A Mother's Love (6 page)

Kyra straightened in mock primness. “Tell me something else, Mr. Jones. What else do you love?”

“So many things.” He fell sideways beside the baby, propping his head on his hand. “I love starting out in the
morning with a big project, when all the bits are in place and the crew is a good one and we're building something like a huge bridge.”

Kyra laughed. “I can really understand that. Engineering is a beautiful thing.”

“That's not how women usually react.”

“Math major, remember?” She raised her hand.

He plucked a daisy and handed it to her. “Your turn.”

“Easy. I love yoga.”

“Yeah? Why? Africa was all about her yoga, too. I don't understand that—what do you get out of twisting yourself into a pretzel?”

“That's not really what it's all about,” she said. “It's about becoming aware of your body and yourself and where you fit in the world. I didn't really know where I fit until I started studying yoga. Africa and I studied together our sophomore year. Africa calmed down. I learned to be less shy. It was—” She lifted one shoulder. “It was transformative for both of us.” She twirled the flower around in her hand. “But I love the business, too. It thrills me.”

“Sounds as if you've been very successful.”

“A lot of it was luck,” Kyra said plainly. “We were in the right place at the right time.”

Dylan pointed at the baby with a sideways grin. She was drifting off, eyelids sweeping closed, then fluttering open, then fluttering closed. Kyra settled her head right next to the baby's. “Her mouth is so tiny and perfect,” she said. “It's just priceless.”

“And fingernails,” Dylan said, touching them.

“And eyebrows.” Kyra brushed her nose over the baby's cheek lightly. “I don't think her name is Amanda or Tommie,” she said. “Is that weird?”

“No, I think you're right. She's not meant to be named for anyone. She's going to make her own individual way in the world.”

“Yes.” Kyra tucked her finger into the little fist, pleased when the baby grabbed on. “Something fiery and strong.”

“But nothing strange,” Dylan said.

“No, no.”

“There's always Guinevere. Queenly name.”

“But she didn't have a happy life, did she?”

“True. We want her to have a happy life, don't we? To make up for her parents dying so young.” He put the back of his hand gently against her tiny body. “A good name. How about Merry?”

Kyra laughed at the rightness. “Oh, I love that!” She bent close. “What do you think of Merry, hmm? Is that the right name for a happy girl?”

Dylan brushed Kyra's face lightly, and she looked up, unable to hide the fact that her heart was in her throat. There was something so innately right about him.

She had not met a man of such mingled passion and tenderness. A soft breeze blew over them, Dylan and Kyra and the baby between them, sleeping. Such a sweet domestic scene—and so false! She had forgotten for a moment that it wasn't real.

But what if it was? What if it could be? She stared at his square wrist scattered with light dustings of black hair and at the whirl of hair swept back away from his face, and a kind of greed overtook her.

“If you don't stop looking at me like that, I can't promise to keep my promise,” he said.

She told herself all the reasons she shouldn't let him kiss her. All the reasons it was a bad idea to let herself get
attached—more attached—to a man she'd only just met and would likely never see again after next week.

But maybe the very limited nature of it made it all right. She knew it had no future. She raised one eyebrow, an invitation.

With an exhalation, he moved suddenly, carefully maneuvering around the sleeping infant, and slid down to nestle his body against Kyra's. They lay side by side, looking close into each other's faces, and a liquid layer of pleasure moved below her skin.

“Tell me why you don't trust me,” he said, tucking his fingers beneath her chin.

“I don't really want to talk.” She edged forward, dizzy and hungry, and kissed him. She slid her hand around his neck, and he captured her thighs between his own, kissing her back. His eyes were closed, but hers were not, and up close he was intensely, dazzlingly beautiful, as if she'd made him up. She liked that he looked so lost in kissing her, and liked the restless up-and-down movement of his hand on her bare arm, stoking the flames to a higher pitch.

“This is crazy,” she said, “making out like teenagers.”

“Uh-huh,” he murmured, but he didn't stop kissing her, only changed the location of his kissing, moving over her chin, down her throat, swirling his tongue in slow, electric glides. His fingers brushed her chest above the blouse. “I keep thinking about these freckles,” he said. “I want to kiss every one of them.”

Kyra made a noise at that and tugged him closer so she could feel his chest against her breasts, his body against her own. He rolled her slightly so she was beneath him, and his blue eyes burned down into her as he put his hands on the buttons of her blouse. “May I?”

“It would have been easier if you hadn't asked,” she said.

“But I don't believe in sweeping things away, in pretending. This is fast. You choose.”

Kyra looked up at him, then nodded.

He sighed happily and opened one button at a time to reveal her very ordinary white bra.

