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.

Moon Witch
Anne Mather

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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE pretty stewardess came down the aisle of the Super VC 10, and stopped beside the seat of one of her first-class passengers. ‘We’ll be landing in fifteen minutes, Mr. Kyle,’ she said, smiling politely.

The man looked up from the file of papers he had been studying with deep concentration, frowning slightly at the interruption. ‘What? Oh yes, fifteen minutes, thank you.’ He nodded briefly, and returned to his papers, and the stewardess gave an almost imperceptible lift of her shoulders before returning to her position at the rear of the plane. She looked resentfully at her fellow-stewardess and said:

‘Honestly, I don’t know when I’ve ever been so disappointed!’

The other girl smiled questioningly. ‘Why?’

‘Well, having Jarrod Kyle as a passenger, of course. Heavens, the reputation he has I thought he’d at least notice me! As it is, I don’t think he sees me as anything more than part of the fuselage!’

The other girl laughed. ‘And is he attractive?’

The stewardess shrugged. ‘Not particularly. In fact he’s quite unattractive. He has one of those hard, craggy faces; I’m sure his nose has been broken. He’s big, of course, and having hair of that silvery shade is unusual, I suppose, but he’s very thin!’

‘Poor Mr. Kyle,’ said the other girl, still amused. ‘You’re certainly exploding the myth. Which one is he?’

‘I’ll show you, as they leave,’ replied the stewardess tartly, and returned to her duties.

Jarrod Kyle was surprised when the huge airliner landed at London Airport to find both stewardesses appraising him thoroughly. Turning his blue eyes on them, he said: ‘Say, is anything wrong? Did I snore in my sleep or something?’

Both girls gave embarrassed smiles, and one of them said: ‘I hope you enjoyed the flight, Mr. Kyle.’

Nodding, he shrugged his broad shoulders and walked down the catwalk into the airport buildings. As he disappeared, one of the girls looked exasperatedly at the other. ‘Did you say he wasn’t attractive!’ she exclaimed.

Meanwhile, Jarrod Kyle was given V.I.P. clearance of Customs and carrying his briefcase, his overcoat slung over one shoulder, he crossed the reception hall to where John Matthews, his personal assistant, was waiting for him. ‘Hi, Matt,’ he said warmly.

‘Good to see you, Jarrod. Did you have a good holiday?’ responded Matt, grinning.

‘Fine,’ Jarrod nodded, falling into step beside the other man. ‘Plenty of fishing—the way I like it.’

‘Catch anything?’ Matt glanced his way.

‘Depends what you mean,’ remarked Jarrod dryly. ‘How’s the old man?’

‘J.K.? Oh, he’s okay, I guess. Are you driving up there tonight?’

Jarrod glanced at his watch. ‘I guess so. It’s after five-thirty—let’s go have a drink and you can tell me what’s been happening.’

Matt looked at him thoughtfully. ‘I think that would be a good idea, Jarrod,’ he agreed mildly, pushing open the door of the bar.

Over whisky on the rocks, the way Jarrod liked it, Matt said: ‘There’s been quite an unexpected bombshell, actually. Want to hear about it?’

Jarrod lit a cigar. ‘Of course,’ he said, his eyes narrowing. ‘Not the Bradford merger?’

‘No,’ Matt shook his head. ‘That deal went through all right. J.K. handled it himself. I guess he thought he ought to pick up the reins in your absence, so to speak. I don’t think he’ll ever completely retire, do you?’

Jarrod took his cigar out and studied the glowing tip. ‘So? What’s this bombshell? Don’t keep me in suspense, Matt.’

Matt swallowed a mouthful of whisky before replying. ‘You might find it amusing,’ he said. ‘You seem to have got yourself a ward, unless your solicitors can extract you from the involvement, which, knowing them, I guess they will.’

Jarrod stared at him curiously. ‘A ward? What the hell are you talking about? A ward!’ he looked exasperated. ‘What kind of ward? A hospital ward? A political thing? What?’

‘No, Jarrod, nothing like that! A ward—a kid, you know!’

‘You mean like I’ve been made guardian to some kid?’ Jarrod looked astounded.

‘Something like that!’ Matt grinned. ‘Quaint, isn’t it?’

Jarrod swallowed his whisky at a gulp, and ordered another. ‘I don’t know what in hell you’re talking about, Matt. Come on, let’s have it. From the top!’

Matt twisted his glass round in his fingers. ‘It’s quite simple, really, Jarrod. Some old guy has made you his granddaughter’s guardian, till she’s twenty-one. Or eighteen, maybe. I’m not too sure about that.’

Jarrod was growing impatient. ‘What old guy?’ he asked shortly.

Matt looked amused. ‘A man called Jeffrey Robins. He died a couple of weeks ago.’

‘Jeffrey Robins!’ Jarrod looked blank. ‘Do I know him—or should I say—did I know him?’

Matt shook his head. ‘Unlikely,’ he replied, ‘he was a foreman in the Bridchester warehouse for forty years before he died.’

Jarrod breathed down his nose hard. ‘Matt, I’m warning you——’

Matt laughed. ‘Hold it, Jarrod, don’t blame me! It’s not my pigeon. Your father knows all about it. He used to know Jeffrey Robins.’

‘At last! The first bit of information. How did my father know him?’

‘Well, I believe they began in the textile trade together, years ago, but when J.K. left to start his own company, they lost touch. Then in the war they met again, and I believe it was during the early fifties when your father moved the head office to London they lost touch again.’

‘I still don’t understand, Matt. If J.K. knew him so well, why didn’t he make my father this kid’s guardian? And where are her own parents, anyway?’

Matt accepted his second whisky. ‘Well, it’s like this, you see, Jarrod, old man Robins made the chairman of Kyle Textiles his granddaughter’s guardian. He wasn’t to know your father would have to retire and give the chairmanship over to you when he was only fifty-eight.’

Jarrod stubbed out his cigar savagely. ‘My God!’ he said, shaking his head. ‘That was eight years ago!’

‘Yes, well, like I said, he was out of touch. I don’t suppose he expected to die so suddenly—after all, he was only sixty-eight himself.’

‘I see.’ Jarrod thrust his arms into the sleeves of his overcoat. ‘What a goddamned situation! And what about this kid’s parents? Where are they?’

‘Her mother died in childbirth, and the father got himself killed in an earthquake in South America. He worked for an insurance agency or something.’

‘Ah!’ Jarrod nodded, chewing his lip thoughtfully. ‘Oh well, come on, Matt. You can tell me more on our way to town.’

Outside the warm brilliance of the airport buildings a chilly fog had descended, making a damp January evening even more dismal. Jarrod turned up the collar of his coat, and glanced cheerfully at Matt. ‘I guess I should have stayed away longer. Who in hell would want to come back to London from Jamaica at this time of the year? I must be crazy!’

Matt allowed Jarrod to slide behind the wheel of the huge Mercedes that awaited them. ‘You know fine you can’t keep away,’ he remarked dryly. ‘It’s in your blood: high finance, boardrooms, mergers, take-overs; you name it, you can do it!’

