Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous

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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.

The Waterfall of the Moon
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

CHAPTER TWELVE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

RUTH noticed him as soon as he entered the room. It wasn't that he was a particularly handsome man, certainly no more so than some of the young men she had been dancing with all evening; but he was older, his eyes were deeper set, there were lines of experience about his eyes and mouth, and compared to the pale skins around her, his tan was quite startling.

He stood just inside the doorway of the lounge with James Stephenson, Julie's father, and Ruth decided that they were merely making a polite inspection of the proceedings. It had been a good party, but definitely not James Stephenson's sort of affair. About the other man, she wouldn't care to speculate.

It seemed as though she had been right, however, when a few minutes later they disappeared again, and feeling an odd sense of disappointment, Ruth left her current partner to push her way through the throng of young people gyrating in the middle of the floor to Julie's side. Edging her friend into a corner, she asked curiously: “Who was that just now – with your father?”

Julie was an attractive brunette, with curling dark hair and unexpectedly blue eyes. She and Ruth had first met at boarding school and had been close friends ever since. Julie used to say they were a foil for one another – she so dark, and Ruth so fair – but in recent years she had had to admit that Ruth required no foil to enhance her Scandinavian blonde beauty.

Now she smiled, and said: “You mean Patrick? Patrick Hardy – Daddy's cousin?”

“If that was who was with your father just now – then yes.” Ruth was half impatient. “Who is he? I haven't seen him before.”

“No, you wouldn't have,” agreed Julie, with gentle complacency. “He's only just got back from Venezuela. He works there. He's some kind of chemist – or physicist, or something. He works for one of the big oil companies. Why?”

Ruth shrugged her slim shoulders. “I was curious, that's all.”

Julie gave her an old-fashioned look. “What's wrong? Has Michael's charm begun to pall already?”

Ruth gave her a reluctant smile. “You know very well that Michael Freeman and I are just friends.” She sighed. “It's nothing like that. He was – well – he was different.”

“And older,” commented Julie wryly. “Heavens, he must be thirty-five, at least!”

Ruth tucked a long strand of silvery hair behind her ear. “That's no great age.”

“To us it is. Ruth, you're only twenty-one. You couldn't possibly be interested in someone as old as that –”

“I didn't say I was.”

“I know, but – but anyway –”

“Anyway, what? Is he married or something?”

“Not as far as I know. I think his work is all that occupies him. He has no home in England now, that's why he's staying with us for a while.”

“I see.” Ruth smiled, liquid green eyes appealing. “Stop looking so concerned, Julie. Can't I even show an interest in the man?”

Julie shook her head. “He's got no money – other than his salary, of course.”

Ruth sighed. “Does that matter?”

“To your father, it might.”

“Lord, Julie, why? I'm not involved with him, am I?”

“No,” Julie conceded. “But I know that look in your eyes. I've seen it before. Don't!“

“Don't what?”

“Just – don't! That's all.”

Julie looked round the room, trying to reassume an interest in the proceedings. The record player was still pounding out beat music at a deafening rate, and their conversation had gone almost unnoticed. Julie wished it had never taken place at all. She liked Ruth so much, she was very fond of her, but she knew of that rebellious streak in her nature which had so often landed her in trouble at school. She had always been a popular girl, popular with staff and pupils alike, but apart from Julie, Ruth would be the first to admit that her closest friends were among members of the opposite sex. Tall and slender, able to look elegant in the most casual of clothes, Ruth attracted men like a magnet.

But Julie blamed Ruth's father for that trace of irresponsibility in her make-up. Joseph Farrell was a self-made millionaire. Ruthlessly he had striven to lift himself out of the obscurity of a back-street shop in Liverpool, to his present position as owner of a string of supermarkets. Money had been his god, and nothing had been too good for his family. When his wife died thirteen years ago, soon after their move to London, he had channelled all his affections towards his only daughter and he had doted on her, giving her anything she had ever wanted.

Strangely enough, Ruth had not been spoiled, at least not by money. She was a warm, generous-hearted girl, and if she grew to expect anything from life it was that people should like her. Invariably, she was right. It was a gift, Julie supposed now, but one which might create difficulties as she grew older.

Julie's own background had been vastly different. Her family had never been wealthy, not in the way Joseph Farrell was wealthy, but she supposed that socially they were more acceptable. And because of this, although she was only a few months older than her friend, Julie often felt an acute sense of responsibility towards Ruth, perhaps because she had no mother of her own to turn to.

Now she turned back to Ruth, and said: “Shall we go and get some supper? I could certainly appreciate a long cool glass of something refreshing.”

“If you like,” Ruth was agreeable, and she tucked her arm through Julie's as they made their way to the buffet tables set out in the adjoining room. “It's been a super party. I'm glad you asked me for the weekend. I don't think Papa would have agreed to me driving home from Wiltshire in the early hours of the morning.”

“Well, not with Michael Freeman, at any rate,” remarked Julie dryly. “By the way, where is he at the moment?”

Ruth looked round. “Mike? Oh, he'll be about somewhere,” she replied vaguely. “He's not driving back to town tonight, you know. He's booked a room at the pub in the village.” She glanced at the broad masculine watch on her slim wrist. “I just hope they don't lock their doors at midnight, or poor Mike will have had it!”

Julie chuckled. “He can always bed down on the sofa. I don't suppose Mummy would mind. It's happened before. Are you driving home in the morning, or staying for lunch? If you stay, I thought we might go riding.”

“I'll stay, if I may,” exclaimed Ruth at once. “Who knows, I may even get to be introduced to the Venezuelan oil executive!”

“Oh, Ruth!” Julie stared at her friend in exasperation. “I thought you'd forgotten about Patrick!”

Ruth's mouth quirked appealingly. “Now, how could I do that?” she teased laughingly.

Even so, as she prepared for bed later that night, Ruth pondered the unexpected amount of curiosity she felt towards Julie's father's cousin. Perhaps it was the fact that they had not actually been introduced that intrigued her so. Or maybe it was that alien air about him. The unusual tan, the look of experience that was seldom present in the faces of the young men she normally associated with.

