A Love Surrendered (26 page)

“You’re a very lucky man, Steven O’Connor,” she had said.

Fingers clenched tight on the stick, he downshifted hard, all warmth dissipating the farther he rumbled away from her street. Exhaling slowly, his lips inched into a sad smile.

Don’t I wish.

“You never get tired of it, do you?” Emma said, peeking up at her husband with a touch of tease in her tone, knowing full well Sean O’Connor
never
got tired of sports.

“Nope. But gosh, Emma, can’t you see why? Man alive, what a night!” Sean tucked an arm close to Emma’s waist as they strolled home from his game, the trill of tree frogs and locusts lending a buzz of excitement that rivaled that of her husband’s voice. A ragtag group of boys was playing kick
ball in the street as they passed, soon disrupted by the honk of a horn before they scattered from the path of a Model T. The scent of fresh-mown grass and exhaust mingled with the telltale smell of a Snickers bar as Sean released a contented sigh. He pressed a kiss to her head that tugged a smile to her lips. “I think this may just be my best team yet, don’t you?”

Emma’s chuckle merged with the sounds of the summer night, Sean’s little-boy enthusiasm tickling her as much as the playful pinch of his fingers. “Well, given this is the first season I’ve attended your games,” she said with a hint of brogue usually reserved for a tease, “I may not be the perfect person to ask.” She nipped his waist right back, not surprised when her hand met hard muscle. “But yes, Coach O’Connor, I’d say you have a contender on your hands.”

At her words, he halted in the middle of the sidewalk and pulled her to him so fast, she let out a little squeak that was promptly swallowed up in a kiss. The heat of embarrassment over his display of affection quickly turned to heat of another kind, confirming that although Sean O’Connor had been a bachelor who avoided women most of his life, he was a natural athlete who excelled in
all
manners of sport. He finally pulled away, but massive hands still anchored at the small of her back, firmly pinning her to a chest as solid as the concrete beneath her feet. “Ah, but you
are
the perfect person, Mrs. O’Connor,” he said with that easy grin she loved. “Because there’s no one’s opinion—” he kissed the tip of her nose—“or kiss I’d rather have.”

Hooking her back to his side once again, he relinquished another heavy sigh, a hint of longing creeping into his tone as they made their way to their house on Dorchester Street. “I’ll tell you what, I hope our sons have half the ability of Bobby Dalton, because that kid can sure sail a ball over the fence when you need him to.”

Emma lowered her gaze, eyes fixed on the cracks in the sidewalk as the smile faded from her lips. Sean continued to chatter while he ushered her up the steps of their traditional
clapboard row house with its pretty bay window flanked by azaleas and hostas. Lightning bugs blinked as the glow of dusk gave way to the dark of night. The heavy scent of Emma’s fragrant cottage roses on the sunny side of the house filled the air like a rare perfume. But none of the sights and sounds that usually thrilled her could do so tonight, not at the reminder that her husband longed for sons she could probably never give.
But I can still be a mother to our children
, she thought, a glimmer of hope flitting in her heart like the fireflies in the dark.

Adoption.

Turning the key in the door, he glanced up, an edge of concern in his voice. “You’ve gotten awfully quiet, Emma.” He stroked a hand to her cheek. “You feeling okay?”

“Of course,” she said, forcing a light tone. She followed him into their cozy foyer where they’d left a small Tiffany lamp lit and waited while he bolted the door. “I think I’m just worn out from a full day with your mother, sisters, and the cousins, that’s all.”

His chuckle rumbled as they climbed the staircase to the second story. “That’d do it. Charity and Henry alone would wear me out, so I can certainly understand why you’re tired.” He bent to skim a soft kiss to her lips. “But not too, I hope,” he whispered, and Emma’s stomach dipped, well aware his Saturday night games usually heightened his yearning for a son.

