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.

For the Love of Sara
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

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

JOEL left the motorway at the Salton turn-off and drove west into open country. Beyond the few villages which flanked the motorway, miles and miles of gorse-strewn moorland stretched before him, interspersed here and there with cottages, their smoking chimneys the only sign of habitation. There were sheep in plenty, of course, straying carelessly on to the road in front of him so that he was continually bearing down on the brake, and the impatience that filled him at the necessity for this journey grew with every second wasted. At any other time, the artistic sensitivity which had ensured his success in his chosen profession would have responded to the almost miraculous blending of colour as evening had shadowed the slanting rays of the sun. The pale turquoise of the horizon now the sun had set shimmered with the approaching dusk and set the stars trembling. But right now Joel’s thoughts were much less pleasantly occupied, and he felt no affinity with this windswept landscape, only irritation that his destination was so remote from the civilisation he was used to. The occasional cars that passed him going in the opposite direction were forced to remove themselves from their positions on the crown of the road by the sheer width of the Mercedes, and he reflected broodingly that drivers around here apparently considered they had the free and only rights to the highway. He was not in a mood to be generous in this direction; his stomach was telling him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and he longed for a drink to cool his frustration.

He glanced at the plain gold watch on his wrist. It was already past seven o’clock. It would be night soon, and he had no desire to negotiate these roads after dark. It was incredible to think that only a little over an hour ago he had been bypassing the industrial centres of Doncaster and Leeds when now he seemed distant from everything urban. That was why he hadn’t stopped earlier although the service areas on the motorway had mocked his good sense. He estimated he had only another five or six miles to go to Langthwaite, and with a bit of luck the hotel there would be able to supply all his needs. At least, until tomorrow.

He sighed and flexed the fingers of first one hand, then the other. It had been after two when he left London, so he supposed he had made reasonable time. He hadn’t rushed, but again he hadn’t wasted time. He had been singularly reluctant to reach his destination when he set off, and although that had changed, his feelings were definitely mixed. Deep inside him there was a hard core of bitterness about the whole affair, and no amount of soul-searching would convince him he was doing the right thing. He had said he would do it for Francis’ sake, but was that entirely true

He shifted irritably, unwilling to investigate his motives. He was here now, he had to go through with it. Twilight was deepening, but there were lights up ahead and he turned on the car’s lights to read the sign. He almost missed it, a gravestone-like fixture at the side of the road, half hidden by the long grass. He wondered if the connotation was significant and then shook his head impatiently. This was no time for self-doubt or self-delusion.

The village was small, a collection of cottages clustered about a cobbled square. There was the inevitable telephone box outside the post office, a general dealers, which looked as though it sold everything, but probably didn’t, and the inn. The Golden Pheasant! Joel’s mouth turned down at the corners. It made a change from the Black Bull or the Bay Horse, he supposed. It certainly did not have the appearance of a five-star hostelry, but if the beds were clean and the beer was cold, he would have no objections.

There were one or two teenagers loafing about in the square, and the sight of the sleek cream Mercedes attracted a few coarse comments. Joel was forced to leave the car outside the inn, trusting to God and providence that no one would run a rusty nail along its side. Where was the age-old rustic charm he had imagined? Gone like everything else beneath the heel of indifference? At least there was no regimented housing estate encroaching on the village boundaries, and it was too far from the nearest town to attract evening commuters.

Leaving his one case in the boot, Joel pulled his sheepskin jacket on over his shirt and pants, and sliding the knot of his tie up to his collar he entered the bar entrance which appeared to be the only means of access. It was still comparatively early in the evening, and there were only one or two elderly patrons occupying the tables in the bar, but the girl who was serving was young, and pretty too if you liked buxom blondes. She was obviously intrigued by the appearance of a dark stranger, and Joel could feel her assessing him from the thickness of his straight hair to the soles of his suede boots. What she saw she apparently approved of, because the look she bestowed on him was warm and encouraging.

“Yes, sir? What will it be?”

Joel hesitated, then he drew his wallet out of his inside pocket. “Oh — er — I’ll have a beer.” He glanced round. “You do take overnight visitors here, don’t you?”

The girl filled his glass and pushed the foaming beverage across to him. Her eyes had widened and she was regarding him curiously now. “Overnight visitors, sir? At the inn? Well, I think Mr. Harris takes one or two. I’m not sure whether at this time of year…” She handed him the change from a pound note, holding his gaze with her own. “Would you like me to find out for you?”

Joel slid the silver into his pocket. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he agreed, raising the glass to his lips and drinking thirstily.

The girl regarded him for another inquisitive moment, and then with a shrug she turned and went out. Joel lowered his weight on to a bar stool. The beer was good — cold, as he liked it, and refreshing after his hours at the wheel. He was aware that his presence was causing a minor argument in the corner between two of the older patrons, and he guessed they got few visitors in Langthwaite at this time of year.

The girl was coming back and with her was a middle-aged man, obviously the licensee. Joel forced a smile and had it doubtfully returned. “You’re wanting accommodation, I hear,” Mr. Harris stated, leaning on the bar. “Would it be for long?”

“One night only, I expect,” replied Joel evenly.

“You’re a traveller, then, sir?” suggested the older man, curiously, but Joel shook his head.

“I — I have business in Langthwaite,” he conceded, realising that by saying nothing he was likely to be turned away. “Can you put me up?”

“Well, it’s nothing fancy like,” retorted Mr. Harris. “There is a room you can have. My wife’s making up the bed now. Would you be wanting meals as well?”

Joel restrained the impulse to swear. Of course he wanted meals. Did they think he was without the normal demands of the human body? “If — that’s possible,” he remarked, with admirable calmness. “Naturally, I don’t expect your wife to put herself out for one guest. Some sandwiches this evening would do fine, and perhaps some toast in the morning.”

Mrs. Harris, or at least Joel assumed it was that lady, appeared behind them. “Is this the gentleman who is wanting to stay the night?” she asked, and her husband nodded. “Very well, sir. Your room’s ready. And I expect you’re hungry, aren’t you?”

“I — well —” Joel looked helplessly at Mr. Harris, and he nodded with a finality that displayed a decision made.

