. Not when you’re still unsure—still not ready.’

‘I am,’ she lied, but he knew her better than that. So much better. And he was right, of course. She wasn’t ready, and maybe he wasn’t either. They still had a long way to go, a lot to unravel, much to talk through.

And for a man who didn’t talk and a woman usually too shy to reveal her inner self, it was going to be uphill all the way.

They slept in each other’s arms, only waking to the sound of his family in the kitchen at seven.

She groaned, and he chuckled and hugged her closer to his chest. ‘Maybe they’ll cook us breakfast,’ he suggested.

‘And maybe I should be up and helping them, not lying here with you and—’ She broke off, and he let her go.

Lying here with him and—what? Wanting him, the way he wanted her? God, he hoped so, because a few more nights of persistent arousal was going to give him a serious medical problem.

But what if she didn’t? What if she never wanted him, couldn’t ever bear his touch? What if all the investigations had turned her off so thoroughly that they never made love again?

The thought took his breath away.

‘Coming down?’ she asked, and he shook his head.

‘I’ll have a shower first.’

‘Need a hand?’

‘No,’ he said firmly. Not to have a cold shower. And it would need a bucket of ice to settle him down after last night. He watched her as she walked down to the bathroom, the nightshirt hitched up slightly by the clothes she’d scooped up to take with her, revealing an incredibly tempting glimpse of the crease below her left buttock as she walked.

The softly shadowed fold did nothing to help his state of arousal, and with a groan he shut his eyes and dragged his mind to something dull. Anything. The paperwork? Farm records?

Funny how his mind had emptied, how he couldn’t think of a single thing except that soft shadow and the warm, silky feel of her skin …

She was busy all day, out on the farm, and he was driven crazy. He started to read the book Ben had given him, but it couldn’t hold his attention. Not against such fierce competition.

And he was getting so unfit it was driving him mad.

He went into the kitchen, poked about in the larder and found an unopened bag of rice. That might do the trick. He sat down on one of the chairs, draped the rice bag over his cast and did some lower-leg lifts until his thigh and abdominal muscles were burning. Then he shifted onto his right hip and lifted the leg up and in towards the centre, over and over, then stood up and held on to the sink and lifted his leg out sideways until the muscles round his hip were screaming in protest.

He looked at the clock and sighed. Ten minutes. Barely that, and he was cream-crackered. Still, it was a start.

He put the kettle on, then went to the freezer and hunted around for the packet of coffee. Funny, he had been sure there’d been one in here, but he couldn’t find it. Oh, well. He picked up his crutches and went slowly over to the farm office. Joe was in there with his father, and he stuck a coffee-pod in the machine and put a mug under the spout.

‘So how are things?’ Mike asked while he waited for the coffee.

‘OK. How about you?’

‘Bored to death. Doing exercises so my leg doesn’t wither and drop off. Why?’

‘I’m going to cut up that tree,’ his brother said. ‘Want to come and keep an eye on me?’

‘I can’t do anything.’

‘You can dial 999 when I cut my leg off,’ Joe pointed out dryly, and Russell snorted.

‘I hate to point this out to you two but I can’t run the entire farm alone without either of my suicidally reckless sons.’

‘Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll look after him,’ Mike assured him. ‘And tell Fran not to worry about lunch, we’ll grab something from the shop.’

He drained his coffee—the first decent one for days, he realised—and climbed into the cab of the pickup with Joe. Maybe if he was careful he could stack some of the logs …

‘Cheers. You’ve been a real help—hope you haven’t overdone it.’

‘I’m fine. It was good to get some fresh air,’ Mike told Joe, and slapped his shoulder. ‘Right, I’m going in. No doubt I’ll get a lecture. I’ll see you later.’

He went into the kitchen and sniffed appreciatively.

‘Wow, that smells good.’

‘It’s more than you deserve,’ Fran growled, but when she turned she was smiling and he hobbled over to her, stashed his crutches in the corner of the worktop and hugged her.

‘I was sensible. I was just going crazy, stuck in the house, sweetheart.’

‘I know.’ Her arms were round him, holding him close, and she felt so good he could have stayed there for ever, but she pushed him away and told him to wash.

‘You’ve got ten minutes before supper,’ she said. ‘And I want you clean and presentable. We’re eating in the dining room.’

He peered through the door on the way past and did a mild double-take. Candles?

He yelled back, ‘Give me fifteen minutes. I’m having a shower.’

A nice hot one, followed by a shave and a slosh of the citrusy cologne she’d given him for Christmas two years ago. He contemplated the cast with disfavour, pulled on a fresh pair of the baggy boxers, then his favourite aqua-blue soft cotton shirt and his decent shorts—his dress shorts? he thought with a chuckle—and went downstairs.

Wow.

She’d said clean and presentable, but she hadn’t expected him to go to so much trouble. He was even wearing aftershave!

She was wearing a sundress—she’d changed into it after she’d finished turning the cheeses and had a shower, and she’d been out in the garden picking fresh herbs and deadheading the roses. She could feel the warmth in her shoulders, even though she’d been out of the sun at midday, but it had obviously been enough.

Now, though, looking at him in his shorts and that lovely shirt, which did incredible things to his fabulous chocolate-brown eyes, she wished she’d made more effort—put on a touch of make-up, her best underwear—

She cut herself off. This was supper for her husband. Nothing more. Nothing huge. They were going to eat, and they were going to talk and make friends again. And if tonight went like last night, he wouldn’t let it go any further.

‘Anything I can do?’

‘Yes—sit down in the dining room and light the candles. I know it’s not dark yet, but it’s gloomy in there.’

‘You’re an old romantic, do you know that?’ he murmured softly, right behind her. Feathering a kiss over her bare shoulder, he stumped out, the clatter of his crutches almost drowned out by the beating of her heart.

Brodie was looking hopeful, but she was banned. ‘Sorry, sweetheart, two’s company and all that,’ she said, and shut the dog out.

They had oysters to start with. Not Falmouth oysters, because they were out of season, but imported oysters that she’d found on the supermarket fish counter. Normally she wouldn’t have dreamed of buying anything so unlocal, out of season and environmentally unsound, but they were on the list, they were reputedly an aphrodisiac and, besides, Mike loved them and he deserved a treat.

‘I can’t believe we’re having oysters,’ he said, raising his eyebrows.

‘They were on special offer,’ she lied, and wondered how many more lies she’d have to tell him before the end of the meal.

He squeezed lemon juice over them and sucked one off the shell. ‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘Not bad. The Fal ones are fresher.’

‘Well, they would be. They’ve only come fifty miles.’

He chuckled. ‘Fair point. These are still good, though. Thanks.’

‘Pleasure.’

‘So—are they part of this diet you’ve got me on?’ he asked casually. ‘Because, if so, I think I like it. And I should certainly heal fast.’ He looked up, laughing, and was arrested by the guilty look on her face. ‘Fran?’ he said, slowly lowering the next shell to the plate untouched. What the hell was going on?

She swallowed and knotted her fingers together. She always did that when she was nervous—but why?

‘Talk to me,’ he said, and she looked up and met his eyes, her own filled with remorse, and he knew—he just knew—that she was hiding something. ‘It’s nothing to do with my leg healing, is it?’ he said slowly. ‘So what’s it all about?’

She got up and went out, coming back seconds later with a folded sheet of paper. She handed it to him, and he opened it and scanned it.

‘Fertility-boosting diet?’ he said, noticing all the things that were on it that should have rung alarm bells. The lack of tea and coffee, the extra fruit, the smoothies, the raw veg soups, the lack of alcohol—not that they drank much, but if she was going to this much trouble they’d usually share a bottle of wine, but there was fruit juice by their plates, and a jug of water on the table.

He lifted his head and met her wary and slightly defiant eyes. ‘Fran?’

‘I saw Kate—about the baby thing. She discussed our diet with me.’

She looked guilty, and he had a feeling they’d talked about a lot more than diet. Good, because he’d wanted her to have someone to talk to, but he’d never dreamt she wouldn’t discuss things like this with him.

‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ he said, hurt and puzzled that she’d felt the need to lie—lie, for heaven’s sake!—about something so uncontroversial and trivial. Or was it? Was it that she hadn’t been sure if he wanted a child with her? She’d said that last night—did she really believe he didn’t? If so, maybe that was why she’d been reluctant to get it out in the open.

‘She said it wouldn’t hurt to try it, to improve our diet, to get fitter—and then, if we decided we wanted to go ahead and try again for a baby, we’d be in the best possible position.’

He felt a flicker of fear for her, dread that yet again she’d be faced with crippling disappointment or a gut-shredding loss that would leave her devastated.

‘If?’ he said softly.

Her eyes flicked back to his. ‘I wasn’t sure if you wanted one—if you didn’t feel it was just a lot of angst and hassle, if Sophie wasn’t enough for you.’

‘This isn’t about me, Fran, it’s about you, and if you want a baby.’

‘I do—but I want yours. And I need you to want it, too. And right now I’m not sure you do.’

He sighed. ‘It’s not so urgent for me,’ he pointed out. ‘I’ve got Sophie, and my clock’s not ticking the way yours is. And anyway …’ he scanned the paper again, noted the section about boosting sperm production and reducing DNA damage ‘ … if you want a baby, maybe you’d be better off with someone else.’

‘What?’

Her soft, shocked exclamation tore at him, but he went on regardless. ‘Maybe, if you want a healthy baby, you’d be safer trying with someone who hasn’t already got you pregnant twice with an embryo that was probably flawed.’

‘We don’t know that that was you!’

‘We know that some of the sperm were damaged—that the motility was down a little, that they weren’t all perfect.’

‘But—everyone’s are like that, Mike! It’s perfectly normal to have a proportion of sperm that aren’t a hundred per cent. It could just as easily have been something to do with the IVF process.’

‘Not the first time.’

‘Mike, miscarriage is really common,’ she said, repeating to him all the things he’d told her again and again, trying to encourage her, to give her confidence to try again, but it sounded as hollow now as it had when he’d said it, and he felt the burden of guilt settle firmly on his shoulders.

‘But if it is me,’ he said quietly. ‘If it is my fault, then I may not be able to give you a baby, Fran. And how many times are you prepared to try? How many miscarriages are you going to go through before you give up? And what if—just consider, for a moment—what if we have a baby that you should have miscarried but didn’t? A baby nature would normally have rejected as unviable? What if we have a baby with problems—physical or mental disabilities, developmental problems—what then, Fran? Will you be able to forgive yourself for not choosing a better partner? Will you be able to forgive me? Because I’m not sure I could.’

She stared at him for an age. ‘That could happen to anyone at any time. Are you telling me if we had a disabled baby you couldn’t love it?’

‘Of course not!’ He didn’t even have to stop and think about that one. In fact, for a while now he’d been on the point of suggesting to Fran that they adopt a child with special needs, but he’d held back, not ready to concede defeat in the fight for their own child until she was. But she didn’t know that, didn’t realise that he’d considered it, and now she thought he just couldn’t hack it if they had a child with problems.