Jarrod shrugged, turning the car expertly on to the main thoroughfare. ‘You make me sound like a machine,’ he remarked wryly.

Matt grinned, glancing out of the windows at the heavy gloom, illuminated by the orange glow of fog-lamps. ‘You’re far from that, Jarrod, thank God!’ he said, with enthusiasm. ‘Sometimes your father would say—too far!’

Jarrod gave a short laugh. ‘Jealousy, that’s all, Matt. The old man was never able to settle for a quiet life. He’d love to have been born thirty years later.’

Matt laughed now. ‘Oh yes, one of the jet set, eh? Dolly birds, fast cars, the dolce vita!’

‘Something like that,’ agreed Jarrod, pressing his foot down on the accelerator. ‘Tell me about the child now. What is she like?’

Matt shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea. I haven’t seen her. I only know she’s still at school.’

Jarrod raised his eyes heavenward. ‘And what does the old man say we do?’

‘I think he’s waiting for you to come home to discuss it. He wanted to bring you back sooner, but I persuaded him you needed a holiday.’

‘Thanks,’ said Jarrod dryly. ‘That’s what I was wondering about. It’s not like J.K. to hold back on me. He doesn’t usually pull his punches.’

‘No, well, anyway, you’ll hear all about it soon enough. He expects you to drive up to Malthorpe tonight.’

‘Does he? Yes, well, maybe I’ll take a rain check on that,’ said Jarrod, swinging round a jay-walking pedestrian.

‘Do you think you should? You know—his blood-pressure——’

‘All right, all right,’ muttered Jarrod impatiently. ‘All right, Matt, we’ll just call at the apartment and leave my things for Hastings, What a life! Six weeks in Jamaica, and within an hour of arriving back in this country I feel as though I’ve never been away.’

Malthorpe in the Forest was in Yorkshire, a comfortable village not far from the textile mills of Leeds and Bradford where the Kyle empire had had its source. Now, with factories in most of the larger countries of the world, it was an international organisation whose head office was in London. Jarrod’s father had founded the business before the Second World War and even he had had no idea of the impact his materials, carpets and designs would have on the rest of the world.

Jarrod and Matt arrived at the outskirts of Malthorpe late in the evening of the same day. J.K., as Jarrod’s father was always called, liked the kind of country squireship he had assumed upon buying the old country home of the Malthorpe family, all of whom were now only remembered by the gravestones in the cemetery beside the village church. Malthorpe Hall was large and sprawling, without much elegance of design outside. Its part-Georgian façade had been added to by succeeding generations without much discrimination and in consequence it now belonged to no period. Inside, Jarrod’s father had installed every kind of modern convenience. The large rooms suited his expansive personality, and he had spared nothing to make it the most talked about house in the district, much envied and admired by his friends and acquaintances. It stood in thickly wooded grounds, which stretched for some distance across the fields that gave on to the open moors. A high fence prevented would-be sightseers from getting too close, and as Jarrod approached its entrance he was forced to stop and identify himself to Hedley, the lodge-keeper.

‘Well, we’re in,’ he remarked dryly to Matt, as the car sped up the dark tree-lined drive. ‘It gets a little more like Fort Knox every time I come!’

‘Your father is afraid someone will steal his precious antiques,’ said Matt, as Jarrod brought the car to a halt in the gravelled courtyard before the front doors. ‘And every new piece he gets adds to his collection.’

‘And to his nerves,’ said Jarrod, sliding out of the car. ‘God, it’s cold! Have you had any snow yet?’

‘No, not yet. And it’s not that cold, Jarrod. It’s not even freezing, or you wouldn’t have been able to go as fast as you did on the motorway.’

‘Want a bet?’ asked Jarrod, mockingly, as the doors opened and light flooded out on to them. ‘Hello, Morris. On cue as ever!’

The uniformed butler bowed politely. ‘Good evening, Mr. Jarrod. I trust you’ve had a good journey.’

Jarrod nodded, walking round to the rear of the Mercedes and opening the boot. ‘Fine. How’s my father?’ He extracted his cases easily.

Morris came forward and took the cases from him firmly. ‘Your father is quite well, Mr. Jarrod. He is waiting for you in the library. Will you be wanting any supper, sir?’

Jarrod mounted the steps followed closely by Matt, carrying his briefcase and overcoat. ‘No, thanks, not tonight. See you later, Matt.’

Matt nodded and turned to follow Morris up the stairs to the first landing. Jarrod crossed the wide hall, and entered a room on the far side. The hall was lit by an exquisite crystal chandelier and Jarrod heard the prisms tinkling slightly in the sudden draught from the front door. The hall was carpeted in dark blue and gold, the balustrade of the staircase echoing the gold in filigree work overlaying the mellowed panelling which Jarrod’s father had retained. The library which he entered was carpeted in dark green, its walls lined with hundreds of hidebound books that Jarrod was sure his father had never even opened. J.K. was not a scholarly man, his success had been due to his hard work and personality, and he was not content to sit back and let someone else handle all the action. Unfortunately, a severe heart attack eight years ago had convinced him that to carry on living at the rate he was doing would kill him inside a year, so he had handed over the chairmanship of the Kyle companies to his son Jarrod, with the intention of retaining an active role in its administration. However, he had acted without thought to Jarrod’s own part in the proceedings, and found that his son could be as obstinate as he was. Thus, Jarrod took complete control of the business, only consulting his father rarely, much to J.K.’s chagrin. Now, though, he found he admired his son immensely, and what he had done was no less than he would have done in his place.

Tonight J.K. was sitting beside a roaring fire, smoking a cigar and drinking some superlative cognac from a balloon glass as his son entered. Although the whole house was centrally heated, J.K. insisted that he retained the fire in the library. He looked up as Jarrod entered, and smiled warmly.

‘Well, hello, Jarrod,’ he said, nodding to the chair opposite him. ‘Come and sit down! Is it freezing outside?’

‘Not according to Matt,’ remarked Jarrod, pouring himself some brandy and taking the seat his father indicated. ‘But it’s bloody cold!’

J.K. laughed. ‘You’ve grown soft, out there in the Caribbean. Don’t know how you stand the heat myself. Give me a crisp autumn day and a good fire, and I’m content.’

‘You’re getting old, J.K.,’ said Jarrod deliberately, and laughed when his father looked annoyed. ‘Say, but let’s not waste time on trivialities; what’s all this about some kid I’m guardian to?’

J.K. drew on his cigar, nodding. ‘Yes, Sara Robins. Old Jeff’s granddaughter!’

‘But this is crazy, isn’t it?’ Jarrod looked impatient, running a hand through the silvery hair which grew low on the back of his neck. ‘Hell, how did he come to make you his granddaughter’s guardian?’

‘Not me, you!’ said J.K. with some satisfaction. ‘You, Jarrod! The chairman of Kyle Textiles!’

‘That’s only a formality,’ muttered Jarrod, chewing his cigar. ‘You know damn fine it was you, and not me, he was talking about. Anyway, you still haven’t explained.’