“I’m going to take a quick shower,” he said with a squeeze of her waist, whistling while he ambled down the hall on the way to the bathroom. The door closed with a click and Emma put a shaky hand to her eyes. “Oh, Lord, it will crush him not to have children,” she whispered, fighting a sting of tears. She inhaled as if drawing in sustenance, then squared her shoulders and entered their bedroom, reminding herself how God had given her the love of a good man despite a past that didn’t deserve it. For mercy’s sake, he had set her free from loneliness, shame, and guilt—he could certainly
set her husband free from pain over not having a son of his own blood.

Or heal me so he could?

The thought gave her pause, making her wonder how long she should wait before she told Sean the truth, that she had miscarried his babies. How long before she knew with a certainty she would never give him children of his own? She blinked, and her two cats, Lancelot and Guinevere, came into focus on the bed. Her lips curved at Lancelot hogging both pillows, sprawled like a fox collar of orange and cream stripes while Guinevere presided over the middle of the coverlet in a ball of white fluff. Slitted eyes barely lifting, Lancelot seemed to glare, obviously not happy Sean was home to take over the bed. Guinevere emitted a cute, little yawn that sounded like a growl before choosing to ignore the inevitable ousting of the felines, at least until Sean fell asleep.

Kicking off her shoes, Emma spanned across the covers on her tummy, kneading Lancelot’s paw while she stroked Guinevere’s head, her mind straying to how much her life had changed since Sean had made her his wife. In him she had everything she’d ever hoped for in a marriage. Except for his children, she reminded herself, and the thought prompted her to close her eyes and pray until she heard the bathroom door open. The bed vibrated with the purrs of her former bedmates, bringing a giggle to her lips. “So, how was your evening, your highness and your majesty?” she said with a soft scrub of their fur. “I know you’re not pleased my husband steals your snuggle time, but remember, once he closes his eyes, he’s gone for the night, so just bide your time . . .”

“Are you conspiring with those cats again, Emma O’Connor?” Sean assessed her with a shuttered gaze, arms folded and hip cocked in the doorway. Sculpted chest bare, he ambled into the room in boxers, blond hair damp from his shower. A slow grin of warning stretched across wide lips as he eased onto the bed to lie beside her. Elbow cocked and head in hand, he massaged Guinevere’s rib cage, warming
Emma with a dangerous smile. Leaning close, he grazed her lips, then pulled away, the blue eyes tripping her pulse. “You’re next,” he whispered, and Emma was certain he could unleash a purr from her throat as easily as Guin’s.

“I best get ready for bed,” she said, attempting to get up.

A firm wrist gently tugged her near. “Not yet,” he whispered, and with the grace of an athlete, he rolled on his back and pulled her along to lie on his chest. His tall frame dominated the bed, prompting Lance and Guin to find elsewhere to sleep while Emma’s body relaxed against his. His kiss was slow and sweet, and her eyelids fluttered closed while magical fingers kneaded the nape of her neck to coax her closer. His scent surrounded her, drugging her body as much as his kiss—the clean smell of soap and shaving cream and the taste of mint in his mouth. Never had she felt so alive, so loved, so beautiful as she did in Sean’s arms.

“I love you, Emma,” he said softly, “more than Snickers and baseball and beating Brady and Luke at sports.” The tease in his words faded with another tender kiss, and when he pulled away, he caressed her with a look that nearly stole her breath. Never had she known a man who could make love with his eyes more than Sean O’Connor. “I adore you,” he whispered, “and sometimes I wonder how I survived without you.”

She trailed fingers along his clean-shaven jaw, heart thudding and tears stinging her eyes. “And I, you. I thank God every hour of every day for the joy of being your wife, Sean.”

In one fluid motion, he tumbled her onto her back, descending with a kiss that all but melted her to the bed. “Oh, Emma,” he whispered, nuzzling her ear, “I want to give you babies—lots and lots of babies.”

Her eyelids closed as moisture welled.
Oh God, please, I can’t break his heart.

“Girls, boys, it doesn’t matter,” he continued, his husky chuckle warm in her ear. “Although tonight, Mrs. O’Connor—I feel like a son.”

She couldn’t help it, her body convulsed in a heave.

His mouth stalled on her skin before his head jerked up, face suddenly pale. Skimming the tears from her cheek, he sat up. “Emma—what’s wrong?”