Whatever it was, she looked forward to the morning with increasing expectancy, glad of the diversion to stimulate an otherwise dull Sunday.

She was awake quite early the next morning, and after a swift shower she dressed in a sleeveless ribbed sweater and narrow purple trousers that flared at the ankle. Her hair, thick and straight and shoulder-length, she left loose as usual, scooping it behind her ears with a careless hand.

It was only a little after nine as she descended the stairs to the wide hall below, but already a young maid was busily engaged in the lounge removing dirty ashtrays, and generally tidying up after the party. She answered Ruth's greetings with a polite smile, and then went on with what she was doing as Ruth walked to the long windows and looked out on to the frosty Wiltshire countryside.

Julie's father owned land, and although these days he had to do much of the estate work himself, it was a comfortable existence. This house, for instance, was almost three hundred years old, greatly modernised, of course, but maintaining the aura of the past. A county seat, Ruth supposed it would once have been called, but nowadays such titles meant little or nothing.

She turned to ask the maid about breakfast and found she had disappeared. Sighing, she hunched her shoulders and thrust her hands into the hipster waistband of her trousers. She knew Mrs. Morris, the Stephensons’ cook. She supposed she could go and ask her about something to eat.

The decision made, she walked quickly across the empty lounge again, emerging into the hall just as a man was about to enter. They almost collided, and his hands grasped her upper arms to steady her, cool and hard against her warm skin.

“I'm sorry –” she was beginning with an apologetic smile, when she realised who he was.

“I'm afraid I wasn't looking where I was going,” he assured her quietly, his voice deep and masculine, his breath warm on her face. His hands fell to his sides.

“You're Mr. Hardy, aren't you?” Ruth interjected, her eyes on his lean dark face. “I saw you last night with Julie's father.”

Patrick Hardy frowned. “You have me at a disadvantage, Miss – Miss –?”

“Farrell. Ruth Farrell. I'm a friend of Julie's. She invited me for the weekend.”

“I see.” His smile was faintly mocking. “Well, how do you do, Miss Farrell? I'm sorry, but I don't know any of Julie's friends these days. When I went abroad she was still at school.”

“Yes. You work in Venezuela, don't you?” Ruth held his gaze. “Something to do with oil. It sounds very interesting.”

Patrick Hardy's eyes narrowed. “Not for the layman, I can assure you.”

“No, but what you do – I mean, I expect it's very technical, isn't it?”

“Somewhat.” His tone was dry.

“Are you going back there?”

“Indeed, yes. In a few weeks.” He took a step to one side as though to pass her.

“I've never been to South America. Is it very hot?”

“Where I work – very,” he conceded. “And now, if you will excuse me …”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

Ruth stepped reluctantly aside. For the moment she couldn't think of anything else to say. He nodded politely and passed her to cross the lounge to the windows as she had done, and stood staring out at the frozen expanse of countryside. It must be vastly different from what he's used to, thought Ruth inconsequently, picturing the steaming rain forests of Central America. Didn't he feel the cold? January was never the most attractive of months.

In dark trousers and waistcoat and a navy blue shirt, his dark brown hair just brushing his collar, he looked lean and muscular, and Ruth found a certain kind of enjoyment in just looking at him.

Then she moved her shoulders impatiently. She was becoming fanciful. Just because he had not shown an immediate interest in her, she was mentally endowing him with attributes he did not possess. Why should she care one way or the other?

Turning on her heel, she walked towards the stairs, intending to go in search of Julie, when the maid she had seen earlier reappeared.

“Oh, Miss Farrell. I've spoken to Cook and she says would you like breakfast serving in the morning room? The other members of the household, those who take breakfast, that is, usually eat in their rooms on Sunday mornings.”

“I see.” Ruth paused at the foot of the stairs. “Did you know Mr. Hardy is in the lounge?”

“No, miss.” The maid looked surprised. “Perhaps I'd better ask him, too.”

“Yes, you do that.” Ruth half smiled, leaning back against the banister.

The maid disappeared into the lounge and emerged a few moments later nodding her head. “Mr. Hardy does want breakfast, miss. Would that be for two?”

“Why not?”

Ruth was amused. If Julie came upon them now, she would imagine Ruth had engineered the whole thing.

The maid went to tell the cook of the arrangements and Ruth decided to wait in the morning room. Picking up one of the morning papers off the hall table, she opened a cream panelled door and entered a sun-filled dining room. This was the morning room where the family usually ate breakfast and lunch, and the table was already laid with a pristine white cloth.

Seating herself at the end nearest the windows, she scanned the headlines desultorily, unconsciously waiting for Patrick Hardy to join her. When he eventually appeared, she pretended not to notice him, assuming an intense interest in the article she was reading.

“May I join you?” he enquired, before seating himself opposite her, and she looked up in feigned surprise.

“Oh! Oh, yes, please do.” She nodded and returned to her newspaper, unaware that a slight smile touched the corners of his mouth as he sat down.

The maid returned to ascertain their individual requirements, but Ruth only wanted fruit juice and toast. Patrick Hardy, however, agreed upon porridge followed by ham and eggs, sausages and tomatoes. Ruth, to whom a fried breakfast was slightly abhorrent, sat in silence as he waded through the enormous meal, thinly buttering her toast and drinking several cups of coffee. She was amazed at his capacity, wondering how he could remain so lean and muscular when her father, who really ate very little, sported the thickening waistline of so many of his colleagues.

By the time he had reached the toast and marmalade stage, Ruth was finished, but she remained at the table studying the dregs of coffee left in the bottom of her cup.

“I can't say I care for Marion's choice of coffee,” he remarked unexpectedly, wiping his mouth on a table napkin. “That's one commodity which is not in short supply where I come from. And excellent it is, too.”

Ruth looked up. “There are coffee plantations in Venezuela?”

