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.

Green Lightning
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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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

SHE was waiting at the Bell corner when Helen turned into Castle Street. Helen knew it was her right off, even though she had never set eyes on her before. Heath had described her so accurately—blonde, willowy, elegant—everything Helen was not, and possessing the necessary qualities of a lady, which Helen was required to learn.

Compressing her lips, Helen brought the Land Rover to a squealing halt beside the kerb and regarded the newcomer mutinously. She had been tempted to come and meet her on the Honda, but her disregard for her uncle’s wishes would only stretch so far, and already she had the underlying suspicion that by coming in the dusty Land Rover she was only reinforcing his opinion that she was irresponsible and childish.

Squashing these thoughts, Helen thrust open her door and got out, facing the young woman with grim determination. ‘Miss Patterson?’ she enquired, glancing at the two expensive suitcases standing beside her on the pavement. ‘I’m Helen Mortimer.’

The young woman turned a decidedly haughty look in her direction. ‘You are?’ she exclaimed, her expression eloquent of her opinion that she had made a terrible mistake. ‘You’re Mr Heathcliffe’s niece? My goodness, he wasn’t exaggerating, was he?’

Helen’s lips tightened over the retort she would have loved to have made. Instead she controlled her temper and said stiffly: ‘If you’d like to get in …’

Miss Patterson’s horrified blue eyes moved incredulously over the beaten-up vehicle. ‘Into that? Where’s Mr Heathcliffe?’

‘He couldn’t come.’ Helen shifted her weight from one foot to the other. ‘He sent me instead.’

‘A baptism of fire, no doubt,’ remarked Miss Patterson dryly. ‘So where is your uncle?’

‘Does it matter?’

Helen was rapidly losing any lingering sympathy she might have felt for the young woman. Miss Patterson’s contemptuous appraisal was making her feel gauche and immature, and she was beginning to wish she had brought the Mercedes as Heath had directed. And worn something a little more flattering, she reflected unwillingly. Faded jeans and a sloppy tee-shirt might successfully demonstrate her desire for independence, but compared to the attractive cream and green pants suit Miss Patterson was wearing, they looked cheap and shabby. Even the silk scarf draped casually about Miss Patterson’s neck must have cost more than her scuffed trainers, and the other girl’s hair was fashionably short and smooth, curving lovingly in to the back of her neck.

‘Are you saying your uncle sent you to meet me in—this?’ Miss Patterson enquired now, causing Helen’s nails to ball into her palms. ‘How quaint! The original covered wagon, no doubt.’

Helen’s colour deepened. ‘Heath had to go to the office unexpectedly,’ she declared aggressively. ‘Shall we go?’

‘Well …’ Miss Patterson glanced about her doubtfully and Helen had the distinct impression that she half expected Heath to appear in spite of what had been said. Perhaps she thought she was playing at being chauffeur. It was obvious from her attitude, she thought miserably little of Helen’s offer.

Walking round to get back into the driving seat, Helen schooled the errant impulse to drive away and leave her. If the Land Rover wasn’t good enough, let her find her own way to Matlock, she thought broodingly, but a glance back at her charge made her make another attempt to be civil.

‘Are you coming?’ she asked, pulling open her door, and waiting with impatience for the other girl to move.

But Miss Patterson didn’t move. Glancing down at her luggage with the air of someone unused to carrying anything heavier than a handbag, she lifted her shoulders indifferently, and Helen’s resentment deepened at the obvious implication. Dammit, why couldn’t the woman put her own suitcases into the Land Rover? she thought angrily. Time was passing, and she had no wish to meet Heath’s car at the gates, or anticipate his undoubted fury when he discovered what she had done.

Miss Patterson shifted her handbag and jacket from one arm to the other and looked up and down the street, as if hoping divine providence might intervene. She still made no move to get into the Land Rover, and Helen’s nerves tightened when she saw Father Kirkpatrick emerge from the Presbytery and start to walk in their direction. Heath was not a religious man, but he did occasionally have Father Kirkpatrick to dinner, and the last thing Helen needed now was the garrulous old priest to start questioning her for being there.

With a muffled curse, she came back round the vehicle and swinging open the passenger door, indicated that Miss Patterson should get inside. Then, with the resilience of youth, she tossed the two offending suitcases into the back of the Land Rover, before striding back to resume her seat.

Miss Patterson hesitated just long enough to put Helen’s teeth on edge, and then, after examining the worn leather seat rather dubiously, she acquiesced. The door closed behind her only seconds before the shortsighted priest would have reached them, and the Land Rover’s tyres sent up a cloud of dust as Helen made her getaway.

Not until she had put several hundred yards between them and embarrassing discovery did she relax, and Miss Patterson clung to her seat in dismay as the vehicle bounced recklessly along the High Street before swinging dangerously round the corner into Church Lane. The outskirts of the village were left behind within a few minutes, and Helen lifted her foot slightly as they crested Starforth Bank.

‘Have you been driving long?’ Miss Patterson enquired scathingly, when at last it seemed safe to distract Helen from her driving, and the younger girl nodded.

‘Nine months,’ she declared carelessly, refusing to rise to the bait. Matlock Edge, Heath’s sprawling country estate, was only five miles from Starforth, and she refused to be disconcerted now when all around them the countryside she loved was unwinding in undulating curves.

‘Nine months?’ Miss Patterson sounded surprised. ‘But I thought your uncle told me you’d only recently had your seventeenth birthday.’

‘Six months ago, I did,’ replied Helen defensively. ‘But I’ve been driving around the estate roads for ages. I passed my test a month after my seventeenth birthday.’

‘Really?’ Miss Patterson did not sound impressed. ‘I presume you learned to drive in tractors and the like.’

