No Greater Love - Eris Field Page 0,29

the power to do that.” He chuckled. “My primary care doctor insists on being my witness.” He turned toward her and waited.

“I don’t know anyone that I could ask to be my witness,” she said as the thought of how alone she was made her shiver.

“Of course you do. That good woman you found to come in every afternoon. Mrs. Abbott. Yes, that’s her name. She knows you.”

“Marriage . . . I don’t think I can.” Janan finally forced out the words.

Carl considered her with compassion but nevertheless spoke firmly. “I realize that it is not what you have dreamed of but the world is not kind to a baby born to an unwed mother. I know that times have changed but it still puts a child at a disadvantage. The stigma may be more subtle now but it leaves a life-long mark. Is that what you want for your son or daughter? To be born without a father’s name?”

“No,” she whispered, “I know how cruel people can be.”

“Now I have a perfectly good name. Never used. I would be honored to provide it for your baby.”

“Babies,” she corrected him in a low voice.

“Wonderful!” He chuckled. “I am so happy for you.” He quickly turned serious.

“Twins make it even more vital that you stop working and rest.” He added sternly, “You want to do everything you can to safeguard those babies, don’t you?”

She gave a small nod and asked apprehensively, “The fourth step? What is the fourth step of your plan?”

“To go home. As soon as possible, you will take us home, to Leiden.”

Chapter 8

Unable to settle down with the book he had been reading, Pieter paced his mother’s meticulously arranged drawing room. He couldn’t remember there ever being a thing out of place. Not even as a child when he had been brought here each afternoon by his nurse to spend an hour with his mother. As he paused by the large window overlooking the Herengracht Canal, his attention was caught by the pale golden streaks painted on the water by the late-afternoon sun. The color of the blouse that Janan had worn that night, he thought.

Through all the chemotherapy treatments and the miserable time after each one, he had carried the image of the last time he had seen her. In his mind, he had held her in his arms each night and kissed her again and again. He had clung to the memory of the lushness of her mouth under his, the caress of her silken hair spilling over his chest, the satin-smooth ivory skin beneath him. As always, when he let himself think of her, he relived the exquisite feeling of oneness and then the searing feeling of loss when he had reached for her in the morning and she was gone.

He had to see her again. He had to tell her that he understood now what she had tried to tell him. Love for however brief a time was better than never having known love. It had been six months. Six months of chemotherapy and more chemotherapy. All in pursuit of a remission that might never come. He had never thought it would be such a long, seemingly hopeless process. And what had he accomplished?

Some improvement but not remission, not enough improvement for a stem cell transplant. Only the thought of Janan had made him persist. He had wanted to go back a well man and ask her to marry him. Now he wanted to go back and beg her to marry him for as much time as he had. He would do anything to have her for as long as possible, even if it meant more chemotherapy, pain, vomiting until he ached, and losing his hair again.

He reached up automatically with one hand and smoothed the short growth of curly gray hair that was replacing what had been thick, dark-brown hair. He had accepted every treatment the Amsterdam Leukemia Center recommended and, in the dark hours when he could not sleep, he had worked on learning Turkish so that he could speak it with Janan and she would not lose her language. But what could have happened in that time? She could have found someone. She could be married. He frowned as a new thought came to him. Surely she would have contacted him if there had been any consequences from their time together.

Glancing around the drawing room filled with silvery brocade-covered French Provencal chairs, small inlaid tables, and cabinets displaying delicate china figurines,