“Some, yes. But Brazil is virtually on our doorstep, and it's the largest producer of coffee in the world.”

“Yes.” Ruth nodded. “Have you been to Brazil?”

“Several times.” He drew a case of cheroots out of his pocket. “Do you mind? I'm afraid I can't offer you a cigaette.”

“I don't smoke,” replied Ruth, relaxing. “But I don't mind at all. I like the smell of good tobacco.”

He placed one of the long thin cigars between his teeth and lit it with a narrow gold lighter. Then he inhaled deeply, half turning in his seat to rest his elbow on the back of the chair. His eyes, Ruth saw now, were not brown as she had thought, but grey, and his lashes were long and thick. They were disturbingly intent eyes when they chose to be, and she rushed into speech, half afraid of their penetration.

“I suppose you've seen a lot of South America,” she suggested nervously.

“Quite a lot,” he agreed. “But there's still a lot I haven't seen and would like to. There have been so many civilisations – so many cultures. I find the whole history of the area absolutely fascinating.”

“But your work isn't concerned with history, is it?”

He smiled wryly. “Oh, no. My work is very much a contemporary thing. A product of the twentieth century in every sense of the word. But that doesn't stop me from spending every available moment delving into the past.”

“I'm afraid the only thing I remember learning about Venezuela was how it got its name,” confessed Ruth charmingly. “Didn't Christopher Columbus discover the Indians living in huts standing in water and decide it reminded him of Venice?”

Patrick dropped ash from the end of his cigar into the bronze ashtray in the centre of the table. “Well, you've got the facts there, but they're somewhat confused. Columbus did discover Venezuela as you've said, but it was another Spaniard, Alonso de Ojeda, who found Lake Maracaibo and the Indian huts standing in water. He called it Little Venice – Venezuela, as it is today. Did you know that the first Spanish settlement in the whole of South America was on an island off the coast of Venezuela called Cubagua?”

“Cubagua!” Ruth repeated the name slowly. “What a nice sound that has.”

Patrick shrugged. “It's principally a pearling centre now.”

“Do men actually dive for pearls?” she asked, her voice betraying her excitement.

“Well, it's not quite as simple as that,” he replied dryly.

“And where you work – what is it like there? Do you have tropical vegetation and rain forests?” Her eyes were wide.

He drew on his cheroot. “There are rain forests at the southern end of the lake,” he conceded tolerantly. “But they're not the romantic things you seem to imagine them to be. They stand in areas usually with a rainfall in excess of eighty inches with no apparent dry season, and humid temperatures up to ninety degrees.”

Ruth sighed, resting her chin on her knuckles. “But you live there,” she pointed out.

“Well, not actually in the rain forest,” he remarked, with a smile. “Part of the time I work in Maracaibo itself, which is Venezuela's second largest city, and they have skyscrapers and office blocks and the usual kind of traffic problems found the world over.”

“It sounds fascinating!” Ruth was enthralled. For all she had travelled all over the continent and visited the United States with her father, the places Patrick Hardy was talking about belonged to an entirely different kind of civilisation. She felt she could have gone on listening to his attractive voice all day.

Patrick studied her captivated face for several minutes after he had finished speaking, causing Ruth no small sense of consternation at the upheaval inside her he could so unknowingly provoke, and then he rose abruptly to his feet and leant across the table to press out the stub of his cheroot.

“You live in London, Miss Farrell?”

Ruth dropped her hands into her lap. “Yes, that's right.”

“And will you be leaving today?”

“After lunch, I expect. Julie and I are supposed to be going riding this morning. Do you ride, Mr. Hardy?”

“I have done,” he agreed, flexing his back muscles.

“Then why don't you join us?” she asked, pushing back her chair and standing up.

Although she was a tall girl, he was quite a bit taller than she was and consequently she had to look up to his face. He seemed to be considering what she had said quite seriously, and a ripple of anticipation slid down her spine.

“I don't somehow think Julie would second your suggestion,” he remarked at last, a slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

“Does that matter?” Ruth tipped her head on one side in a purely provocative gesture.

“I think it might,” he commented dryly, turning aside from her. “Tell me: has the winter been very hard so far? I was looking forward to snow-swept fields and frozen rivers. You've no idea how appealing such things can be in a tropical climate.”

Ruth clenched her fists. He had the unconscious knack of making her feel terribly youthful and inexperienced. She couldn't understand why. The men she knew, young and old alike, had all seemed to find her attention something to be desired, whereas Patrick Hardy treated her with complete indifference. Why? Had his years in Venezuela affected him to such an extent that he no longer required any form of feminine companionship? Julie had said he was devoted to his work. Was she right? Or was there some woman back in – where was it he said he worked? – Maracaibo? – waiting for him? Ruth realised she found that idea totally unacceptable …

Hooking her thumbs into the low belt of her trousers, she scuffed her heels impatiently and he turned back to her.

“What's wrong? Are you offended because I refused your invitation?”

Ruth's dark lashes lifted. “And if I was?”

He tugged absently at his ear. “Then I should apologise, of course.”

She still had the distinct impression he was mocking her, and it was infuriating. But before she had chance to reply the maid returned to clear the table. Turning to her, Ruth said: “Do you know if Miss Julie is up yet? We're going riding.”

The maid put her tray down on the table. “I took Miss Julie's breakfast in to her half an hour ago, miss, but she wasn't at all well. She said she had a terrible headache after the party last evening. I'm sure I don't know whether she'll be fit to go riding.”

Ruth sighed in exasperation, and without a backward glance she marched out of the morning room and took the stairs two at a time. At Julie's door she composed herself for a moment before tapping lightly on the panels, and at Julie's: “Come in!” she entered, closing the door behind her.

“Oh, hello, Ruth,” Julie exclaimed, putting a hand across her forehead. “I hoped you'd come. I feel awful!”

“Yes, so the maid just informed me. What's wrong? Didn't you sleep well?”

“Oh, yes, I slept all right. It's just this terrible migraine of mine. You know I get it from time to time. Well, I think all the noise last night must have started it off again.”