“Yes, Ellie. The gentleman — I don’t know your name, do I, sir? — he is hungry—”

“Kingdom,” said Joel at once, “Joel Kingdom. From London.”

In what seemed a remarkably short space of time, he was shown to his room on the first floor, given free use of the bathroom, and then fed in a tiny dining room which he suspected was generally only used by the family. Mrs. Harris herself served him, although the blonde from the bar found the excuse to pop in and out asking him whether he had everything he wanted. Joel, who was used to the effect his swarthy attraction had on the opposite sex, found her obvious charms less than appealing, and his mouth was wry by the time he had eaten soup, cold roast beef and pickles, and a piece of Mrs. Harris’s crusty apple pie.

Mrs. Harris herself bustled in as he was finishing the lager he had had with the meal and she looked gratified at his empty plate. “You enjoyed it, then, sir?”

Joel nodded, massaging the aching muscles of his left shoulder. “It was very good, thank you, Mrs. Harris. You’ve been very kind.”

Mrs. Harris beamed, her plump face mirroring her pleasure. “And you’re only staying until tomorrow?” she asked, beginning to gather the dirty dishes together.

Joel rose to his feet. “I hope so.” Then, as she quickly looked up, he added: “I mean, of course, I hope my business doesn’t take longer than that.” He sighed. “I have to get back to London.”

“You work in London, Mr. Kingdom?”

“Sometimes.” Joel was non-committal.

“But your home’s there?”

“You could say that.”

Mrs. Harris was clearly trying to find an opening to ask what business he had in Langthwaite, and Joel was equally unwilling to assist her. He suppressed a yawn with his hand, and said:

“If you don’t mind, Mrs. Harris, I’ll go up to my room now. It’s been a long day, and I am rather tired.”

Mrs. Harris hid her frustration. “Of course, sir. You know where it is?”

“Of course.” Joel smiled, and the woman responded to the spreading charm it generated. “I’ll say goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, sir.” Mrs. Harris smiled in return, and Joel turned to cross the hall to the stiarcase.

The blonde appeared in the doorway to the bar. “Aren’t you coming back for another drink?” she asked him coyly.

Joel shook his head. “No, thank you.”

“You’re never going to bed!”

“Why not? It is after ten o’clock, you know.”

“Mercy me! Ten o’clock!” The girl raised her eyes heaven-ward. “I thought you Londoners were used to late hours. What’s happened to the swinging seventies?”

“I think they hanged themselves,” returned Joel dryly. “Goodnight.”

His room was under the eaves, and the ceiling sloped towards the window. He could stand upright just inside the door, but from then on it was a losing battle. Still, the bed looked long and comfortable, and he would be glad to stretch his aching limbs. That work-out in the gym that morning had been intended to relax his mind as well as his body, but the way he felt right now it hadn’t succeeded in either direction.

The bathroom didn’t sport a shower, but he ran a shallow bath and sluiced himself before going back to his bedroom. Then he removed his robe, turned out the light and slid between the cotton sheets. The bed was icily cold. The inn was not centrally heated. But the heat generated by his thoughts soon warmed him through.

He lay on his back with his arms behind his head and stared grimly towards the shadowy flowers visible on the cretonne of the curtains. So — he was here, in Langthwaite, and somewhere out there, within a mile’s radius, was Rachel — Rachel Gilmour as she called herself now, but Rachel just the same.

Bitterness brought the sickly taste of bile to the back of his throat. That Rachel should think she could do this, to him! His hands balled themselves into fists. If he had her here now, he thought, he would wring her neck!

But such passion was wasted, and he knew it. Coolness and calmness, and a sense of objectivity would serve him far better. After all, he could not be absolutely sure she was doing it to spite him, although the alternative was equally unpalatable…

He deliberately unclenched his fists and forced the muscles of his neck to relax. Was it really only three days ago that Francis had come to him with the story? It seemed as though he had known it for much longer than that.

He had been working, he remembered, putting the finishing touches to the portrait of Lady Antonia Barrie, when Francis came hammering at his door. He had not been pleased at the intrusion. He had got up especially early to take advantage of the light, and when his half-brother interrupted him he had been less than civil. It wasn’t until Francis had stammered out the story in that way he had when he was distressed that Joel realised this wasn’t another of the simple monetary scrapes Francis had often got himself into.

Even then he had been loath to get involved. “But I don’t see why you should imagine the fact that our father is thinking of getting married again should trouble me!” he had declared impatiently.

Francis, as tall as himself but thinner, fairer, had paced restlessly about Joel’s studio. “Of course, it wouldn’t bother you, would it?” he had demanded fiercely. “Your grandmother left you more than adequately provided for. Unfortunately, I don’t have rich relations like that on my mother’s side. And if Father marries again, why shouldn’t he disinherit me, as he disinherited you?”

Joel had raked his hair back from his forehead with frustrated hands. “That didn’t trouble you too much at the time,” he observed dryly. Then: “It was different with me, Fran, you know it was! Father could never see that I wasn’t cut out to play power politics at the Bank. And, as you say, my grandmother made Father’s participation in my career less than necessary. You’re different, Fran. You’re his son. And even if he does marry again, which I personally doubt, there’s little chance now that he’ll sire more children. Good God, he’s sixty-three!”

Francis turned on him then. “Men have been known to have children at ninety, and you know it!” He paused, his face changing, becoming more calculating. “Besides,” he regarded his half brother scornfully, “you haven’t heard it all yet. You haven’t asked who the woman might be.”

Joel shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“It might. Her name is Gilmour, Rachel Gilmour.” He hesitated, enjoying the effect his words were having. “Her name was Rachel Abbey before she married her first husband!”

And that was when Joel had crossed the studio and done something entirely uncharacteristic. He had caught his haf-brother by his shirt front and dragging him up close to him said savagely: “What are you saying?”

Francis, abashed by his older brother’s intimidation, had struggled to free himself. “It — it — it’s the — t—truth, Jo—Joel! It — it is — Ra-Rachel, it — it is!”

Joel had released him so violently that Francis had spun across the studio and landed on the floor amidst a pile of canvases and an easel. His face had twisted angrily as he got to his feet, and as he brushed his clothes he had stared maliciously at his brother.