J.K. shrugged his broad shoulders. He was like his son; he had the same thick hair, but his was iron grey, and his features were more deeply carved. Also, his eyes were grey; Jarrod got his unusual eyes from his mother. ‘When I was a young man, Jeff and I were good friends. I guess when his daughter and son-in-law both died he felt disturbed for the child’s welfare. After all, his own wife died during the war, he must have felt the girl was completely alone.’

‘But why pick on you? For the money?’

J.K.’s lips curled. ‘If you had known Jeff Robins you wouldn’t say a thing like that. He was the most honest, upstanding man I know. If he had wanted money he could have had it. I offered him plenty of chances one way and another. No, Jarrod, it must just have been a kind of hopeful desperation, I guess. I don’t think he knew about his heart condition, or if he did, he didn’t broadcast it. I guess he hoped to be around till Sara was old enough to find herself a man and get married.’ He sighed. ‘But it wasn’t to be!’

‘And the child, have you seen her? Since her grandfather died, I mean.’

‘I’ve never seen her,’ said his father, lying back in his chair reflectively. ‘I suppose I ought to have gone over to Bridchester this past week, but I thought I’d wait——’

‘And let me do it,’ said Jarrod dryly. ‘Clever!’

His father grinned. ‘Well, Jarrod, you did insist on taking over every part of my duties. How was I to know you wouldn’t object to me interfering?’

‘Crafty devil!’ muttered Jarrod, walking across to help himself to another drink. ‘Okay, okay, what are we doing about it?’ He leant against a table, looking at his father. ‘Seriously!’

His father frowned. ‘Well, I guess it would be an easy matter to contest the will. After all, it wouldn’t be difficult to prove that it was I, and not you, who ought to be the—how shall I put it?—trustee! And as I’m now retired, I imagine that would absolve our responsibilities legally.’ He rocked the liquid in his glass. ‘Besides, the will was made without our consent, and I suppose that means something.’

Jarrod heaved a sigh. ‘What a situation! What will happen to the kid if we do—absolve ourselves?’

‘I suppose she’ll be put into a foster home, or something. Unless we provide funds to keep her until she’s capable of keeping herself.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘Staying with a neighbour, but as this neighbour has seven children of her own she’s made it plain, to the solicitors at least, that it can’t be a lasting arrangement.’

‘Poor kid!’ Jarrod swallowed the remainder of his brandy. ‘Well, I suppose you expect me to go see her.’

‘One of us has to,’ said his father, leaning forward. ‘After all, it’s only the decent thing to do.’

‘And then what?’ Jarrod stood down his glass, and loosened the top button of his shirt. ‘That’s better,’ he sighed. ‘I guess the best thing is to provide for her, isn’t it?’

His father shrugged. ‘I have a fancy to see Jeff’s granddaughter, Jarrod. Bring her here, to see me.’

Jarrod raised his dark eyebrows. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, I mean, you’re going to bring a kid here, to see—well—all this, and then put her back in her place! Don’t you think it’s likely to make her discontented?’

‘Not if she’s Jeff’s granddaughter,’ replied J.K. firmly. ‘He’ll have seen she has both feet on the ground.’

‘Anyway, how old is she?’ Jarrod frowned. ‘You never did get round to that.’

J.K. shrugged. ‘I’m not exactly sure. Fifteen or so, I think.’

‘Fifteen!’ Jarrod glared at him. ‘Fifteen. Don’t you realise that girls of fifteen are practically grown up!’

His father narrowed his eyes. ‘How do you know that, Jarrod? Or are your tastes in women changing?’

Jarrod threw the end of his cigar on the fire. ‘If anyone else had said that to me …’ he said harshly.

‘I know, I know.’ His father rose to his feet. ‘Nevertheless, you have known plenty of women, and maybe you’re right. Maybe she’s not a child after all. If this is the case, it would make our job easier. Unless …’ J.K. looked thoughtful. ‘I always wanted a daughter, Jarrod,’ he said reflectively. ‘Oh, I know I wanted a son—but afterwards——’ He sighed.

Jarrod walked to the door, stretching. ‘Oh, brother,’ he said with some sarcasm. ‘The brandy must be making you maudlin. I’m tired. I’m going to bed. Sleep on it, and let me know what you’ve decided in the morning.’

His father compressed his lips, looking annoyed. ‘All right, Jarrod, you’ve made your point,’ he said shortly. ‘How hard you are!’

Jarrod looked back at the slightly stooped figure of his father and repented. ‘I’m as you’ve made me, J.K.,’ he said slowly. ‘In your own image!’

Sara Robins walked home from school with Brian Mason, the eldest son of Mrs. Mason, who had been her grandfather’s neighbour for over fifteen years. It was with them that Sara was staying, while her future plans were considered. Although it was only a little over two weeks since her grandfather’s death, Sara felt as though a lifetime had gone by.

The reading of the will, and the discovery that her grandfather had placed her virtually in the care of a complete stranger had come as a shock to her. If she had ever considered her grandfather’s health, she had never dreamed that he might collapse before she had left school and got herself a job. Somehow he had always seemed so young, so robust, that he had never invited any anxiety about his condition. It was only now that Sara realised he must have had some warning of the heart disease he had suffered.

Mrs. Mason and her husband, who always seemed such a meek, long-suffering little man, compared to his domineering wife, had been very kind, but Sara knew that she could not stay with the Masons indefinitely. Accommodation was limited, and at the moment she was sleeping on a camp-bed in their sitting-room. The house next door had been put up for sale, but it was not expected that they would get much for it. Such furniture as had been suitable had been taken to the saleroom, and Sara averted her eyes when she passed the blank empty windows.

A huge cream car was standing at the Masons’ gate this afternoon and Brian said: ‘Gosh! It’s a Mercedes, Sara! It must be someone from that man—that Mr. Kyle, for you!’

Sara shook her head, her mouth suddenly dry. Since the solicitors had first advised her of that clause in the will she had deliberately put all thoughts of it out of her mind. Now, seeing the cream Mercedes, it all came flooding back, and with it a frightening sense of panic.

Brian was looking at her strangely. ‘What’s wrong? You’ve gone all white, Sara! Heavens, there’s nothing to be scared about. I wish it was me that was going to be involved with a man like that—as rich as that!’

Sara looked scornfully at him. ‘Money! Is that all you can think about? I feel like a bartered object—like something at the saleroom!’

Brian laughed. ‘Well, you don’t look like one, Sara. Wait until he sees you. He’ll probably turn out to be a real sugar-daddy!’

‘You mean a dirty old man,’ said Sara gloomily.

‘Is he old?’

‘Well, it stands to reason, he must be,’ exclaimed Sara. ‘He was Grandfather’s contemporary!’

‘Y–e–s,’ said Brian slowly. ‘Well, come on, let’s go and see!’

They entered the narrow hall of the Masons’ house. There was the low murmur of voices coming from the sitting-room, and Sara looked apprehensively at Brian. He grinned cheerfully at her, and then the sitting-room door opened and Mrs. Mason came out. When she saw Sara she quickly closed the door, and came across to her.