‘Of course not,’ he said again. ‘But I don’t know if I could forgive myself for bringing a child into the world if I had a fair idea that that child would be damaged in some way because of my contribution to its existence. And if that was the case, maybe it would be better to adopt. That’s all I meant. Nothing more sinister. And if it is me—’

‘But I don’t want anybody else’s baby,’ she said with a certainty that brought a lump to his throat. ‘I want yours, Mike—and if I can’t have yours, then I don’t want one at all. We’ve got Sophie. That’s enough. We should be grateful and concentrate on loving her.’

Her voice cracked, and he was up and round the table in a second, his crutches abandoned, hauling her into his arms and cradling her against his chest, unable to bear the desolate look in her eyes. ‘Don’t give up,’ he said gruffly, his eyes prickling. ‘We’ll take our time, try the diet, have some more tests. And then—if you want to, if you think you can cope with it—we’ll try the IVF again.’

‘But we can’t afford it, Mike, so it’s pointless,’ she said, her voice clogged with tears.

‘Maybe we can,’ he told her. ‘Ben and Lucy want to buy some of our land around their house. Joe and I are going to have a look at it at the weekend. Ben’s talking about paying amenity rates—that’s about double what it’s worth, at least. I don’t want to fleece them, but it’ll add significantly to the value of their property, and Joe and Sarah want to do their kitchen—and it would mean we could afford to try again. If you want to.’

She looked up at him, her eyes uncertain, and as he watched, a flicker of hope came to life. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’

She smiled slightly. ‘You’d better sit down and finish your oysters, then,’ she said with a return of her old spirit, ‘because we’ve got baked sea bass and new potatoes and mangetout, followed by hazelnut meringue ice cream with mango coulis and chocolate Brazil nuts with decaf coffee to finish up.’

‘And then?’

She smiled again, and he could see a pulse beating in her throat.

‘Then we go to bed.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

IT WAS the longest meal of his life.

He didn’t want it. Every mouthful, delicious though it undoubtedly was, was just another step on the path to the bedroom, and the anticipation was killing him.

Not just the anticipation, though. There was also the fear of failure, of letting down.

What if he rushed her—if, while she was still uneasy about her body, he was too fast for her, in too much of a hurry for his own satisfaction that he left her behind?

No. He couldn’t. Not tonight, when it was clearly so significant in the salvation of a marriage he’d realised he wanted more than anything else in the world.

So he ate his meal slowly, mouthful by mouthful, and he talked to her about what he and Joe had done that day down by the river, and they laughed about him taking the saw from Joe and cutting up the part that had trapped him into tiny little bits.

‘It’s just matchsticks now,’ he said, and she laughed again.

‘That’ll teach it,’ she said, and then her laughter faded. ‘I was so scared,’ she confessed. ‘When I saw you trapped under it, when they were just about to pull you out and I saw it shift—I knew it was going, and I thought I was going to lose you.’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘No—but it came too close, Mike. It scared me. It was bad enough that you were injured, without having to watch you die—’ She broke off, her eyes filling, and he felt a lump in his throat.

‘Well, it didn’t happen, and I’m fine.’

‘Only because they got you out in the nick of time. Just because you’re big and tough, you think nothing can hurt you.’

‘You think I’m tough?’ he asked, flexing his muscles and flirting with her for the first time in years, and she laughed again, softly.

‘You look pretty tough to me.’

Her eyes strayed over him, and he felt the heat building until he thought he’d scream with frustration. But he didn’t scream, and he didn’t leap to his feet and drag her upstairs. Not that he could, unless he sat down and dragged her up backwards!

Instead they stayed in the dining room for their coffee, but he didn’t eat any of the chocolate Brazils. He was full enough—and with the workout he had in mind, he didn’t want to be over-full. Even by one mouthful.

And then, at last, it was finished.

The sun was setting, the last fingers of the day pulling back and leaving them alone in the candlelight.

He met her eyes—they were wary, a little nervous, but unflinching, her lips parted, the breath easing in and out of the top of her chest, rapid and unsteady.

It was time.

He pushed back his chair and stood, holding out a hand to her. ‘Come to bed with me,’ he said softly, and she got to her feet, taking his hand, her eyes locked with his.

‘I ought to clear the table,’ she said, giving it a guilty glance, but he cupped her chin and turned her back towards him, his fingers gentle.

‘Later,’ he murmured. ‘It’ll keep.’

Still she hesitated, killing him, and then she gave a tiny nod, as if she’d made the decision, and, letting go of his hand, she passed him his crutches and headed for the door.

‘You go on up. I’ll let the dog out,’ she said.

He paused. ‘Don’t be long.’

‘I won’t.’

He wanted to stay with her, didn’t trust her not to change her mind and run away, but by the time he was finished in the bathroom, he could hear her calling the dog in, locking the door, running up the stairs.

Running?

He opened the bathroom door and she was standing there, backlit by the landing light, looking just like the girl he’d fallen in love with, and he smiled.

‘Five minutes,’ he said, and she smiled back.

‘Five minutes,’ she agreed.

Lord, she was so nervous!

She’d never felt like this with him, not even the first time, but that had been then and this was now, and so much had happened.

She cleaned her teeth, washed her face and stared at herself in the mirror, wishing she had a gorgeous silk nightdress she could put on, or some really fabulous underwear—something to bolster her confidence and take his eyes off the fact that she was so thin.

But she didn’t. Because she hadn’t expected things to go so far tonight, she was wearing a pretty but still fairly ordinary bra and a pair of lacy knickers, not very new and not overly glamorous even at the beginning, and a sundress which with the best will in the world was very simple.

But at least it covered her.

Oh, help.

She was so scared that her whole body was shaking. What if she froze at the crucial moment? What if she just couldn’t let him?

She looked herself in the eye, took a steadying breath and straightened her shoulders.

‘You can do it, Fran,’ she told herself firmly. ‘You can do it.’

He was standing by the window, watching the sun go down.

The room was tinted pink from its last rays, and he held out his hand to her.

‘Come here,’ he ordered softly, and she went to his side, standing in front of him with his arms around her and his head close to hers. She could feel his heartbeat against her back, feel the steady, solid pounding of it as the sun slipped down into the distant sea, melting away in a flare of crimson and gold.

Then he turned her in his arms, staring down at her, his eyes serious.

‘I love you, Francesca,’ he said quietly. ‘You mean everything to me. You’re the reason I get up in the morning, and the reason I come to bed at night. You make the sun shine for me, put colour into everything I do. But if this—my love, our marriage, being here with me—isn’t what you want, then I’ll let you go. All I’m asking for is one last night, one last chance to put things right between us. Can you give me that? Give me this chance?’

She couldn’t believe it. This man, who never showed his feelings, certainly never spoke about them, was baring his soul to her in words that brought tears to her eyes.

And nothing—nothing—could have convinced her more that their marriage was worth saving.

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t find any words to match his, so instead, swallowing the tears and stepping back, she held out her hand to him.

He took it, squeezed it, then swung himself over to the bed, less awkward now on his crutches, and propped them up against the wall, then took her hand again and drew her close.

‘I love you,’ he breathed, bending his head and touching his lips lightly to hers. She parted her lips but he eased away, cradling her close, pressing soft, breathy kisses to her hair, her temple, her cheek, his lips grazing her skin like the wings of an angel.

She let her head fall over to one side, giving him access to the incredibly sensitive skin of her throat, and she felt the hot trail of his breath as his lips traced slowly down to the hollow at the bottom, the rasp of stubble unbearably erotic.

She could feel her heart beating there, his lips pressed softly to the pulse point. A little cry rose in her throat, and he must have felt it vibrate under his lips because he moved then, lifting his head, staring down into her eyes as if he was trying to read her soul.

He ought to be able to. It was there for him to read, everything she was, everything she felt for him laid out there for him to see.

And maybe he did, because he smiled then, a tiny flicker of encouragement, before his mouth lowered again and he captured her lips with his. She opened to him on a sigh, and this time he settled his mouth against hers, his arms tightening, supporting her as his kiss grew bolder, deepening until she thought her knees would go out from under her.

But he had her, held close against his heart, and finally he lifted his head and stared down at her again.

‘I want you, Fran,’ he said unsteadily. ‘I need you. Not just tonight, but every night, for the rest of our lives. I need you more than I need to breathe.’

‘Oh, Mike,’ she whispered, the tears that had threatened earlier finally spilling over. ‘I need you, too. I love you—so very, very much. I just don’t know if I can be the woman you want.’

‘You are the woman I want,’ he said, his voice vibrating with sincerity, ‘and if you can’t do this—if you really don’t want to, then you’re still the woman I want. I still love you. Whatever happens, I’ll always love you.’

‘I can do this,’ she said, her doubts dissolving like mist in the sunshine, leaving her certain. ‘Make love to me, Mike. I’ve missed you so, so much.’

He gave a ragged, broken groan, and his mouth came down on hers hard, seeking, demanding her response, and she rose up on tiptoe, threaded her fingers through his hair and kissed him right back, her tongue tangling with his, stroking, suckling, pleading until he dragged his mouth away and reached for the hem of her dress, pulling it over her head and throwing it aside, his eyes settling on her hungrily.

The bra was gone in a second, then he pushed her back onto the mattress, one hand capturing hers and holding them over her head, the other cupping her heat, his fingers curling hot against her, slipping under the edge of the lace and tracing the soft, aching flesh that wept for his touch.

‘Mike, please …’ she gasped, and he straightened and stripped them away, leaving her there exposed to his eyes. The bedroom light was off, but the landing light was on and she knew he could see her clearly. Knew by the way his eyes darkened, the way his lips parted and the air hissed out of them.

He grasped her thighs, kneeling, awkward in the cast, and laying hot, open-mouthed kisses from her knee slowly, slowly up her thigh, so near and yet so far …

‘Mike, please!’

He looked up, his eyes black. ‘Not yet,’ he said tightly. Turning his attention to the other leg, his tongue teased the trembling, quivering flesh behind her knee, the soft graze of his stubble torture as he worked his way slowly up her thigh until at last, finally, he was there, his mouth closing over her …

‘Mike!’

She felt the tremors start, felt the sensation build as his tongue flicked against her, and then she felt his fingers there, thrusting into her in time with his tongue, and her body arched, a scream leaving her throat as wave after wave of sensation crashed through her, leaving her shaking and stunned in its wake.

‘Mike?’

‘I’m here,’ he growled, his voice rough with need, and she felt a button ping off his shirt and flick against her skin.

He struggled out of the shorts, swearing as they caught on the cast, and then he was beside her, dragging her up the bed and taking her in his arms. With a shuddering sigh he drew her tighter against him, taking her mouth in a wild, desperate kiss that she thought would never end.

It did, finally, but only because he’d moved on, his breath hot against her throat, his lips parted, nipping, nibbling, his tongue like fire licking over her, leaving her shaking and wild with a need every bit as desperate as his own.