“It — it’s not m-my fault!” he muttered, grimacing as his stammer continued. “Just — just because — you d—don’t like the — tr—truth when you — hear it!”

Joel had hardly been listening to him. He believed Francis all right. He wouldn’t come here with a story like that unless he had proof that it was true. But that didn’t make it any better. Searching for a cheroot amongst a mess of paints and sketches on the long board beneath the window, he put one between his teeth and lit it with hands that were no longer steady. Then he stared grimly out of the window for several silent minutes, looking over the rooftops of London to the curve of the Thames in the distance. When he had himself under some semblance of control he turned back to Francis. The younger man had lit a cigarette and was puffing at it nervously, but his expression was defiant when Joel said:

“Tell me what you know,” in low uncompromising tones.

Francis shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m not sure I want to tell you anything,” he muttered.

Joel’s jaw stiffened. “Don’t tempt me, Francis,” he said, in the same low tone. “Now, how do you know it’s — Rachel?”

“I’ve seen her!”

“You’ve — what!”

“I — I’ve seen her. Oh, for God’s sake, Joel, stop looking at me like that! It’s not my — f—fault.”

“Go on. Where did you see her?”

“L—last night. With — with Father! It — it’s true!” This as Joel threw his cheroot to the floor and ground it under his heel. “They — they were — d—dining together.”

“Where?” Joel took a step towards him, and Francis took a step backward.

“At — at — Peruccios. I — I saw them, I tell you.”

Joel moved his head disbelievingly from side to side. “Start at the beginning.”

Francis drew heavily on his cigarette, and blew the smoke into the air above their heads. “Well — well, I’ve — I’ve known for some time that — that there was a woman … oh, yes, I have. Since — since my mother left — I’ve always been able to tell.”

“For the Lord’s sake, get to the point!”

“Well — well, about — about a week ago, Father told me that — that there was someone —”

“But you didn’t choose to tell me that!”

“Not immediately, no!” Francis was defensive. “Joel, as you’ve just pointed out, he’s sixty-three! I assumed — who wouldn’t have? — that — that this women, whoever she might be, would be a contemporary of his! After all, you have to admit, both your mother and mine were near his own age at the time he married them.”

“All right, all right. Go on.”

“Well, I didn’t say much, I didn’t ask much. He told me—oh, how he must have laughed when he told me — that her name was Mrs. Gilmour, Mrs. Rachel Gilmour. Rachel’s not such an uncommon name, is it?”

“And that was all?”

“No. No, he said — she came from Yorkshire. That — that she worked in a village called — Langth — whistle, Langthwaite — something like that — as — as a housekeeper to a retired colonel.”

“A housekeeper to a retired colonel!” Joel repeated the words sceptically.

“Yes. Yes, that’s what he said!”

“You must have made a mistake —”

“I tell you, I saw her —”

“Not about that. About — what she’s doing.” Joel’s fists clenched. “Francis, you know Rachel was at college — when — when —”

“When she walked out on you? I know. But how do you know she finished her training? That — that was six years ago. She — she’s been married. She — she’s got a child!”

“A child?” Joel’s tanned face was pale. “Did Father tell you this too?”

“Y — yes.” Francis stubbed out his cigarette in an onyx ashtray. Then he looked up. “Th—that might account for the fact that she’s someone’s housekeeper, mightn’t it? I mean, it’s not easy to get jobs with — with children.”

“And — her husband?” Joel’s eyes were narrowed beneath heavy lids.

Francis shrugged. “How should I know? Dead, I suppose. Father said she was a — a widow!”

“A widow?” Joel paced restlessly across the room. “I don’t believe it!” He swung round on his half-brother. “Are you sure this isn’t all some malicious trick to get his own way?”

“Wh—what do you mean?”

Joel shook his head. “I don’t know, I don’t know. Father always hated me for thwarting him —”

“I don’t think he hates you, Joel —”

“Don’t you? I do. I think he’d marry Rachel just for that reason.”

“You’re crazy!”

“Am I?” Joel’s expression was broodingly malevolent. “If I thought…” He broke off. “Is that all?”

“What — what more can I tell you?”

“What did Father say when he told you?”

“I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Except how you came to see them together last night.”

Francis sighed. “That was accidental. Father doesn’t know I saw them.”

“So?”

“I was going to Freddi’s,” he named a gambling establishment with which Joel was not unfamiliar, “but I was short on funds —”

“—as usual—”

“— and I suddenly remembered Perry Simons.” Perry Simons owned Peruccios. Joel knew this, too. “I went round there, I was going to ask him for a loan. Then I saw them.”

“And you left?”

“Yes.”

“What time was that?”

Francis glanced at his watch. “Around eleven.”

“And it’s eight-thirty now. What have you been doing for nine and a half hours?”

Francis shook his head. “I — I didn’t know wh—what to do. I — I didn’t kn—know wh—whether to t—tell you or not.”

“Why not?”

Francis shook his head. “I w—walked for m—miles. I ended up b—back at the fl—flat at about four. I would have r—rung you then, but I th—thought you m—might be — other — otherwise engaged.”

His meaning was not lost on Joel, and his lips twisted. He gave a final look at Lady Antonia’s portrait and then walked across the studio to the door leading into the main body of the penthouse. “Okay,” he said heavily. “I’ll make some coffee. I gave Heron the night off, so he won’t be in until later. We can talk just as well in the kitchen.”

Later that day, Joel had learned that Rachel, if it was Rachel as Francis insisted, had returned to Yorkshire. He found his father was not averse to talking about Mrs. Gilmour when he discovered that his younger son had told Joel of his plans. Joel was forced to bite his tongue and control his fists when confronting his father’s smug countenance, and indeed, if he had had any lingering doubts as to the veracity of Francis’s story, they were dispersed by that interview with his father. James Kingdom was obviously well pleased with himself, and Joel found his anger turning against Rachel with destructive violence. How could she? he had asked himself again and again. How could she think of doing this to him? And the answer came back that she hated him now as he was beginning to hate her.