‘Mr. Kyle’s here to see you,’ she whispered conspiratorially. ‘At least he says he’s Mr. Kyle. He’s much younger than I expected, and of course, I didn’t like to ask questions.’

Sara reserved her own opinion. Mrs. Mason was not the type of person not to ask questions, and it could only mean that Mr. Kyle had not appeased her by answering them.

‘He’s waiting to see you,’ went on Mrs. Mason, as Sara did not reply. ‘Do you want me to come in with you?’

Sara bit her lip. ‘Er—no, I don’t think so, Mrs. Mason,’ she said awkwardly.

Mrs. Mason stiffened and folded her arms across her ample breast. ‘Well, of course, if that’s what you want, Sara,’ she said reproachfully.

Sara moved her shoulders. ‘I—I think it would be best, Mrs. Mason.’

‘Very well. Come along, Brian.’ Mrs. Mason swept off along the hall towards the kitchen, and sighing, Sara walked to the sitting-room door. Gathering up her small store of courage she opened the door, and walked in, closing it firmly behind her.

A man rose from his seat in a low armchair at her entrance. He was tall and lean, with crinkly, ash-blond hair that persisted in lying over his forehead, despite his attempts to brush it back. His face was tanned a deep brown, as though he had just spent several weeks in the sun, while he had the bluest eyes she had ever seen. He was not handsome, she thought nervously, but he was certainly no contemporary of her grandfather’s.

If she was surprised at his appearance, he seemed no less surprised at hers. ‘You are Sara Robins?’ he exclaimed.

Sara swallowed hard. ‘Yes, Mr. Kyle. I’m Sara Robins.’

‘How old are you?’

Sara shrugged. ‘Um—well—seventeen, actually,’ she faltered.

‘Seventeen! I see.’ He drew out a cigar case. ‘Do you mind?’ and as she shook her head, he took a cigar out and lit it. ‘My—my father thought you were perhaps fifteen. Instead, you——’ He halted. ‘Are you planning to leave school soon?’

‘I suppose I can leave when I like,’ replied Sara carefully, studying her fingernails. ‘When—when Grandfather was alive I did intend to go on to take “A” levels, but now …’ Her voice trailed away.

He moved impatiently, and gave her a strange look. ‘Well, Sara Robins, haven’t you any questions you want to ask me?’

Sara was taken aback. ‘You—you’re younger than I expected.’

‘Well, maybe so.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Your grandfather made a slight error of judgement. He left your future in the hands of the chairman of Kyle Textiles expecting my father still to be in that position.’

‘Your father!’ Sara stared at him. ‘You mean—it was your father who knew my grandfather!’

‘That’s right. Unfortunately, my father retired eight years ago through ill health. I am now the chairman of Kyle Textiles. My name is Jarrod Kyle, too.’

‘Oh, I see!’ Sara’s expression cleared. ‘That explains it.’

‘Yes, to you perhaps,’ remarked Jarrod thoughtfully, his eyes appraising her very thoroughly, so that Sara felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny. This was definitely a situation her grandfather had not envisaged when he added that awful clause to the will. ‘Tell me,’ went on Jarrod, ‘do you have any relations at all?’

Sara flushed. ‘No,’ she replied, nervously brushing back the swathe of heavy chestnut hair that swung silkily to her shoulders.

‘And what would you have done had that particular clause not been added to your grandfather’s will?’

Her flush deepened. She had the feeling he was being slightly sardonic, even though his expression had not changed. ‘I—I suppose I should have left school immediately and got a job,’ she said defensively.

‘As what?’

She shrugged awkwardly. ‘I don’t know—in an office, or perhaps as a trainee nurse! The nursing profession always appealed to me.’

‘Hmn!’ He seemed to grow tired of this questioning, and turned away, walking to the window overlooking the sparse patch of lawn in front of the small house. ‘Nevertheless, the clause was added, so’—he swung round again—‘collect your coat. We’re leaving!’

‘Leaving?’ Sara’s greenish-hazel eyes were wide. ‘Leaving?’

‘Only temporarily, for the moment,’ he replied smoothly. ‘My father wants to meet you. Afterwards—well, afterwards we shall see!’ he finished enigmatically.

Sara wanted to argue with him. She wanted to say she knew nothing about him and that she didn’t want to leave all that was known and familiar to her for some unknown destination, but her position was too nebulous, too helpless, for her to be intrepid enough to argue with the chairman of Kyle Textiles. He might not be as old as her grandfather, but he was obviously in his thirties, or thereabouts, and that seemed a great age to someone who was only seventeen. So she gave him a reluctant nod and went to explain the position to Mrs. Mason.

The white Mercedes was superbly comfortable, and even after Jarrod had left Bridchester and was moving swiftly along the road towards Malthorpe in the Forest she felt little sensation of speed. In fact she was a little bemused by the whole operation, and couldn’t help but see it in the light of a crazy dream that could not be substantiated with fact.

Jarrod Kyle was wearing a dark lounge suit, a thick fur-collared overcoat overall, and even with her limited experience of life and material possessions, she could tell his clothes were expensively tailored. Her own fur-collared blue tweed, which she had donned in preference to her dark school duffle coat, looked cheap and inelegant by comparison, and she felt faint stirrings of alarm when she contemplated meeting Jarrod Kyle senior. His son was intimidating enough for both of them. He did not seem particularly pleased about something, she thought, and as she had little to go on she could only assume it had something to do with her.

She sighed, and he glanced her way. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘have you spent any time away from Bridchester?’

Sara frowned thoughtfully. ‘Only on holidays,’ she answered. ‘I’ve been to Blackpool twice, and to London, and once we went to Hastings.’

‘I see. You’ve never been abroad, I gather.’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’ She looked across at him solemnly. ‘I—I suppose you have.’

‘Some,’ he replied non-committally, and Sara realised it had been a stupid, childish question to a man like him. ‘What are your interests, then?’ he was asking now. ‘What do you do when you’re not at school?’

She frowned. ‘Well—I like reading, of course, and records, and occasionally Grandfather used to take me to the theatre in Leeds, or even a cinema.’

‘What is your favourite subject at school?’

‘Do you mean my favourite subject—or the one I’m best at?’ she asked candidly.

He looked half-amused. ‘Is there a difference?’

‘Yes. My favourite subject is English Lit., but I’m best at art.’

‘Art!’ Jarrod sounded surprised. ‘And don’t you like art?’

‘Well, I passed in “O” level, and I quite like messing about, but Miss Finch, our art teacher, is a bit of a—well——’ She was obviously stumped for a suitable word. ‘Anyway, nobody likes her, so I suppose that’s why I’m not keen on art,’ she finished, sighing.

Jarrod swung the car off the main road on to a minor road which led to Malthorpe in the Forest. As the wheel slid expertly through his hands, Sara noticed the length of his fingers. Long and tanned, they looked hard, capable hands, a broad gold signet ring inset with a huge ruby on the little finger of the right.

