Honor Bound(37)

"Good luck to you, Lucas. I hope all goes well for you now." She stuck out her hand.

"Thanks." He clasped her hand. Their eyes met. Held.

Then the sound.

It came from the back of the house. It was so out of context that at first he thought his ears were playing tricks on him. But then he heard it again. He glanced in that direction, his brows drawn into a puzzled frown.

"That sounds like a—"

Aislinn jerked her hand out of his. Surprised, his head snapped around. The instant he saw her face, he knew his ears hadn't been deceiving him. She looked as pale as a ghost and as guilty as sin. He went perfectly still. He stared at her with eyes razor sharp enough to flay her skin away, much less any deceit.

"What is that?"

"Nothing."

He moved her aside and stalked across her fashionable living room.

"Where are you going?" she cried, chasing after him.

"Guess."

"No!" She grabbed his shirt and held on with the tenacity of a bulldog. "You can't just come waltzing in here and—"

He spun around, knocking her hands away. "I did before."

"You can't."

"The hell I can't. Watch me."

He was intent on finding the source of that sound. Sobbing, Aislinn trailed after him, clutching at him ineffectually. He swatted her off like a pesky fly.

He glanced into her bedroom. It was exactly as he remembered it. Feminine, neatly arranged. He passed it. At the end of the hallway he came to a closed door. With no hesitation, certainly no apology, he turned the knob and pushed it open.

Then even he, the man with the heart and blood of an Apache warrior, was brought up short.

Three of the walls in the room were painted a soft yellow. The other was papered with a pastel Mother Goose print. A Boston rocker with thick cushions stood in one corner. A chest of drawers was topped by a quilted pad. It was lined with jars of cotton swabs and tube of ointment. White shutters had been closed against the afternoon sun, but enough light seeped through the slats to silhouette the crib in front of the window.

Lucas closed his eyes, thinking that this must all be a bizarre dream from which he would awaken and have a much-needed laugh. But when he reopened his eyes, everything was unchanged. Especially that unmistakable sound.

He crept forward, illogically making as little noise as he could, until he reached the crib. It was rimmed with a padded border. A teddy bear smiled at him from the corner. The sheet was yellow to match the room. As was the downy blanket.

And beneath the blanket—squirming, squalling, flailing its tiny fists in rage—was a baby.





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Chapter 7



The baby continued to cry, unimpressed by the havoc he had caused in the heart and mind of the tall dark man standing beside the crib. The face that was usually so remote was working with emotion.

Aislinn, standing slightly behind and to one side of Lucas, pressed her fingertips to her lips in an effort to stem her own emotions. They ranged from anxiety to abject terror.

Her first impulse was to tell him that she was babysitting, that the infant belonged to a friend or relative. But the uselessness of that was clear. The baby had been fathered by Lucas Greywolf. One had only to look at the child to dispel any doubts.

The beautifully rounded head, which hadn't been marred during the easy birth, was covered with midnight-black hair that hugged the soft scalp. The shape of the brow, the angle of chin, the slant of cheekbones, all were miniature replicas of Lucas Greywolf's features.

She watched in growing dread as Lucas stretched out a slender brown finger and touched the baby's cheek. Reverence and awe filled the light-gray eyes. His lips twitched slightly. Aislinn recognized the symptoms of keenly felt emotions. The same slight facial spasms seized her every time she held her baby. The kind of love that welled up inside her when she touched the child couldn't help but be registered on her face.

It terrified her that Lucas was experiencing the same kind of emotional tumult.

She jumped when he flicked the baby's blanket away with a swift motion of his hand. Her maternal instincts went into play when he tore open the tapes securing the disposable diaper. Lunging forward, she clutched his arm, but he negligently shook her hand off and pulled the diaper down.

"A son."

His rusty tone of voice sounded like a death knell to Aislinn. She was almost crazed with panic and wanted to cover her ears and shout denial. Frantically she prayed this wasn't really happening.

But it was. Helplessly she stood there and watched Lucas remove the one-snap sacque. Sliding his hands beneath the baby, he lifted him from the crib. All she could do was watch in mute despair as Lucas took the infant in his arms. The moment Lucas lay the baby against his chest, the child stopped crying.

The instant rapport between man and child gave Aislinn no peace. For once she would have preferred that her baby scream. He did nothing but make those sweet baby sounds against his father's shoulder.

Lucas carried the naked infant to the rocking chair. He folded his long legs low enough to sit in the rocker, awkwardly balancing himself while holding the baby. Under other circumstances, Aislinn might have thought that was a funny sight. As it was, her features were stark. All her worst nightmares were unfolding.

Had the situation not spelled such doom, Lucas's tender exploration of the baby would have touched Aislinn deeply. To see the dark, manly hands moving over the baby with such delicate curiosity was indeed poignant, and she would have had to be a pillar of salt not to be moved to tears by such instant adoration on the part of the father for the child.