Nevertheless, he could not let it happen, just like that. He found himself championing Francis’s rights, and refusing to admit his motives were less than unselfish. If Rachel had already been married and had produced a child, she had proved she was fertile, and his father was still a powerful and virile man. Two wives were enough for any man, thought Joel bitterly, without acknowledging that had his own mother not died soon after his birth, his father might only have had one.

But that was three days ago now. In that time, Francis had managed to find out that Rachel’s employer was a Colonel Frenshaw, who lived at the Old Hall, Langthwaite. A not-too-difficult place to find, Joel had thought, until he began this journey…

He turned restlessly in the narrow bed, wishing himself back in his own bed in his own apartment. He had told no one but Francis and his man, Heron, of his real motives for coming to Yorkshire, and he had no doubts that Erica would be curious on his return. Erica…

He determinedly brought the image of the girl he would no doubt marry one day to his mind. Six years had drawn a distorting veil over Rachel’s features, and although he could remember the details of her appearance it was hard to put them in the right perspective. Besides, he didn’t particularly want to remember Rachel, until he had to…

Six years. It was a long time. She would be what? Twenty-four or twenty-five by now. He should remember. She was ten years younger than he was. He sighed, recalling how amazed he had been that a girl of her age should have had the power over him that she had had. Power that she had abused, he told himself savagely. Well, all that was in the past. No woman, either before or since, had had that kind of power-that kind of control over him, nor ever would again. When he met her tomorrow, or perhaps confronted was a better word, she would soon realise she had bitten off more than she could chew by challenging him like this. How could she? he asked himself again; how dared she imagine she could make herself a member of his family without arousing any reaction from him? Or perhaps that was exactly what she wanted to achieve. The idea struck him forcibly, leaving him cold with anger. And no doubt his father was a willing accomplice.

Yet still he couldn’t believe it. But what other conclusion could he draw? He turned his head restlessly into the pillow and wished he had had that last drink in the bar. A strong double whisky might have soothed his nerves, dulled the sharp edge of exhaustion that was keeping him awake, cast into oblivion the destructive desire for revenge which was tearing him apart.

CHAPTER TWO

AT breakfast the next morning it was a simple matter to ask Mrs. Harris where the Old Hall was situated.

“Colonel Frenshaw’s place?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “You’re a friend of his, Mr. Kingdom?”

Joel attacked his grapefruit with more determination than enthusiasm. “Not exactly, Mrs. Harris. I — er — I do know someone who works for him, though.”

“Oh, that would be Mr. Hanson, would it, sir?”

Joel’s head jerked up. Pushing the straight hair off his forehead, he frowned. “Hanson? No, I know no one of that name, Mrs. Harris.”

Mrs. Harris pursed her lips. “Oh, don’t you?” she shrugged. “I thought as how you might. Mr. Hanson, he’s the Colonel’s secretary, see. Educated young chap, he is. Gets in here sometimes of a weekend.”

Joel’s frown deepened. “Indeed?” He hesitated. “No. The person — the person I know is, I believe, Colonel Frenshaw’s housekeeper.”

Mrs. Harris’s face cleared, but she was surprised, and looked it. “Young Mrs. Gilmour?” she exclaimed.

Joel looked down at the grapefruit again. “That’s right.”

Mrs. Harris raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know the young lady, except to say hello to. She doesn’t come in here, and being the publican’s wife, I don’t get out a lot.”

“No, of course not.” Joel’s brain was working furiously. “Are — are there other — members of staff? At the Hall, I mean?”

“Not as I know of, sir. There’s just the Colonel, and Mr., Hanson, and Mrs. Gilmour, of course. Oh, and the little girl Sara.”

Joel felt his nerves prickle. “Mrs. — Gilmour’s — child?”

“Yes. But of course, you’d know that.”

Joel made no reply. So the child was a girl, Sara. He shook his head. He couldn’t imagine Rachel being old enough to be a mother. And yet…

“You were going to tell me where the Old Hall is situated,” he reminded Mrs. Harris.

She nodded, taking away the half eaten dish of grapefruit and replacing it with a plate of ham, eggs, sausages and tomatoes. Ordinarily Joel would have done full justice to such a meal, but this morning after his restless night, the fried breakfast looked nauseating. Nevertheless, he had to make an effort, and tackled the bacon first.

“If you follow the Cragstone road for about a mile, you’ll come across it, sir. On your left. You can’t miss it. It’s the only house for miles.”

“Thank you.”

Joel poured himself some coffee and drank slowly. It was half past eight. Was nine o’clock too early to go calling? He had contemplated telephoning first, but dismissed the idea. He wanted to see Rachel’s face when she saw him. He wanted to feel the surge of satisfaction that would come when he confronted her with his contempt.

He ate sparingly, much to Mrs. Harris’s disappointment, but he thanked her warmly for the meal and her hospitality, and added a not ungenerous gratuity to the bill. Then he collected his belongings from his room and carried them out to the car.

It was an unexpectedly mild morning for early March, and he decided to stow his sheepskin coat in the boot and wear instead the jacket that matched his dark blue suede pants. Sliding his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, he surveyed the village square with more enthusiasm. Seen in the light of a strengthening sun, it had a certain charm which he had missed the night before. He noticed that there were daffodils and narcissi growing in every available patch of earth, and all the buildings had a scrubbed, well-cared-for appearance. A couple of dogs were scratching beside the drinking fountain that formed part of the wall that edged the churchyard, and even as he stood there the church clock chimed the hour. He glanced quickly at his watch. The time had come, and he wished he felt more prepared for it.

Unlocking the door, he slid behind the wheel of the Mercedes sports. The engine fired at the first flick of his wrist, and a faint smile of satisfaction momentarily dispelled the deep lines beween his brows.

With Mrs. Harris’s directions, it was not difficult to find the Cragstone road, and not far outside the village he came upon a rambling stone building which could only be the Old Hall. Smoke drifted from chimneys so obviously someone was up and about, and an old station wagon was parked on the forecourt. Rusty wrought iron gates hung half off their hinges leaving the entrance wide for anyone to drive through. Joel had stopped just outside the gates, undecided whether to leave the car there or not, but then, with a characteristic shrug of his shoulders, he released the brake and drove between the gateposts, and cruised along the gravel drive to stop beside the station wagon.