‘No, in Heath’s Mercedes, actually,’ retorted Helen shortly. ‘He taught me himself, when he had the time.’

‘Heath?’ Miss Patterson shook her head. ‘You mean—Mr Heathcliffe, don’t you? Your Uncle—Rupert?’

Helen sighed impatiently. ‘Yes,’ she agreed shrugging. ‘But no one calls him Mr Heathcliffe. Well, practically nobody anyway. He doesn’t care for it.’

‘I wonder why?’ Miss Patterson folded her jacket precisely. ‘I think it’s rather an attractive name. And so reminiscent of the area. I mean,’ she went on carefully, ‘this is Bronté country, isn’t it? And Heathcliff was such a—marvellous character!’

Helen’s skin prickled. ‘Heath’s not at all like his namesake,’ she declared contemptuously. And then, with reckless abandon, she added: ‘Is that why you’ve come here, Miss Patterson? Because you found my uncle attractive?’

‘Why, you—–’ The ice-cool features slipped for just a moment, and then, with an effort, the other girl uttered a light laugh. ‘Dear me,’ she exclaimed, her tone at once provoking and mocking, ‘no wonder your uncle feels you need some discipline! If you embarrass all his guests the way you just tried to embarrass me, I imagine he finds your presence rather tiresome!’

‘You’re not a guest,’ declared Helen tensely, but her hands were damp where she was clutching the wheel. She really had done it now, she thought unhappily. Heath would be furious with her when he found out about her insolence, and the spectre of the school in Switzerland where he had threatened to send her moved one step nearer.

‘I think you’re wrong,’ Miss Patterson was saying now, smoothing a pleat in her skirt. ‘Your uncle made it quite clear that I was to be treated as a member of the family, and that your—instruction—was, for the most part, to take the form of correction, rather than actual teaching.’

Helen did not answer; she was too choked up. This was typical of Heath, she thought mutinously. To hire a glorified governess for her, and then to treat the governess as if she, and not Helen, was his prime concern. She didn’t know what was the matter with Heath lately. He didn’t used to be like this. But in the last year he had become really objectionable. He hardly ever took her out with him any more, and when he had visitors he didn’t even ask her to join them for dinner. Once upon a time, he used to introduce her to all his friends, even the women who came and went in his life, and there had been a lot of them. Miss Patterson was right about one thing: Heath was an attractive man, and there had never been any shortage of females eager to show that they could be indispensable to him. But he’d never got married, even though she had overheard Cook telling Mrs Gittens that he should.

She used to hope that she might be responsible for that. During long nights at boarding school, she used to fantasize that Heath was only waiting for her to grow up to tell her he was madly in love with her. The other girls used to envy her in those days. When sports and speech days came around, all her friends wanted to be introduced to her handsome uncle, and she had lived for the holidays and the opportunities they gave her to be with him again. But it hadn’t happened that way. Since she was sixteen and had begged to be allowed to leave school, he had increasingly found reasons to avoid her, and the culmination of her humiliation had been his denunciation of her as a responsible adult.

She supposed she was partly to blame for the poor opinion he had of her. It was true that his neglect had led her to look for ways to attract his attention—not always sensible ways either. When he bought her the Honda for her sixteenth birthday, he had not intended her to use it to ride along the wall bounding the vegetable garden, or to tumble ignominiously in among Mr Wesley’s prize raspberries, successfully destroying the canes and tearing some of the bushes out at the roots. But it had been so boring riding the modest little machine up and down the roads of the estate, and she had been sure she could keep her balance.

The upshot of that had been that she was grounded for a couple of months, and by the time she got the use of the motorcycle back again, much of the novelty had worn off. Six weeks later she had passed her test for the machine, and she had never been reckless enough to repeat such an episode.

Nevertheless, there had been other escapades: like climbing one of the apple trees in the orchard and pretending she couldn’t get down. She had expected Heath would climb up to help her, but instead Mrs Gittens had called the fire brigade, and Helen had had the embarrassing experience of being carried down over a young fireman’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

But the incident which had caused the most bother had happened only a few weeks ago. One hot evening in June, she had decided to take a midnight dip in the swimming pool, and Heath had caught her climbing out of the water, naked as the day she was born.

Glancing sideways now at the elegant figure of Miss Patterson, Helen reflected dourly that she had probably never gone skinny-dipping in her life. She couldn’t imagine the immaculate Miss Patterson shedding the scales of civilisation, or see her dripping with water, her hair all wet and mussy. Touching her own rope of silky black hair, presently confined in a thick braid over one shoulder, Helen recalled how glad she had been of its length to hide her blushes, the harsh words that Heath had uttered making her want to die of shame and confusion.

The narrow lanes around Starforth gave on to the wooded beauty of Jacob’s Hollow, and beyond, the valley of the River Pendle. To the south and west lay the industrial areas of Yorkshire and Lancashire, but Matlock Edge was set in the rolling beauty of the Pendle valley, whose only claim to the twentieth century was the tall stone chimneys of Deacon’s Woollen Mill. Heathcliffes were in the textile trade, too. Heath’s grandfather had founded the company, and Heathcliffe’s Worsted had been produced in the West Riding since 1908. The fact that the West Riding was now West Yorkshire made little difference. Heathcliffe’s Worsted still had a name for quality, and although Heath’s father had diversified and Heath himself had interests in various other industries, the original mill continued production. It had been modernised, of course. Heath had used the profit from some of his other interests to maintain the standards of employment his grandfather had always insisted upon, and although other mills had had to close during the recent recession, Heathcliffe’s had managed to keep their heads above water.

‘Is it much farther?’