Her hands clung to him, plunging into his hair, holding him against her as his chin grazed her chest, her breasts, tormenting her, his breath sighing over her skin until finally, when she thought she would have to scream if he left it another second, his mouth closed hotly over a nipple and she did scream, a sobbing scream of need and frustration satisfied at last.

Except not, because it just made it all much worse, and the need was building again, another need, much greater, and she bucked against him, feeling the hard, urgent thrust of his erection against her thigh. And tonight she was ready for it.

More than ready.

‘Mike, please,’ she sobbed, her hands dragging at him, and with a fractured groan he shifted over her, settling against the intense, liquid heat, the fire he’d lit in her burning recklessly out of control as he stared down into her eyes and drove deeply into her.

‘Oh, God, Fran, I love you,’ he said brokenly, and then he started to move, the long, slow thrusts driving her higher, higher, until with a sobbing cry she felt her body tighten around him and sensation flooded her again. He drove into her one last time, then stiffened against her, a great groan torn from his chest as his body convulsed with the devastating power of his release, and then with a ragged sob he rolled to the side, taking her with him, cradling her against his heart as if he’d never let her go …

He held her all night.

She woke towards dawn, and he made love to her again, slowly, tenderly, afraid he’d hurt or frighten her, but she clung to him, her breathy sighs sweet music to his ears, and as she curled against him to sleep again, there was a smile on her face.

He didn’t smile. He was too close to tears, too moved to speak. He just held her, thankful for the chance, hoping that the future wouldn’t prove too much for them but a little more confident now that they would make it.

They had to, because without her he would be nothing.

Fran woke again later, the sun well up, and found Mike gone.

She could hear his voice in the kitchen, and she slipped out of bed, hot colour scorching her cheeks as she saw the trail of underwear strewn across the floor. She scooped it up, showered and dressed quickly and went downstairs.

‘Hi, Fran,’ Joe said, and then did a mild double-take before turning away, just a fraction too slowly to hide his smile.

She felt the heat climb her cheeks again and went over to the kettle. ‘Any tea in the pot?’ she asked brightly.

‘I should make some fresh,’ Joy said. ‘It’s been there a while. I would have brought you up a cup but Mike said to let you sleep.’

‘Mmm,’ she said, filling the kettle and avoiding Mike’s eye. They hadn’t exchanged a word since last night, and she felt ludicrously self-conscious and aware, her body still humming from his touch. If she looked at him …

‘How about a fruit smoothie?’

Oh, lord. He was right behind her, his body big and powerful and radiating heat. He rested his hand on her hip, and she leant against him, wondering what his family would make of their closeness and deciding it was none of their business. ‘OK,’ she said, surprised by his suggestion as well as his closeness. ‘Want one?’

‘Please.’

She met his eyes, saw the unspoken message and smiled. So he was engaging with this diet, taking it seriously, even though she knew he was afraid for her in case it all went wrong again. She went up on tiptoe, brushed a kiss over his lips and then pulled a selection of fruit out of the fridge.

‘Two smoothies coming up,’ she said lightly. Chopping the fruit, she wondered how long his family were going to hang around before they left them in peace so they could go back to bed and carry on where they’d left off …

It was a glorious few days.

Fran absconded from the farm, taking Mike to get his cast changed again and his stitches removed. The skin had healed well, and the swelling had subsided a lot, so they put on a lightweight walking cast and told him to start bearing weight.

Which meant they could do more, and so they did. They drove down to Penhally and had lunch in the Smugglers, then sat on the harbour wall in the sunshine and watched the children crabbing off the jetty, and then they went home and went back to bed and made love until the racket in the kitchen told them that milking was over and Joe was returning Brodie to them.

She pulled on her clothes and went down, Mike following her a few moments later when he’d dressed himself more slowly, and if the family was studiously avoiding looking at them, she didn’t care, because she’d got her husband back, the man she’d loved for years and thought she’d lost, and she wasn’t going to be ashamed of spending time with him in their own home.

Even if it was the afternoon!

‘Can you guys manage without us for a day or so?’ Mike asked, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms round her, the declaration so blatant they couldn’t fail to understand it.

In unison they chorused, ‘Of course!’

‘Going anywhere nice?’ Sarah asked.

Joe started to say something and got her elbow in the ribs for his pains, and Joy and Russell just looked at each other and smiled.

‘We might take a run down to Falmouth if the weather stays fair,’ Mike said. ‘Don’t really know. We haven’t made any plans, but as I can’t really do anything and Fran hasn’t had a holiday for ages, we thought we might just take off for a night or so. Could you hang on to Brodie till Sunday?’

‘Sure.’ Joe nodded. ‘Got a hotel in mind?’

Fran felt Mike shrug. ‘No plans. We’ll see where the road takes us.’

In the end they found a fabulous hotel right on the clifftop with spectacular views of the rugged Cornish coast, and booked in for two nights, taking advantage of a late cancellation, and spent most of the day in bed, making love slowly and lazily, getting to know each other again—and talking.

Talking like they’d never talked before, talking about anything and everything.

Everything except the whole baby thing. That was taboo, a sort of tacit avoidance, because at the end of the day all that really mattered was that they loved each other. Anything else was just the icing on the cake.

And then, relaxed and comfortable with each other, closer than they’d ever been, they went home because Sophie was coming, and Mike broke the taboo.

‘Will you be OK?’ he asked, and she smiled, realising with surprise that she would.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she told him. ‘And I’m looking forward to seeing her again.’

Sophie was fizzing with excitement, of course, because Kirsten and Andrew had told her about the baby and she was utterly obsessed with the prospect. She talked about it non-stop, her holiday hardly getting a mention, and Fran thought it was just as well she was OK with it, because if this had happened before she and Mike had spent the last few days together in their glorious idyll, it would have been intolerable.

But then Sophie snuggled up to her that evening, her restless little body finally still, and said, ‘I wish you could have a baby too, ’cos then I could have a baby in both my homes!’

It was the ‘homes’ that did it for Fran. The fact that Sophie still considered this to be her home, even though she and her mother had moved out of it years ago and she now had another home, nearly moved Fran to tears. She hugged the little girl tighter, looking up and meeting Mike’s eyes and giving him a supporting smile, because his mouth had pressed together and his eyes were over-bright.

‘That would be nice, wouldn’t it, Mike?’ she said. ‘We’ll have to think about it.’

‘Maybe one day, sweetheart,’ he said softly, looking at Sophie, but Fran felt his words were for her. ‘And, anyway, you might like coming here and having a bit of peace at night without the baby crying,’ he added, this time definitely to his daughter, and her nose wrinkled.

‘Babies do cry a lot, don’t they? And they smell. Suzie’s mum’s got a baby and she had to change his nappy the other day when I was there and it was really smelly!’

Fran chuckled and hugged her again, then stood up. ‘Come on, young lady, it’s time for bed.’

‘Oh, do I have to? I haven’t seen you for ages!’

‘It’s only two days longer than usual, so don’t give us that rubbish,’ Mike said with a laugh, standing up and scooping his daughter off the sofa and throwing her over his shoulder. He winced as his ribs twinged, but Fran handed him the crutch he was using as a stick and he hobbled out of the room, Sophie draped over his shoulder and giggling.

‘Mike, are you sure you’re OK to put her to bed, or do you want me to do it?’ Fran asked as he limped away.

‘I can do it. I’m fine,’ he assured her. Sliding Sophie down to the floor at the bottom of the stairs, he clapped his hands behind her and chased her up. She won easily, because he still found the stairs hard, but she heard him stumping along the landing, a great roar and a little shriek echoing back down the stairs, and Fran hoped he wasn’t doing too much for his ankle.

Whatever, she thought. He was a grown man, he knew if it hurt or not and she wasn’t his mother. He had one of those already, making more than enough fuss over him, so she really didn’t need to join in.

She went into the kitchen and made them some fennel tea, letting it brew while she loaded the dishwasher, and by the time she’d finished he was down. ‘All tucked up?’

‘Mmm.’ He came up behind her, put his arms round her and sniffed. ‘Smells interesting.’

‘Fennel tea,’ she said, turning her head to look at him, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

‘Really?’

‘Really. Try it, it’s really refreshing.’

He looked doubtful, but then his eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘One condition.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I get a reward for drinking it.’

‘Such as?’

He smiled lazily. ‘Oh—I’m sure you can work it out.’ He bent his head and brushed a feather-soft kiss over her shoulder, trailing his lips up the side of her neck and nibbling her ear with his lips.

‘Michael Trevellyan, behave,’ she said, giggling and swatting him away, but her knees were like jelly and her heart was pounding and she could feel her body responding to his instantly.

‘I don’t want to,’ he said, suddenly serious. ‘I’ve missed this, Fran. It’s been too long. Come here.’

And he turned her into his arms, stepped forwards so he trapped her between the cupboards and his long, hard body and, wedging his thigh between hers, he took her mouth in a kiss that surely would have set the kitchen on fire if the phone hadn’t rung to interrupt them.

‘Rats,’ he said mildly, easing away from her, his eyes blazing with promise. ‘Remember where we got to.’ And he picked up the phone. ‘Trevellyan.’

He winked at her, then said, ‘Sure. That’ll be fine. I’ll have Sophie with me, but she’s no trouble.’ His eyes flicked to Fran’s, his gaze assessing, the mischief gone, and he said, ‘That would be lovely. Thanks. I’ll check with Fran and get back to you if there’s a problem. See you tomorrow—two? Fine.’

He put the phone down. ‘That was Ben Carter,’ he said, and she thought his voice sounded a little wary. ‘He’s got a couple of days off, and they’ve invited us for a barbeque tomorrow. He wants to look over the land with me, show me where he’s talking about so I can discuss it with Joe later.’

And, of course, the baby would be there. ‘That’s nice,’ she said, summoning a smile, and it was, of course. It would be lovely. Annabel was gorgeous, and she couldn’t isolate herself from everyone just in case she ever encountered a baby. She taught the reception class of a primary school, for heaven’s sake! She was surrounded by babies and toddlers and pregnant women at every turn.

And just because, for now at least, she wasn’t able to join them, it didn’t mean she wanted to avoid them.

‘You really OK with it?’

She smiled again, a bit more convincingly. ‘Yes, Mike. I’m OK with it. It’ll be lovely. Stop worrying. I can cope—I have to. And Sophie will be in her element. She’ll be able to tell Lucy all about the new baby that’s coming and practise on Annabel. Why don’t you ring them back and say yes? I’ll make a salad and we can take some steaks and burgers from the farm shop. It’ll be fun.’

And if she told herself that enough times, maybe she’d believe it …

CHAPTER NINE

IT WAS an absolutely gorgeous day, and Sophie was up with the larks, bursting into their bedroom and clambering onto the bed, effectively putting an end to their early-morning cuddle.

Especially as the dog came too, trampling all over them and lashing Mike with her tongue.