His arrival aroused no immediate response beyond a halfhearted barking from the back of the house. He got out of the car and stood for a moment looking up at the blank windows. So this was where Rachel had lived — how long? The last two — three years, maybe? He flexed his shoulder muscles. Since her husband died, no doubt. Francis had said she was a widow. And Gilmour? Who was Gilmour? What had this man been who had married her so briefly? Why had she married him? Because she loved him? If so, love came more easily to her than it had done to him…

He flung the thoughts aside, and walked round the two vehicles to the porch. A bellrope invited usage, and with a tautening of his stomach muscles, he pulled, hard. The sound echoed and re-echoed throughout the house and he hoped that no one was sleeping in there. The noise would awaken the dead.

He waited. For a few minutes he began to think that either no one was in or no one was up. But the smoking chimneys and the station wagon seemed to negate such an idea. And indeed, after an interminable time footsteps sounded across the hall beyond the half fluted glass door and presently it was opened. A young man stood regarding him expectantly, a thin, reddish-haired young man, with a small beard and moustache that were no doubt intended to give his face maturity. “Yes?”

Joel was taken aback. He had half expected Rachel to open the door, and now she hadn’t he was temporarily speechless. Then he gathered himself, and said shortly: “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Gilmour.”

“Rachel?”

The young man raised his eyebrows, and there was a touch of hostility in the way he said her name. Joel felt a ridiculous temptation to grab him by his collar and demand whether he had been given the right to use her Christian name, but instead he replied: “Yes, that’s right. Rachel.”

The young man was definitely hostile now. “I’m afraid she’s busy at the moment,” he said. “Perhaps you could call back later.”

Joel contained his impatience. “Just tell her that there’s a Mr. Kingdom asking to speak to her,” he said. “I think you’ll find she’ll speak to me.”

“Kingdom?” The young man regarded him coldly. “You’re some relation of — James Kingdom, then?”

“Not that it’s any business of yours, but yes.” Joel put one foot on the threshold. “Now, will you please deliver my message?”

The young man shrugged and turned away to cross the parquet flooring of the wide entrance hall. Joel rested his shoulder against the doorpost and watched him sourly. That, of course, was the Hanson fellow Mrs. Harris had spoken about. He was younger than he had expected. He wondered what his relationship was with Rachel.

He half turned and looked back across the gardens edging the drive. Someone had taken the trouble to mow the lawn quite recently, and the rhododendrons would be quite beautiful when they were out. Something was jutting from beneath the rhododendron bushes, something that had once been red, but which was now streaked with dirt and dried leaves. It looked like a wheelbarrow, a very small wheelbarrow. A toy wheelbarrow, in fact. His lips twisted. The child — Sara’s — no doubt.

“You wanted to see me?”

The low voice sounded right behind him, and his head jerked round almost of its own volition. He had not heard her approach, but Rachel was standing just inside the doorway, her hands thrust into the pockets of the gingham apron she was wearing over shabby slacks and an open-necked shirt blouse. Her face was thinner than he remembered, unnaturally flushed in places and pale as death in others; her body was thinner, too, but her hair, the silky ash-blonde glory of her hair which he had always found such a sensual pleasure in burying his face in, was still as beautiful as ever, albeit unattractively confined at the moment in a severe knot at the nape of her neck. Joel straightened slowly, allowing his eyes to move over her in a deliberately insolent way, and was faintly gratified by the way she shifted under his gaze.

“Well, well,” he remarked mockingly. “Mrs. Gilmour, as I live and breathe.”

“What do you want, Joel? I’m employed here, and I have work to do.”

She spoke quickly, breathily, and she cast a fleeting glance over her shoulder as she did so. That was when Joel saw the man, Hanson, lurking in the background, and his patience snapped.

“Get rid of the watchdog and come outside and talk to me!” he snapped harshly. “We have things to say to one another which I don’t intend to discuss under Mrs. Grundy’s gaze!”

“Rachel —”

Hanson would have come forward then, but she gestured for him to keep out of this. “Joel, I realise you think you require an explanation —”

“You’re damn right, I do!”

“Your father promised he wouldn’t tell you —”

“Oh, did he? Big of him!”

“— and now he has —”

“Correction — Francis saw you together.”

“Oh, God!”

“He won’t help you now!” Joel glared coldly at her. “Now, do you get rid of your boy-friend, or do I?”

“Joel, I mean it!” she exclaimed unsteadily. “I — I can’t talk to you now. Colonel Frenshaw is waiting for his breakfsat, and — and —”

“Rachel, I warn you —”

She wrung her hands then. “All right, Joel, all right. I will talk to you. But not now. Not here. Not like this.” She glanced behind her again. “C—could you come back later? This — this afternoon, perhaps?”

Joel thrust his hands into his jacket pockets. If he hadn’t he felt sure he would have taken hold of her and shaken her until her teeth chattered. Standing there, talking about getting Colonel Frenshaw’s breakfast, when he had driven over two hundred miles to get the truth out of her. But losing his temper, making a scene here, would do no good. In fact she would be quite within her rights to refuse to speak to him again, and he had no rights here whatsoever. This was private property. Without anyone’s permission to remain, he was trespassing, and Hanson would see to it that Rachel was made aware of this.

Controlling himself with difficulty, he said: “Very well, this afternoon. What time?”

Rachel gave a nervous shrug. “I don’t know. Two o’clock — half past?”

“Two o’clock,” agreed Joel grimly, and without trusting himself to say another word, he strode back to his car. The door had closed before he had started the engine and he pressed his foot hard down on the accelerator and had the childish pleasure of spraying the station wagon with the gravel torn up by his rear wheels.

He spent the morning by a beck he found a few miles further along the road to Cragstone. He didn’t return to Langthwaite even when the natural demands of his body required relief, and although he was hungry by one o’clock he contented himself with a cheroot and a can of beer he kept in the glove compartment for emergencies. The beer was warm, and he grimaced as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. If there was one thing he detested it was warm beer.