Miss Patterson’s enquiry brought Helen out of her reverie, and glancing sideways at her passenger, she unwillingly shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, changing gear to negotiate the hazardous bends of Matlock Bank. Then, shrugging her shoulders carelessly, she added: ‘That’s the house, over there.’ She pointed. ‘It’s only another mile to the entrance to the estate.’

The older girl surveyed the stone building outlined against the backdrop of fields and woodland with evident interest. And indeed, Matlock did look rather impressive, thought Helen uneasily. Who could fail to admire its irregular yet aristocratic lines, the walls even from this distance darkened by the flourishing creeper whose scented blossom pervaded the house with its perfume? It was the kind of house anyone might wish to own, and she had always felt proud to show people her home in the past. But Miss Patterson was different. Somehow, Helen had the feeling, this woman was going to bring unwelcome changes to her life, and she wished with all her heart that Heath had never espoused the idea of finding her a companion.

The house disappeared behind hedges as the road levelled off at the foot of the bank, and Miss Patterson sank back in her seat, a faint smile lifting the corners of her mouth. ‘So that’s Matlock Edge,’ she remarked half to herself. ‘Your uncle must be a wealthy man.’

Helen did not respond. Gnawing at her lower lip, she was unhappily aware that her previous outburst about Miss Patterson’s interest in her uncle had not been so wide of the mark, and whether or not she seriously considered herself a contender for the role of mistress of Matlock Edge, she certainly would not object to being entered in the lists. Helen’s jaw jutted frustratedly. Heath couldn’t be interested in Miss Patterson, could he? With so many other women to choose from, he wouldn’t get involved with his niece’s companion, surely! Helen’s lips quivered. Why did it matter so much? she asked herself angrily. There had been women before; no doubt there would be women again. So why object so strongly to just another candidate for his bed?

The truth was that since she had left school, there had been no other women at Matlock Edge; at least, not for any length of time. The glamorous females who used to haunt the schoolroom when she was a little girl, and later on proffered gushing congratulations at her skill on the tennis court or her prowess at swimming, had given way in recent years to the wives and girl-friends of business colleagues, and she was no longer obliged to put on her party frock or recite her party piece in front of simpering felines who couldn’t wait to get Heath into bed.

Helen wasn’t exactly sure when she had realised that this was their objective. She had not been a particularly precocious child, at least, she didn’t think so, but gradually, as her own body’s processes started to mature, she began to understand why all those girls had hung about him. Heath was attractive—very attractive. He was tall and lean, not especially muscular, but possessed of any easy grace of motion that gave all his movements a peculiarly sexual appeal. His hair was silvery fair—though his skin was not—and smooth, requiring no artificial conditioner. His features were slightly irregular—high cheekbones, a nose that was not entirely straight, and a strong uncompromising chin. But it was his eyes that gave his face its sensual magnetism; set deep beneath hooded lids and shaded by thick stubby lashes, they could spear a person with living steel or melt an ice-cap with emerald fire. Helen remembered those eyes first when her parents died—her stepmother had been Heath’s only sister—and the three-year-old orphan had been totally disarmed by their tender loving kindness. She still recalled how he had gathered her into his arms and carried her away from the memory of how her parents had died, trapped in their car beneath the wheels of an articulated lorry, and he had been carrying her ever since, she brooded, in one way or another …

The lodge gates stood wide, and old Jenkins, the lodge-keeper, scratched his head disapprovingly as Helen swept between them. No doubt he was wondering where she had been with the Land Rover, Helen thought impatiently, hoping his old eyes had not glimpsed her passenger.

An expanse of sloping parkland separated the house from the road, liberally swept with spreading oaks and shady elms, ideal for the protection of privacy. Helen knew that Heath’s grandfather had bought the house in the early part of the twentieth century, but although its walls were Georgian its interior owed much of its comfort to more recent innovations. Heath kept horses in the park, and the grounds around the house were private, but the rest of the estate was on lease to tenant farmers, whose produce helped to make Matlock Edge almost self-sufficient. They grew their own fruit and vegetables, they slaughtered their own meat and poultry, and dairy produce was always fresh and delicious, owing nothing to artificial preservatives.

‘Who else lives in the house?’ Miss Patterson asked, as the Land Rover approached the white-painted gate that separated the garden of the house from the park. ‘It’s so big. It must have a dozen bedrooms! Surely you and your uncle don’t live here alone?’

Helen’s lips tightened. ‘Why not?’ she demanded, stepping on the brakes with more aggression than caution, and throwing the other girl forward in her seat. ‘Heath and I don’t need anyone else. Apart from the servants, of course.’

Miss Patterson took the time while Helen was climbing down and opening the gate to gather her composure, and when the younger girl got back into the Land Rover, she said tersely: ‘You really must stop behaving like a schoolgirl. I imagine your uncle can’t wait for someone to come and take you off his hands.’

Helen’s jaw clenched. ‘My uncle, as you call him, made a mistake when he employed you, Miss Patterson. And if I don’t like you, you’ll very soon be making the return journey to London.’

‘I think not.’ Miss Patterson was complacent. ‘Mr Heathcliffe warned me that you might be difficult. He—er—he said you were a—spoilt brat, and that anything I could do to get you off his back was all right with him!’

‘That’s not true!’

The words burst from Helen’s lips in angry denial, even as her brain warned her not to show her feelings to this woman. Whatever Heath had said, whatever she felt about it, she should not, she must not, let this Miss Patterson know she could get under her skin.

‘I’m sorry, but it is true,’ declared Miss Patterson smoothly, lifting a languid hand and gesturing behind them. ‘Oughtn’t you to close the gate? I doubt your uncle wants his horses wandering over his flower beds.’

Clenching her fists, Helen sprang out of the Land Rover, racing back to close the gate, blinking the smarting sting of tears from her eyes. Heath hadn’t said that, she told herself fiercely, Heath wouldn’t say that! But she was very much afraid he had!

