marriage. Perhaps subconsciously she had known that his honour, his sense of responsibility, would have made him insist.
And perhaps it would have been all right if her pregnancy hadn’t been so awful, if she hadn’t felt so ill. Sick all the time, irrational, spotty. Hormones, the doctor had said sympathetically, but even knowing what it had been hadn’t stopped her being horrendous, had it? Shouting at Jed, blaming him, bursting into tears all the time…She still was crying all the time. And then contrite, begging his forgiveness. And he’d been so kind, gentle—long-suffering? She’d expected him to know what she’d been feeling without being told. Expected him to dance attendance, and yet, never by look, or deed, had he ever intimated that he regretted marrying her. Maybe if her parents had been alive, things would have been different. But there had been only Gran and it hadn’t seemed fair to drag her out to Bavaria just because her granddaughter had been having a baby. People had babies all the time. Childish, she told herself. You were childish. Spoilt. A spoilt little girl. And underlying it all, there had been guilt. Guilt that somehow it had been all her fault. Guilt for what she’d been doing to him, changing his life when he probably hadn’t wanted it changed. And she’d felt resentful, she admitted, that everything had been spoilt. Her happy-go-lucky, carefree existence, all gone.
She’d had a lot of growing up to do, hadn’t she?
And then had come the fateful trip to Scotland. She had insisted on going with him. He’d begged her to stay in Bavaria with their friends whilst he did his research for the next book; insisted that he wouldn’t be gone long, but no, she’d had to go with him. Poor man. Couldn’t even get away for a few weeks of peace and quiet. She’d insisted on doing the driving that day so that he could make notes…Another row—no, not a row. She’d shouted, and he’d gone all quiet. She hadn’t been going fast because the road had been winding and hilly. There had been a steep ravine on one side, mountainous outcrops on the other. Then the child had run out onto the road on a bend; a child from a family that had parked to admire the view, and had allowed their three-year-old daughter to get out and stretch her legs. There had been nowhere for Sarah to drive but off the road…
If the safety barrier hadn’t already been weak from a previous accident; if the road hadn’t been wet…It had all happened so fast with no time to think, plan. They’d crashed through the barrier, sailed out into nothing, and hit a tree. The passenger side had borne the brunt of it, and Jed had sustained severe muscle and nerve damage to his left leg, a gashed forehead, concussion—and she’d lost the baby, which had meant that the reason for their marriage no longer existed. And that was what frightened her so. Only she hadn’t been able to tell the doctor that, had she? When he’d gone on about there being other babies, explained about hormone imbalances, about shock and grief…
The soft tap at the door made her start, and she swung round almost guiltily as the door opened, her eyes swimming with tears.
‘Oh, Sarah!’ Jed exclaimed raggedly. ‘You can’t go on like this.’
CHAPTER THREE
PAST thinking about whether this was what Jed wanted, needed, only knowing that it was what she wanted, Sarah ran to him, and buried herself against his chest. Clutching him tight, her head against his shoulder, her eyes closed and body shaking, she held him and cried.
Slowly, really quite slowly, his arms came round her, and with gentle soothing motions he held her against him.
‘I’m all right,’ she blurted tearfully. ‘I’m all right, but I can’t seem to break out, can’t seem to…’
‘Shh, it’s all right.’
‘Is it?’ she pleaded.
‘Yes.’
But it wasn’t. Wrenching her head up, her face tear-strained and puffy, she stared into his eyes. Eyes that looked sombre, hurt, empty.
With one large palm, he gently placed her head back on his chest. ‘It’s all right, Sarah,’ he repeated. ‘It will be all right, I promise, but you have to eat. There’s nothing of you.’
‘I know, and I will. Truly I will.’
He closed his eyes, rested his chin on her hair and felt despair. ‘I think you should go back and see the doctor,’ he said quietly.
‘No,’ she denied. ‘I’ll eat, and go for walks, and then I’ll get better.’ Lifting her head again, she stared at him, examined his expression, and then raised her palms to put them each side of his face. Staring into his eyes, searching for reassurance, she whispered, ‘Don’t go just yet.’
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