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Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author
ANNE MATHER
Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the
publishing industry, having written over one hundred
and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than
forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.
This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance
for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,
passionate writing has given.
We are sure you will love them all!
I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.
I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.
These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.
We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
www.millsandboon.co.uk
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Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
THE track to Ravengarth wound up over the rise, or so the bus driver had informed her, casting a rather amused glance at her high heels. It followed the contours of the low stone wall, narrow and pitted with tyre tracks, and treacherously slippy after the rain the night before.
‘There’s no proper road to Ravengarth,’ he had insisted, when she had protested she had been told otherwise, and the murmurings among the other passengers had convinced her that she was holding them up unnecessarily. She had climbed down, lugging her heavy suitcase behind her, and coughed in some resentment at its departing expulsion of fumes.
The road she was on was little more than a lane as it was. High hedges, thick with the fruits of autumn, hugged the ditches at either side, and the only sound after the bus had departed was the distant bleating of some sheep. It was remote, and isolated, and even slightly unnerving, a sensation Joanna was not at all used to feeling.
Stiffening her shoulders, she determinedly pushed such fanciful notions aside. There was no point in indulging in regrets. She was here. She had a job of work at last. And anything was better than the hand-to-mouth existence she and her mother had lived for the past six months.
Even so, as she began to climb the muddy track, sticking as close to the wall as she could to avoid the more obvious potholes, she couldn’t help a wry grimace at the realisation of how ill-prepared she had been to face a situation as this. Who would have thought that her education at an exclusive girls’ school, followed by an equally expensive sojourn at a finishing school in Switzerland, should have produced someone so evidently lacking in useful accomplishments? It was true that her schooldays had been dogged by reports that read: ‘Joanna is an intelligent girl, but she pays too little attention to her lessons.’ Or: ‘Joanna is very popular with her school friends, but she must spare more time for her studies.’ Nevertheless, her results had been only a little below average, and what use were ‘O’ or ‘A’ levels to someone who was destined to marry into a wealthy family like her own, and whose main task in life would be the running of her husband’s home?
At the top of the rise she stood for a moment, regaining her breath as she surveyed the distance she had yet to cover. The track wound down for a while, disappearing into a belt of trees, and beyond the trees she could vaguely see the chimneys of a house. That must be Ravengarth, she thought a little irritably. At least half a mile away. Couldn’t they have sent someone to meet her? There were not that many buses that ran from Penrith to Ravensmere. Surely someone could have taken the trouble to find out what time her train arrived.
Realising there was no point in wasting time in silent imprecations, she picked up her case again and began to descend the downward track. Although the climb she had just undertaken had been harder, she soon realised it was easier to keep one’s feet going up than coming down. Stones, seemingly embedded in mud, moved when she placed her foot upon them, and once or twice she had to snatch at the stone wall to keep her balance. Her temper was not improved by the knowledge that the mud would doubtless stain the navy blue suede of her boots, and it squelched sulkily beneath her, as if anticipating her eventual downfall.
By the time she reached the gate which opened into the copse, Joanna was hot and tired, and the autumn beauty of the surrounding hills made no impression on her irritated disposition. It was a cool September afternoon, and she had dressed accordingly in a belted coat of wine-dark suede over a sweater dress of a toning rose colour. Aunt Lydia had expressly said that she should be prepared for it being cooler in the Lake District, and she had taken her advice without question. Now, she felt she could have done without the warm clothing or the boots, though wellingtons would not have come amiss.
Beyond the gate, a notice reading: ‘Private Land. Trespassers will be prosecuted’ aroused only a moment’s interest. Obviously Mr Sheldon did not encourage visitors, and remembering what Aunt Lydia had told her about him, perhaps it was understandable. He had chosen to hide himself away from the world, and obviously he would not welcome intruders.
The birds in the trees all around her were making their preparations for the night, and protested loudly as her feet crunched on fallen twigs and other debris, left by the previous night’s rain. She supposed the lane was wide enough to take a Land Rover, and probably that was what one would need to get up that rutted track, but apparently Mr Sheldon’s staff were not cosseted in that way, and Joanna’s lips tightened as her case began to hang ever more heavily from her aching fingers.