It wasn’t easy hiding her feelings from Miss Patterson. She had never tried to hide her feelings before, always acting instinctively, spontaneously, never dissimulating or concealing anything from Heath. She had thought he had been that way with her, too. She had never dreamt he had thoughts and feelings so dissimilar to her own. She had certainly never expected him to talk about her to a stranger, or to speak of her in such a contemptuous way. She felt hurt and humiliated, almost as humiliated as that night at the pool, and it wasn’t easy to cope with this situation under the mocking eyes of Miss Patterson.

There was a sweep of gravel before the house, in the centre of which was a stone fountain. Helen drove the Land Rover grimly in the half circle it took to reach the front door, and then braked with rather more control before indicating that her passenger should alight.

Miss Patterson got out surveying her surroundings with evident pleasure. Her gaze absorbed the jutting façade that flanked the door and the windows on either side, then spread to the long wings, with their leaded, mullioned panes. Above the first floor, a tiled roof sloped to attic windows and tall chimneys, unused now, and acted as a backdrop to the arching façade.

‘Beautiful!’ Miss Patterson declared enthusiastically, and then turned, a smug smile lifting her lips, as the door behind her was suddenly opened.

Helen, about to steer the Land Rover round to the garages, froze in her seat, but it was only the homely form of the housekeeper that appeared. However, her scandalised gaze took in the newcomer in her elegant suit and behind her the dusty Land Rover, with Helen clutching the wheel.

‘You didn’t go to meet—oh, Helen!’ Mrs Gittens exclaimed impatiently, and then came quickly down the shallow steps to meet the new employee. ‘You must be Miss Patterson,’ she added, holding out her hand. ‘I hope you had a good journey. You must be tired after coming all that way.’

‘It wasn’t all that far, really,’ Helen’s adversary assured Mrs Gittens smoothly, allowing her hand to rest for just a second in that of the housekeeper. ‘But I must admit I’m glad to be here. My spine feels as if it’s been done some permanent damage!’

‘The Land Rover’s built for practical purposes, not for comfort,’ Helen began, only to have Mrs Gittens give her a reproving look.

‘I should go and put it away, if I were you,’ she advised, eyeing her employer’s niece with a knowing air. ‘Mr Heathcliffe may be back directly, and I doubt he’ll approve of your choice of vehicle to go and meet a visitor.’

Helen hunched her shoulders. ‘Her cases are in the back,’ she declared, making no attempt to remove them, and with a sound of impatience Mrs Gittens went back up the steps and summoned old Arnold Wesley to come and give a hand.

However, Helen could not let the old man haul the cases out single-handed. If it had been John Garnett, Mr Wesley’s young apprentice, she would not have minded, but Arnold Wesley was only kept on because he had been at Matlock for more than fifty years. With a sign of frustration, she jumped out of the vehicle, dragged both cases out on to the gravel, and then jumped back in again and restarted the engine.

Miles Ormerod, who looked after the estate vehicles and acted as chauffeur when the need arose, was in the garage yard, polishing the bronze Mercedes Helen was supposed to have taken to meet Miss Patterson. He grimaced when Helen stood on her brakes in the yard, and came round to open the Land Rover door for her as she switched off the engine.

‘You look flushed,’ he remarked as she got out, and Helen glared at him. As children, she and Miles had often played together in the fields and woods around Matlock, and that familiarity lingered still in a certain kind of affection.

‘She’s here,’ Helen said now, thrusting her hands into the back hip pockets of her tight jeans. ‘And she’s just as repulsive as I expected.’

‘Repulsive?’ Miles looked surprised. ‘I thought you said Heath described her as slim and blonde and—–’

‘Oh, he did!’ Helen interrupted crossly. ‘And she is. I just mean—well, she doesn’t like me.’

‘Don’t you mean you don’t like her?’ asked Miles gently, propping himself against the bonnet of the Land Rover. At nineteen, he was two years her senior, but for all that, their eyes were almost on a level. Helen was a tall girl, though by no means as willowy as Miss Patterson, and in recent months she had seen a different look come into Miles’ eyes when he was alone with her. She knew he found her attractive, and she thought he was attractive, too. But for so long Heath had occupied all her thoughts, and she seldom saw Miles as anything more than a good friend.

Now, however, she propped herself beside him, basking in the warmth of his understanding. Even Mrs Gittens had turned against her, she thought miserably, and if Miss Patterson told Heath about the Land Rover …

‘What’s wrong?’

Miles took the curling tail of her braid between his fingers and tugged sympathetically, and Helen turned to look at him. ‘Why do you ask that?’ she demanded, fighting back the impulse to confide in him, and his lips twisted wryly as he surveyed her troubled face.

‘I know you pretty well by now,’ he essayed quietly. ‘I guess it was something this woman said. What’s the matter? Did she tell you she and Heath are more than just friends? Oh, come on, Helen, it won’t be the first time, will it? There’ve always been women around Matlock Edge.’

Helen’s chin jutted. ‘She said—she said Heath had said I was a spoilt brat,’ she muttered in a low voice, then stared at Miles resentfully when he was unable to suppress his mirth. ‘I didn’t think it was funny!’ she declared, straightening away from the Land Rover, and would have left him then, had he not turned and prevented her.

‘But don’t you see?’ exclaimed Miles, imprisoning her with one hand on either side of her. ‘You are a spoilt brat! That’s why you’re so choked up about it.’

‘I am not!’

Helen was indignant, but looking into Miles’ grinning face, she felt a corresponding response rising up inside her. ‘You’re a pig!’ she muttered, pushing her fist into his midriff, and then sobered abruptly when he bent his head towards her.

