The Saint. Kathleen O'Brien
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you, if you say this is my problem, I’ll accept that.”
Heat flashed through her. “You must have misunderstood me. I didn’t say this was your problem. I said this was your child.”
He flushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. It’s just that—I need a little time to absorb…”
He raked his fingers through his hair, which seemed to be damp. He must have showered recently. And the tuxedo. Suddenly she realized she had interrupted preparations for something.
When she arrived, she had only half registered the men and women milling about next door, in front of Aurora York’s house. Now she could put two and two together. He was on his way to a party. She was probably making him late.
Well, too bad. She hardened her heart against his obvious bewildered distress. The arrival of a baby was going to change a lot of plans, for both of them. They were just going to have to get used to it.
And if he’d been planning to meet some woman over there, some glamorous Heyday socialite who was even now impatiently awaiting his arrival… Well, it was better that he learn about the baby before he let the dancing and the drinking and the flirting go too far.
“Yes, it might be good to take a little time to think,” she said. “Anyway, I can see that you’re busy. I’m staying in town, at the hotel, and we can talk more tomorrow. I just thought it was important to let you know as soon as possible.”
Before she lost her nerve and ran back to Richmond.
“But—are you all right?” He seemed to be waking up a bit. He looked at her with clear eyes for the first time since her announcement. He frowned, as if what he saw worried him. “You look tired. Are you well?”
“I’m fine. I have a little nausea sometimes, but that’s normal.”
“What about money? Do you need money?” He touched his shirt, then seemed to realize he wasn’t completely dressed. “My wallet is upstairs, but if you’ll—”
She lifted her chin. Money! Of course that was what he would think. People who owned things were always convinced the rest of the world wanted to take those things away.
“It’s not about money,” she said. “Don’t insult me, Kieran.”
He made a small sound and came toward her, holding out his hand. Then, for the first time since she’d arrived, he touched her. It wasn’t much, just his palm on her shoulder, but it sent waves of weakness through her torso, and it almost loosened the emotional dam she used to hold back her tears.
“Claire—”
She backed off. What was wrong with her? Why did the slightest touch turn her steel will to mush? She had reacted the same way when the gynecologist had patted her arm and told her everything was going to be fine.
Except for the night she and Kieran had made love, she had barely touched another human being in two years. She had thought she didn’t need it, thought she was too strong to need it. Obviously she’d been wrong. Apparently she was starving for it, as weak as a baby herself.
“I don’t want your money,” she repeated. “You can relax. I’m not here either as a beggar or a blackmailer.”
“God, of course you’re not,” he said roughly. “Damn it, Claire, the thought never crossed my mind. But it’s just that—if you won’t let me help you financially…”
She looked at him. This had seemed much easier when she rehearsed it in the car on the way here. It had seemed so simple, like a business deal where everyone paid a fair price for what they got. Crime and punishment, sin and penance, equally balanced. She had even imagined that he might suggest the obvious answer himself.
But now she saw how thoroughly she had deluded herself. St. Kieran McClintock was genuinely horrified, completely bewildered and had no idea what she wanted.
She took a deep breath.
“I want you to marry me,” she said.
He recoiled. There was no other word for it. He even took a step backward, as if she’d hit him.
“Marry you?”
“Yes. You don’t need to look so stunned. That’s frequently what people do in situations like this.”
“But—” He undid the top button of his suit, as though he suddenly weren’t able to get enough air into his lungs. “Those people are usually—they have relationships. Most people who end up in this situation know each other well, have a history, have plans for a future. They’re usually in—”
“In love.” Her voice cracked on the word, and she tightened her throat to avoid breaking down. “I know. It’s awkward. I wish being in love were a requirement for making babies, but apparently it isn’t. Apparently even people who have an utterly meaningless one-night encounter can still end up pregnant.”
“I—I put that wrong. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we are going to have a child. A real, living, breathing person is going to enter this world. I don’t want any stigma attached to his name. I want him to have a name.”
“Stigma?” He frowned. “That’s pretty old-fashioned thinking, isn’t it? I mean, in this day and age, do people really—”
“Yes. People really do.” She thought of Mrs. Straine, who everyone whispered had bought her own wedding ring and sent herself flowers on an imaginary anniversary. She thought of her own mother, who had invented a marriage, then invented a divorce and cried into her pillow at night.
“I work at a very old-fashioned parochial school. I teach middle-school girls, who are becoming sexually aware themselves. I’m already on probation there for the sin of teaching them Hamlet. That’s how repressed the environment is. Believe me, my principal would never allow an unmarried mother to be their teacher.”
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