Then two things happened so suddenly that seconds later the offending suitcase had fallen from her nerveless grasp. There was a shot, a distinct explosion of sound, that ricocheted round the copse with an ear-splitting blast that sent all the birds skyward in panic-stricken flight. Joanna knew how they felt. She wished she could escape in similar fashion. But instead she was forced to remain where she was, albeit shaking from the tips of her toes to the top of her head, and gaze at the diminutive figure that had sprung out of the trees just after the shot and now stood facing her in the middle of the track.
What was it? she asked herself, dry-mouthed, staring at the aggressive creature that confronted her, still gripping the smoking shotgun in its hand. No more than four and a half feet tall, dressed in filthy jeans and ragged sweater, a cap pulled down low over its eyes, she guessed it must be a poacher she had disturbed at his work, and judging by the size of him, little more than a boy.
Not that this reassured her. Nowadays children committed the most abominable crimes, and she was in no position to argue with a cartridge full of small shot. Somehow she had to convince him that she presented no threat to his livelihood, and to this end, she took a tentative step forward.
‘Stay where y’are!’
The voice was pitched low, but its message was unmistakable, and Joanna licked her lips and tried again.
‘I—if you’ll get out of my way, I promise I won’t mention having seen you,’ she said, in what she hoped was her best and most convincing tone. ‘Honestly, I’m not interested in what you’re doing. I just want to get on my way——’
‘—to Ravengarth,’ finished the boy gruffly. ‘Aye, I know all about that. But you can’t go to Ravengarth. You’re not welcome there. If I was you, I’d go back where I came from, before I point this gun in your direction.’
Joanna could hardly believe her ears. This simply could not be happening, she thought incredulously. Any minute now she would wake up to find Lottie by the bed with her breakfast tray, and Ravengarth and Jake Sheldon and his troublesome daughter would still be just an idea in Aunt Lydia’s neatly coiffured head. Nightmares like this were an occupational hazard, and in a day or two she would find someone who welcomed her services, who did not require certificates and diplomas to prove that she could teach good manners to their small offspring, or handle the kind of correspondence she had been receiving herself for years.
But it was no nightmare. Without thinking she took another involuntary step forward, and the woods rang again with the deafening roar of the shotgun. It dispelled for ever the thought that this might not be happening, and Joanna stepped back quickly, tripped over her case, and sat down heavily on a mouldy pile of leaves.
What happened then shocked her almost as much as the shotgun had done. The child, for it was obviously nothing more, started laughing, shrill peals of merriment filled the air that was still trembling after the explosion, and amidst her fear, and the dismay at the ruination of her coat, a surge of angry suspicion swelled inside her. She tried desperately to recall exactly what Aunt Lydia had told her about Antonia Sheldon, but all she could remember was her age—eleven years—and the fact that she had succeeded in ridding herself of three governesses in as many months.
However, before she could struggle to her feet and put her suspicions to the test, another figure strode out of the woods behind the child, a tall, equally threatening figure in the gloom cast by the trees, who grasped the barrel of the shotgun in a powerful hand, wrenching it out of the child’s grasp. At the same time, the man grabbed hold of the urchin before it could move, holding it securely by the scruff of the neck, as he transferred his attention to Joanna.
She, for her part, got to her feet with as much elegance as her shaking legs would permit her, brushing away the muddy leaves, and endeavouring to regain her composure. Aware of them watching her with varying degrees of hostility, she realised that until now she had not even speculated about the man who was to be her employer, but across the yards of track that separated them she was suddenly made aware that if this was he, he was not the prematurely-aged invalid she had imagined.
‘Miss Seton?’ The man was speaking now, ignoring the howling that had replaced the peals of laughter issuing from his prisoner’s mouth, and she nodded. ‘If you’re not hurt, perhaps you’ll follow me.’
Joanna gasped. That was it! No apology, no explanation; no offer to carry her suitcase that was as muddy now as her coat. He had simply turned away, propelling the screaming child ahead of him, the safely breached shotgun hooked over his free arm. Of course, he might have found some difficulty in handling the shotgun, the suitcase and the child, she acknowledged reasonably, but he didn’t even offer any regret at this deficiency in his capabilities.
Clamping her jaws together, Joanna hoisted her suitcase once more and set off in pursuit of her apparently unwilling rescuer. To add to her weariness, her legs were decidedly unsteady now, and resentment flared anew at this cavalier treatment. She was doing them the favour, goodness knows, she muttered peevishly. She didn’t have to come here. She didn’t have to stay. And if this was the kind of treatment the other governesses had had, no wonder they hadn’t stayed either!