“I see.” Ruth thrust her hands into her trousers’ pockets. “So you won't be going riding.”

“I'm afraid not. I'm sorry, Ruth.”

“Don't be silly. It's not your fault. But it's a glorious morning. Frosty, of course, but the sun's breaking through.”

“Well, you go if you want to,” suggested Julie. “Ask Mike to join you. He could use my horse.”

“I doubt whether Mike is even awake yet,” replied Ruth dampeningly. “Don't concern yourself, Julie. I shan't go. I might even decide to drive back to town after all.”

“This morning?”

“Why not? There's not much else to do.”

“Oh, dear!” Julie propped herself up on her elbows. “Don't do that, Ruth. I've had my tablets and I'll probably be fine by lunchtime. Why don't you stay over until tomorrow? You've got no particular reason to get back to town, have you? You can always telephone your father.”

Ruth hesitated. “I don't know,” she began.

“Well, think about it,” appealed Julie. “Please. And don't go before lunch whatever you decide.”

“All right.” Ruth smiled at her friend's concerned face. “I won't.” She turned towards the door. “I'll go now and leave you to get some rest. We can talk later.”

“Marvellous!”

Julie sank back on her pillows looking pale and drawn, and Ruth let herself quietly out of the door.

As she descended the stairs again she saw Patrick Hardy standing in the hall. Slowing her step, she half wished she could have turned and gone back up again without him seeing her, but he had heard her. He came to the foot of the stairs and resting one hand on the banister, said: “How is Julie?”

Ruth halted two steps above him. “She has a migraine.”

“So she won't be going riding?”

“No.”

“Will you?”

“On my own? No, thanks.” Ruth was abrupt.

Patrick regarded her mutinous face tolerantly for a minute, and then he said quietly, but distinctly: “I didn't mean you to go alone. I'll come with you – if you still want me to.”

Ruth stared at him with the warm colour rising in her cheeks. “You don't have to do that.”

“I know I don't have to. Do you want to go, or don't you?”

Ruth took a deep breath. “I'd love to,” she answered simply.

“Good.” He moved away from the stairs. “Then I suggest you go and put on some more clothes. I'll wait for you in the lounge.”

“All right.”

Ruth nodded, and turning sped back up the stairs. The blood was pounding through her veins, and she was filled with a sense of expectancy out of all proportion to the occasion. It was the very last thing she had expected, but there had been no thought of refusal.

Zipping herself into a warm navy blue parka, she tried to school herself to calmness. What was she about to do, after all, but go riding with a cousin of Julie's father? That should be nothing to get so excited about, and she was courting trouble if she thought it was. It was simply that Patrick Hardy was a kind and polite man, taking pity on her because her friend wasn't well. He didn't really want to take her riding. The situation had practically been forced upon him.

Downstairs, she entered the lounge with a faint sense of trepidation to find Patrick standing by the windows, a warm sheepskin coat accentuating his dark masculinity. He turned at her entrance and said: “I've told Cook where we're going. Apparently no one else is up yet.”

Ruth made a gesture of acquiescence and then they both moved out into the hall. He had apparently informed the groom, too, that they intended going riding, because as they descended the steps at the front of the house, a stable boy appeared leading their two mounts.

It was exhilarating to have the wind tugging her hair, tangling it into wild disorder, as they went down the drive and across the road and into the meadow. A rime frost had cast a film of white over the grasses and they crunched with a curiously satisfying sound under the horses’ feet.

They didn't speak much to begin with. Patrick was obviously in no hurry, allowing his mount to pick its way as he took an encompassing look at the countryside. Ruth, on the other hand, was accustomed to these surroundings, and she gave the mare its head, galloping on with careless grace.

Eventually he caught up with her and their pace slowed to negotiate a belt of trees, coming out on to a grassy hillside overlooking a village in a valley, the sound of church bells ringing in the clear air.

“There's nowhere in the world where the sound of church bells on a Sunday morning sounds quite so charming,” remarked Patrick, reining in beside her, and taking out his case of cheroots. Cradling the lighter against the wind, he lit one of the narrow cigars and exhaled blue smoke with enjoyment. “We have churches in Puerto Roca, but their bells never sound like this.”

“Puerto Roca?” Ruth frowned. “That's where you live?”

Patrick nodded. “That's right.” He dismounted. “Shall we walk?”

They walked in companionable silence for a while, leading the horses, until Ruth said: “How long do you expect to stay in England, Mr. Hardy?”

Patrick shrugged. “Six or seven weeks. I'm not sure. Why?”

He was very direct and Ruth flushed. “I was interested, that's all. Perhaps you'd like to come and have dinner with my father and myself one evening when you're in London.”

“That's very kind of you.”

He was polite, but non-committal, and Ruth glanced at him a little impatiently. She could read nothing in his expression, however; he was an enigma, and that knowledge did not please her.

They were passing through some trees when Ruth tripped over a root, and in trying to save herself caught her hair on the bare, twig-like branches protruding from a thorn bush. She cried out in agony as her scalp was almost wrenched from her head, and with watering eyes endeavoured to free herself. But it was useless; her tangled hair clung to the bark, and it hurt more than ever when she tried to extricate it.

But she scarcely had time to make more than a cursory examination before Patrick was bending down beside her, taking off his gloves, and disentangling the silken strands with gentle fingers. He was very close to her suddenly, his breath mingling with hers, and when his fingers brushed her cheek tingling impulses of awareness ran down into her neck. Then she was free and he helped her to her feet. She brushed herself down with a careless hand and made a helpless gesture.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling warmly. “I don't know how I should have managed without you.”

“Don't you?” His tone was ironic, and he appeared to be watching her rather intently.

“No.” Ruth combed her fingers through her hair in an effort to create some order.

“Oh, I'm pretty sure someone would have happened along at just the right moment to play knight errant to a lady in distress!”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged again, turning away to gather up the horses’ reins. “Just that you're the type of young woman who usually manages to get into difficulties at the most convenient times.”