Fran ducked under the bedclothes with a little shriek, Mike yelled at Brodie and told her to get down, then he must have grabbed Sophie because she started to giggle hysterically.

‘No, no, stop!’ she screamed, then there was a yelp from Mike, and Fran emerged from the bedclothes to find him sitting up and holding his ribs, his mouth open as he gasped with pain.

‘I only tickled him back,’ Sophie said, her eyes flooding with tears, and Mike reached out and tucked her under his right arm, well away from the damaged ribs, and kissed the top of her head as she burrowed into him, sobbing heartbrokenly.

‘It’s OK, sweetheart, don’t cry, I’m fine,’ he said softly. ‘It wasn’t you, it was because I jumped. You didn’t hurt me.’

Her head came out from his side and she stared up at him soulfully. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure. Come here.’

So she snuggled back into his side and, reaching out her hand, caught hold of Fran and tugged her over, pulling her into the cuddle, too.

‘That’s better,’ she said, and for a few minutes they all lay there quietly until Sophie’s natural ebullience returned. ‘So—what are we going to do today? Can we go to the beach?’

‘Not while your dad’s got his cast on,’ Fran said, saving him from having to tell her. ‘Anyway, we’re doing something much more exciting. We’re going to see Ben and Lucy Carter, just down the road at Tregorran House, and they’ve got a little baby girl called Annabel. I expect you’ll be able to play with her.’

Sophie wriggled round and looked up at Fran, eyes sparkling. ‘Is she very new?’

‘Not very. She was born on Christmas Eve, but she’s still pretty tiny. She can’t do a lot, but you can play peep-bo with her and teach her how to play with her toys, I expect.’

‘Can I hold her?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

‘That means no,’ Sophie said with an exaggerated sigh.

‘No, it means maybe,’ Fran reiterated, ‘and it depends on Lucy.’

‘That’s not till this afternoon, though,’ Mike put in, ‘so what do you want to do this morning?’

‘Go riding,’ Sophie said promptly. ‘Can I? Please? Mummy said you might let me.’

Mike met Fran’s eyes. ‘Got any other plans?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I’ve got things to do here, like picking up the eggs and mucking out the chickens, and they might need a hand in the farm shop, but if I get up early and get on with it—since I already seem to be awake,’ she added, wriggling her fingers into Sophie’s ribs and making her giggle, ‘I might as well get on. Why don’t you two have a bit of a rest and make some breakfast for me? And by the time you’ve done that, I’ll have finished with the chickens. And I’ll take Brodie with me, she could do with a bit of a run. It might be late enough then to ring the stables and see if they can fit you in.’

They could, and they set off at a quarter to eleven, Sophie fizzing with excitement. They turned into the stableyard and pulled up, and she was out of the door and hopping from foot to foot with impatience while Mike sorted out his crutches.

‘Come on, you, hold my hand and let’s go and find Georgina,’ Fran said to her, and Sophie slipped her hand into Fran’s and all but dragged her over to where a few fat little ponies were tied up to a rail by the stables. Children were milling around them, brushing and fussing over them, and the ponies stood patiently and tolerated it with what Fran felt was very good grace.

‘Hi, Sophie, haven’t seen you for a while,’ Georgina Somers said, coming over and smiling at them. ‘You’re looking well, unlike your dad—he’s been in the wars, hasn’t he?’

‘He broke his leg,’ Sophie said, a little unnecessarily as Mike hobbled towards them in his cast, leaning heavily on one crutch and grinning.

‘Really?’ Georgina teased, then flashed a smile at Mike which might have made Fran jealous if she hadn’t been loved so very thoroughly by him the night before. ‘The wounded soldier. I heard about your accident. Good to see you up and about.’

‘Good to be up and about. They gave me a walking cast the other day—it’s so much better, but I must say I’m a bit scared about my toes. I’m used to steel toecaps, and I feel a bit vulnerable.’

‘Mmm. I did when I broke my leg. Right, Sophie, let’s get you a hat sorted out and then pop you up on your pony. You’re riding Bracken today.’

‘Oh, goody, I love Bracken! He’s really nice.’

‘She says that about every one of them,’ Mike murmured as Georgina took Sophie to get her hat. ‘She’d love us to buy her one—that’s the trouble with bringing her here, we’ll have nothing else for the rest of the week, and there’s no way she’s having a pony part time, it just isn’t fair. Apart from anything else, I’ve got more than enough to do without pooh-picking and grooming and changing rugs and so forth, and that’s never the end, is it? There’s always another one, and then another one, because the first is too small and then the next one will be lonely and then you can’t get rid of the old one and it just goes on. I know so many farmers who’re overrun with their children’s first ponies and they just can’t get rid of them.’

Fran chuckled. ‘Sounds to me like a done job,’ she teased, but he shook his head.

‘No way, Fran. To tell you the truth, I don’t really like her riding. It’s dangerous, and the odd ride from time to time is OK, but all the time? She’s only six—it’s too risky. So I’m just going to keep saying no to her own pony and letting her come here instead. She’s too precious to us.’

She was. Fran watched her skipping out of the tack room in a body protector and a hat with a shocking pink silk cover on it, looking utterly delectable, and she felt her eyes fill.

‘I have to keep her safe, Fran,’ Mike said, and she heard the little catch in his voice.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll back you up.’

His hand found hers and squeezed. ‘Thanks.’

The lesson passed without incident. Well, more or less. One little girl ended up on her bottom in the sand school, but she was all right and got up laughing, and another ended up in tears because her pony ran off with her and wouldn’t stop, and a boy wanted to change ponies because his wouldn’t go, and Georgina refused and told him that when he gave the pony the correct cues, it would understand. And of course, eventually, when he got it right, the pony trotted forwards nicely and Fran suppressed a smile.

‘Know him?’

‘Oh, yes. I know most of them. He’s a bit of a bully. It’s nice to see something big enough and stubborn enough to beat him. Take him down a peg or two. It’ll do him good.’

‘OK, everybody, that’s it now. Give your ponies a nice big pat and take them back out and tie them up. Well done, all of you.’

Georgina opened the gate, and the ponies filed out.

‘That was so cool! Daddy, can I have a pony? I really, really want one!’ Sophie said, the pleading starting before she’d even dismounted, and Mike rolled his eyes at Fran and gave a hollow laugh.

‘Kids,’ he said under his breath. ‘Do we really need another one?’

Fran stopped in her tracks, and after another step Mike came to a halt and turned back to her, his face stricken.

‘Oh, hell, Fran, I didn’t mean that! Darling, I’m sorry.’

‘It’s OK,’ she said, struggling to find a smile. ‘I know it was a joke.’

‘No, it was a stupid, thoughtless remark—I’m so, so sorry, Fran. I don’t know what I was thinking about.’

She shook her head. ‘Not here, Mike. Not now. I’m fine—really. Just let it go.’

But it put a dampener on the drive back and, while Sophie chattered happily about the pony and how she wanted one of her own and what she was going to call it, Mike stared straight ahead, and Fran tried to concentrate on driving and wondered just how much of a joke it really had been, and how much he’d meant it.

Many a true word is spoken in jest, she thought. Maybe he really doesn’t want another child after all and he’s just playing along with me out of pity? It would explain the way he’d kept his distance all these last months, and although he’d said it was because he was afraid of getting her pregnant again, that he couldn’t bear the possibility of her having another miscarriage, maybe that was just an excuse, something legitimate he could use to hide his real feelings behind.

They got back to the farm, and Joy was just coming out of the farm shop as they pulled up.

‘Grannie!’ Sophie yelled. Sliding out of the car, she ran over to her grandmother and started telling her about her riding lesson.

Mike opened the car door and swung round, eased himself out and hobbled over to his mother. ‘Are you busy?’

‘No, not at all. Why?’

‘Just wondered if you’d like to spend a little time with Sophie—who, incidentally, knows she’s not having a pony of her own, so don’t let her try and talk you round—while I have a bit of a rest? And Fran’s got some things to do, so if you don’t mind?’

Fran watched them, heard his words, saw his mother nod agreement and look up, meeting her eyes with concern.

‘Is everything OK?’ she was asking, but Fran couldn’t take any more. She turned away and, locking the car, went into the house, leaving Mike to follow her.

He couldn’t believe he’d said that.

Of all the crass, stupid remarks!

He limped into the house, calling her name, and found her eventually in their bedroom, stripping the bed with fierce concentration, her movements almost savage. He went over to her, took her hands in his, held them against his heart.

‘Frankie, talk to me.’

‘No, you talk to me,’ she cried, wrenching her hands away and stripping off the pillow case with enough force to tear it. ‘You tell me what you really feel, what you really want. Because I thought I knew, and then I suddenly realised that maybe I didn’t know at all, maybe you don’t really want a baby with me despite all the stuff you’ve said over the last few days, and I have to know, Mike,’ she said, throwing down the pillow with a ragged sob. ‘I have to know!’

Her eyes were filled with tears, and with a rough sigh he hauled her up against his chest and hugged her tight. ‘I want a baby,’ he said emphatically. ‘I want your baby. Our baby. And what I said was just a knee-jerk reaction to kids in general, and nothing to do with us. I know it was stupid, but I thought—Frankie, I thought we’d sorted this out? Thought you knew how I felt. Of course I want a baby. You know I do.’

‘No, I don’t, Mike,’ she said, her body still and unresponsive in his arms. ‘I really don’t, not any more.’

‘Oh, God.’ He sighed, and let her go, frustration at his stupidity making him want to scream. He paced away, then turned back to her, scrubbing his hands through his hair. ‘How can I prove it?’ he asked desperately.

‘Let me try again,’ she said. ‘I know you said you couldn’t bear the thought of me having a miscarriage, but it isn’t you that has to bear it. It’s me. So let me. Or, at least, let’s think about it, because for the last few days we haven’t talked about it at all, and I want to, in the context of our relationship now. Not what it’s been, but what it is now. I know you love me. I know you want me. But I need the truth from you about this, Mike. I need to know that you really, really want a child with me, not that you’re just going along with me, humouring me. Indulging me.’

‘I’m not,’ he said instantly. ‘Never. I want a baby with you, Fran. I’ve said it over and over again. I know what it means to you, how it’s tearing you apart, but it means a lot to me, too. It’s not just for you. I want a child as well—a child who’ll live here with us, a child to share every moment of our lives, not just the odd weekend. I adore Sophie, and I wish she could be here with us more, but if I’d stayed with Kirsten I would have wanted more children. Sophie shouldn’t be alone, and this house needs kids, Fran. Either ours or somebody else’s. And if we can’t have a baby of our own, then I’d like to adopt one—or more. Maybe disabled in some way, a child nobody wants. Not necessarily a pretty little baby but a real person with needs that maybe, with enough love, we could meet. The farm’s a wonderful place to be a child, and nature has a way of healing all sorts of hurts. This would be a good place to let that happen.