His lips were soft and moist, pressing on hers with sudden urgency, but although Helen was glad of his friendship, this was a development she had not anticipated. It was true, they had fooled around a lot this year, and once or twice she had let him kiss her, but not like this. Now, Miles’ lips were parting wetly, and his hand was groping clumsily for the full breasts outlined beneath the clinging material of her tee-shirt. He was pressing her against the side of the Land Rover, the metal was digging into her hips, and she realised with a sense of revulsion that he was becoming aroused.

‘For God’s sake, what the hell do you think you’re doing?’

The harsh invective tore them apart as successfully as brute force might have done. Even so, Helen realised afterwards, Heath had only just been able to control the urge to strike the pair of them. Distracted, as she had been, by the unexpected fervour of Miles’ embrace, she had failed to hear her uncle’s car approaching, but turning now, she saw the dark green Porsche parked only feet away. Its door was still open where Heath had thrust it when he had emerged like a raging bull, and her eyes clung to the sleek lines of the vehicle to avoid looking into Heath’s dark and furious face.

‘I asked what the hell you thought you were doing,’ he snarled now, taking a step towards Miles, who stood mutely to one side. ‘Damn you, Ormerod, do I have to thrash an answer out of you? How long have you been familiar with my niece? How long has this been going on?’

‘Nothing’s going on, Heath,’ mumbled Helen unwillingly, lifting her dark eyes to his face. She had never seen Heath so furious, and while she suspected it was mostly to do with her going to fetch Miss Patterson in the Land Rover, she didn’t like the ugly look he was directing at Miles. ‘Honestly. Miles was just—kissing me, that’s all. Nothing to get so steamed up about.’

It wasn’t exactly the truth, but right then she only wanted to relieve Miles of the responsibility for what had happened. After all, she had invited it. She had come here, begging for his sympathy. If she had got rather more than she bargained for, she couldn’t entirely blame him for that.

As it happened, she might have saved her breath, however. Heath ignored her, stepping close to Miles, and forcing the younger man to tip his head to look at him. ‘Just remember this,’ he said savagely, ‘if you so much as lay a finger on my niece again, I’ll break your bloody neck! Do you hear me?’

‘I hear you.’ Miles pushed his lips forward in a desperate effort of defiance, but Heath was already turning away.

‘Come with me,’ he ordered Helen grimly, starting back towards the house, and with a little gesture of condolence to Miles, she had no choice but to obey.

CHAPTER TWO

PREPARING for dinner that evening, Helen found herself going over those stormy minutes with Heath again and again, trying to discover how it was everything had gone so wrong. If only he had not come upon her and Miles like that; if only she had not stumbled into explanations he had not asked for; if only she had acted a little more maturely, she might not be feeling so miserable now.

Sighing, she sank down on to the padded stool in front of her dressing table and surveyed her reflection with brooding disgust. Tears always left her looking all blotched and puffy around her eyes, and she had cried for an hour after Heath had let her go. Even her nose looked as if she was going down with a cold, and she doubted if even a heavy make-up could disguise what she had been doing.

Resting her elbows on the polished wood, she sniffed dejectedly. Why was it that she always came out of their arguments feeling like a victim, while Heath could dismiss her one minute and talk casually to Mrs Gittens the next? It wasn’t fair! She wasn’t a child any longer. But Heath persisted in treating her like one, and she always seemed to end up proving he was right.

It wasn’t as if she had got angry with him for treating Miles like he had. On the contrary, if she was honest she would admit that she had been more than a little relieved when Heath had appeared, even if his entrance had precipitated another fight. Miles’ behaviour had warned her of the dangers inherent in their relationship, particularly as she was not interested in him that way, and she thought she ought to be grateful to Heath for that.

Nevertheless, her uncle had not been prepared to forgive and forget. The minute they were out of earshot, he had turned his contemptuous gaze upon her, and his belittling appraisal had done nothing to restore Helen’s self-confidence.

‘How long?’ he demanded, his green eyes raking her face with grim intent. ‘How long has that oaf been allowed to touch you?’

‘He didn’t—he hasn’t—I mean, it wasn’t what you thought, Heath,’ Helen started unhappily. ‘It was just—well, when I brought the Land Rover back, he—he sympathised with me.’ She tucked her chin against her chest. ‘I—I suppose I asked for it.’

Heath halted abruptly by the gate leading into the orchard. ‘What do you mean? Had you had an accident in the Land Rover? I’ve warned you about driving too fast before—–’

‘I wasn’t driving too fast,’ protested Helen helplessly. ‘And I didn’t have a crash.’

‘Why would he need to sympathise with you, then?’ Heath grated, his lean face taut with impatience. ‘What’s happened, Helen? What have you done? You might as well tell me, before Mrs Gittens does.’

Helen lifted her face unwillingly. Comprehension was dawning, and she didn’t like what she was thinking. ‘You mean—you mean—you haven’t seen Mrs Gittens?’

‘No. I drove straight to the garage. Why?’

‘Oh, God!’ Helen’s shoulders sagged. ‘But—I thought you knew. I thought that was why you were so mad—–’

‘I knew? I knew what?’ snapped Heath irritably, grasping her by the shoulders. ‘For heaven’s sake, Helen, get to the point. What is it I’m supposed to know?’

Helen shook her head. ‘Don’t you remember?’

‘Remember what?’

‘Where—where you asked me to go this afternoon?’

‘Where I asked you to go?’ declared Heath blankly. ‘No, damn you, I don’t—yes! Hell, yes, of course I do!’ He stared down into her troubled face with growing comprehension. ‘The Land Rover!’ he snarled. ‘You went to meet Angela Patterson in the Land Rover!’ His fingers dug painfully into the soft flesh of her upper arms. ‘Lord, I’d forgotten all about her!’