She had to force herself not to cover herself but just lie there while he looked at her. “My breasts are very small,” she said, in apology or maybe just acknowledgment.

“Yes,” he said and he put his hand flat between them. He straddled her, knees on either side of her hips, and stroked his fingers down the center of her body. “So strong,” he said. “So beautiful.”

Then he bent and lightly swept his mouth over the top of her chest, kissing freckles, taking little sips, his mouth as delicate as the brush of a flower, his tongue a surprise tip of heat and wet every now and then. He kissed her whole chest, her shoulders, her throat, his hands trailing down her inner arms, into the cradle of her palms.

As if he were igniting wicks all over her body, Kyra began to burn. She was still mostly dressed, and he hadn't even touched her breasts, and she felt as if she would melt from the heat of her response to him. “Take off your shirt,” she breathed. “I want to look at you, too.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “I'll unbutton it, how's that? We have to be ready to move quickly.”

She nodded. He started to unbutton the shirt, but she suddenly couldn't stand to be so passive any longer. With a quick movement, she sat up, and suddenly she was straddling him.

He uttered a soft curse, his hands sliding up her bare thighs beneath her skirt, all the way to the little panties she wore underneath, and his expression was smoky. Kyra
unfastened his shirt and pushed it open, leaning back slightly so she could brush her fingers through his chest hair. “Beautiful,” she said, and it was exactly like the fantasy she'd been having of him, their chests pressed together, except—

She reached behind herself and unfastened her bra, pulling the straps out of her sleeves and tossing it aside. Heavy-lidded, he slid his hands up her back, and Kyra bent in and kissed him, putting their bare chests in contact.

Three things happened at once: Dylan's cell phone rang; the baby woke; and a woman came over the hill, striding beneath a hat that hid most of her face.

Kyra reached out a hand to gentle over the baby. Dylan pulled Kyra's shirt closed while he raised a hand to the woman on the path. Only then did he tug his phone open, laughing, as he tried to hide Kyra's bra with one foot.

“This is Dylan,” he said into the phone.

Kyra felt the tension instantly in his body as he barked, “I'll be right there.” He hung up. “My mother's taken ill.”

E
MMA WAS BUNDLED
off to the hospital, protesting that she was fine. And she probably was, but they wanted to keep her overnight. Dylan accompanied her, of course.

Leaving Kyra alone at the cottage with the baby.

Her daughter.

Who changed personalities the minute the door closed behind them. She cried fiercely, endlessly, no matter what Kyra did. Kyra tried to feed her. She changed her, checked her all over for pinpricks or spider bites or something that might be causing the trauma. She walked her, patting her on the back gently.

Merry cried. And cried. And cried. Loud, long, lung-building bellows. Her face turned red. Her body went absolutely rigid. Kyra had no idea what to do.

So she simply accepted the crying. She walked back and forth, holding Merry safely close to her, and patted her back and sang songs until she was hoarse. When the songs wore out, she started talking. “I know you're mad, little one,” she said. “It's not fair that you lost your mommy so early, but I promise I'll do my best for you. Every single day of your life, I'll be there for you.”

Merry cried.

“I haven't been lucky enough to have a baby of my own,
you know, so you are an incredible gift to me, sweetie.” Against her neck she felt Merry's wet cheek nuzzling in, fists and head bobbing. “I can't say I'll always be good at it, but I'll try.”

Kyra started to hum under her breath, and with weary arms she settled in the rocking chair. What did it matter if Merry was crying either way? She sat down and shifted position and started to sing again, all the childhood songs she could remember.

Merry just kept crying. Inconsolable. It seemed to go on for days, though when she looked at the clock, she saw it had, in actuality, been only a couple of hours.

And yet Kyra didn't feel the panic that had overcome her earlier. For some reason, she sensed this was a natural thing, a baby thing, not some awful lack in Kyra herself.

But crying for two hours was a long time. “Aren't you getting hungry yet?” Kyra asked. “You must not have a bad diaper because you couldn't have anything left to pee.” This made Kyra laugh, slightly hysterically, but Merry didn't appear to be particularly amused.

Kyra's arms were aching, and it finally occurred to her that she could lay the baby down. She put her on her stomach in the cradle, feeling tingles as blood rushed back into the limbs. Emma had explained that babies should never, never sleep on their bellies these days—it was thought that it contributed to SIDS—but lying on the stomach helped them develop their neck muscles. Merry kept crying, lifting her head a little, which did seem as if it would be good exercise after all, and Kyra kept patting her back and her bottom gently, sometimes drawing little circles on her.

Finally she had to leave her for a minute to cry on her own
in the safety of her cradle so Kyra could go to the bathroom. The crying accompanied her to the little water closet, where she rushed through and washed her hands.

And suddenly heard the depth of silence of no crying.