It was quite dark when they halted at the lodge gates and Jarrod sounded the horn which brought Hedley to the gate. Sara looked at him again and trembled a little.

Jarrod, as though aware of her nervousness, said: ‘Don’t be alarmed. This is routine procedure. My father has a valuable collection of antiques which he wants to protect.’

‘I see.’ Sara bit her lip. Even in the gloom the place had an air of grandeur to which she was not accustomed, and the thought of the interview ahead filled her with trepidation.

The car halted before the front doors which opened as if by magic. ‘That is our butler, Morris,’ murmured Jarrod, rather mockingly, glancing her way. ‘I’m convinced he has installed radar in the kitchen quarters so that he knows when any car is within a certain radius.’

Sara couldn’t prevent the smile that lifted the corners of her mouth. Although Jarrod had said nothing to reassure her, his manner was more relaxed, probably because he’s got me off his hands, she thought uncharitably, and he seemed to be trying to relax her also. As Jarrod slid out, she got out too without waiting for anyone’s assistance, and stood looking awkwardly at the tall, imposing figure of Alister Morris.

‘Good evening, Mr. Jarrod,’ he was saying smoothly. ‘Your father is waiting for you in the lounge.’

‘Thank you, Morris.’ Jarrod mounted the steps easily, and then looked back at Sara standing lost and alone at the foot of the steps. ‘Come on, Sara Robins. Surely you’re not afraid!’ His tone was mocking.

Sara stiffened and climbed the steps too. ‘No, Mr. Kyle, I’m not afraid,’ she said tautly, and he smiled sardonically.

‘Are you not? Then you must indeed be unique. I would have thought these circumstances might represent quite an ordeal to a child like yourself.’

Sara followed Jarrod inside the entrance on to the luxurious blue carpeting of the wide hall. She looked about her in wonder for a moment, and then turned her attention to Jarrod, who was watching her with undisguised sarcasm.

‘My grandfather used to say that only a fool was afraid,’ she said in small clear voice. ‘A coward dies as swiftly as a brave man.’

Jarrod bowed his head in mocking salute to her comments. ‘I think your grandfather had quite a lot to commend him,’ he said. ‘After all, it’s not every man who thinks to endow his granddaughter with the richest guardian available!’

Sara stared at him in shocked surprise. ‘What do you mean by that, Mr. Kyle?’ she exclaimed.

‘My son is a cynic, Sara,’ said a voice from behind her. ‘I heard you arrive, my dear. Welcome to Malthorpe Hall.’

CHAPTER TWO

SARA swung round to confront an older edition of Jarrod Kyle. His father had grey hair, of course, and was a little stooped, but otherwise they were very alike, only the deeply carved lines on the older man’s face belying his age. He was smiling warmly, and looked unlike the formidable individual she had conjured up in her imagination.

‘You’re—Mr. Kyle?’ she said awkwardly. ‘The Mr. Kyle who knew my grandfather?’

‘Correct on both points.’ J.K. looked across at the butler. ‘Close the door, Morris, and take Miss Robins’ coat. Come along, my dear. I’m having tea served in the lounge.’ He gave his son a questioning glance. ‘Will you join us, Jarrod?’

Jarrod Kyle was removing his own overcoat with lazy movements, and Sara became aware of a strange quickening of her senses. She couldn’t understand it, certainly she had never felt anything like it before, but there was something about Jarrod Kyle that disturbed her. Obviously, she had never met a man like him before, but it wasn’t only that. Mentally, she shook herself. She was being fanciful, because of the strangeness of her surroundings.

He shook his head now in reply to his father’s question. ‘No, I don’t think so, J.K. You have your afternoon tea. I need something a little stronger.’

His father’s lips tightened and he turned away. Then he looked back. ‘Lauren rang this afternoon,’ he remarked casually. ‘She wants you to ring her.’

‘Does she?’ Jarrod was lighting a cigar. ‘And what did you tell her?’

His father smiled. ‘I told her—you’d been—busy!’ His tone was mocking, and Sara was aware of the antagonism between them like a tangible thing in the air.

Jarrod turned to the stairs, taking them two at a time without replying, and his father gave a satisfied little chuckle before taking Sara’s arm to lead her into the long, high-ceilinged lounge.

Sara’s attention was taken by the magnificent décor. The carpet, cream and thick-piled, was the background for deep red and black chairs and the dark polished wood of a corner cocktail bar. There was an enormous television set combined with a radiogram, while concealed lighting above the high coving drew attention to the extravagantly carved ceiling. It was like something out of a film set, and she gasped.

‘Do you like it?’ asked J.K., looking pleased.

‘I—I think it’s marvellous, Mr. Kyle,’ she exclaimed. ‘I—I didn’t know places like this existed in Yorkshire!’

He laughed. ‘Oh, Sara, what a refreshingly youthful remark! And you must call me J.K. Everyone does. It at least distinguishes me from my son.’

Sara did not know how to answer, so she merely smiled, and J.K. rang the bell to summon the maid. ‘Sit down, Sara,’ he said, nodding to a low couch. ‘I want to hear all about you—and your grandfather.’

She subsided on to the couch as he indicated, smoothing the skirt of her dark blue pinafore dress. She wondered what the servants would make of her. She was hardly the usual kind of visitor to Malthorpe Hall. It was so beautifully warm, too, and she thought there would be no need to wear warm clothes in these surroundings.

A neatly uniformed maid brought a tray of tea and placed it on a low table near Sara, and after she had gone, J.K. seated himself opposite her, and said: ‘Can you handle a teapot?’

The cups were small and wafer thin, but Sara managed to accomplish the feat of handling the silver teapot without accident, adding cream and sugar to J.K.’s at his instigation, and only cream to her own. There were sandwiches of ham and salmon, and small scones oozing with jam and fresh cream, but she ate very little, her throat still rather constricted with nerves.

J.K. glanced at a gold cigarette box afterwards, and said: ‘Did your grandfather allow you to smoke?’

Sara smiled, shaking her head, ‘No, not that I was particularly interested—Mr.—I mean J.K.!’ She flushed.

‘Very good, too. It’s a filthy habit in women. But still, it does give one something to do at interviews and suchlike. Anyway, Sara, come on: tell me about yourself. Your school, your plans, what you and old Jeff used to do together.’

He was very easy to talk to, much less frightening than his son, and Sara soon found her nervousness dispersing in the warmth of his interest. She told him about everything, even the Masons, describing her life with such attention to detail that J.K. became really intrigued, to the extent that he forgot the passage of time, and it was only when Morris knocked and entered, interrupting them, that he glanced at his watch.

‘Will the young lady be staying for dinner, sir?’ Morris asked politely.

‘Well, as it’s already almost seven o’clock, I think that would be the most sensible course,’ said J.K., nodding across at Sara. ‘Don’t you agree?’

‘Oh, but—I mean, I’m not dressed for—dinner,’ stammered Sara awkwardly, recalling Jarrod Kyle’s presence with some misgivings.