That was reassuring, at least, thought Helen tremulously, but her reassurance was shortlived. Her words had driven every trace of warmth out of Heath’s face, and the hard green eyes were like lasers boring into her.

‘You little bitch!’ he swore violently. ‘You self-willed little hellion! You deserve a damn good hiding, and one of these days I’m going to give it to you!’

His ill-chosen words brought her back from the brink of self-pity, and dragging together what little confidence she had left, she faced him bravely. ‘It’ll take a better man than you, Rupert Heathcliffe!’ she declared courageously, and tearing herself out of his grasp, she ran the rest of the distance to the kitchen door. There was a back staircase that led from the kitchen to the upper floors of the house, and ignoring Cook’s startled face, Helen took it. She doubted Heath would follow her, and she was right; but she didn’t stop until the door of her room was closed securely behind her.

Now she got up from the stool and surveyed her domain with troubled eyes. It was more than three hours since she had had that confrontation with Heath, and she was dreading the prospect of joining him and Angela Patterson for dinner. Mrs Gittens had brought her this news, tapping tentatively at Helen’s door and clucking her tongue reprovingly when she saw Helen’s tearful face.

‘You should have known better,’ she declared, tidying up the clothes Helen had left strewn across the soft pink carpet, and shaking her head at the silk wrapper which was all the girl was wearing. ‘You’d better get some clothes on. Your uncle’s sent me to tell you he expects you to join him for dinner this evening. He wants you to meet the young lady who arrived this afternoon.’

‘I have met her,’ muttered Helen sulkily, sitting crosslegged on her bed, but Mrs Gittens only gave her an old-fashioned look.

‘From what I hear, you refused to speak courteously to the young woman,’ she responded drily. ‘And if you don’t want Heath coming up here and dragging you down by the hair, I’d suggest you made a little effort to be civil.’

Helen sighed now, running the tips of her fingers across the quilted damask covering the wide bed. She supposed she would have to change into something suitable for the evening, but how she wished she dared ignore the summons. The idea of eating dinner in Angela Patterson’s company was not appealing, and whatever Heath said, she would never forgive him for speaking to her the way he had.

Her room at Matlock Edge overlooked the side and back of the house. Away to her right, the wooded slopes of Jacob’s Hollow cast long shadows as the evening sank into dusk, and bats had started their wild erratic swooping between the trees. Below her, at the back of the house, were the tennis lawns and swimming pool, the trellises that hid the changing cabins from view bright with creamy yellow roses.

The room itself was spacious, and the furnishings matched their surroundings—long fitted wardrobes, a square dressing table, with leaved mirrors, and a huge bed, big enough to accommodate half a dozen people.

Helen remembered how lost and frightened she had felt when Heath first deposited her in that bed. But he had always been able to soothe her baby fears away. She knew he had stayed with her many nights, nights when she had awakened screaming from a terrifying nightmare to find he was there to comfort and reassure her. Later, when he had returned to his own room, she had missed his calming influence, but she had always known he was just along the corridor, and she could always go to him if she was frightened.

His mother had objected, of course. Mrs Heathcliffe had still been living at Matlock Edge in those days. Her husband, Heath’s father, had died suddenly when Heath was only nineteen, and he had left university to come and handle his father’s affairs. Heath had been twenty-one when Helen came to live with him and his mother, and Mrs Heathcliffe had lost no opportunity to deride his reckless decision.

‘It’s not as if the child’s a blood relative!’ she had argued. ‘People will talk, Rupert!’

His mother was one of the few people who still called him Rupert, but her pleas had been to no avail. Heath had been adamant. Helen’s father had had no living relatives, and Heath and his mother were the only people able to claim a relationship with the child, the only people between Helen and a life in Council care.

Scrubbing fiercely at the unwanted dampness of her cheeks, Helen slid back the doors of the fitted wardrobes and surveyed the rack of clothes. Thank goodness Mrs Heathcliffe didn’t live with them any more, she thought fervently. Heath’s mother had never approved of her son’s decision, and had lost no opportunity to try and make the girl regret that she had been brought to Matlock Edge.

As the years went by, Helen learned to ignore the petty slights, the studied insults, the painful jabs in the ribs Mrs Heathcliffe used to administer if she was sure her son was out of the room, and eventually, when she was ten, Heath’s mother had taken herself off to live in Manchester. She had an apartment there, and Heath visited her dutifully every month, but Helen’s continued existence had caused a rift between them that was difficult to breach. Even so, Mrs Heathcliffe was not unhappy in Manchester. She played golf and bridge, and she took regular trips abroad for her health, or so she said, but privately Helen thought it suited her to let Heath feel she had been hurt by his loyalty to the child, as she had always dubbed her. He was so much more generous that way.

The clothes confronting her did not inspire any enthusiasm. Helen much preferred jeans, or slacks of any kind, to the more feminine items in her wardrobe, and in consequence, the clothes she possessed were mostly out of date. She so seldom ate dinner with Heath these days, she had taken to having her evening meal brought up to her room, preferring to curl up in front of the portable television to facing a lonely hour in the morning room. On those occasions when she did join Heath for dinner, she had generally worn a blouse and skirt, but somehow she knew Angela Patterson would not appear at dinner dressed so prosaically.

On impulse, she pulled out one of the party dresses she had worn less than two years ago. A flouncy thing, made of some synthetic fibre, it had not suited her even then, but after wearing school uniform all day, it had seemed a pleasant relief. Now, however, she saw it for what it was: a puerile attempt to make a gauche adolescent into a soignée adult, and she grimaced at her own taste in choosing it.

