Christmas Child

But he wasn’t listening; he went on tersely, as if she hadn’t spoken at all. ‘That being the case, I can’t afford to get attached to a child whose mother has a tendency to drop off the face of the earth.’

‘I would never stop you seeing Chloe,’ Mattie stated with breathy urgency. Why would she, when having James accept his daughter had been her dearest, seemingly unattainable wish? ‘It would be far better for her to know her father, spend time with him, holidays, even, when she gets older. You must see that.’

‘No, why should I? Six months ago you didn’t ask what my wishes were, let alone fall in with them. Why the hell should I fall

in with yours now?’

He turned for the door, the long muscles in his back tense. ‘Think about it, Mattie. And for pity’s sake, get some sleep while you can.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

THANK heaven she had a contented baby. At least, it was a case of so far so good, Mattie thought as she tucked Chloe up in her crib after her early morning feed. She would have been fit for nothing but the knacker’s yard if she’d had to pace the floor all night with a screaming bundle of red-faced infant fury.

As it was she felt like a limp lettuce. Half the night had been spent wondering about what he’d said and the other half wondering about what he hadn’t said. And the whole night knowing he was in her spare room, with her aching to slide into the double bed beside him, beg him to take her in his arms and hold her. Just hold her.

It was only just getting light but she could hear him moving around downstairs as she padded to the bathroom to take a shower. She could picture him making a fire, trudging through the snow to the wood-shed to bring in more fuel, perhaps making a start on breakfast.

James would be doing what he would see as his duty because he was that type of man. After all, she was still his wife, and she’d just given birth to his baby. Her parents would have asked him to look out for her for a little while, then taken off, leaving him with no option but to stay for a few days.

But his face would be tight with irritation. He’d be bored out of his skull, wanting to get back to civilisation. And Fiona.

Not wanting to set eyes on another voluminous maternity dress, much less wanting to wear one, she’d picked out one of the pairs of jeans she’d practically lived in before she’d got too huge, and a bright-coloured sweatshirt to wear on top. If she couldn’t squeeze into them she’d just have to go back to those shapeless jogging pants.

Thankfully, the jeans fitted. Just. She felt marginally better. And much better when she brushed her newly washed hair and left it loose around her shoulders, then carefully applied make-up, something she hadn’t bothered with for months.

At least it disguised the havoc of a practically sleepless night. Sleepless, thinking of him. Of what he’d said. He’d accused her of not asking what his wishes were, and he’d been right. She hadn’t. Why should she have done when she’d already known what they were?

He’d told her himself that he didn’t want children, and if that weren’t enough Fiona had confirmed it without having been asked. So getting his knickers in a twist because she hadn’t meekly asked what his wishes were made him one big hypocrite.

Yet, on the up side, he’d shown genuine feeling when he’d said he couldn’t afford to bond with his baby because her mother might disappear off the face of the earth again. Somehow she was going to have to reassure him that that wouldn’t happen, that she would be happy for him to make time for his child in his life.

Her mouth set in a determined line, she set off down the twisty, uncarpeted oak staircase, pushed open the door at the bottom and froze, her eyes going wide.

A fire was blazing in the hearth. She’d been right about that but wrong about everything else. He didn’t look even vaguely irritated or bored out of his skull. He was grinning at her reaction to what she was seeing.

A dream of a Christmas tree stood just to one side of one of the windows, gold and silver satin-finish baubles caught and reflected the glow of firelight, scarlet satin ribbons twined through the dark green branches and the touches of artificial snow were as glittery as the real stuff she could see outside.

The sun was rising, turning her garden, the fields and woods beyond into a magical fairyland, the sky a thin, pale blue. A perfect Christmas morning. If only everything weren’t so wrong.

Tears stung the backs of her eyes. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said huskily. She wanted to tell him he was beautiful too. Wearing narrow-fitting dark jeans topped by a chunky Aran sweater, his dark hair rumpled, the austerity of his features erased by that charismatic white grin, his eyes smiling for her, made him her idea of male perfection.

She said instead, controlling the wobble in her voice by sheer will-power, ‘Where did the tree come from?’

‘Dorchester. I had things to do yesterday afternoon, remember? The tree was one of them. The bits and bobs another. I wanted to surprise you. Hey—’ his voice flattened ‘—don’t go weepy on me. It’s Christmas Day, it’s special so we pretend to be happy, OK? Though I did read that new mothers tend to live near the waterworks!’

Had he really taken an interest in the subject? Had he actually read books on pregnancy, childbirth and the aftermath? Somehow she couldn’t imagine it. And his ‘pretend to be happy’ had struck a sour note.

But he was determined to do his part, if the beautifully decorated tree was anything to go by, and when he asked, ‘Is Chloe asleep?’ she decided she would pretend, too, even if it killed her.

‘Soundly. And I have the baby alarm.’ Her sudden smile was dazzling, unforced. He had actually called his daughter by her name, for the very first time. Things were definitely looking up in that department. Somehow she was going to have to convince him that she would never, ever deny him access to his child. But carefully. It would be terrible if she frightened him out of the beginnings of parental interest and concern.

‘The tree was a lovely surprise,’ she told him. ‘You must have been up for hours. So you relax while I make breakfast.’

‘Sounds good to me.’

He followed her into the kitchen and she had mixed feelings about that. If he’d stayed in the sitting room she would have had a breathing space.

She could be what she was, a single parent, working her way round the needs of her child. On the other hand, and probably stupidly, she wanted to have every moment of time with him that was on offer. A commodity that wouldn’t be hers to have for very much longer. A day or so.