Panicked, she rushed out to the other room—and saw that Merry had simply fallen asleep.

On her stomach. Of course. Did Kyra turn her over, risk waking her? Could she stand guard to be sure Merry was still breathing? Unrealistic. Kyra, too, was exhausted.

Well, the baby wouldn't smother in five minutes, not with Kyra looking on, so she went to the kitchen for a drink of water, washed her grainy face and came back. Gently, gently, she eased Merry from her stomach to her side. The baby let go a shuddering breath and seemed about to awaken, so Kyra braced her chest and put one hand under her and eased her onto her back.

Merry gusted out a sigh and settled into a heavy sleep. Her eyes were swollen, her cheeks red and splotchy, and she was still the most precious, beautiful thing Kyra had ever seen in her life. Exhausted, she covered the baby with a layer of blankets and fell on the couch in weariness. No wonder Emma had taken sick!

It wasn't until then that Kyra realized how much everything in her life was going to change. She would have to hire help. She would have to move from her upscale but not very practical townhome and find a house in a good neighborhood, maybe in Wash Park, where the schools were good. She could find an older home with a nice yard, and maybe they would eventually get a dog.

Tugging a blanket over her shoulders, she nestled into the couch a little more, and it was only as she drifted off that she realized she was seeing Dylan in that picture. Dylan,
who lived in Wales. Dylan, who was too much of everything…and somehow just right.

Bolting awake, she heard that last thought and sat straight up. “What are you thinking, Kyra Tierney?” she said aloud. “Haven't you learned your lesson yet?”

The solicitor had expected the paperwork for the adoption to take a few weeks, but he'd filed to give her rights to take the baby out of the country, and that was expected to be returned in a day or two. No one objected to Kyra's claim of adoption, especially as there was no one on Thomas's side to step in.

As soon as she had the paperwork Kyra would have to go home. Away from the much-too-appealing Dylan Jones.

Why did that idea give her such a hole in her heart?

 

D
YLAN SAFELY DELIVERED
his mother to her sister's house, where she was tucked in and properly fussed over. Doris clucked and brought Emma in to sit and have some tea. She was suffering simply from too much work. “Taking care of a baby at her age!”

And yet, as Dylan left, there was still so much Emma tried to cram into his brain. “Mother,” he said. “If I find some disaster I cannot handle, I promise I will call you.” Pressing a hand to her shoulder, Dylan murmured, “Kyra and the baby will be all right.”

But when he walked into the cottage an hour later, he was not entirely sure that was true. Mother and daughter sat in the rocking chair, both of them crying—Merry with great gulping sobs, and Kyra simply weeping, tears streaming down her pretty cheeks, her nose running.

“I am an absolute failure at this,” she said when he came in.

“No, no,” he said, gently taking the baby. “Has she been crying like this for long?”

“She did for about ninety minutes, then she fell asleep, then she started up again about, oh, twenty minutes ago. I've changed her. I tried feeding her.”

Merry snuffled into Dylan's shoulder, rubbing her face hard on his shirt. “Why don't you go wash your face and take a little break? I'll heat a bottle and we'll see if that does the trick.”

Kyra nodded wearily. “How is your mother?”

“She'll be fine.”

In the kitchen, Dylan took out a prepared bottle and popped it in the microwave for a minute. The baby cried piteously on his shoulder, wiggling her little body, everything in her rigid and irritated. He patted her back and murmured nonsense words to soothe her, and still she mewled, exhausted.

His sister's youngest had been a very colicky child, and he knew it exhausted both baby and mother. Holding her close, he pressed little kisses on her nose, her cheeks, and she turned her head fast, trying to nurse on his nose. Her eyes were swollen from crying. “Why are you giving her such a hard time, huh? She loves you.”

When the timer dinged, he took the bottle out, tested it for temperature and rubbed the nipple against the baby's cheek. She halted midcry and turned, her mouth opening avidly. She clamped down with ferocity and began to nurse.

Kyra came into the kitchen. “And in five minutes you have her calmed down. I don't know what I did wrong.”

“Nothing,” he said. “Sometimes babies just cry. She wore herself out and now she's hungry, and when we put her down, I'm guessing she'll sleep a good long stretch.”

“So will I!”

“You don't have to wait up. I'll stay the night, too. We can share the care of her.”

“I'm not going to say no—at least to the staying overnight. I slept on the couch for a while, though. I'm not ready to go to bed yet.” She tugged on a sweater that hung on a hook by the door. “I'll be outside.”

Merry gulped the bottle, and Dylan expertly burped her, then put her down in her bed. She fell asleep in minutes. Dylan looked down at her for a long time, avoiding the moment he would have to join Kyra. There were so many wildly conflicting emotions warring in his head. His heart. Merry was part of it, his sense of connection to her, his sense of responsibility to Thomas.