Ruth didn't quite know how to take this. He had spoken in his usual polite way, and yet she sensed a note of reproof. Why?

Walking round him, she said: “Do you mind explaining that remark?”

“Surely it's obvious.”

“I'm afraid not. Not to me, at least.” Ruth felt a vague uneasiness invading her stomach.

“All right, Miss Farrell.” He held her gaze deliberately. “What do you want of me?”

Ruth was taken aback. “I don't know what you mean.”

“I think you do. But I'll explain anyway.” He took his gloves out of his pocket and began to put them on. “For some reason best known to yourself, you want me to pay attention to you – to be interested in you!”

“How – how dare you?” she gasped, but he went on as though she had not spoken.

“You invite me to ride with you – you even invite me to your parents’ home for dinner – and on the acquaintance of a couple of hours. Finally, when no apparent success is being achieved, you use the oldest trick in the book – that of feminine weakness in adversity!”

“That's not true.” Ruth was indignant. “You're not honestly meaning to tell me that you think I tripped over that root deliberately? That I tangled my hair in that bush just so you could rescue me?”

He made a dismissing movement of his shoulders. “And you didn't?”

“Of course I didn't.”

Ruth stared at him angrily, grasping her horse's reins with clenched fists. Her immediate impulse was to get on the mare's back and ride back to the house as quickly as she could. Once there, she could collect her belongings and leave without meeting this objectionable male ever again.

But such behaviour would only strengthen his belief in her childishness, and that she could not allow. Summoning all her coolness and composure, she said icily: “At least my conceit could never measure up to your own, Mr. Hardy!”

She thought he might be angry then. She thought he might make some retaliatory remark which would enable her to vent her own pent-up anger on him. But she was wrong. He burst out laughing.

Tears stung her eyes. No one had ever laughed at her before and it was a humiliating experience. Grasping the pommel, she climbed abruptly into the saddle, and digging in her heels urged the mare forward out of the copse of trees. She didn't care which direction it was taking her. She just wanted to put as much distance between herself and Patrick Hardy as she possibly could.

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN she finally returned to the house it was long past lunchtime, and Julie met her in the hall looking most concerned.

“Ruth!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been? We were getting quite worried about you.”

“I'm sorry.” Ruth managed a smile. “I'm afraid I went further than I intended.”

“You shouldn't go so far alone,” reproved Julie, shaking her head. “I didn't think you'd go riding at all when I couldn't go with you.”

Ruth hesitated. “No – well, it filled the morning in.”

“Yes,” Julie nodded, and Ruth guessed she knew nothing about Patrick Hardy's involvement. “Well, the meal will be cold now. Shall I ask Cook to make you an omelette or something?”

“Heavens, no!” Ruth took off her parka and slung it over the banister ready to take upstairs. “A sandwich in the kitchen would be fine.” She glanced round. “Er – where is everyone?”

“Mummy and Daddy and Patrick are in the library having coffee. I was watching for you. Patrick said if you weren't back in fifteen minutes he would go and look for you.”

“That was kind of him.” Ruth's tone was dry, but Julie didn't notice it.

“Yes. Well, come along into the kitchen. We can talk there. Mike came up this morning before leaving for London. I think he expected to see you, but he said he couldn't hang about because he has to be back in College tonight, or something.”

“Yes, that's right. He does.” Ruth nodded, accompanying her friend into the warm, delightfully odorous atmosphere of the kitchen. “I'm glad he's gone, though. Sometimes he can be rather intense.”

Mrs. Morris, the Stephensons’ cook, soon provided Ruth with a plate of home-cured ham and salad, and a jug of steaming coffee which the two girls shared. Seated at the table talking, Mrs. Morris dozing over her knitting at the fire, created a feeling of warmth and security, and Ruth felt some of the chill which had entered her stomach that morning leaving her. Not that she mentioned such things to Julie. Her brief association with Patrick Hardy would not bear examination, not yet.

“You are staying until tomorrow, aren't you?” Julie asked now. “It's almost three o'clock. It will be dark in an hour.”

Ruth hesitated. She didn't want to stay, but having committed herself to the extent of leaving it too late in the day to drive back in daylight, she didn't see what else she could do. Her father did not approve of her driving far at night.

“All right,” she agreed. “But I must ring Papa.”

Julie smiled at her friend's use of the Victorian form of address. Ruth had always called her father Papa, it was a kind of pet name, and had caused a good deal of amusement when they were at school.

As Ruth dressed for dinner that evening her misgivings returned in full measure. After all, she had told Patrick Hardy that she was leaving that afternoon. After what he had said this morning, she was quite prepared to believe that he would think she had stayed on for the sole purpose of seeing him again. Pacing about her bedroom, she considered making some excuse not to go down, but then squashed the idea. She was not a coward. She would go down to dinner and she would show him that she had absolutely no interest in him whatsoever!

Her choice of evening wear was limited. She had come down ostensibly for one night only, for the party, and apart from the dress she had worn then, she had nothing else suitable. Still, he had not seen her at the party and it was a most attractive gown. Made of cream velvet, gathered beneath her breasts to fall straight and smooth to the ankle, long sleeves reaching a point at the wrists, it was the perfect complement to her intense fairness, the low round neck revealing the creamy flesh of her throat.

Even so, she trembled a little as she descended the stairs and crossed the carpeted hall to the lounge where Julie's father and mother usually had an aperitif before their meal.

She was the last to arrive, and therefore she felt as if she had timed her entrance, which simply was not so. Nevertheless, her appearance did attract attention and she focused determinedly on Julie's mother, refusing to look in Patrick Hardy's direction.

However, Mrs. Stephenson was unaware that they had been introduced, and to Ruth's chagrin she drew her towards him, smiling and saying: “You haven't met Ruth, have you, Pat?”