They emerged from the trees above an incline, with a trout stream gurgling at its foot. Approximately halfway down the slope, the house she had glimpsed earlier clung tenaciously to the hillside, its grey walls mellowed by russet-coloured creeper. The track wound down to its stone gateposts, and set around the main building were stables and garages and the usual miscellany of outhouses. It was bigger that Joanna had expected, larger, but not so well-kept, and she wondered if they had the same problem with housekeepers as they had with governesses.
She had not yet seen the man’s face clearly. In the shadows of the wood it had been impossible to glimpse more than an impression of his features, and besides, she had been too shocked and disturbed to pay much attention to his appearance. He was tall and powerful, lean without being thin, with strong muscular thighs that swung him down the track without any apparent effort. Was this Jake Sheldon? she wondered, struggling after him. Could it be? She would know soon enough if he turned and let her see the scars which Aunt Lydia had said had driven him to take refuge in this remote and isolated part of the country.
The child was something else. She found it incredible to believe that the uncouth demon of the copse was in reality an eleven-year-old girl! What was her father thinking of, allowing her to run around in that state, and with a loaded shotgun in her hand? She could have killed herself. She could have killed Joanna! And after all, that was the greater of the two evils so far as Joanna was concerned.
The child’s cries had subsided to a muffled sobbing by the time they reached the gates of Ravengarth, but Joanna could not find it in her heart to feel sorry for her. She had to be crazy, brandishing a deadly weapon like that, and Joanna’s belief in her own capabilities suffered a distinct setback at the prospect of teaching such a child.
A pair of long-haired sheepdogs set up a noisy barking at their approach, bounding out to greet them with more excitement than aggression. They fawned around their master and his charge for a moment, and then came to inspect Joanna, apparently finding her equally acceptable. As watchdogs they were decidedly unprofessional, thought Joanna dryly, but as pets they were adorable.
The man let go of the child as they entered a gloomy entrance hall, unpleasantly scented with the smell of boiled cabbage, and administering a distinct slap to her small backside, bade her go and make herself respectable immediately. Then, as she scampered towards the stairs that curved round two walls of the hall, he turned sharply into a room on his left, asking Joanna to follow him.
Joanna did so, after setting down her suitcase with great relief. As she straightened, however, her eyes again encountered those of the child now leaning dangerously far over the banister rail, and the impudent contempt in that stare made her long to repeat the punishment her father had given, with interest. If she had to take this job, and in spite of her vain posturings she hadn’t much alternative, sooner or later Miss Sheldon would have to understand she was no longer dealing with some timid, self-effacing old lady.
The room into which her employer—she assumed he was her employer—led her was a library of sorts, although many of the shelves were empty of books, their places having been taken by folders of what appeared to be artwork. There were canvases everywhere, propped against the walls, and the bookcases, some even occupied the chairs where possible, and others were spread across the heavy mahogany desk that sat squarely beneath the long windows. The air was musky with the smell of oils, and faintly stale from the neglected shelves of books.
The man positioned himself beside the desk, deliberately, Joanna later decided. There was not much light from the overcast sky, but what there was fell fully on to his scarred and battered countenance, and she was left in no doubt that this was indeed Jake Sheldon.
‘Well?’ he said, as if challenging her with his appearance. ‘It’s not a pretty sight, is it? But then you knew that, didn’t you? Someone must have told you—have warned you.’
Joanna wondered if anyone had ever had a more peculiar introduction to a job. A child, who dressed and spoke and behaved like a boy—a particularly objectionable boy at that—and a man who had apparently been deprived of his manners in the same accident in which he had been deprived of his livelihood. They had said he was a brilliant mathematician, a skilled and accomplished engineer, a man with a computer for a brain. And what was he now? An indifferent farmer, a part-time painter, and the father of a child who was evidently free to do exactly as she liked.