But it was pleasant by the beck, and the sun was warm on his face as he stretched his length on the bracken. If Erica had been with him she would no doubt have been chiding him for risking ruining his clothes in this way, but then Erica, being in the fashion business, was always conscious of appearances.

At a quarter to two he got up, brushed himself down, and walked back ot the car. The sky had become overcast within the last half hour, and even as he stepped into the vehicle he felt a spot of rain touch his face. Grimacing at the weather, he reversed out on to the road and turned back towards Langthwaite. By the time he reached the rise from which he could see the sprawling grey mass of the Hall below him, it was raining quite heavily, and he hoped Rachel would not expect the weather to deter him.

He drew up beside the shabby station wagon just after two o’clock, and instead of getting out of the car to go to the door, he sounded the horn. It was an arrogant thing to do, and he knew it, but his feelings would not allow him any weakness or compassion.

Minutes passed, and no one came, and his temper simmered. Damn the woman, where was she? She knew he would come. Why the hell hadn’t she been waiting for him? But he knew deep inside him that Rachel was not likely to be intimidated by what she would term an immature attempt to disconcert her.

With a sigh, he thrust open his door and got out, scowling as within seconds his shoulders were wet. He ran for the porch, and as he reached it, the door opened and Rachel appeared. She looked surprised to see him, but he was convinced she had been waiting for him to get out of the car before showing herself.

He sheltered in the porchway as she closed the door behind her, his expression not encouraging. “Very clever!” he observed coldly. “But rather childish, don’t you think?”

She looked up at him with wide, innocent hazel eyes. “What are you talking about?”

Joel opened his mouth to berate her, and then closed it again. He shook his head, and glanced briefly at her clothes. She was still wearing the shirt and slacks from the morning, but the apron had been replaced by a fur-lined poplin coat. Its dark green colour accentuated the pallor of her cheeks, and for a moment compassion stirred within him.

“Do you want me to bring the car nearer?” he asked.

She shook her head now. “I’m used to walking in the rain,” she replied. “Shall we go?”

Taking the initiative, she stepped out from the porch, and with a suppressed oath, Joel strode ahead of her to open the car doors. She got into the front seat without looking at him, and he slammed the door more violently than was necessary before walking round the bonnet to join her.

Once inside, he examined the shoulders of his jacket, and finding them soaked, he took his jacket off and slung it carelessly on to the back seat. Then he indicated that she might like to do the same, but she silently refused. Shrugging, he started the engine and drove down the drive, halting at the gates when she said:

“Where are you taking me? I have to be back in an hour.”

“An hour?” He glared sideways at her.

“Yes, an hour. Sara sleeps for that long in the afternoons. I have to be back before she awakes.”

Joel made no comment, but drove swiftly along the road towards the spot where he had parked this morning. There was room there to park the car off the road, and it was remote enough, goodness knows. Rachel said nothing as they drove along, and Joel wondered whether she was composing what she was going to say to him. For himself, anger simmered too near the surface for him to think with reasonable logic, and he had to force himself not to stop the car there and then and demand that she stop this ridiculous charade she was playing.

It didn’t take long to reach the beck, and Joel stopped the car on the layby and reached automatically for a cheroot. Without asking her permission, he lit it and inhaled deeply, rolling down his window half way to allow the fumes to escape.

“Well?” he said at last, when she still made no attempt to speak to him. “What’s it all about?”

Rachel linked her hands together in her lap. “What’s what all about?”

“Don’t give me that, Rachel. We both know what I’m talking about. I want to know how you came to know my father well enough for him to ask you to marry him.”

Rachel lifted her slim shoulders. “I — I’ve known him for years, Joel. You know that.”

Joel chewed impatiently at the end of the cheroot. “Because I introduced you?” He scowled. “That won’t do, Rachel. I can count on one hand the number of times you met my father through me. We were not — we have never been — the best of friends, and you know it!”

“I — I was only explaining that — that it’s some years since I first met him, that’s all.”

“I am aware of that.”

“I know you are.” She curled her nails into her palms. “W-Why should it strike you as so extraordinary that your father should want to — to marry me? He — he always — liked me.”

Joel’s mouth thinned. “Rachel, for God’s sake —”

“Oh, Joel, stop it! Stop it!” She put her hands over her ears. “Why did you come here? What do you hope to achieve? Everything between us was over long ago. You know that. You have no right to question what I intend to do.”

“Haven’t I?” Joel stared at her furiously. “Haven’t I, just! My God, you’re a cool one! Did you really think you could agree to marry my father without arousing any reaction from me?”

“What’s it to do with you?”

“You want to be my stepmother, is that it? You love my father now as you once said you loved me? Oh, come off it, Rachel, it won’t do! What is it? Some rotten attempt at revenge? Is this intended to show me what might have been?”

“And what if it is?” she burst out hotly. “What can you do about it?”

There was silence for a few moments and Joel stared grimly out of the windows at the falling rain. He couldn’t believe it! He simply couldn’t believe it! Rachel wasn’t like that. Or at least, she hadn’t been. But then it was years since they had split up. She had married since then, had a child. Who knew what manner of life she had led to bring her to this.

With a sigh he said quietly: “Tell me why you disappeared like that. What did I do to arouse such a desire to escape?”

Rachel took a deep breath. “You ask me that?” She shook her head bitterly. “What’s the use of talking, Joel? The past is dead. It’s the future I’m concerned about.”

Joel’s jaw hardened. “At anyone’s expense!”

“That’s not true. You know nothing about it.”

“Then tell me.”

Rachel pleated the folds of her coat. “Joel, I’m going to marry your father. Nothing you — or Francis — can say will alter that.”

Joel’s fists clenched. “You must be pretty desperate, Rachel!” he muttered savagely.

“I am.”

“Why?” He turned to look at her, noticing again the hollows in her cheeks, the lacklustre quality of her eyes. Hardly the face of a bride-to-be. “Is it money? If it’s money you want, I can give you that.”

Rachel’s lips twisted contemptuously. “If I were a man, I’d knock you down for a remark like that!” she exclaimed. “I wouldn’t marry any man for money! Oh, you should be proud of yourself, Joel! You’re a bastard of the first water!”