Patrick, dark and slightly foreign-looking with that amazing tan, looked disturbingly masculine in his evening clothes. The men were not wearing dinner jackets, but they were both dressed in dark suits. Seemingly unperturbed by the situation, he said: “We have met, Marion. We had breakfast together, didn't we, Miss Farrell?”

Ruth's lips felt stiff. “Yes. Yes, that's right,” she said uncomfortably, aware that Julie was staring at her in surprise.

“Oh, I see,” Marion nodded. “You must both be early risers.” She smiled. “That's all right, then. We all know one another.”

Ruth moved back to Julie's side and accepted a glass of sherry from her father. Then dinner was announced and they all walked into the dining room which adjoined the lounge, where the buffet tables had been laid out the night before. To Ruth's relief, conversation was general and there were no awkward silences. Like herself, the Stephensons found Patrick's experiences in South America fascinating, and in spite of her antagonism towards him, Ruth found herself listening with increasing interest.

Once she looked up and found his eyes upon her and for a brief moment she was hypnotised by their grey penetration. Then Julie's father said something and his attention was distracted, but the small incident served to unnerve her and she spent the remainder of the meal with her eyes glued to her plate.

When dinner was over, they all adjourned to the lounge for coffee, and Ruth seated herself beside Julie on a low couch. Julie's father and Patrick Hardy were standing by the windows. Their conversation had turned to farming matters, and Mrs. Stephenson came to join the girls, shaking her head in resignation.

“Sooner or later your father always brings the conversation round to the practical applications of modern research in methods of breeding,” she remarked, sitting down beside them. “Poor Pat! I'm sure he's not really interested in such things.” She sighed. “Still, I shouldn't grumble. We did well to get through dinner without James mentioning the hormone treatment he's considering using in the battery houses!”

Julie giggled, and Ruth was unable to prevent herself from casting a surreptitious glance towards the windows. But the two men seemed engrossed in what they were saying and did not appear to have noticed Mrs. Stephenson's slightly caustic comments.

When her mother picked up a magazine and began flicking through the glossy pages, Julie turned to Ruth and murmured in an undertone: “You didn't mention that you'd had breakfast with Patrick this morning.”

Ruth moved her shoulders carelessly. “I forgot about it.”

“I gather he didn't live up to your expectations,” remarked Julie wryly.

“I wouldn't say that,” Ruth was determinedly casual.

Julie raised her eyebrows. “Even so, last evening you seemed fascinated by him –”

“Don't be ridiculous!” Ruth glanced uncomfortably towards Julie's mother, but fortunately she seemed not to have heard them. “I was curious to know who he was, that was all. I told you at the time.”

“I know.” Julie studied her friend's hot cheeks speculatively. “Oh, well, if that's how you feel.” She shrugged. “How about playing some records in the library?”

Ruth jumped at the chance to get out of the same room as Patrick Hardy, but Mrs. Stephenson looked up as they got to their feet. “Where are you two going?”

“To play some records,” replied Julie. “You don't mind, do you?”

Her mother frowned. “Not exactly.” She looked towards her husband and Patrick Hardy. “But really, James can't monopolise Pat all evening. I'm sure the man must be bored to tears as it is. Why don't you bring some records in here, Julie? Some of your less noisy ones, I might add. You young people could dance.”

“Oh, Mummy, really!” Julie was not at all suited. “How can Ruth and I dance in here – in front of you?”

“Well, why not? Young people don't seem to require partners these days, do they?”

Julie sighed and Ruth felt a twinge of impatience. It seemed they were not to escape so easily.

“All right,” said Julie at last. “I'll get the records.”

“Good.” Her mother smiled up at Ruth. “Come and sit down again, and tell me where you went this morning.”

“This morning?” Ruth subsided rather quickly.

“Yes. On your ride.”

“Oh – oh, yes.” Ruth gathered herself. “I'd forgotten.”

Julie came back with several records of groups popular at the moment and some more orchestrated pieces. Ruth joined her by the stereo equipment and managed a rueful grin. “Never mind,” she whispered. “I'm sure your parents will soon get tired of listening to these.”

“Let's hope so.” Julie was glum, but before they had time to put any records on the turntable the sound of a car accelerating up the drive came to their ears.

“I'll get it,” exclaimed Julie eagerly, and was out of the door before anyone could protest.

“I wonder who it can be,” remarked Mrs. Stephenson, laying aside her magazine, and the men were distracted from their discussion.

“Probably Hayes about the point-to-point,” replied her husband. “He said he'd let me know when it was to be held.”

But when Julie came back into the lounge she was accompanied by a young man whom Ruth recognised as Peter Forrester, one of the guests at the party last evening.

Mrs. Stephenson smiled a welcome. “Oh, hello, Peter. This is a pleasant surprise.”

Peter Forrester was a thin, attractive young man in his late twenties. Recalling what she knew about him, Ruth decided he looked very much the outdoor type he was. His father farmed the land to the north of Julie's father's estate, and Peter had been to agricultural college and was at present acting as bailiff for another landowner in the district. Ruth also knew that he was very fond of Julie and that she would probably finish by marrying someone exactly like that. Julie was a country girl at heart, and although she enjoyed coming up to town and staying with Ruth and her father, deep down she preferred the open spaces.

Peter looked awkwardly round the company, and said: “Well, actually, Mrs. Stephenson, I didn't realise that Ruth was staying over for another night. I thought Julie might be on her own. I was going to suggest taking her out for an hour or two.” Julie visibly brightened, but her mother merely nodded. “Never mind, Peter. Now you're here, you can stay. Julie was just about to put on some records, weren't you, darling?”

Julie hesitated, looked mutinous, and then acquiesced. “Yes, Mummy,” she murmured resignedly.

Ruth was feeling rather de trop. “If you'd like to go out with Peter, Julie, I don't mind,” she began.

“Nonsense.” Julie's father entered the conversation. “Julie knows better than that –”

“Perhaps I might make a suggestion.” Patrick Hardy's voice was quietly compelling. “Why don't we all go out for a while? We could drive into Devizes and stop off somewhere for a drink.”

