Page 34 of For the Love of Lilah
“You—pregnant?” He gaped down at her flat stomach, then back into her face. “A baby? We’re having a baby?”
Even as she nodded, he was scooping her up, to swing her around and around as she clung to him.
“What the hell’s with them?” Sloan wondered.
“Men.” Behind Max, Lilah glided from another room. “You’re all so dense.” With a sigh, she laid a hand on Max’s shoulder, watching her sister and Trent through misty eyes. “We’re having a baby, you dummies.”
“I’ll be damned.” After a whoop, Sloan headed down to slap Trent on the back and kiss C.C. Hearing the sniffle behind him, Max rose.
“You okay?”
“Sure.” She brushed a tear from her lashes, but another fell. “She’s my baby sister.” She sniffed again, then gave a watery laugh when Max offered her a handkerchief. “Trust you.” She dabbed her eyes, blew her nose, then sighed. “I’m going to keep it awhile, okay? We’re all going to cry buckets when we go down and make the announcement to the rest of the family.”
“That’s all right.” Unsure of himself, he stuck his hands into his pockets.
“Let’s go down and see if there’s any champagne in the fridge.”
“Well, I think I should stay up here. Out of the way.”
With a shake of her head, she took his hand firmly in hers. “Don’t be a jerk. Like it or not, Professor, you’re part of the family.”
He let her lead him away and discovered he did like it. He liked it a lot.
It was the stray puppy that started it. Such a poor, bedraggled little thing. Homeless and helpless. I have no idea how he found his way to the cliffs. Perhaps someone had disposed of an unwanted litter, or the pup had become separated from its mother. But we found him, Christian and I, on one of our golden afternoons. He was hiding in a huddle of rocks, half-starved and whimpering, a tiny black bundle of bones and scruffy black fur.
How patiently Christian lured him out, with a gentle voice and bits of bread and cheese. It touched me to see this sweetness in the man I love. With me, he is always tender, but I have seen the fierce impatience in him, for his art. I have felt the near-violent passion fighting for freedom when he holds me in his arms.
Yet with the puppy, the poor little orphan, he was instinctively kind. Perhaps sensing this, the pup licked his hand and allowed himself to be petted even after the meager meal had been gobbled down.
“A scrapper.” Christian laughed as he took his beautiful artist’s hands over the dirty fur. “Tough little fellow, aren’t you?”
“He needs a bath,” I said, but laughed as well when the dusty paws streaked my dress. “And a real meal.” Delighted with the attention, the pup licked my face, his whole body trembling with delight.
Of course, I fell in love. He was such a homely little bundle, sotrusting, so needy. We played with him, as charmed as children, and had a laughing argument over what to call him.
We named him Fred. He seemed to approve as he yipped and danced and tumbled in the dirt. I will never forget the sweetness of it, the simplicity. My love and I sitting on the ground with a little lost pup, pretending that we would take him home together, care for him together.
In the end, I took Fred with me. Ethan had been asking for a pet, and I felt he was old enough now to be both appreciative and responsible. What a clamor there was when I brought the puppy to the nursery. The children were wide-eyed and excited, each taking turns holding and hugging until I’m sure young Fred felt like a king.
He was bathed and fed with a great deal of ceremony. Stroked and cuddled and tickled until he fell asleep in exhausted euphoria.
Fergus returned. The excitement over Fred had caused me to forget our plans for the evening. I’m sure my husband was right to be annoyed that I was far from ready to go out and dine. The children, unable to contain their delight, raced about, adding to his impatience. Little Ethan, proud as a new father, carried Fred into the parlor.
“What the devil have you got?” Fergus demanded.
“A puppy.” Ethan held the wriggling bundle up for his father’s inspection. “His name is Fred.”
Noting my husband’s expression, I took the puppy from my son and began to explain how it had come about. I suppose I’d hoped to appeal to Fergus’s softer side, to the love, or at least the pride he felt for Ethan. But he was adamant.
“I’ll not have a mongrel in my house. Do you think I have worked all my life to own such things only to have some flea-ridden mutt relieving himself on the carpets, chewing on the draperies?”
“He’ll be good.” Lip quivering, Colleen hugged my skirts. “Please, Papa. We’ll keep him in the nursery and watch him.”
“You’ll do no such thing, young lady.” Fergus dismissed Colleen’stears with a glance and turned to Ethan, whose eyes were also brimming. There was a fractional softening in his expression. After all this was his first son, his heir, his immortality. “A mongrel’s no pet for you, my lad. Why, any fisherman’s son might own a mongrel. If it’s a dog you want, we’ll look into it when we get back to New York. A fine dog, with a pedigree.”
“I want Fred.” With his sweet face crumbling, Ethan looked up at his father. Even little Sean was crying now, though I doubt he understood.
“Out of the question.” With his temper obviously straining, Fergus walked to the whiskey decanter and poured. “It’s completely unsuitable. Bianca, have one of the servants dispose of it.”