J.K. gave a deprecatory gesture. ‘That’s of no importance, my dear. I shan’t be changing now, and I don’t suppose Jarrod is still at home. Eh, Morris?’

‘Mr. Jarrod left half an hour ago,’ said Morris evenly. ‘He told me to tell you he might be late.’

J.K. smiled sardonically. ‘Did he? How thoughtful of him! All right, Morris. Dinner for two.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Morris withdrew, and J.K. rose to his feet and crossed to the cocktail bar.

‘What will you have to drink?’ he asked. ‘You must have something. Something innocuous, of course.’

Sara swallowed hard. ‘Wh—what do you suggest?’

‘Oh, I don’t know—how about a small sherry?’

‘Yes. That would be fine.’ She relaxed against the red upholstery, thinking with relief that Jarrod would not present his disturbing presence at dinner. Then she frowned. If Jarrod had left, how was she going to get home? ‘Mr.—J.K.?’

He glanced round. ‘Yes?’

‘If—if your son has left—how will I get home? I mean—is there a bus service, or something?’

J.K. shook his head. ‘Naturally Potter will take you in the car.’

‘Potter?’

‘My chauffeur. Now, there you are. I think you’ll find that to your liking.”

Sara sipped the sherry pensively, wondering where Jarrod Kyle had gone.. Obviously he would have plenty of friends and acquaintances in the district. She wondered if he was married. And where was J.K.’s wife?

‘Is your wife——?’ She halted abruptly. It was none of her business after all. Turning red, she hoped he had not noticed her words. But of course he had, and he said:

‘Go on! What were you going to ask? I think you’re entitled to ask a few questions yourself. I’ve done most of the questioning so far. Don’t be nervous!’

‘Well, I was just going to ask where your wife was,’ said Sara.

J.K. nodded. ‘My wife is in Jamaica,’ he said easily. ‘She lives there.’

‘Oh!’ Sara’s mouth belied her astonishment.

He smiled, swallowing some of the Martini in his glass. ‘Do you think that is an unconventional relationship? Don’t be afraid to say.’

Sara shrugged. ‘Well, do you live here?’

‘Most of the time,’ he nodded.

‘Then yes, I do think it’s unconventional. Are you divorced?’

‘No. Just separated, through choice. Helen is not like me; she likes the social life. She also likes a warm climate. Several years ago she developed a mild congestion of the lungs. She was advised not to winter in England, so’—he shrugged—‘she moved to Jamaica.’

‘And you?’

‘Well, for a while—in fact for many years—we had discovered we had nothing in common. Our lives were quite separate. It was a natural course of events that she should eventually leave.’

‘How awful!’ Sara sighed. ‘I am sorry.’

‘Why be sorry? Helen is happy, and so am I. We’re not enemies. We’ve been quite civilised about it since Jarrod was about—oh, seven or eight years old.’ He poured himself another Martini. ‘Helen came from a wealthy Yorkshire family. I think she fell in love with me, although I’m not certain of that. At any rate she was sufficiently interested to marry me, and in so doing provide me with the necessary funds to expand my business.’

Sara’s eyes were wide. ‘You mean—you married her for her money!’

J.K. lifted his shoulders. ‘How cold and calculating you make that sound, Sara. How capable young people are of exposing life to the cold light of day! I would say we married out of a mutual need, at that time. I’ve repaid Helen every penny of the money she loaned me. I don’t consider my actions so despicable.’ He sighed, as he watched the revealing expressions crossing her face. ‘I suppose you do.’

Sara bit her lip. ‘Oh, really—J.K.—it’s nothing to do with me. I mean—I don’t know all the facts or anything. I’m not your judge.’

‘No, perhaps not. But you make me see myself as others might see me.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘How Jarrod would have enjoyed hearing you bare the basic facts of life! I think sometimes he can be a little cruel himself.’

Remembering Jarrod’s mocking, meaningful words in the hall of Malthorpe, Sara thought that was entirely likely.

The evening passed so quickly that Sara could hardly believe it when J.K. told her it was time she was going home. She felt a sense of regret that it should be over so swiftly, but was surprised when J.K. said:

‘Will you come again on Thursday? I can’t invite you tomorow. Jarrod is entertaining some chaps from the Ministry, and it would all be incredibly boring, anyway.’

Sara slid her arms into her coat. ‘Well, yes—I can, if you want me to,’ she said a little breathlessly.

J.K. nodded. ‘Good, good! I’ll look forward to that. Goodnight, Sara.’

‘Goodnight, J.K.,’ she answered him, and followed Morris out to the chauffeur-driven Rolls that waited at the foot of the steps.

Mrs. Mason was very curious about what had happened when Sara returned to their house in Mead Road. ‘What’s going to happen to you?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to live with this Mr. Kyle and his wife?’

Sara sought about awkwardly for words to say. She knew Mrs. Mason of old, and everything she said to her would be spread around the small town of Bridchester within a few days. ‘Nothing has been decided yet, Mrs. Mason,’ she replied honestly. ‘I—I had dinner with the older Mr. Kyle, the one Grandfather used to know. The man who came here—was his son.’

‘I see.’ Mrs. Mason frowned. ‘Did you tell him you couldn’t go on staying here?’

‘I don’t think we discussed that at all, Mrs. Mason.’

‘You didn’t? Well, what did you discuss then?’

‘Oh, mostly about—Grandfather,’ replied Sara, wishing this catechism was over. She ought to have thought about this coming home in the car, and prepared her answers accordingly. ‘Do you mind if I go to bed now?’

Mrs. Mason shrugged. ‘I suppose so. When will you know what’s going on?’

‘I’m having dinner with Mr. Kyle again on Thursday evening,’ said Sara. ‘I—I might have made some plans by then.’

‘What sort of plans?’

Sara gave her a desperate look. ‘I don’t really know. Honestly, Mrs. Mason, I haven’t seemed able to make any plans yet. It’s been so—so sudden. But I will. I thought of going to see the Matron at the hospital to see if she would take me on as a probationer.’

Mrs. Mason frowned. ‘Did you now? Well, our Lily tried that, but she didn’t like it.’

Sara could have said that ‘their Lily’, who was eighteen, didn’t like anything that remotely resembled work, but she held her tongue and merely went upstairs to get washed, thus ending the conversation.

On Thursday afternoon, Potter arrived in the Rolls to take her out to Malthorpe Hall, and Mrs. Mason, who had remained silent during the last couple of days, now said, rather spitefully:

‘I suppose you’ll be thinking you’re too good for the likes of us soon, Miss Robins,’ as Sara left the house.

Sara stared at her in astonishment. ‘Why should I think that, Mrs. Mason?’ she asked in surprise.

Mrs. Mason seemed to regret her impulsive tongue. ‘Oh, nothing, nothing. Go along with you. And don’t be late.’

In the back of the Rolls, Sara felt rather lost and alone. Even the prospect of dinner at Malthorpe Hall did little to assuage her depression. She seemed now to be a representative of neither walks of life. Ostracised and sneered at by Mrs. Mason and her cronies, and tolerated by a man who had once known her grandfather rather well, but who had now passed out of their sphere.

