said tersely, ‘Gemma might have been right when she told you that I don’t do love well, but I do understand how to protect my own. Although I failed to save Gemma, I can make sure that her son doesn’t die before his time.’
Abby hesitated, but something about his tone in the final sentence made her say with quiet intensity, ‘No one could have saved Gemma, not even you. The cyclone wasn’t supposed to come anywhere near Palaweyo, but at the last moment it turned and roared down on us out of a cloudless sky. We didn’t have time to get out—in fact, we only just had time to gather everyone in the hospital. Gemma wouldn’t want you to feel that you’d failed her.’
‘She died before her time; that sounds like failure to me. So what’s your decision?’ His voice was icily detached. ‘I don’t intend to spend all night in this cold, musty room while you dither. Either accept my terms and live in my house with Michael, or forget about him and get on with your life.’
In an agony of indecision, Abby bit her lip. Chilly air seeped across her skin, and the soft noises of the old cottage settling down for the night, usually familiar and comforting, had become tinged with menace.
With the prince’s harsh words echoing in her ears, she accepted she had no choice. While surrender was bitter, accepting his ultimatum would afford Michael more security than she could ever offer him.
From behind her Caelan said in a voice edged with cynicism, ‘After all, it’s a win/win situation. I get my nephew. Michael will be with the only mother he knows. And you can emerge from the melodramatic shadows you’ve been skulking in, wash the dye out of your hair and buy a whole new wardrobe in the right colours. The Abby I remember dressed to play up her hair and eyes and skin, but the outfit you’re wearing now makes you look as though you’ve got acute jaundice.’
That stung, even though her clothes had been carefully selected to strip the colour from her skin. Bought from the cheapest racks, they couldn’t have been more different from the tailored trousers that showed off Caelan’s long, heavily muscled legs, or the jersey he wore, its lustrous shine revealing that it was made from merino wool.
‘And what’s in it for you?’ she asked bluntly.
He gave her an ironic glance. ‘The knowledge that my nephew isn’t hungry and has the position and all the advantages he deserves. Most of all, the knowledge that he’s safe.’
Nothing about love there! According to Gemma and the newspapers, Caelan was the consummate sophisticate; he’d soon get bored with the antics of a three-year-old.
Her heart clenched painfully. Even if he couldn’t be the sort of father a child needed, she’d be there to provide love and understanding for Michael, and to fight for him whenever it became necessary.
Yet self-protection forced her to search for a less dangerous compromise. ‘I still think it would be easier for us all if Michael and I had our own place. You could see him whenever you want to.’
But even as she said the words she knew they weren’t going to change Caelan’s mind.
‘You’ll live with me, so I can keep a close watch on you. From now on, wherever Michael goes, either I—or someone I employ—will be half a step behind.’ He spoke with the cold, raw impact of a punch in the face, his tone implacable.
‘All right,’ she said at last, the acrid taste of defeat in her mouth. She had no room to manoeuvre, and he knew it. Apprehension shivered through her, setting her nerves jumping.
‘Then let’s go,’ he said without expression. ‘Do you want me to carry the child out to the car?’
‘No,’ she said too quickly.
Ignoring her, he strode out of the room and opened the front door, giving crisp, low-voiced orders to whoever had driven the car up to the cottage.
Abby walked back into Michael’s room, but once there she fixed her gaze painfully on his beloved face. Even when Caelan came back in she didn’t move.
He interrupted her darting thoughts with an impatient command. ‘Forget the past—it’s not relevant—and think of Michael’s well-being; at the moment he needs both of us—me for the security which, believe it or not, Gemma would have considered to be just as important as the love you dispense.’ After a tense pause he drawled, ‘Or is it too big a sacrifice for you to make for him?’
‘Damn you,’ she whispered, torn on the rack of her ambivalence, disillusion and pain warring with the ignominy of her own helplessness.
A sobbing sigh from the bed broke the thick web of tension between them. Nerves taut and brittle as spun toffee, she sat down on the edge when Michael rubbed his eyes and began to hiccup.
‘Hush, darling, it’s all right,’ she crooned, lifting his solid, warm body against her. ‘Did you have a bad dream?’
He murmured something and clung, cuddling into her, so utterly dear that her heart clenched in a tight, hard ball.
Abby kissed his tousled hair and pressed her cheek against it, looking across to where Caelan stood.
Michael must have sensed that someone else was in the room too; he turned his head, his eyes growing larger as he examined Caelan. Sobs dying, he said, ‘Abby?’
‘Hello, Michael, I’m your Uncle Caelan, and you’re coming to live with me.’ Caelan’s voice was deep and cool and utterly confident.
His nephew stared at him, clutching Abby tighter. ‘And Abby too?’ he said uncertainly.
Caelan looked at Abby. ‘Tell him,’ he commanded.
She dragged in a deep breath, praying fiercely that this was the right thing for Michael. ‘Of course, darling,’ she said simply. ‘You know I’ll always be with you.’
Michael looked up at her, brows drawing together in a frown that reminded her eerily of the man with them.
‘Give him to me,’ Caelan ordered.
When she hesitated, he said curtly, ‘I’m not a monster, Abby.’
But she handed Michael over with huge reluctance. Carrying the small boy easily, his uncle strode out of the room; swiftly Abby scooped up blankets and Michael’s stuffed elephant and the fire engine she’d made of wooden blocks and followed, panting slightly by the time she reached the big, waiting car.
Caelan was stooping, his voice level and reassuring as he lowered Michael into a child seat in the back. Another man stood some distance away—possibly the one who’d kept her under surveillance. A sudden shiver of foreboding tightened her skin.
She didn’t understand power at all, whereas Caelan Bagaton reeked of it. Very little of that inherent authority came from the title he rarely used and his heritage; if he’d been born plain Caelan Smith he’d have made his way in the world. He was a winner.
As soon as the restraints on the car seat were clipped home Michael peered anxiously at Abby, who hovered in the crisp air.
‘Sit beside him,’ Caelan ordered, straightening up so that she could drape the blankets around the child. ‘Give me your car keys first—’
‘Why?’
‘I