She tried, but suddenly there was no way she could contain it—her grief over the death of his children, his dream—and with one agonizing wrench of her throat, she wept. Six months of hope deferred spilled from her eyes—deep, painful tears of mourning for her loss and his.

He cupped her face, thumbs grazing her cheeks. “Emma, please, tell me what’s wrong.”

“I can’t . . .”

Heaves wracked her body, and he swept her up into his arms, head tucked against hers. “Yes, you can. Whatever happens to you, happens to me.”

A moan withered on her lips. “I c-can’t do this . . .”

He rocked her with gentle motion, palm stroking her hair. “It’s okay, Emma,” he soothed, “we don’t have to tonight if you don’t want to, really.”

She jerked from his embrace to clutch frantic hands to his arms. “No,” she said, his face little more than a blur. “I
can’t
give you children . . .”

His ashen face stilled to stone, her words choking the air from the room before they settled on his features like an invisible shroud, proclaiming the death of his dream. His lips parted, but nothing came forth except a frail thread of air, no doubt expelling all hope. Muscles shifted in his throat and he buried his fingers into the hair at her temples. “What do you mean?”

Tears streamed her cheeks while she reached to caress the clean line of his jaw. “I . . . want to give you children, Sean, but I . . .” She paused, eyes flickering closed to stave off more tears before they opened again to reveal her sorrow. “I’ve miscarried twice since March, and I—”she swallowed the pain in her throat—“don’t know if I can ever bring a baby to term.”

“Twice?” he whispered, his voice strangled.

“Yes, my love.” She clutched his hand, gripping tightly as if
she could absorb some of his pain. “Once three months after we wed, but I . . . ,” she expelled a frail sigh, “couldn’t bring myself to tell you, to dash your hopes, because I’d hoped . . . prayed . . .” She stared at him through the haze of her tears. “But two months ago it happened again . . .”

Seconds passed as he stared, grief welling in his eyes, and she knew he was mourning the loss of their children. And then without a word, he bent to kiss her with all the gentleness she’d come to expect of this man, caressing her with his mouth as he lowered her to the bed. Lying beside her, he held her close, his voice hoarse but stronger than before. “Women miscarry, Emma, don’t they? It doesn’t have to mean—”

“No, it doesn’t mean that God can’t give us a child, but . . .” She closed her eyes, drawing strength from the steady beat of his heart. “But I have a history of miscarriage, Sean—four times with Rory and now two with you.” Her voice broke and she closed her eyes. “Six babies,” she whispered, “precious gifts from God that my violent past has stolen away.” A shudder rippled through her. “Which breaks my heart, because I so wanted to be a mother to your children.”

His arm tightened at her waist. “And so you will,” he said quietly, stroking her hair. She felt the shift of his throat and when he spoke, his voice carried an assurance that seeped into her soul like the warmth of his body against hers. “You are the greatest blessing God has ever given me, Emma, and although my heart mourns over the loss of our babies and the prospect that we may never have children of our own . . . ,” he kissed her lips before his mouth tipped in a tender smile, “God created you to be a mother, and I know he will give us children to love.”

She sat up in his arms. “But—”

“No ‘buts,’ ” he said with a tender stroke of her jaw. “Whether our children have our blood in their veins or someone else’s, they’ll still be our children and you’ll still be their mother.”

She blinked, not sure she’d heard right. “What are you saying?” she breathed.

He studied her for a long while, as if memorizing every nu
ance of her face. With the barest of smiles, he lifted her hand to his lips, lids closed as he kissed her palm. When his eyes opened, a sheen of moisture accompanied his gaze. “We’ll adopt,” he whispered.

Her pulse stopped . . . and then in a violent surge of joy, it pounded in her ears until she thought she would faint. “Oh, Sean!” Lunging into his arms, she began to weep again, her sobs in beautiful harmony with his husky chuckles. “I was so afraid—afraid you’d be crushed, afraid you wouldn’t consider adoption.” She pulled away, pushing the tears from her eyes. “When?”