Sighing, she allowed her hand to brush lightly along the row of garments. What else did she have? she asked herself unhappily. If she had asked Heath for new clothes, no doubt he would have bought them for her, but she had been too busy showing off on her motorcycle to realise that proving herself as a woman was more important than aping Heath’s abilities. It was too late now. She had to wear something from this collection, and if she didn’t hurry up, Heath would have something else to get angry about.

A quick shower freshened her body, and rummaging in her drawer for clean panties, she returned to her appraisal of the wardrobe. If she wore any of these she would be a laughing-stock, she thought, pulling off a flimsy flowered nylon, which had crushed her breasts in such a way it was practically indecent. She would have to wear a blouse and skirt, as before, and hope that Angela Patterson did not appear in something too dissimilar.

She was fumbling with the buttons of her blouse when the door opened behind her, and expecting Mrs Gittens, she turned with an appealing grimace. ‘I know, I know,’ she was beginning, ‘but I can’t seem to get these buttons fastened—–’ and then she broke off abruptly as Heath let himself into the room.

He had changed for dinner, into a lightweight dark brown suit that complemented the darkness of his skin and the silvery lightness of his hair. It clung to his lean frame with loving elegance, accentuating the supple lines of his body and the powerful length of his legs.

‘Oh!’

Helen turned sharply when she saw who it was, bending her head deliberately to concentrate on her task. But not before she had noticed, with some relief, that he was no longer glaring angrily at her.

‘Here, let me,’ he offered briefly, coming behind her, so that for a moment their reflections mingled in the lamplit illumination of the dressing table mirrors.

‘No. I mean—you can’t,’ muttered Helen, more thumbs than fingers now with him watching her, and growing impatient, he laid his hands on her shoulders and turned her round to face him.

‘Why can’t I?’ he demanded, brushing her clumsy hands aside and deftly inserting buttons into holes. But she noticed that when his fingers accidentally touched her breast he withdrew his hand immediately, turning his eyes away from the sudden tautness of its crest.

He left her then, walking across the room half impatiently, as if unwilling to say what must be said. But finally he turned and faced her, and a little of the anger he had exhibited earlier was back there in the agate hardness of his eyes.

‘Look,’ he said at last, ‘I guess we were both a little reckless this afternoon. I spoke—hastily, I admit it. I’m not saying it wasn’t warranted. It was. But—well,’ he thrust one hand to the back of his neck, ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you the way I did.’

Helen’s lips trembled, and she turned her back on him again to unfasten the strip of leather holding the end of her braid in place. ‘Who says you hurt me?’ she asked, her voice annoyingly unsteady, and Heath uttered a muffled oath before striding back to where she was standing.

‘Mrs Gittens told me you’d been crying,’ he essayed quietly.

‘Oh—Mrs Gittens!’ Helen tugged fiercely at the hair she was releasing from the braid.

‘Yes, Mrs Gittens,’ agreed Heath, once more putting her hands aside and taking over. He allowed the thick silky hair to slide sensuously through his fingers. ‘I suppose I was speaking out of turn. You’ll be eighteen next year. Old enough to get married, if you want to. Certainly too old for me to object if you choose to allow young Ormerod to kiss you.’

‘Oh, don’t be silly!’ Helen tore her hair out of his grasp and reached for her brush. For a moment, she had thought he was regretting his anger over her treatment of Miss Patterson. Instead, he was actually condoning the way Miles had treated her! ‘I’m not interested in “young Ormerod”, as you call him!’ she snapped. ‘Don’t patronise me, Heath. You’re not my father!’

‘Maybe not. But I am old enough to be so,’ he retorted, his own tone responding to the sharpness of hers. ‘Anyway, as it seems obvious you don’t desire my forgiveness, I’ll go, and allow you to complete your toilette.’

The trace of mockery in his words was not lost on Helen, and she longed to say something to wipe that look of smugness from his face. But it would not do to antagonise him yet again, particularly with the prospect of the evening looming ahead of her like a visit to the dentist.

So instead, she said: ‘Thank you,’ and allowed him to walk to the door before adding in an undertone: ‘I’m glad you’re not still cross with me, Heath.’

‘I don’t remember saying I wasn’t,’ he retorted, his mouth twisting in acknowledgement of her counteraction. ‘I just want you to know I’m not indifferent to the fact that you’re growing up.’

Helen turned, her hair curling irrepressibly about her shoulders, her face suddenly alight with sudden hope. ‘Do you think so?’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you really think so?’

‘Yes,’ he agreed flatly. ‘You make me feel quite old,’ and before she could respond, he had let himself out of the room.

Dinner was just as awful as Helen had anticipated.

They ate in the family dining room, which was one of the smaller rooms at Matlock Edge, with a circular dining table that dated from the eighteenth century. In daylight, the dining room looked out over the patio at the back of the house, but tonight the lamps were lit, and only the urns of flowers that flanked the french windows were illuminated from inside.

The dining room was panelled in oak, with delicately-carved clusters of rosebuds decorating the wood. The ceiling was high and moulded, and although there was a crystal and bronze chandelier suspended over the dining table, they mostly ate by lamp or candlelight, on those occasions when Heath had company.

As Helen had expected, Angela Patterson was present at the dinner table, sleek and self-satisfied in an ice-blue chiffon creation that left a good deal of her shoulders bare. She was not tanned, as Helen was tanned, from days spent almost exclusively outdoors. Her skin was white, whiter than any skin Helen had ever seen before, and smooth as alabaster, and just as soft.

In her white blouse and dark blue pleated skirt, Helen felt as if she was wearing school uniform again, and she guessed Miss Patterson was enjoying the evident contrast between them. It made her wish she had worn the floral nylon after all. At least then Heath would have been forced to notice her. With her burgeoning young body bursting from every seam, he could hardly have failed to do so.