But most of it was his confusion over the intensity of his reaction to Kyra herself. Even now, knowing she was sitting out there in the cool night, he wanted to go out there and simply hold her. It was much deeper than a sexual feeling, though of course he wanted her sexually, as well. But this was a sense of having waited for her.

Or maybe he was a romantic idiot.

A whisper of an idea wafted through him, ridiculous and sensible at once: what if they married, he and Kyra, to give Merry the home she deserved? It would not be unpleasant, he was sure.

But he imagined offering Kyra a marriage of convenience and the shuttering of her face.

And was that even what he wanted? He didn't know. He felt tangled and hungry and aroused and irritated that this stranger should have so much of an effect on him.

A marriage of convenience, my eye, said a voice in his head.

Dylan dismissed everything and went outside to sit with
the poor, exhausted woman, leaving the door open so they could hear Merry if she cried.

Kyra sat on a stone bench facing the sea. “Is she asleep?”

He settled next to her, breathing in the salty taste of night and sea and fish. “Soundly, I suspect.”

“I was doing all right the first time,” she said. “I just let her cry and I was fine, and it seemed to me that she would cry herself out eventually and that getting upset would just make it harder on both of us.”

He took her hand and she allowed it.

“She fell asleep and so did I. And then she just woke up screaming. As if she was in pain. And I couldn't figure out what was wrong and I felt so terrible about it.”

“Imagine,” Dylan said, “that you have only one way to tell the world what you want. She woke up furious and hungry and nothing would do but to let you know that.”

Kyra nodded. “I really started wondering tonight if I have what it takes.”

A chill moved in him. “Do you mean you might not go through with the adoption?”

“I don't want to torture her the rest of her life. I mean, I really know what it's like to have a lousy mother.”

He rubbed his index finger around the edge of the nail on her thumb. “Is that it? Or are you ducking away from taking responsibility?”

“Please don't use that tone of voice with me. I'm not the one who was running all over the world. I step up to my responsibilities. But I'm terrible at being her mother. Maybe I just need to recognize that I'm not a good mother.”

The tenseness in him broke. “Ah, my lovely,” he said, pulling her under his chin. “Did you do yoga perfectly the first time you tried it? Did you learn to read in a day?”

She looked up at him. “No.”

“Why would you think you'd know how to care for a baby right out of the gate?”

She nodded. “I see your point. Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

Kyra was quiet for a time. Then she said, “Dylan, isn't it going to kill you to wave goodbye to her?”

“It will. But I'll come see her. And send eccentric presents.”

She chuckled. “You might have to go a long way into eccentric to outwit the eccentrics at Yogariffic.”

“You love that business, don't you?”

“I love yoga,” she said. “And I like the challenge of making everything fit together so that the business can succeed. But I'm not sure I'm happy with the direction we were going. Africa wanted to go upscale and bring in all these extras that just don't feel right to me.”

“So now you can eliminate whatever doesn't feel authentic.”

“But that feels like dishonoring her memory.”

Dylan nodded. “Sadly, life goes on.”

It was so very quiet. The sea whispered below, and there was no wind, and her hand felt right in his own. “I wish you weren't going,” he said without realizing he was going to say it.

She looked at him soberly.

Dylan continued, “I wish we had some time to explore this.”

Her gaze lit on their hands, which felt to him as if they'd fit forever just this way. “We have tonight, don't we? Let's talk.”

“All right,” he said and put his arm around her. “Long as you sit close to keep me warm.”

“I don't mind.”

Dylan felt aroused mentally and emotionally as well as physically as they curled close beneath the boughs of the tree, trying to keep warm. He pulled her next to his ribs and wrapped his arms around her. She tucked her legs over his, and they were warm enough.

“You fit me,” he said.

Kyra nestled into the hollow of his shoulder, her hand slipping inside his coat. “Did you go to their wedding? Africa and Thomas?”

“I didn't. They eloped at Gretna Green.”

“How traditional.” She chuckled against him, and he liked her for knowing what it was.

“Why haven't you married?” he asked.

“Well, not for lack of trying. I've been engaged twice. Both times the groom-to-be changed his mind.”

“Ah. That's my tale, too.”

“Your groom changed his mind?”

“No, my bride-to-be left me at the altar in front of the town. At that old stone church you know.”

“Literally at the altar?”

He nodded, realizing that the sting of it had finally subsided. He lifted a shoulder. “Things happen, don't they?”

“No, that's not right, Dylan. That was wrong of her. There were a hundred ways not to humiliate you. She didn't have to do it that way.” Kyra shook her head. “I hate it that that happened to you.”