The drive gates were opened at their arrival, and the car sped up the drive to halt at the main entrance. Potter had not spoken on the journey. He had kept the glass partition between the two compartments firmly closed and Sara had not had the heart to attempt any kind of conversation. Besides, he was probably not accustomed to talking with his passengers. They most likely had plenty of other things with which to occupy them. Unlike Sara, who would have been glad of anything to lighten her mood.

She climbed the steps as Morris opened the door, allowing the warm comfortable glow of the lights to illuminate the forecourt. She was ushered inside, and Morris said: ‘Good evening, miss. Is it cold out?’

Sara relaxed a little, taking off her coat. ‘Yes, it is,’ she said quickly. ‘I think it’s going to snow. The roads are very icy.’

Morris smiled in a friendly way, and then J.K. came out of a door to the left of the hall. ‘Ah, Sara,’ he exclaimed, ‘you’ve arrived! Good! Come in here and get warm. Morris, we’ll have some tea.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Morris nodded, and Sara followed J.K. into a room which was lined with books. Another man was sitting by a roaring fire, but he rose to his feet at her entrance, and Sara recognised him as the solicitor who had advised her of the circumstances of her grandfather’s will, Mr. Grant.

‘Hello, Sara,’ he said, smiling encouragingly. ‘You look very nice. How are you?’

‘Oh, I’m fine, thank you.’ Sara looked questioningly at J.K. ‘Am I intruding?’

J.K. closed the door. ‘Not at all. It’s because of you that Joe’s here; Mr. Grant, that is. We’ve been considering ways and means for you, Sara. I knew when we were talking together the other evening that we had a lot in common, or at least, a common sense of humour!’ He chuckled. ‘At any rate, I liked you, Sara, and I needed time to think, to work things out. Well, I’ve come to a decision, and if you’re agreeable, there’s no possible reason why it shouldn’t work out.’

Sara was trembling a little, even in the heat of the roaring fire, and she sank down weakly on to a low chair. ‘What are you talking about, J.K.?’ she asked.

‘You—and your future,’ replied J.K. ‘Look, have you made any plans yet?’

Sara ran her tongue over her lips. ‘Well, I rang the Matron at Bridchester General Hospital yesterday, and I’ve made an appointment to see her later this week. I hoped she’d be able to take me on, as a probationer.’

‘I see,’ J.K. frowned. ‘Is that what you want to do?’

Sara flushed. ‘Well, I’ve always been interested in nursing,’ she replied defensively.

‘And if your grandfather had been alive? What would you have done then?’

‘I expect I should have stayed on at school for another year and taken my “A” levels,’ she answered, sighing.

‘Hmn. But now, honestly, Sara, if you had a choice, to do anything you wanted to do, what would it be?’

Sara studied her fingers. ‘Oh, so many things,’ she said, a little unsteadily. ‘I mean—I love English and reading, and I enjoy art immensely. I’d like to travel—and to paint!’ She lifted her shoulders helplessly. ‘So many things!’

J.K. looked pleased, and glanced rather triumphantly at Joe Grant. ‘As I thought,’ he said, nodding. ‘You’re a sensible young woman. Well, Sara,’ he paused with pleasurable anticipation, ‘if you’re agreeable, you can come and live with me—here at Malthorpe, for a year. I say, for a year, because nowadays teenagers know their own minds at eighteen, and I don’t want you to feel—how shall I put it?—obliged to me, in any way. I’m doing this because I want to, just as much as for your sake!’

‘Oh, but——’ she began hastily.

‘No buts.’ J.K. compressed his lips firmly for a moment. ‘Just listen, Sara. Whatever you decide to do with your life can wait for a year. During that year you could do whatever you wanted to, be yourself, not some confined schoolgirl with a limited range of interests. You could travel. I go to the States quite frequently, Jarrod was practically educated there, and sometimes I think he’s more American than English; then I go to Europe—I could even give you a sort of artistic grand tour, if you’d like that.’

Sara turned to Mr. Grant. ‘Oh, please,’ she said, ‘I can’t accept this. I know my grandfather put that clause in the will, but he must have been crazy to do so. J.K. isn’t even the chairman now, anyway. His son is. Surely he should have some say in the matter!’

‘Jarrod will be consulted, of course,’ said J.K. irritably. He did not like to be thwarted, or argued with.

‘How thoughtful of you, J.K.!’ The sardonic voice brought them all to their feet, facing Jarrod Kyle, who had entered silently, and was standing leaning against the door, looking cold and arrogant. He straightened, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his trousers, and allowing his penetrating blue gaze to rest momentarily on each of them. ‘It’s good of you to consider my feelings, J.K. Extraordinarily good of you!’ The sarcasm was very evident. ‘The point you all seem to be missing is that by accepting any part of this will, one automatically accepts all of it.’ He allowed this to have effect before continuing: ‘In other words, Miss Robins has a meal ticket for life, and there’s nothing any of you can do about it.’

‘That’s terrible!’ exclaimed Sara, staring at him.

‘Yes, terrible,’ said J.K. angrily. ‘You’re talking arrant nonsense, Jarrod. At the most we are responsible for Sara until she is eighteen. After that, even should she want to, which I for one don’t believe, she couldn’t make any claims against us!’

‘Oh no?’ Jarrod gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Do you honestly imagine you could get away with—well, refusing to support someone who on your own admission had been supported by you for the last year? My God, J.K.! There are times when I think you’ve reached your dotage. What’s happened to that cold business brain you always used to pride yourself on possessing?’

‘Obviously I’ve passed it on to you to add to the one you already had!’ exclaimed J.K. furiously. ‘How dare you stand there abusing a visitor in your house!’

‘Abusing!’ Jarrod gave a short laugh. ‘Abusing!’ He shook his head. ‘I haven’t abused anyone. I’m merely stating the facts as I see them. Unlike you, my vision is not clouded by emotion!’

Sara was shaking visibly now. She had never before been a party to such suppressed violence as Jarrod Kyle was displaying. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please, don’t say any more, any of you! I—I don’t want to hear it! I’m sorry—I’m sorry!’

She brushed past Jarrod and jerked open the library door, rushing out into the hall, not knowing where she was going, only wanting to escape. Morris was bringing the tray of tea and halted in surprise.

‘Why, Miss Robins, where are you going?’

‘Will—will you get my coat, please?’ asked Sara, glancing about desperately. ‘I’m—I’m going home.’

‘Don’t bother, Morris,’ said J.K.’s voice behind her. ‘Sara, Sara, what can I say? You must not allow my son to intimidate you. He—well, he has to be hard in business. It’s the only way, and like me, he’s used to getting what he wants. You mustn’t let our little differences of opinion upset you.’

‘Little differences of opinion,’ echoed Sara wildly. ‘You can’t call that argument a little difference of opinion! He—he doesn’t want me here! He’s made that perfectly plain, and for some reason he doesn’t trust me either. I—I couldn’t be happy—under those circumstances!’