And he was challenging her to dispute his appearance, to deny that it shocked her feminine sensitivities. His face was scarred, it was true, but it was by no means repugnant, and she wondered if he realised how time had mellowed old wounds and given his ravaged face a certain strength and character. Some women might even find his rugged features attractive, and Joanna realised that Aunt Lydia and her mother could have had no idea of how old he actually was. Aunt Lydia’s description had been vague at best, and because he had a nineteen-year-old son she had evidently assumed he was well into middle age. But Joanna, facing him in that revealing light, saw that he was probably on the right side of forty, and this was going to prove a most unsuitable arrangement if no other help was kept. If his expression had not been so grimly serious, she might have allowed a small smile to tilt the corners of her mouth, but the situation was still far too volatile to take such liberties.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ he enquired now, cynically, turning from the window to flick through the canvases on the desk, and she endeavoured to gather her thoughts.
‘My godmother told me you required someone to take care of your daughter,’ she ventured at last. ‘I assume that was your daughter who—greeted me on my arrival.’
His lower lip jutted as he surveyed her slightly dishevelled appearance. It was a full lower lip; it might even be called sensual. And Joanna was given the piercing appraisal of narrowed amber eyes.
‘I suppose I should apologise for Antonia, shouldn’t I?’ he remarked, as if considering the proposition, and the disarming amusement which had briefly dispelled her indignation vanished.
‘Perhaps she should apologise for herself?’ she retorted, controlling her resentment with difficulty. ‘And I would suggest she is forbidden to run wild with firearms in future.’
His shoulders stiffened. ‘Oh, you would, would you?’
‘Yes.’ Joanna drew herself up to her full height, but even then her five feet six inches fell far short of his superior measure. ‘I don’t think that’s an unreasonable request. She could have killed me in the woods. Obviously she doesn’t understand——’
‘She understands very well,’ he interrupted her harshly, the dark brows descending with ominous intent. ‘She’s known how to handle guns for the past two years—I taught her. You were in no danger.’ He paused, allowing his astonishing words to sink in. ‘You were, however, subjected to a certain amount of—intimidation.’
‘Intimidation! Is that what you call it?’ Joanna could feel the colour sweeping up her normally pale cheeks. ‘How was I to know who she was or what she was doing? She was filthy. She was wearing boy’s clothes. She could have been a thief—a poacher, disturbed at his work!’
‘I see you have a vivid imagination, Miss Seton. That’s—unfortunate. I would have preferred someone a little more—unimaginative.’
His hesitation before using that particular adjective was deliberate, Joanna felt, pinpointing as it did his evident opinion of her. She had never encountered such indifference from a man before, or experienced such a feeling of blind frustration. She didn’t know exactly what she had anticipated, but certainly nothing like this, and his defence of the child was in complete opposition to his expected reaction. She felt like flinging his job back in his face, and only the thought of her mother’s disappointment if she returned to London without giving it a chance kept her silent.
‘So,’ he said, indicating an upright chair opposite. ‘Won’t you sit down, and we can discuss the situation more—amicably. I understand from my sister that you haven’t had any actual experience of teaching a child before, and that you have in fact been finding it hard to gain employment.’ Joanna sat down on the chair he indicated with a bump. He was certainly frank, she thought indignantly, or perhaps insolent was a better description of his vaguely mocking turn of phrase. In the space of a few sentences he had dismissed her claims of being physically threatened, and reduced her qualifications to nil.
‘I never expected to have to get a job, Mr Sheldon,’ she declared now, holding up her head in icy disdain. ‘Until my father’s death——’
‘Yes, I know,’ he interrupted unpleasantly, tumbling a pile of canvases on to the floor and taking the seat behind the desk. ‘You were a lady of leisure—I had heard. However, I’m not interested in how you came to be looking for a job, rather the accomplishments you have which make you think you are capable of teaching an eleven-year-old.’ Joanna gazed at him, not quite able to hide her astonishment. Did he really think he could speak to her like that, employee or otherwise? How dared he sit here in this rundown house, making excuses for a child who was little more than a barbarian, so far as Joanna could see, and expect her to be grateful for his indulgence in even listening to her? However dismayed her mother might be, surely she would not expect her daughter to be subjected to such treatment.
Grasping the strap of her handbag, Joanna rose to her feet. ‘I don’t think the accomplishments I possess fit me for this position at all, Mr Sheldon,’ she declared coldly. ‘We have obviously both been under some misapprehension about the other. I expected to have to teach a—a little girl, not an uncontrollable adolescent, and if I was prepared to make allowances for the child, I’m certainly not prepared to make allowances for its father!’