‘So, yes, I do want a child. With you. And I’ll do whatever it takes, for as long as you want to try. And failing that, I’d like to adopt, because I want to be a full-time father. I love being a father. It’s part of who I am, and I want to share it with you. Does that answer your questions?’

She stared at him, then gave a scratchy little laugh. ‘Pity I wrecked the bed,’ she said, ‘because I could just do with lying down in it with you and having a really big cuddle.’

‘Oh, you idiot,’ he said, his voice cracking. Limping quickly back to her, he grabbed the pillows off the floor, shoved the quilt out of the way and lay down, pulling her down after him. ‘Come here,’ he said gruffly. Wrapping his arms round her, he sighed deeply and pressed a kiss to her forehead. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured. ‘Forgive me?’

She tilted her head back and smiled. ‘I forgive you. Actually, I more than forgive you. Maybe I need to push you more often, because you get really honest then, and tell me all the things you’ve been keeping to yourself. Like this adoption business. How long have you been thinking about that?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Ages. Years, probably. Since I married Kirsten.’

‘Then let’s do it. If I have a baby, great. If I don’t—well, we’ll do as you said. Maybe do it anyway.’

He looked down at her, saw new determination in her eyes and kissed her. ‘One thing at a time,’ he cautioned, and she smiled.

‘It’s all right, Mike,’ she said. ‘You won’t wake up one morning and find we’re running a children’s home, but it’s something to think about. Something for the future.’

She settled her head down on his chest. ‘Now go to sleep. We’ve only got a short time before we have to get ready to go to the Carters’.’

‘Seems a shame to waste it,’ he murmured, and she lifted her head again and looked up at him.

‘Are we making up for lost time?’ she asked.

He chuckled. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘No problem,’ she said, and kissed him.

The baby was gorgeous.

Sophie was captivated, and when the men wandered off to look at the fields, Fran asked Lucy if there was anything she could do to help and ended up with Annabel in her arms.

‘Oh, that’s better. She can pull your hair instead of mine,’ Lucy said with a laugh, kissing the baby’s nose and making her giggle deliciously. She clapped her chubby hands in delight, and Fran caught one of them and blew a raspberry on it, making her giggle even harder.

‘I want to blow a raspberry,’ Sophie said, and Fran crouched down so Sophie could reach, and the baby giggled again and grabbed Sophie’s curls.

‘Ouch!’ Sophie said with a laugh, gently pulling her hair out of Annabel’s fingers. She danced over to Lucy and said, eyes sparkling, ‘I’m going to have a baby too!’

‘Oh!’ Lucy spun round, her eyes also sparkling, and said, ‘Oh, Fran, that’s so lovely, because so am I! When’s yours due?’

Oh, lord. ‘Um … it’s not me, it’s Kirsten—Sophie’s mother,’ she explained, wondering if everything today was going to be destined to floor her, ‘but congratulations! That’s really lovely for you.’

‘Oh, well—it’s a bit quick. Fran, I’m really sorry,’ she added, her eyes conveying her regret.

‘It’s a shame it’s not you and Daddy,’ Sophie chipped in, looking up at her with wistful eyes. ‘That would have been so nice.’

Wouldn’t it just? Fran thought, and banished it. She was going to enjoy herself this afternoon. One thing at a time, Mike had said, and she was starting now, having a lovely cuddle with little Annabel to fill her achingly empty arms.

‘But perhaps you could have one too,’ Sophie went on, as relentless as ever. ‘Daddy said maybe one day, so maybe it could be a soon maybe instead of a never maybe. He usually means never, though. Like the pony. He said maybe once, when I was four, but now he just says no.’

Lucy laughed a little awkwardly. ‘I think a baby’s a bit different, Sophie. I’m sure Fran and your father will have a baby when it’s right for them.’

‘What if it’s never right?’

‘Then you’ll have your mother’s new baby anyway,’ Fran pointed out. ‘And, like your father said, it might be nice to come to us and have a bit of peace.’

Lucy rolled her eyes. ‘Amen to that,’ she said fervently. ‘This one still doesn’t always go through the night and by the time she does, I expect I’ll have the other one.’

A shadow fell across the room, and Mike and Ben walked into the kitchen.

‘All right, girls?’ Mike asked, scanning their faces and picking up on the atmosphere.

‘Fine,’ Fran said.

But then Sophie opened her mouth and said, ‘Guess what, Daddy? Lucy’s having another baby!’

‘So—what do you think about the fields, Mike?’ Lucy asked.

They’d finished eating, Annabel had been put down for a nap and Sophie was standing on the other side of the track, talking to Amber through the fence. The adults were all sitting round in the shade, sipping a nicely chilled rosé.

‘Oh, I think we should be able to do something,’ he said, very conscious of the need for money so they could afford another IVF cycle, and yet wondering how they could possibly charge the Carters the going rate for a bit of land that was little more than useless to the farm.

‘You’re having a fit of conscience,’ Ben said astutely, narrowing his eyes. ‘Don’t. We want it, you’ve got it—it’s called supply and demand, Mike.’

‘I think we need an independent valuation,’ he said, wondering if he was shooting himself in the foot and if they’d end up without the land and with not enough money to do anything. Not that losing the land mattered, because the bit the Carters were most interested in was essentially worthless to the farm. And that was the problem, of course. Oh, damn.

‘I’ll get the auctioneer who sold us the house to have a look, shall I?’ Ben said. ‘Unless you’ve got a better suggestion?’

‘No, he’s fine. He’s the man, I would have said.’

‘Well, we’ll do that, then,’ Ben said, picking up the wine bottle. ‘Top-up?’

Mike shook his head. ‘No. I’m still on painkillers. I shouldn’t, really,’ he lied, although he had taken one the night before after chasing Sophie up the stairs, so it wasn’t really a total lie.

‘Fran?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I’m fine, Ben, thank you. It was lovely.’ She looked at Mike. ‘We ought to go, darling. I promised Sarah I’d give her a hand to restock the shelves in the shop, and Sophie could do with a bath. She’s covered in cow slobber.’

‘Right. Ben, I’ll have a chat to Joe—I might see him tonight. He’s doing the milking. I’ll talk to you when we’ve got the valuation.’

They took their leave, Sophie reluctant to drag herself away from Amber and wanting to stay until Annabel woke up. But Mike bribed her with the promise of hot chocolate in the bath, and Fran drove them home and went over to the farm shop, leaving Mike to deal with Sophie.

He was clearing up the bathroom while Sophie was getting into her pyjamas when Joe called up the stairs.

‘Sophie, come down when you’re ready,’ he said, sticking his head round the door, and he hobbled downstairs to the kitchen.

‘Hi. I’m glad you popped in. We’ve been with Ben and Lucy, and he’s walked me over the fields and shown me what he wants. I’ve got the plans.’

‘OK.’

He looked at his brother’s face, wondering what was wrong. Something, that was for sure, because Joe was looking troubled. ‘What is it? Don’t tell me we’ve got foot and mouth or something, because I don’t want to know.’

‘No!’ Joe laughed awkwardly. ‘No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just—oh, hell, bro, I don’t know how to tell you, so I’m just going to say it. Sarah’s pregnant.’

Oh, God, not another one. Mike stood motionless for a second, then forced his face into a smile. ‘That’s really great news,’ he said, but his voice sounded hollow and Joe couldn’t fail to notice.

He didn’t. He said something very rude, and then added, ‘You don’t have to lie. I know what this news means to you, and I’m so sorry. It wasn’t really planned, but actually we’re thrilled to bits—or we would be, if it wasn’t for you guys.’

‘You be thrilled to bits,’ Mike said gruffly, grabbing his brother and hugging him hard. ‘It’s fantastic news, and I really, really am pleased for you. Just because we’re having trouble, it doesn’t mean nobody else in the county can have a baby.’

‘But it’s not just us, is it?’ Joe said quietly. ‘Sarah told me Kirsten’s pregnant.’

‘And Lucy,’ Mike said flatly. ‘But, hey, that’s life. We’re all the right age, it’s bound to happen. Anyway, we’re talking about maybe trying the IVF again. That’s why I want to talk to you about this land. We’re getting the agent who sold the house to have a look and value it, but I don’t know what we should ask.’

‘How about splitting the difference between agricultural rates and what it would add to the value of their house?’ Joe suggested. ‘That would seem fair. And if it isn’t enough, we don’t have to refit the kitchen. It all works— and with the baby coming, I don’t know if we’ll want that much upheaval. You could have it all.’

‘That’s not fair.’

‘Life isn’t. Sometimes it sucks. And if you need help, you just have to ask. This is more important than the kitchen, and the clock’s ticking, Mike. We don’t want Fran to run out of time because we want some fancy new cupboards and a bigger fridge.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Got to go, I’ve still got to feed the calves again before I can stop. Let me know if there’s any news on the valuation.’

‘Will do. And tell Sarah congratulations for me.’

Joe nodded and went out, leaving Mike alone with his thoughts. Not a happy place to be. He couldn’t believe it was happening again.

It was going to kill Fran. And once again he was going to have to be the one to tell her.

‘Everything all right, Fran?’

His eyes held hers for a second then slid away, something that could have been guilt lurking in their depths, and Fran stared at him, her heart breaking. He knew. He actually knew, and he hadn’t said anything! He’d been upstairs putting Sophie to bed when she’d come back from helping Sarah, and just when she’d needed him, he hadn’t been there.

And now she discovered that he’d already known, and he hadn’t told her. Just when she’d thought there were no secrets. Why hadn’t he told her?

‘Oh, just peachy,’ she said flatly.

‘Fran, I’m sorry,’ he began, but she cut him off.

‘How long have you known?’

He sighed. ‘About half an hour,’ he said heavily, taking the wind out of her sails. ‘Joe told me while Sophie was getting her pyjamas on. I’m really sorry, darling.’

And he was, she could see that. His throat was working, his eyes were sad and he held out his arms to her. She walked into them, laid her head on his chest and sighed, the fight going out of her and leaving only sadness.

‘I’m sorry, too,’ she said. ‘Sorry I jumped down your throat. I thought you’d been keeping it from me for a while.’

‘No. So I take it Sarah told you?’

She gave a strangled little laugh. ‘Not exactly. I found some coffee that was past its sell-by date and handed it to her, commenting on the lovely smell, and she dropped it and ran. Bit of a give-away, really.’

He rubbed her shoulders with his hand, the other hand lying lightly in the small of her back and holding her against him comfortingly.

‘I’m sorry. If I’d known, I would have told you, given you some warning.’

She sighed and eased out of his arms. ‘Don’t be silly. You can’t protect me from every pregnant woman in Cornwall, Mike.’ Although there did seem to be an extraordinary number of them. It just seemed so hard, when they wanted a baby so much, and they hadn’t done anything wrong. Surely they deserved a baby of their own as much as anyone else?

She looked up and met Mike’s worried eyes and smiled, but the honeymoon was over, and the yearning was back in spades.

