At least she would have him in her life. And after the last few days she was beginning to find it harder and harder to envisage a future with her baby and without Malachi closely entwined in it.
‘We’ll see,’ she managed instead, acutely aware that this time it wasn’t an outright refusal.
His eyes held hers and, try as she might, she couldn’t seem to drag her gaze away. The stayed like that for longer than she could tell—an eternity, perhaps—until they heard the consultant returning and he finally dropped his hands.
She felt the loss acutely.
CHAPTER TEN
THE HELICOPTER TOUCHED down in the grounds of a fourteenth-century castello, complete with square tower, just as fresh flakes of snow were falling on the Tuscan mountains, which rose majestically around them. It was as though Malachi himself had commanded it.
The surgery a week ago had been a success, and the baby—a baby girl—appeared to be thriving. The fact that, although she had lost some amniotic fluid during the surgery, the levels had risen again very quickly post-surgery made Saskia feel as though her body was at least now doing what it was supposed to do. Although she hadn’t voiced that particular dark thought to anyone—not even Malachi.
The strands which had been entangling the baby had all been cut, and already the swelling in the left foot had begun to reduce—although she would need Z-plasty for the grooves postnatally. The slight clubbing would also be corrected post-birth, with a brace, but to all intents and purposes she now seemed to be healthy and developing well.
And through it all Malachi had barely left her side. He’d made her feel cared for. Supported. It was little wonder that she felt more of a bond with him than ever, even if she knew it was hopeless and not a little foolhardy.
It was why now, as they descended the stairs from the helicopter, Saskia concentrated on taking in the breathtaking views.
If she hadn’t been pregnant she would have been thrilled to be coming here and taking advantage of the skiing on offer, from the lava domes of Amiata to the ski slopes of Abetone. She knew from the few photos she’d seen around Malachi’s apartment that he went glacial abseiling and scaling frozen waterfalls in his rare downtime. Now she realised that it must be here that he came to get away from it all.
What did it mean that he’d invited her into this private bolthole of his? Or was she reading too much into it?
She was still mulling it over as Malachi steered her around the helicopter and she finally turned towards the castle itself. It had taken a slow drive to the airfield, his private jet to Italy, and a helicopter ride to get here, but now that she had finally arrived she knew it was worth it.
It stole the very air from her lungs.
The place was magnificent. Stone walls with battlements, sloping bases and arched windows made it impossible for her not to imagine the frescoed walls and coffered ceilings which must surely lie inside. And the building’s beauty was matched only by the oaks and cypresses and ilex shrubs which framed it.
‘It’s a wonder you ever come back to London,’ she murmured to him, wondering why it felt so instantly comfortable, familiar to her.
Like a home.
It was almost a relief that her words were whipped away, unheard, by the roar of the heli.
Together they made their way across the lawns, glistening white under a thin veil of snow, to the housekeeper, who was waiting at the door.
‘I told you to stay inside in the warmth, Imelda,’ Malachi admonished, and Saskia was shocked to see the little, rotund older lady, with a faint West Country accent, throwing her arms around him and kissing him soundly on each cheek.
‘I stayed at the door, didn’t I?’ she teased. ‘It’s so good to have you back, Malachi.’ Then she turned with a warm smile. ‘You must be Saskia—welcome to the castello. We’re all just so delighted to meet the future Mrs Gunn.’
Saskia froze, but the woman seemed too caught up in the moment to notice.
‘For pity’s sake, bring the girl inside—she’ll be catching her death. Shall I have hot drinks brought to you? The fires have been lit throughout.’
‘Lovely, Imelda, thank you,’ Malachi agreed. ‘We shall be in the library, I think.’
‘You have an English housekeeper?’
‘I’ve known Imelda for almost fifteen years now. I bought this place with my first million, and her late husband was the builder who oversaw much of the renovation work.’
‘You didn’t do it yourself, then?’ she teased.
‘I did what I could.’ Malachi shrugged. ‘But I was still working a lot in the UK back then.’
She waited for him to elaborate further, but he didn’t, instead ushering her through long criss-crossing corridors until they stepped through a door into what was clearly the library.
Old leather-bound tomes upon old leather-bound tomes lay behind pretty wrought-iron-framed doors. Wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling, save for the gargantuan stone fireplace with its timber mantelshelf which took up a third of one wall, and the two leaded windows, complete with deep sides and cushioned window seats, which nestled into the other.