It soon became obvious that Angela Patterson had made good use of the time Helen had spent sulking in her room. She and Heath were already on the best of terms, and Helen wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Miss Patterson had called him Rupert. But she didn’t. She addressed him as Mr Heathcliffe, though she spoke his name with a certain air of intimacy, and the conversation between them was relaxed and easy, as if they had known one another for years, instead of just hours.

‘How fortunate for me that I went to Matt Hodge’s party,’ Heath remarked, while Helen was making an effort to swallow the mouthful of lamb she had been chewing for the past three minutes. ‘He and I are not exactly friends, more business associates, and it was only because I wanted to speak to him about a certain export order that I went along.’

‘It was fortunate for me, too,’ responded Angela Patterson eagerly. ‘I mean, I didn’t know what I was going to do. The rent on my apartment was due, and as you know, my qualifications don’t exactly equip me for any ordinary job.’

‘What are your qualifications, Miss Patterson?’ Helen interspersed politely, ignoring Heath’s sudden intake of breath, and the older girl uttered a tolerant laugh.

‘Oh, I’m afraid, like you, I was brought up expecting not to have to work. Mr father was a successful author, of technical books, you understand—–’ this for Heath’s benefit, Helen was sure—‘but when he died, the death duties were crippling. I’m afraid I was left almost destitute, my only accomplishments to dress well and look pretty!’

She turned helpless eyes on Heath as she said this, and Helen wanted to curl up with embarrassment. Dear heaven, she thought, did Angela really think she could get away with that? Surely no one could expect to make such a statement without being laughed out of sight. But apparently Heath had accepted it, for, as Helen was gazing at her incredulously, he went on:

‘The ideal accomplishments so far as I’m concerned. I suppose I am to blame for allowing Helen to persuade me that she was happy here at Matlock, doing nothing but race that noisy machine of hers. It’s time she began to look like my niece, not to mention act like it. I’m beginning to believe my mother was not so far wrong when she said I was letting her grow up like a gipsy.’

Helen gasped, but before she could speak, Angela added: ‘Yes. Well, I only hope she’s prepared to listen to me. One can only teach when there is a willingness to learn.’

‘Oh, I’m sure she will,’ remarked Heath infuriatingly, raising his wine glass to his lips, and Helen’s jaw clenched at this deliberate attempt to provoke her. They were speaking as if she wasn’t there, and she had what she recognised as a childish desire to storm out of the room. But she didn’t. She remained where she was, lifting her wine glass to Heath in a mocking kind of salute, so that his mockery faded to a brooding preoccupation.

‘You have such a beautiful home,’ Angela interjected, and Helen guessed she had noticed Heath’s sudden lapse of interest in herself. ‘Has it been in your family for a number of years? I noticed the exquisite carving on the stairs. Is it Grinling Gibbons?’

‘A contemporary of his, I believe.’ Heath recovered his manners, and forced a faint smile. ‘Actually, the house was bought by my grandfather in the early part of this century. Before that, it was owned by the Countess of Starforth.’

‘How interesting!’ Angela finished eating and leant towards him confidingly. ‘Daddy and I used to own a house in Cornwall—Trenholme. He bought it when my mother died. He found he could work there more easily than in London. He had so many friends, you know, and one or other of them was always calling in to see him when he was in town. That was why we moved away, really. He needed solitude for his writing.’

‘I’m surprised one of your father’s friends couldn’t offer you a job,’ put in Helen staunchly, determined not to be ignored completely. ‘I mean, that’s what friends are for, isn’t it? To help you when you’re desperate.’

Angela’s lips thinned. ‘I wasn’t—desperate exactly, Helen. As—as a matter of fact, there were several positions offered to me. But it was finding the right job that mattered.’ She exchanged a knowing smile with Heath. ‘You understand, don’t you, Mr Heathcliffe? A girl of my upbringing—well, it was important for me to find an occupation I could feel comfortable in.’

Heath nodded. ‘I appreciate that.’

‘What you’re saying is, you wouldn’t have scrubbed floors, or manned the check-out at a supermarket,’ Helen persisted annoyingly, and she saw Angela’s nails digging into her palms as she endeavoured to answer her civilly.

‘There was no question of that,’ she declared, casting another tolerant look in Heath’s direction, but having got her enemy retreating, Helen was in no mood to let her go.

‘I don’t see what else you could have done,’ she observed reasonably, folding her hands demurely in her lip. ‘I mean, you did say you had no qualifications—–’

‘That will do, Helen.’ Heath’s abrupt remonstration brought her brief bid for superiority to an end. ‘I’m sure you know perfectly well what Miss Patterson is talking about—–’

‘Oh—Angela, please!’

‘Very well, then, Angela. I’m sure you understand what Angela is trying to say, Helen. And while we’re on the subject, let me say I expect you to treat our guest with rather more courtesy than you’ve shown this far. I’ve apologised for your arriving to meet her in the Land Rover, and Angela’s prepared to forgive and forget. So am I, providing we don’t have any further demonstrations of that kind—do I make myself clear?’

‘Perfectly,’ exclaimed Helen tautly, her face burning with hot colour. ‘And now, as you evidently don’t need my presence to discuss my shortcomings, perhaps you’ll allow me to go to bed. I’m feeling rather tired.’

Heath’s mouth tightened. ‘Helen—–’ he said warningly, but she had thrust back her chair and was facing him with grim defiance. ‘Oh, all right,’ he muttered, lifting his expensively-groomed shoulders. ‘Go to bed. I’ll talk to you again in the morning.’

It was an effort to bid goodnight to Angela Patterson, but Helen managed it, leaving the room with her head held high, as much to hold back the tears as to demonstrate her independence. It had been a disaster. The day had been a disaster. And she was very much afraid that tomorrow and all the days after were not going to be that much better.

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