‘Oh, Sara!’ J.K. sighed heavily. ‘I want you here. Isn’t that enough?’

‘But you’re not my guardian,’ she cried. ‘He is!’

‘Yes, and as such he ought to be ashamed of himself,’ muttered J.K. angrily.

Sara shook her head. ‘I want to go home—I mean—back to the Masons, anyway!’

‘You see—you have no home!’ J.K. caught her arm. ‘Sara, be sensible! Jarrod is not here a lot. He spends most of his time in London, or abroad. We won’t have to worry about him, I assure you.’

Sara continued to shake her head. ‘Please get my coat,’ she said tautly. ‘I want to leave!’

J.K. compressed his lips, and then summoned Morris. As she put on her coat, he said: ‘Won’t you change your mind, Sara?’

She moved to the door. ‘Thank you for everything, Mr. Kyle—oh, J.K. then,’ as he began to protest. ‘Is there someone who could take me home?’

‘Morris will have advised Potter,’ said J.K. wearily. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do this, Sara.’

Sara managed a faint smile, and then opened the front door and hurried down the steps to the waiting Rolls. She glanced back once at J.K. standing alone at the top of the steps, and felt tears pricking her eyes. He looked alone, too, and she realised that he, too, was lonely. Oh well, she thought sadly, it’s too late now. Much too late!

At the beginning of the following week, Sara had her interview with the Matron of the hospital. She was kind and sympathetic, and told her she would know the result of the interview within a few days. After that, it was just a question of waiting, and this Sara did with some impatience. In her free time, too many thoughts came to cloud her mind, and she was longing for a real job of work to banish all thoughts of J.K. and Malthorpe Hall, and most of all Jarrod Kyle, from her brain.

One morning, towards the end of that week, the headmaster of the school came to see her while she was in the school library.

‘Ah, there you are Sara,’ he said. ‘You have a visitor.’ He smiled encouragingly. ‘He’s waiting in my office.’

‘A visitor!’ exclaimed Sara. ‘But—who, sir?’

‘A Mr. Kyle,’ said the headmaster thoughtfully. ‘Kyle. The name’s familiar. Of course, Kyle Textiles. Do you know him? Is he some relation of the textile manufacturers?’

Sara felt the colour drain out of her cheeks. ‘Is he—is he young—or old?’

‘In his thirties, I’d say.’

‘Then—then he’s the chairman of the corporation,’ said Sara, swallowing hard, feeling slightly sick now. ‘Did he—did he say why he wanted to see me?’

‘The chairman,’ the headmaster was musing to himself reflectively. ‘What? Oh no, Sara, he didn’t say. But he seems very impatient, so I should hurry along if I were you. He’s waiting in my office, I’ll go and wait in the staff room.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Sara managed a faint smile, and then walked quickly along the corridor towards the headmaster’s office. As she neared the office, her footsteps slowed, and she wondered desperately what he could want her for. Reaching the door, she hesitated, and then tapped before entering. Jarrod Kyle was sitting on the edge of the headmaster’s desk, smoking a cigar, looking tall and lean and disturbingly male. In dark clothes, his tan complementing the uncanny fairness of his hair, he looked every inch the rich, powerful businessman he was. In deference to her femininity, he stood up at her entrance, while she hovered beside the door nervously.

‘Either come in or go out,’ he said shortly, and with a grimace she entered and closed the door. ‘That’s better.’ He studied her intently for a moment, noticing her pale cheeks, and the faint shadows round her eyes. ‘You don’t look at all well.’

Sara straightened her shoulders. ‘I’m perfectly all right, Mr. Kyle,’ she replied coolly.

‘Well, I’ll take your word for that, for the moment. Tell me, have you fixed yourself up with a job?’

‘I’m—I’m waiting for the results of my interview with the Matron of the Bridchester General,’ replied Sara carefully. ‘I’m very hopeful.’

‘I myself contacted the Matron this morning,’ he said, surprisingly. ‘You were accepted as a student nurse. I told her you would not be going.’

‘You did what!’ Sara stared at him in horror. ‘What do you mean by interfering in my affairs! Of course I shall be going! Oh, I shall have to get in touch with her at once——’

‘No, you won’t,’ he interrupted smoothly. ‘Because you will not be needing a job. You’re coming to live at Malthorpe—at least for the year which my father stipulated the other night!’

Sara raised her head with a little touch of pride. ‘Oh no, Mr. Kyle. Now you’re mistaken! I have no intention of coming to live at Malthorpe—not now, or at some future date!’

‘But you are,’ he responded, with equal firmness. ‘Now, don’t let’s waste any more time. I shall see your headmaster myself, and you can collect your things. You won’t be coming back here.’

‘Don’t try your boardroom tactics on me, Mr. Kyle, because they just won’t work!’ she exclaimed angrily.

‘Boardroom tactics!’ he said, half amused at her fervour. ‘Boardroom tactics! You haven’t the first idea what boardroom tactics may be!’

‘Well, maybe not,’ she said hotly. ‘But you can’t make me do anything!’

He thrust his hands into the pockets of his thick suede car coat. ‘Ah well, Miss Robins, there you are wrong,’ he said smoothly. ‘You’re forgetting! However unpleasant you may find the news, I am your guardian, and as such, I have absolute power over you. Unless, of course, you’d care to take me to court to prove otherwise. But somehow I don’t think you will. I could employ such a more satisfactory lawyer than you could!’

Sara couldn’t believe her ears. ‘But why? Why? Heavens, only a week ago you were suggesting I was trying to—well, you know what you said!’

‘I know. My opinion has changed very little. However’—he held up a hand as she would have protested—‘however, my father is insistent that you be allowed to come to Malthorpe, and he can be very persuasive.’

Sara’s eyes mirrored her disbelief. ‘Oh really,’ she exclaimed. ‘I can’t believe the hard, powerful Jarrod Kyle, chairman of Kyle Textiles, and Lord of the Universe, could be persuaded by his father!’ As soon as the words were spoken she was aghast at her own temerity, but instead of censure she saw a reluctant trace of admiration in his blue eyes.

Then, as suddenly, it was gone, and he said quietly: ‘My father has a heart condition; that’s why he retired as chairman in the first place. Last Friday he had another mild attack. I’m not prepared to risk his health for my own amusement. If he wants you so desperately, then he shall have you.’

Sara’s heart softened ever so slightly. ‘Does—does J.K. know you’re here?’

Jarrod gave her an exasperated look. ‘You must be joking! Of course he knows I’m here! Do you imagine I’m doing this to surprise him! Oh no! I’m well aware of his fallibilities. I’m almost certain his attack was contrived, but I’m not prepared to gamble on anything less than a certainty. Therefore, will you go and collect your things, Miss Robins?’

Sara hesitated. ‘And if I refuse?’

‘I’m pretty certain your heart is softer than mine,’ replied Jarrod, stubbing out his cigar lazily. ‘You couldn’t take that risk either, could you, Miss Robins?’ and Sara knew he was right.

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