Mike saw the change in her eyes, saw the fragile happiness of the past few days recede and the longing take its place, and he felt a flicker of dread return.

Damn. He’d hoped for longer to build on their relationship, more time to celebrate the joy they’d found in each other, to cement the foundations of their marriage before they’d had to face this.

And now it had all caught up with them again.

It came to a head later, after they’d made love and were lying in each other’s arms. He was stroking her, his hand running lightly up and down her spine, and he could feel the tension in her, the determination in every line of her body, and he knew it was coming.

Her voice was just a murmur. ‘Mike?’

‘Mmm?’

‘I want to try again,’ she said softly.

He didn’t pretend not to understand. ‘Maybe we should persevere with this diet for another few months,’ he suggested, stalling because he couldn’t bear to lose this newfound closeness, and he was afraid that when they started the awful business of the injections and whatever all over again, that was exactly what would happen. ‘Really give it time to work.’

‘Maybe. I’ll talk to Kate,’ she said, but although she was lying still against him, he could sense the restlessness in her, the urge to do something now, and he knew she wouldn’t be stalled, that this was it.

‘Fran?’ he prompted. ‘Talk to me.’

She shifted slightly, sighed. ‘Oh, Mike, I want a baby—I need a baby—and I can’t afford to waste time. I’m thirty-four—my clock’s ticking. I’m getting old for this, and if we can get the money from Ben and Lucy—I think we have to try.’

He sighed softly and drew her closer. She was right. She was getting on, in reproductive terms, and if her system was starting to shut down, they didn’t have the luxury of waiting. But it wasn’t easy.

‘Are you sure, my love?’ he said quietly. ‘It’s so hard on you—the hormones made you so sick before, the headaches …’

‘I don’t mind,’ she said, her voice soft but firm. ‘I can do this, Mike. I’m not looking forward to it, and I won’t pretend I’m not scared that it’ll all go wrong again, but I’ll do it, and if it ends in a baby, I’d go through it ten times. Fifty.’

Oh, lord. So much courage. He’d seen what it had done to her, the side-effects of the treatment, the indignity and invasion of personal space—it had nearly cost them their marriage, and then when she’d lost it …

‘Mike?’

Her voice was tentative now, seeking reassurance, and he pressed his lips to her hair and held her close. ‘I’m here,’ he promised. ‘I’ll always be here. There’s not much else I can do to help you, but I can do that. I can be here for you, and support you, and we’ll do whatever you feel you can bear.’

He just hoped Ben’s surveyor came up with the goods.

CHAPTER TEN

‘I’VE got Fran and Mike Trevellyan coming in to see me on Monday.’

Nick cocked his head on one side and raised a brow slightly. ‘Any idea why?’

‘They didn’t say, but I suspect they want to talk about trying another cycle of IVF,’ Kate said. ‘You know I gave Fran the fertility-boosting diet sheet and lots of other advice and information?’

‘Mmm—that was the day of his accident, wasn’t it? They’ll need longer that that. It was only a few weeks ago—three, wasn’t it?’

‘Something like that. It’s certainly not long enough to have made a great deal of difference, and if they want to go ahead I’ll encourage them to wait a bit longer, but I don’t know if that’s what they want.’

‘Well, we know she’s not pregnant,’ Nick told her, lounging back in his chair and fiddling with his pen. ‘Lucy told me she made a bit of a faux pas the other day—Sophie said she was going to have a baby brother or sister and Lucy assumed it was Mike and Fran having the baby and congratulated Fran, but it turned out it’s Sophie’s mother, Kirsten. Lucy felt dreadful.’

‘I can imagine. Poor Fran.’ Kate sighed softly. ‘She said to me last time how it was funny that everyone seemed to be pregnant. And now Lucy and Kirsten are pregnant as well. Oh, dear.’

‘And Joe and Sarah, although I don’t know if Mike and Fran know that yet.’

Kate sat down, deeply troubled. ‘I hope this isn’t going to push them into a hasty decision.’

‘Hardly hasty. They’ve been trying for years.’

‘But they weren’t ready, Nick. Only weeks ago when she came to see me their marriage was in ruins.’

‘Well, not now. Not according to Lucy. They were there on Monday for a barbeque, and she said the air between them was sizzling.’

‘Interesting.’ Kate frowned. ‘So maybe they just want to chat through the next stage in the process.’

‘What time are they coming? I could drop in if I’m free.’

She gave a dry chuckle. ‘I think I can manage to counsel a couple trying for a baby rather better than you,’ she pointed out.

‘Why do you say that?’ he protested, bristling, and she gave him a wry look.

‘Because I spent six years trying to have a baby and so I know where they’re coming from?’ she said softly. ‘Because—correct me if I’m wrong—not one of your four children was planned or anticipated in any way, and infertility just doesn’t even cross your mind? And neither, apparently, does your fertility, so if it’s all the same with you, I’ll handle the Trevellyans my way. And if you’re very good, I’ll tell you what it’s all about.’

She got up and walked out, his growl of frustration clearly audible, then his barked ‘Shut the door, then!’ followed her down the corridor.

‘Pretty please,’ she said, sticking her head back round it, and got a sour look for her pains.

‘I can’t believe you think I’d be so bad at this,’ he muttered, scowling. Oh, dear, poor Nick. He obviously felt insulted, but she didn’t care. Her feelings were all with Mike and Fran, and Nick was big enough and ugly enough to take care of himself.

‘Get over it,’ she advised, and shut the door.

It was the longest week of Fran’s life.

Well, no, it wasn’t. Waiting to hear that she was pregnant after their IVF at the beginning of the year had been dreadful. This, waiting for their appointment with Kate to find out when they could start the process again, was different, but she felt so impatient to be getting on with it that every day dragged.

Mike was doing a bit more on the farm now, serving in the farm shop and doing the dreaded paperwork, but he didn’t start at stupid o’clock in the morning and he wasn’t coming to bed late, so they had plenty of time together to reinforce their new-found closeness.

With his gentleness and passion he’d repossessed her body from the grip of the medical profession, and their relationship was stronger and better than it had ever been. And it would have been wonderful if it wasn’t for the suspense.

A few things broke it up. Amber had her calf, and Sophie was there and saw it born, something Mike had no problem with and Kirsten was annoyed about.

‘It’s nature—she needs to know,’ he said when Sophie was out of earshot.

‘And I’m pregnant, and I don’t want all sorts of embarrassing questions!’ Kirsten protested. ‘I can hear them all now—Oh, God, I could kill you sometimes, Mike.’

‘Feel free to try,’ he said blandly. ‘She’s my daughter, too, and I grew up knowing where babies come from. It didn’t do me any harm. It was just one of those things. Better to know from the start than to be totally grossed out by the idea when you’re twelve or so.’

‘But to see it!’

‘It was lovely,’ Fran chipped in in his defence. ‘She was captivated. Believe me, Kirsten, I teach in a rural area, and the kids that see animals reproduce have a much greater acceptance of sexual matters and their parents’ subsequent pregnancies than those who don’t. They just accept it as normal and natural and part of everyday life.’

‘And what about my pregnancy? Did she say anything? Anything about my baby and where it’s going to come from?’

‘Actually, yes,’ Mike confessed, looking a little uncomfortable. ‘She asked if you’d stood up too when you had her, or if you were lying down, and what you’d do with the new baby.’

Kirsten closed her eyes and made a tiny screaming sound. And?’

‘And I said people were all different, and it depended on how you felt at the time. I told her you walked round and round till the end then lay down to have her, but you might not feel like doing that with this baby.’

She groaned. ‘Too much information, Mike. She doesn’t need it at her age.’

Mike opened his mouth, then shut it, and Fran wondered if he’d thought better of telling Kirsten how fascinated Sophie had been with the afterbirth and the fact that Amber had eaten it. But then Sophie came back into the room with Brodie in tow and the subject was swiftly dropped.

‘All ready to go?’ Kirsten said, and Sophie nodded reluctantly.

‘I want to stay and see Amber’s calf some more. She’s really cute—she’s called Ama—something.’

‘Amaryllis,’ Mike supplied. ‘And she’ll still be cute when you come next time. Maybe cuter, because Amber will let you get closer. Right, come on, into the car. Your mother’s in a hurry and we’ve got to go out.’

‘Where are you going?’ Sophie asked.

‘The memorial service at the church in Penhally,’ Mike told her. ‘You remember, I told you about it. Lots of people died in a storm, and it was ten years ago today, so we’re all gathering together to remember them.’

‘That was four years before I was born,’ Sophie said, counting on her fingers. ‘That’s ages ago.’

Not for the people who were still grieving, Fran thought, and wondered how Kate Althorp and the Tremayne family would be feeling. Had they moved on?

‘We’d better go,’ she said to Mike as soon as Kirsten and Sophie had gone.

There was standing room only, and Kate would rather have been outside with the majority of the villagers than trapped inside the pretty little church. At least outside she could look out to sea and communicate with James somehow, instead of being trapped inside this box with thoughts and feelings that were too painful to contemplate in public.

So she shut them down, sat quietly and still, and remembered him for the good man and loyal husband he’d been. She didn’t let herself think about Nick, sitting with the rest of his family in the pew to her right, there to remember his father and brother. And she certainly didn’t let herself think about that night ten years ago.

Reverend Kenner was leading the service, and when he read out the names of those lost, Jem leant closer to her, his hand in hers. For comfort, or to comfort her? She wasn’t sure any more. He was growing up, turning into a fine young man, and James would have been proud of him.

Except, of course, the boy who was here to mourn his father wasn’t that man’s son at all.

Dear lord, it was so complicated. So sad and veiled in secrecy. She squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back.

Did he have the right to know who his real father was? She had no idea. No idea at all if it was better to mourn a man who had been a hero than to know that the man who really was your father was refusing to acknowledge your existence in his life.

The service moved outside and down to the beach, and as she and Jem stood on the rocks and threw their wreaths into the water and watched them carried away, as James had been, she blinked away threatening tears and straightened her shoulders.

They didn’t need Nick in their lives. They could manage without him.

And if sometimes, at night, she still cried herself to sleep for the love of a man she had no business loving, that was between her and her maker.

‘Hello! Come on in and sit down. How are you, Mike?’

He gave a dry chuckle. ‘Better than the last time you saw me,’ he said, and Kate laughed.

‘Yes, I think I’d probably agree. And Fran. How are you?’

Fran smiled, not knowing quite where to start and what to say. ‘Um—good,’ she said in the end, because it was true. She felt good—a bit sick with nerves, because now they’d decided to go for this, she was having to face all her demons all over again, but she could do it.

She reached out, and Mike took her hand, folding it in his and holding it tight. ‘Um … we wanted to talk to you about the IVF. Trying again. We’ve spent a lot of time talking …’ Her voice faltered, but she could feel Mike’s fingers tightening on hers, and out of the corner of her eye she could see his reassuring smile.