Joel moved then, imprisoning her wrist between his fingers, feeling the fragile bones quiver within his hand. He knew he could crush her physically with very little effort, but that was not his intention. He was not an animal. He had a brain, and he intended to use it. But just as this moment he wanted to hurt her, he wanted to see her squirm, as mentally she was trying to make him. She winced as he applied pressure to her wrist, but she didn’t cry out. He was so close he could inhale the warm scent of her body, and his eyes were irresistibly drawn to the opened neck of her blouse. He understood only too well the fire that suddenly stirred in his loins, and with a feeling of self-disgust he let her go and slumped in his seat.

“I want to know about your husband and the child,” he persisted doggedly. “Is Gilmour dead? My father said you’re a widow.”

Rachel was rubbing her wrist. “I am.”

“What was your husband’s name?”

“His name?” She looked startled. “You know his name.”

“Gilmour?” Joel turned cold eyes on her. “Is that what you called him? Gilmour?”

“Oh! Oh, no, of course not.” Rachel flushed then. “His Christian name was — Alan.”

“Alan Gilmour. What did he do?” Rachel looked puzzled, and he added: “His occupation? What was his occupation?”

“Does it matter?”

“I think so.”

She sighed. “He was an engineer. He — he worked for the government.”

“I see.” Joel digested this. “How long were you married?”

“Two — three years. What does it matter now?”

Joel didn’t altogether understand why he was so curious, except that there was a certain sadistic satisfaction to be gained from forcing her to talk about something which must be painful to her. He threw the end of his cheroot out of the window. “I suppose you must have found it hard bringing up a child alone,” he remarked probingly. “Is that why you took the job as this Colonel Frenshaw’s housekeeper?” He paused. “Is that why you’re marrying my father? For Sara’s sake?”

“Don’t you dare to mention her name!” she cried fiercely. “You don’t know her. You don’t know me. Why don’t you go away and leave me alone!”

“I want to know.”

“It’s not your affair.”

“Damn you, isn’t it? I have a right to know —”

“A right! A right, Joel!” Her voice had risen. “You have no rights, no rights at all. You forfeited them when … when …” Her voice trailed away and she turned away from him, staring down at her hands. “I want to go back now. Will you take me — please?”

Joel levered himself up in his seat, staring at her averted profile. For a moment, just for a moment, he had been near to learning the real truth behind all this. He knew it, and he exulted in it. But she had withdrawn again, and frustration filled him. He sat there, his fists clenched, wishing for once that she was a man. With a man, he would have felt no compunction about beating the truth out of him. But Rachel was not a man, she was very much a woman, and somehow he had to find a way to release the pent-up emotions which were silencing her tongue. But how?

Rachel was controlled again, and she glanced briefly into his face. “Will you take me back?” she asked again.

“Not yet,” said Joel tautly. “Not yet.” He forced his mind to go back over what had been said, trying to find the key to open the locked door. What had he said to arouse her to the extent that she had almost betrayed herself? What words had he used to create such an upheaval? What had they been talking about? Her husband? Gilmour? Yes. And — and the child … He tried to remember what he had said about the child. Was it his suggestion that she was marrying his father for the child’s sake which had triggered her outburst? He had to try again.

Reaching for another cheroot, he said quietly: “And when do you plan to get married?”

Rachel sighed impatiently. “I don’t know exactly. In a few weeks.”

“And until then you’re going to go on living here?”

“I — perhaps.”

Joel controlled his irritation. “And Sara? Will Sara live with you once you’re married?”

She stared angrily at him. “Of course she will. Where else would she live? Oh, stop this, Joel, stop it now! I want to go back. I’ve been away long enough. Sara might waken —”

“I’m sure Hanson will be more than pleased to look after her for a while,” returned Joel coldly. “She’s not a baby, is she? What is she — three? Four? Old enough to understand when her mother isn’t available.”

Rachel drew an unsteady breath. “Are you going to take me back?” she repeated tremulously.

“And if I say no?”

“I can walk. I’m not helpless.”

Her hand went to the door handle, but he forestalled her, reaching across her to prevent her from opening it. His arm was pressed against her breasts, and although she shrank away from his touch, he deliberately moved closer.

“What’s the matter, Rachel?” he demanded mockingly, suddenly realising he had a far more potent weapon than force to arouse her. “If you’re going to be my stepmama, what’s wrong with us getting better acquainted? As I recall it, you used to like me to touch you.”

She struggled to free herself, her breath coming in shallow gasps, and while mentally he could stand back and be appalled at the way he was behaving, something stronger than his self-respect was driving him on. Indeed, her nearness was having a most disturbing effect on him, and while love did not enter into his thoughts, lust was beginning to rear its ugly head. In spite of her slenderness, in spite of the severe hairstyle and unfashionable clothes, Rachel was still a very beautiful woman, and she had always had the power to disrupt his sensual processes, a power which he had once resented.

“Let go of me!” she stormed at him, her face twisted with contempt and bitterness. “I might have known it would come to this! This is all you’re good for, isn’t it, Joel!”

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

“It’s the truth!” she choked. “You want everything and nothing, don’t you? The body, without the mind. The pleasure without the pain?”

“What are you talking about?”

He was gripping her shoulders now, and while his brain told him he was achieving what he wanted to achieve, cold logic warned him that he might not like what he was about to hear. He shook her violently, and her hair came loose from the knot and fell in a silken curtain about her shoulders. She had never looked more abandoned, more desirable, and emotions, long dormant, returned to torment him. He was remembering the last time he had seen her like this, and then her needs had matched his own…

“Rachel …” he muttered hoarsely, but with a desperate effort she evaded his urgent mouth.

“Let me go, you brute!” she gasped. “Don’t you dare to touch me!”

“Rachel, Rachel!” His fingers on her shoulders tightened. “You don’t have to be afraid of me. My God, I loved you once. I’d never hurt you —”

“Wouldn’t you?” She strained away from him, her face hectically flushed. “You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”

“Why, for God’s sake?” Temper was hardening his voice. “What have I ever done to you? Tell me that. You walked out on me, remember? You’re the one who split, who ran away without telling anyone where you were going! My God, I nearly went out of my mind! You’re the one who quickly found some other man to take my place, so don’t talk to me about hurting people!”