Julie's mother looked at her husband questioningly. “Do you want to do that, James?”

Ruth's nails curled into her palms. No one was asking her opinion, and the very last thing she wanted was to be thrust into Patrick Hardy's presence for several hours.

James Stephenson considered the suggestion frowningly. “Well, I'm not really enthusiastic,” he admitted. “I was looking forward to a quiet evening.”

“Good.” His wife looked as though this submission had pleased her. “I don't particularly want to go out either. But you four can, can't you?”

Ruth felt terrible. She couldn't be placed in such an intolerable situation! “I – I don't particularly want to go out either,” she said.

“Don't be silly, Ruth!” Mrs. Stephenson overruled her protest. “Of course you do. We're just too old, that's all.”

Ruth looked helplessly towards Julie, but Julie was far too delighted with this turn of events to do anything to help her. There seemed nothing for it but to agree.

“Fine.” That was Patrick Hardy again. He walked across to where the three young people were standing. “I suggest you and Julie go in your car, Forrester, and Miss Farrell and I will go in mine.”

Ruth looked up at him angrily, trying to compel him to look at her and witness her frustration. But he seemed indifferent to her feelings completely, and she was forced to accompany the others into the hall to collect their coats.

In fact, Ruth had no coat, only a tweed cape which she wore for all occasions, but at least it was warm and she shrugged herself into it, spurning anyone's assistance.

“There's a good pub outside of Sharning,” said Peter, helping Julie on with her coat. “The Beeswing, do you know it?”

“I'm afraid not.” Patrick pulled on a dark grey overcoat with a fur lining. “But you lead the way – we'll follow.”

“Okay.” Peter was obviously feeling pleased with himself. “Ruth knows the Sharning road and it's just beyond the village.”

“Right.”

Patrick nodded and they all went outside to get into the cars. Ruth had to wait while Patrick brought his car out of the garage and the others waved and drove off as the Mini came to a halt beside her. Patrick pushed open the door from inside and Ruth got in quickly, folding her long skirts about her legs.

“I hope you don't find this too confining,” he commented dryly, as she was wondering how he managed to get behind the wheel. “But I needed some form of transport and as I don't intend to do any great distance this seemed ideal for towns.”

Ruth knew she couldn't ignore him completely, so she said: “I have a Mini myself,” in rather terse tones.

Sharning was the next village to Cupley where the Stephensons had their estate, and it wasn't long before the lights of the houses came into view. The tail lights of a car ahead turned out to be Peter Forrester's and pretty soon they were turning between the gates of a well-lit hotel. They parked the cars, and the two girls walked ahead into the building.

“You don't mind, do you, Ruth?” Julie whispered rather anxiously as they entered the foyer, and Ruth knew she couldn't disappoint her.

“No, of course not,” she denied. “Is this where we leave our coats?”

It was a larger hotel than Ruth had expected with several bars and a small dance floor in the lounge. A three-piece group was playing and the room was filled to capacity. Patrick suggested that they had a drink in one of the bars and went into the lounge later, and the others agreed.

Because of the throng of people and the hum of noise, it was possible for Ruth to relax somewhat. Peter was quite an amusing companion when he lost his initial shyness, and Patrick had his own brand of humour to offer. Certainly Ruth's lack of conversation did not appear to be noticed and she sipped her way through three vodka and tonics quite happily.

Then Patrick suggested they tried the lounge again, and they left the bar to push their way into the larger room. It was not quite so crowded as it had been earlier and Peter drew Julie determinedly after him on to the dance floor.

Left with Patrick, Ruth panicked. “If you'll excuse me,” she began, “I must go to the cloakroom –”

Patrick's fingers caught her upper arm. “Why?”

Ruth flushed. “Why do you think?”

“Can't you wait?”

Ruth was taken aback. “If you must know – no!”

“I don't believe you,” he murmured, looking down at her burning cheeks. “I don't think you want to go at all. I think you're avoiding being alone with me.”

“Are you going to let me go?” she demanded hotly.

“No. At least – not yet. Come on, I want to dance with you.”

She was forced to go with him. His hold on her arm was very sure and in any case she didn't want to cause a scene. Once on the dance floor he drew her closely into his arms, and while some of the couples were dancing apart from one another, he refused to let her go.

And after a while She didn't want him to. There was something infinitely desirable about being as close to him as this, her hands imprisoned against the silk material of his shirt, feeling the heat of his chest and the heavy beat of his heart beneath her fingers. He had his arms about her waist, and they moved slowly in time to the music.

“Now this isn't so bad, is it?” he queried softly, against her hair.

Ruth shook her head. “No,” she conceded huskily.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“Sorry?” Ruth tipped her head to look at him. His face was very close and she quickly averted it again. “Sorry about what?”

“About this morning,” he replied quietly. “I'm afraid I was very rude.”

Ruth quivered. “That's all right.”

“Well, thank you. I behaved quite boorishly. I don't usually – but I had my reasons.”

Ruth's palms were moist. “Yes?” she prompted, relaxing against him completely.

His withdrawal was immediate, a physical detachment of his body from hers. But when he spoke again, he sounded as amiable as before.

“I'll try and explain. The last time I was in England, about five years ago, Marion spent the whole time trying to marry me off to some distant cousin of hers.” He sighed reminiscently. “Oh, Celia – that was her name, by the way – was a charming girl, and I've no doubt she'd make some man a charming wife, but not me!”

Ruth knew something was expected of her and assuming an indifference she did not feel, she said: “And you thought I was another candidate, is that right?”

It was amazing, she thought to herself, how inconsequential she could sound when something inside her seemed to be screwing her up in little knots.

“That's correct,” he smiled, and it was a disturbingly intimate smile. “But then this afternoon Marion explained who you were and of course I felt rather a fool.”

“Who – who I was?” Ruth was confused. “Who am I?”

His eyes glinted with humour. “Don't you know?”

“You tell me.”