‘Anyway,’ she said, firming her voice, ‘we’ve been talking and thinking and we’ve been sticking to the diet and all the other things you said—the boxers and the showers and so on—and—’

‘Boxers?’ Mike said, frowning in puzzlement, then the light dawned. ‘I thought they were because of the cast,’ he murmured, but she could see a smile lurking in his eyes, and she smiled back.

‘Sorry. And the coffee and alcohol and so on have all been strictly rationed.’

‘And are you feeling better?’ Kate asked, looking at them both.

‘Probably, yes,’ Mike said, looking thoughtful. ‘I’m sleeping better, but that could be all sorts of things. Less pressure, we’re talking again—all sorts. And I feel energetic and optimistic, but again that could be because I’m not killing myself on the farm.’

‘Looks like your broken leg’s been quite useful, then,’ Kate said with a smile, and turned to Fran. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Scared. Sick. Dreading the injections and all the intrusive stuff, but …’ She shrugged and tried for a smile. ‘Generally better. Like Mike. Sleeping better, more energy, happier—but there are lots of reasons for that.’

Kate smiled again. ‘I’m so glad you’re both happier,’ she said quietly. ‘An unhappy relationship is never a good start to this journey, and I must say from my point of view you both look light years better.’

‘We feel it, and we were wondering if you could check us over,’ Mike said. ‘You know, run a ruler over us and make sure everything’s up to scratch before we start again.’

‘Of course. You probably haven’t given the diet and the other changes long enough yet, but if you really feel you can’t wait, we can start getting ready for the process of referral. You’ll have to go to a different centre for private treatment, but we can run a lot of the preliminary checks from here, to rule out anything that’s going to make them send you away. I’ll need blood from both of you, so can you roll your sleeves up? That’s great.’

She put a strap round Fran’s arm, slid a needle into the vein and took several vials of blood from it, then, giving Fran the swab to press down on the vein, she repeated the process with Mike. ‘You aren’t still on painkillers or anything, are you?’ she asked him, and he shook his head.

‘I’m not on anything at the moment. Neither of us are.’

‘Not even caffeine,’ Fran said, giving him a rueful smile. ‘I think that’s probably been the hardest for him.’

‘It’s nothing,’ he said, pressing down on the swab. ‘Not compared to what’s at stake.’

‘Indeed. Right, let’s weigh you both.’

She noted down their weights, commenting on the fact that Fran had put on three much-needed kilos, and took their blood pressure.

‘OK. That’s that. And I’ll need a urine sample from each of you to make sure you haven’t got diabetes or any sub-clinical infections, and you know what we’re going to want from you,’ she said, sliding a little pot across the desk to Mike with a smile.

He gave a wry laugh. ‘Oh, yes. Do I ever. My favourite bit.’ He pushed the ominous little pot around, picked it up and tossed it in the air, then said, with a tension in his voice that probably only Fran would have noticed, ‘Will they be able to check for damaged sperm? Because if there’s any likelihood that it was my sperm quality that caused Fran to miscarry, I want to do something about it before we try again.’

Kate’s smile was reassuring. ‘Of course. If there’s a significant number of non-swimmers or sluggish ones, they’ll have a closer look. It might be that you have to persevere with the diet for longer, or there might be something more significant wrong, although I doubt it. That would have been spotted before, I’m sure, and if you remember they never did find anything significantly wrong with either of you last time. But let’s get the first tests out of the way and see what they come up with before we worry about what’s next.’

‘And then if everything comes back all right?’ Fran asked, feeling the tension ratchet up a notch.

‘Then we refer you to the clinic in Exeter, and they take over from us.’ She finished labelling all the bottles of blood, slipped them into the plastic sleeves, filled in the various request forms and looked up. ‘The semen sample needs to be as fresh as possible, so I would do it at the hospital, Mike, preferably near the beginning of the working day,’ she said. ‘Would you have time to do it this morning?’

He nodded, and Fran’s heart hitched.

‘Then I’ll give you all this stuff to take to the lab as well,’ she said, handing over all the blood samples and request envelopes, together with the urine sample bottles. ‘The sooner they get them, the better the results. And I’ll see you next week when they’re all back—I’ll give you a call when they’re in.’

She smiled and pushed back her chair, stood up and shook their hands and opened the door. ‘Good luck. I’ll see you next week.’

‘I can’t believe I’ve got to go into that ghastly room again,’ Mike muttered as they walked down the corridor towards the path lab. ‘It’s just awful, Fran—even thinking about it’s enough to put me off. The girly magazines and the smutty videos—it’s just horrible.’ He suppressed a shudder, and then without warning she got hold of his arm and yanked him through a doorway.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ he asked as she shut the door and turned on the light. ‘Fran? Why are we in the loo?’

She pushed him against the wall, took the pot out of her handbag and put in on the basin, then reached for his zip. He grabbed it and held her away from him, unable to stop the splutter of laughter that rose in his chest.

‘Fran, stop it! We can’t do this here!’ he hissed.

‘Why not? Why ever not?’

‘Because it’s a public toilet!’

‘Don’t be silly, it’s a single cubicle off the corridor and it’s a lot more private than that dreadful room. Now, stop fighting.’

She pinned his hands out of the way, grabbed his zip and slid it down, reaching inside and curling her fingers round him.

Dear God. He was already hard, the thought of her touching him enough to bring him to the edge even though they were both still laughing. But then she moved her hand, the firm, rhythmic strokes enough to bring him to his knees, and he dropped his head forwards on his chest and stared down at her, her hand curled round him, her lip caught between her teeth, her pupils darkening as she looked up and met his eyes.

‘God, you are so sexy, Trevellyan,’ she muttered, flicking her nail across the tip of his penis, and he fisted his hands in her T-shirt and closed his eyes.

‘I’m going to come any second if you do that,’ he said through gritted teeth, and she gave a sexy little chuckle.

‘I thought that was the general idea,’ she said, and reached for the pot …

‘Kate? It’s Jan, at the fertility clinic. We’ve got a lot of results here from some patients of yours, Francesca and Michael Trevellyan. I think they were probably for you and I’ll send them through to you straight away, but I thought you’d want to know the results anyway.’

‘Of course,’ Kate said, surprised to feel a little kick of apprehension. ‘I was going to chase them up, it’s been over a week now. OK, fire away. I’ve got a pen.’ She listened, frowned, raised her eyebrows and jotted down all the information. ‘Really? Thanks, Jan. I’ll pass all that on,’ she said. Cutting the connection, she dialled the Trevellyans’ number.

‘Fran? It’s Kate. Are you both in? I’ve got your results, and I was just about to leave the surgery. I thought I might drop by on my way to collect Jem from my mother and have a chat about what happens next.’

‘Oh. Um …yes, sure,’ Fran said, sounding instantly worried. ‘We’ll be here. Mike’s in the office. I’ll get him.’

‘I’ll be with you in ten minutes,’ Kate said, and replaced the phone in its cradle.

‘Mike?’

He glanced up at Fran and got straight to his feet, one look enough to know something was going on. ‘What is it?’ he asked, his chest tight with dread.

‘I don’t know. Kate’s coming to see us. She’s got our results.’

He felt his heart lurch and went over to her, gathering her in his arms and hugging her tight.

‘We can handle this, Frankie,’ he said softly. ‘Whatever it is. Come on, let’s go into the house and wait for her. I take it she’s coming here now?’

‘Yes. She said she’d be ten minutes. Mike, I feel sick.’

‘Me, too,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

She would have fallen down without his support. They left the door open, standing there in the kitchen facing it, him behind her, his hands on her shoulders, steadying her, and so when Kate came in they couldn’t see her face because the light was behind her.

‘Well, I’ll get straight to the point,’ Kate said. ‘It wasn’t the news I was expecting to give you, but we aren’t going to be referring you for the IVF programme.’

‘No!’ Fran wailed, her knees threatening to buckle, and she felt Mike’s arms tighten round her.

‘Fran, no,’ Kate said hurriedly, and Fran couldn’t work out why on earth she was smiling. ‘It’s not bad news! You can’t have the IVF because you don’t need it. You’re pregnant, Fran,’ she said, and her smile widened. ‘Congratulations, both of you. You’re going to have a baby.’

Fran stared at her for an age, numb with shock, and then with a fractured little sob she turned and fell into Mike’s waiting arms …

They talked for hours.

Once Fran had stopped crying, of course, and they realised that Kate had left.

She was sitting on Mike’s lap, one arm round his neck and his hand resting lightly over their baby, and she said softly, ‘It’s going to be OK this time, Mike. I feel so different. Much sicker. I thought it was just fright, but of course it isn’t. My period is two days overdue, and I feel really different. And tired, but I thought that was just you keeping me awake half the night.’

He chuckled and tilted his head back, smiling up at her tenderly. ‘You’re to take care of yourself,’ he said. ‘Nothing silly. No unpasteurised milk or soft cheese or any of the other things—and no cheesemaking either. I can do that with a bin bag on my foot. And I’m sure Kate will give you a huge list of dos and don’ts.’

‘I’m sure she will.’ His hair had flopped forwards, and she lifted it back with her fingers and smoothed it out of the way so she could see his eyes. ‘I don’t want to tell Sophie yet, though,’ she said, not wanting to acknowledge the possibility of failure but all too aware that it might lurk round the corner for them. After all it had before, twice.

‘It’ll be fine. Third time lucky, Fran,’ he murmured. ‘But I agree, we won’t tell her yet. We won’t tell anyone. Not till you’re past the three-month mark.’

‘I lost both the others at eight weeks,’ she reminded him sadly.

His arm tightened. ‘I know.’

‘Three weeks and five days to go.’

‘We’ll make it,’ he assured her, his voice quietly confident. ‘And even if we don’t, we’ve still got each other. As far as I’m concerned, that makes me the luckiest man alive. The rest is just the icing on the cake.’

She rested her head against his and sighed. ‘I’m so lucky to have you,’ she said softly. ‘Have I told you recently how much I love you?’

He chuckled. ‘Only about ten times today, but feel free to do it again.’

The phone rang, and she hung on to his neck and reached over, grabbing it from the charger without leaving Mike’s lap. ‘Hello? Oh, hi, Ben. Yes, he’s here. I’ll hand you over.’

She gave Mike the phone, and after a brief conversation he hung up and smiled at her. ‘The valuer’s been.’

‘And?’

‘If we’d ended up having to go the IVF route, we’d have had more than enough, but Joe and Sarah can do their kitchen, and Mum and Dad can change the car. And we can put the money on one side and spend it on something later. We’re going to make it this time, Fran,’ he said with conviction. ‘I know we will.’

‘We can spend it on the nursery,’ she said, allowing a little bloom of hope. ‘The house could do with a bit of decorating, and the heating’s not great.’

He laughed. ‘Don’t get too carried away,’ he said, and then kissed her. ‘Time for bed?’

‘Sounds good,’ she said.