Rachel’s lips curled. “You don’t understand, do you, Joel? Even now, you haven’t the first idea what I’m talking about.” She shook her head almost pityingly. “Joel, Sara is not two or three years old. She’s five. Five! Do you realise what that means?”

Joel’s hands on her shoulders slackened, and his brows drew together causing deep lines to etch his forehead. An awful sick feeling was invading his stomach, and he was hardly aware of her staring at him, gauging his reactions, enjoying his shattering sense of horror and disbelief. Then his thoughts found coherence in denial.

“What are you saying?” he demanded thickly.

Rachel’s triumph was short-lived, and she moved her shoulders helplessly. “I shouldn’t have told you,” she murmured dully.

“Shouldn’t have told me? Shouldn’t have told me what?” Joel was recovering fast. “Are you saying this child — this Sara — is my daughter?”

Rachel looked up at him almost defeatedly. “Whose else would she be?”

He moved his head confusedly. “Gilmour’s, your husband’s!”

“I had no husband, Joel. I’ve worked for Colonel Frenshaw for the past five years.”

Joel almost flung her away from him, reaching grimly for the ignition key. “What are you doing?” Her white face was startled.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he retorted, breathing unevenly. “I’m taking you back to the Hall. I’m going to see my daughter — if she is my daughter!”

Rachel stayed his hand, gripping his arm tightly for a moment. “Oh, no,” she said. “You can’t do that—”

“Try and stop me!”

“I will. I’ll do everything in my power to stop you,” she declared. “I’ll even go to the papers if I have to.”

That momentarily stalled him, and he turned to look at her scornfully. “Why? Why shouldn’t I see my daughter? Are you afraid for me to see her? Are you afraid I might find you out in your lie?”

“It’s no lie.” Rachel sighed, “Let me explain, Joel, just let me explain.”

“What can you explain?”

Rachel shook her head. “Why do you want to see her? You don’t like children, Joel. You always said so.”

“But it seems I have one, doesn’t it?”

“And you think that entitles you to call Sara your daughter?” Rachel was incredulous now. “My God, Joel, you’ve got a nerve!”

Joel raked his hands through his hair. He couldn’t take in all this. He couldn’t believe what had been said. It was some trick, some ploy on Rachel’s part to make him squirm. It had to be.

Trying to remain calm, he said tautly: “All right. So I admit — children don’t play any part in my life style. I’m a painter, Rachel, not a nursemaid!”

“Exactly.”

“And do you think that opinion entitled you to keep my daughter’s existence a secret all these years?”

Rachel plucked nervously at a strand of her hair. “Think back, Joel,” she said jerkily. “Think back. Can you imagine what your reaction would have been six years ago, if I’d come to you then and told you I was expecting your child?”

Joel shifted restlessly. Six years ago he had still been making his way, six years ago ambition had been a driving force within him. It still was — but in a different way. And in any case…

“It should never have happened,” he muttered. “You should have taken precautions —”

“I should have taken precautions? Oh, that’s rich, Joel, that’s really rich! I should have taken precautions. I should have made sure that because of your carelessness, nothing happened! Not you! Nothing should mar your pleasure! My God, Joel, you’re a selfish swine! You are and always will be! Might I remind you that I had no way of knowing what you intended to do? I trusted you, Joel. I thought you loved me. I didn’t know that sex was all you wanted all along —”

“That’s not true, Rachel!” Joel was grim. “I loved you. I really loved you. And what happened — what happened — happened because we both wanted it to happen.”

“No!” She put her hands over her ears again.

“Yes!” he muttered savagely. “I wanted to share my life with you, Rachel —”

“Share your life? Live with you, you mean!”

“Perhaps I did mean that initially,” he conceded harshly. “But sooner or later —”

“— you’d have found someone else!”

“No, damn you. Sooner or later, I should have married you.”

“How gallant of you!”

“Rachel, marriage wasn’t among my plans at that time!”

“And children were among your plans at no time!”

Joel ran a hand round the back of his neck. He felt disorientated, confused. He didn’t know what to think right now.

“Situations alter cases,” he muttered.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if — and I still say if — Sara is my daughter, I shall have to change my plans.”

Her eyes widened incredulously. “What are you talking about?”

“We must get married, of course.”

“Get married! Get married!” Rachel almost laughed in his face. “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth. My God, how conceited can any man be! Do you honestly suppose I’d marry you now?”

Joel grasped her forearms in a vice-like grip. “You don’t have a lot of say in the matter,” he snarled.

“Don’t I? And what is your father going to say about this?”

For a second Joel had forgotten his reasons for being here. “I don’t care what my father says,” he retorted. “If the child is mine, she’s mine.”

“She’s not a possession, you know, Joel. She’s a person. A very special person in her own right. And those rights do not owe anything to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Sara is my child. You may have played some subsidiary role in her conception, but you can’t prove that.”

“Doesn’t she look like me?”

Rachel’s lips twisted. “Very much, as a matter of fact.”

Joel’s stomach muscles tightened in a most peculiar way. He found he desperately wanted to see this child — Sara.

“Then I should have quite a case,” he said.

Rachel shook her head. “I’d deny it. I could always say she — she was — James’s child.”

Joel almost struck her then. The temptation was so great he had to thrust open the car door, and get out in the rain, taking great breaths of the cool, damp moorland air. That she should dare to taunt him with pretending the child was his own father’s! It was some minutes before he dared to trust himself to get inside with her again.

When he did so, he was immeasurably calmer, but still as determined.

“I want to see my daughter,” he stated steadily. “And one way or the other I intend to. Nothing you can say or do will stop me, Rachel.”

Rachel was silent for several minutes, and then she said quietly: “What good will it do, Joel?”

Joel closed his eyes in agony for a moment, torn by emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. The past fifteen minutes had been the most subtle kind of mental torture, and his head ached abominably. What was she trying to do to him?

“You’re a hard woman, Rachel,” he muttered. “What happened to change you?”

“I think you know the answer to that!” she replied coldly. “Now, if you must — take me back!”

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