“Well, you're Joseph Farrell's daughter, of course. An heiress, no less, and certainly in no way likely to be looking for the first unattached male that comes along. Besides, I'm sure that when you marry, your father will make sure your husband to be has more to offer you than a physio-chemist's salary!”

Ruth digested this. “I see,” she said slowly.

“So I suggest we forget what happened this morning, and start again,” he continued. “It will teach me not to be so conceited, as you said!”

Ruth didn't know why, but she suddenly felt badly in need of a drink. Pressing her hands against his chest and separating herself from him, she said: “Do you mind if we go and sit down again now? It's rather hot in here.”

“Not at all.” He released her at once. “We'll go and get another drink. The others will find us later. I must admit I'm finding it pretty exhausting myself.”

In the bar they found a table and Ruth swallowed her fourth vodka and tonic as though it were her last. But something unpleasant had happened to her, and she didn't want to think about it.

No longer under the strain of imagining he was being manoeuvred into marriage, Patrick became relaxed and charming, the perfect companion in fact, although Ruth couldn't appreciate it. She watched him when he was not looking at her, noticing every small thing about him, from the slightly darkening line of his jawline to the long flexible fingers holding his glass. He wore a signet ring on the smallest finger of his right hand, and a plain gold watch on his wrist. There were hairs on his wrist, too; wrists that were already tanned like the rest of him, and she wondered whether he spent much time out in the hot South American sun.

Looking down into her almost empty glass, she tried to school herself not to think of such things. It was ridiculous really. Here she was, imagining herself in the position of wanting the inaccessible. It wouldn't last. At the moment he was different from the men she knew, that was all. A novelty, in fact, and like all novelties it would wear off. But in the meantime it was agonising …

Breakfast the following morning was a family occasion, and not a bit like the previous day. It was the first day of the working week for Julie's parents, and they each were preoccupied with their individual activities. Marion Stephenson ran various committees in the district and helped with the Meals on Wheels service, while her husband had his estate duties to attend to.

Patrick Hardy did not put in an appearance, and Ruth told herself she was glad. She would be able to leave without meeting him again, and she refused Julie's suggestion that she might wait until after lunch to drive back to town. It was a relief to bid them all good-bye and get behind the wheel of her Mini. Julie was disappointed, of course, but Ruth made a mental note to telephone her as soon as she got home and make some arrangement for her to come and stay.

Her father's house stood in a mews off Eaton Square. Tall, narrow windows flanked a white front door which was guarded by tubbed acacias. Once used as a coaching stable, it had been superbly altered and modernised by an architect friend of her father's, and now it was a very attractive dwelling. The ground floor had been given over to garages and the servants’ quarters, and a whitewood staircase led to the first floor drawing room. It was spacious and elegantly furnished, her father never did anything by halves, but although its contents were rare and expensive there was never any feeling of coldness or impersonality. It had always been a home in every sense of the word.

Her father was not at home at this time of day as Ruth had expected, but Mrs. Lawson, the housekeeper, came upstairs to see if she had had lunch.

“No, I haven't,” said Ruth, shedding her cape in the centrally heated atmosphere. “But don't bother with a lot for me, Mrs. Lawson. I'm not particularly hungry.”

Mrs. Lawson folded her hands. “Did you have a nice weekend, miss?”

“Yes, very nice, thank you.” Ruth lounged into a soft leather chair. “Tell me: is Papa dining at home this evening?”

The housekeeper nodded. “As far as I know he is, miss. Why don't you give him a ring? I'm sure he'd be glad to hear from you. He misses you, you know.”

Ruth traced the pattern of the grain with her finger. “You think so?”

“Of course.” Mrs. Lawson drew in her lips. “He doesn't work all the time, you know.”

“I know.” Ruth reached for the phone. “All right, Mrs. Lawson. Thank you.”

Joseph Farrell's office building stood in a side street off the Bayswater Road. The receptionist who answered recognised Ruth's voice at once and said: “I think Mr. Farrell's left the building, miss, but I'll just make sure for you.”

A few minutes later, Ruth heard her father's voice, still bearing traces of his Lancashire background. “Is that you, Ruth? You're back then.”

“Yes. Were you going out? Have I stopped you?”

“It can wait. It was nothing important. I was just going for a beer with Andy.”

“Was that to be your lunch?” exclaimed Ruth reprovingly.

“I suppose so. That and a pie, I shouldn't wonder.”

“A pie and a pint,” said Ruth, unable to hide her amusement. “Well, how about taking me to lunch instead?”

Her father hesitated. “I could do, I suppose,” he conceded slowly. “But I have this meeting at two o'clock …”

“Oh, Papa!” Ruth heaved a sigh. “Then you don't have time, do you?”

“Not really, lass.”

“All right, forget it. What time will you be home this evening?”

“Not late. About six, I should think. D'you want me to take you out to dinner instead?”

“No. No, it doesn't matter.” Ruth recalled the way her father liked to relax after a busy day at the office. “I'll see you tonight then.”

“Fine. Fine. Had a good weekend? Did you give my regards to Jim?”

“James, Papa, James! Julie's father doesn't like being called Jim!”

“Huh!” Her father sounded unimpressed. “Jim was good enough for your grandfather, and it's good enough for him.”

“All right, all right. See you later.”

“You will.”

Julie replaced the receiver and sat staring at it with a rueful sense of pride. Joe Farrell cared for nobody's arrogance, and nobody got away with anything like that with him. He had no time for snobbishness and conceit, he said he couldn't afford such luxuries, and that was in part responsible for his tremendous success. He could, and would, talk to anyone, and anyone could talk to him. No one in the Farrell organisation could say they had never met the boss; he made it his business to know everyone.

Leaving the drawing room, Ruth carried her case up a second flight of stairs to the turquoise and white luxury of her bedroom. Dropping the case on the silken bedcoverings, she walked into the bathroom and turned on the taps. A bath would relax her, would perhaps lift the weight of depression from her shoulders that had settled like a shroud since she drove away from Julie's home that morning …

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