He lay watching her sleep, a little knot of fear in his chest. They had to make it. If she lost this baby …

Then he’d cope, he told himself firmly. If Fran had the courage to do this, then he had to find the courage to support her if it all went wrong. And they’d have the money put on one side for the IVF, should they need it. Please, God, it wouldn’t be necessary …

Fran thought The Day would never come.

That was how she’d started thinking about it—with capital letters, because it seemed so huge, so important, so very far away that somehow nothing else would do.

Her pregnancy was a nightmare. Not because anything went wrong, because it didn’t. She got through it, day by day, hour by hour, focusing on the end, planning for the magical day when she could bring her baby home, but somehow not daring to believe that it would ever happen.

The eight-week deadline passed.

Safely.

She gave a shaky sigh of relief when she reached nine weeks and realised she was probably over that hurdle. The next danger point was twelve weeks, and she got through that, too.

Then she had a scan—an image of her baby, just a tiny curl of a thing, but with an unwavering heartbeat.

‘Oh, Mike,’ she said, clinging to him and staring mesmerised at the screen, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. So she did both, and so did Mike, and they were given a photo to keep.

Their first, in the album she started with a trembling hope.

Then at twenty weeks she had her second scan, and another photo for the album.

‘Do you want to know what sex it is?’

She looked at Mike for guidance, and he shrugged, passing the ball back to her.

‘I don’t care, so long as everything’s all right,’ he said, and she smiled.

‘No, then,’ she said. ‘We’ll wait and see.’

And then she kicked herself, because they started decorating the nursery, the little room off their bedroom that had always been the nursery, where Mike and Joe had slept for the first year of their lives, where their father, Russell, had slept, and so on back for generations. And because they didn’t know the sex of the baby, they didn’t know what colour to paint it.

‘Yellow?’ Mike offered. ‘That’s sunny and sort of neutral.’

‘It makes them look jaundiced,’ Fran said doubtfully, and he chuckled.

‘Not daffodil yellow. Something softer. A pale creamy primrose?’

So that was how it ended up, a lovely soft colour, and when she was thirty-six weeks, they bought a cot. They didn’t assemble it, though. It was as if, by tacit agreement, they didn’t want to push their luck. So it stayed in the room, propped up behind the door, and for the next three weeks they didn’t look at it.

It was as if they were holding their breath, but every night Mike would hold her in his arms, cuddled together like spoons in a drawer, with his big, strong hand splayed tenderly over the baby, soothing it with gentle strokes when it kicked and squirmed.

It had hiccups, too, which made them chuckle once they realised it was nothing to worry about.

And then Fran woke one morning tired and grumpy, and the house was a tip. So she cleaned it, furiously, from end to end, which frankly would have been stupidly ambitious when she hadn’t been pregnant, she thought in a rare pause when she’d changed their sheets and vacuumed the bedroom floor, but she just had to do it, because the baby was coming soon and it couldn’t be brought back to a place hanging with cobwebs.

Well, one cobweb, and it wasn’t exactly hanging, but it was soon banished with a flick of the feather duster, and after another half-hour the dining table was gleaming, the old mahogany nourished within an inch of its life.

And she ached. Lord, how she ached! She straightened up, the beeswax in her hand, and arched her back. She’d done too much, she thought. Much too much.

Time to sit down for a while.

Except she couldn’t sit down, because it was so horrendously uncomfortable suddenly, and then she had one of those lightbulb moments and couldn’t believe she’d been so stupid. She’d watched Brodie do just the same thing only two weeks ago, dragging her bedding round and round to get it comfortable, before finally settling down and giving birth to three puppies.

And she hadn’t even realised she was doing the same thing!

She phoned Mike on his mobile. ‘Um, can you come?’

‘Sure—is supper ready?’

‘Not exactly.’

He must have picked up on the tone of her voice, because he swore softly and she could hear him running. ‘I’m on my way,’ he said, and five minutes later he burst into the kitchen and found her standing leaning over the sink, a pool at her feet, panting.

‘Fran?’

‘Mind the floor,’ she warned, worried he’d slip.

‘What have you spilt?’

‘I haven’t. My waters have broken.’

‘Oh, God.’ He went pale, then lifted her out of the way and scrubbed his hands. ‘I’d better take you to hospital now. Are you having contractions?’

‘Um, sort of—Ah-h-h!’

It poleaxed her. It was the first time she’d felt anything other than a horrendous ache, but this was different. This was strong, and powerful, much bigger than her, and it took her over completely.

‘Fran?’

‘Bed,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘Now.’

And Mike peered down at her, stopped flapping and turned into the father, stockman and one-time-maybe vet that he was, scooped her up and carried her up the stairs.

He dumped her on the edge of the bed, grabbed the plastic sheet they’d had for Sophie out of the airing cupboard, spread it over the mattress, covered it in thick, soft towels and lifted her into the middle of it.

She couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything to help him, but she didn’t need to. He was doing fine, his smile reassuring, his hands slow and steady and confident as he stripped off her wet underwear.

‘In a bit of a hurry, I think,’ he said, rubbing her back gently and smiling at her.

She suddenly realised why the livestock trusted him so much, why his cows were so content and relaxed around him.

‘I’ve called an ambulance,’ he told her, but they both knew she wasn’t going anywhere till she’d had the baby, and she felt a great peace steal over her. Generations of his family had been born here, in this room, and their baby would be the next in line.

‘Help me out of my clothes,’ she said, struggling to get out of them. She didn’t know why, she just wanted to get rid of them, get rid of anything that wasn’t natural, anything tight, anything constricting that would come between her and nature, because nature was taking her over and she was following her instincts blindly.

Mike eased the dress over her head, pulled off her T-shirt, unclipped her bra and took it off, then drew her naked body into his arms and held her, rubbing her back through another contraction.

‘I need to push,’ she said a minute later, shoving him out of the way and struggling to her knees. ‘Now!’

She couldn’t have done it without him. She locked her hands around the back of his neck and hung on him, whimpering, and he knelt there in front of her and cradled her, then turned her so she was lying over the pillows, hanging on to the headboard for dear life while he concentrated at the business end, and as the baby let out a lusty howl, she turned and sagged back onto the bed, her empty arms outstretched.

Mike lifted their son, slippery and shuddering with rage, and put him into her waiting arms. ‘It’s a boy,’ he said, his voice unsteady, and his hand came out, trembling, and he brushed the back of his knuckles gently over the soft, soft skin. ‘We’ve got a boy, Fran. A son.’ And his tears welled over and splashed onto her hand.

She stared down at them, the tears he’d shed, and the child they’d made together, the child they’d feared they’d never have, and she looked up at him, her own eyes flooded with tears.

‘Come here,’ she said, and he covered them both with the quilt, lay down beside them and drew them into his arms. The baby was nuzzling now, and she looked up at Mike helplessly. ‘I don’t know how to do this,’ she confessed.

‘Yes, you do. Remember the classes?’

And wrapping his big hand round his son’s tiny head, he steered him in the right direction, brushed his cheek against her nipple, and as his mouth opened instinctively, Mike pressed him firmly against her and she felt the baby start to suckle.

‘Oh! It’s so strong!’ she whispered, and stared down at him in wonder. ‘Oh, Mike. He’s beautiful.’

‘He is. Incredible. Amazing. Our little miracle.’

His tiny fingers were splayed over Fran’s breast, the transparent nails so small she could barely see them, but he was strong, a real fighter. He was suckling hard, his tiny rosebud mouth making little sucking noises, and she looked up at Mike and laughed softly.

‘He’s got his father’s appetite,’ she said, and Mike chuckled and hugged her closer.

‘We haven’t talked about names,’ she said, remembering their reluctance to take that much for granted.

‘Sophie has,’ he confessed with a groan. ‘She’s been nagging me. She’s had hundreds of ideas, but her favourite seems to be Thomas.’

‘Thomas. I like that. Thomas Trevellyan. Sounds good.’

‘I think so.’

She stroked his tiny cheek. ‘I think we ought to let your sister name you, little man, don’t you? She’ll be so excited. You have to tell her, Mike.’

‘Not until we’ve got you sorted out,’ he said, easing away from her. ‘The ambulance is here. I’ll talk to her later.’

‘Daddy!’

‘Hello, pickle!’ Mike scooped Sophie up into his arms and hugged her. ‘How’s my favourite girl?’

‘I’m fine—Daddy, where’s Fran? I’ve got something really special to show her. Fran! Look!’ she yelled, catching sight of her. Fran hugged her close and took the little box Sophie was thrusting at her eagerly.

‘It’s a model—I made it at school!’ she said. ‘Look, it’s Brodie and her puppies!’

‘So it is,’ Fran said, smiling down at the little model nestling in its bed of cotton wool. ‘It’s lovely. Give it to your daddy, then.’

‘It’s not for him, it’s for the baby. Can I see him? I’m dying to see him. I can’t believe Mummy made me wait two whole days!’

She was beside herself with excitement and, taking her by the hand, Fran looked up at Kirsten, still in the car. ‘Coming in?’

She shook her head and smiled. ‘I’ll see him when I pick her up on Sunday,’ she said, and drove away, leaving them with Sophie.

Fran led her through the kitchen, past Brodie and her three little puppies all snuggled up together in her basket, into the sitting room to where Sophie’s brand-new little brother was lying sleeping in his crib.

‘Oh, he’s tiny!’ she said in a stage whisper. ‘Much smaller than Millie. Daddy, he’s just like you! All that black hair—and he’s got your nose!’

‘Poor kid,’ Mike said with a proud grin, wrapping his arms round Fran and hugging her close.

‘There’s nothing wrong with your nose,’ Fran told him, turning and kissing the tip of it with a smile. ‘Nothing at all. And there won’t be anything wrong with Thomas’s either. It’s just a bit squashed, but I’m sure he’ll grow into it.’

‘I’m sure he will,’ Mike said, staring down at his son with an expression of wonder and love so profound it brought tears to Fran’s eyes.

‘Can I hold him?’

‘Of course. Sit down.’

Sophie sat on the sofa, with Fran next to her just in case, and Mike slipped his big hands gently under his son’s small body and lifted him, resting him carefully on Sophie’s lap.

‘Hello, Thomas,’ she whispered, and kissed her little brother gently on his forehead. His eyes fluttered open and he stared at her, and they were both transfixed.

It was magical, Fran thought as Mike sat down beyond Sophie and put his arm around them all. Perfect.

Then Sophie looked up, her eyes shining and her smile as bright as the sun, and said, ‘We’re a proper family now.’

And Brodie, wandering in to see what was going on, rested her head on Sophie’s knee and thumped her tail in agreement …

Sheikh Surgeon Claims his Bride

Josie Metcalfe

About the Author

JOSIE METCALFE lives in Cornwall with her long-suffering husband. They have four children. When she was an army brat, frequently on the move, books became the only friends that came with her wherever she went. Now that she writes them herself she is making new friends, and hates saying goodbye at the end of a book—but there are always more characters in her head, clamouring for attention until she can’t wait to tell their stories.

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