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 [email protected] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
Loren’s Baby
Anne Mather
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE road widened at the top of the hill, as though inviting visitors to Port Edward to get out of their cars and take a look at the view before plunging down the narrow, precipitous lanes which eventually ran between the whitewashed cottages of the village. Telling herself it was because she wanted to see the village too, and not because it would provide a welcome delay to the culmination of her journey, Caryn thrust open the car door and climbed out.
Below, the sun-dappled roofs of Port Edward seemed too closely woven to allow for the passage of traffic, and beyond, the mud flats of the Levant estuary were exposed as the tide ebbed. An assortment of fishing vessels and pleasure craft were beached like so many gasping porpoises at their moorings, and children beach-combed in the shallow pools left stranded by the tide.
The road to the village said ‘Port Edward only’ and Caryn glanced about her thoughtfully. The address had said Port Edward too, but she remembered once Loren had told her that the house faced a creek where Tristan Ross kept his boat. If only she had paid more attention to those fleeting references to Druid’s Fleet; but then she had never expected to have to come here. And didn’t she also remember that there were trees? A house standing among trees …
The cliffs that overlooked the estuary were not thickly wooded, but further upstream Caryn could see forests of pine and spruce clinging staunchly to the hillside. Obviously she had come too far towards the village. She would have to turn the car and go back to where the road from Carmarthen had forked across the river.
It was easier said than done, but the road at this hour of the evening was practically deserted, and she at last managed to manoeuvre herself back the way she had come. She felt tired, and half wished she had come by train, but it would have been awkward asking a taxi driver to bring her to the house and then expect him to wait while she saw Tristan Ross. Particularly when there was always the chance that he might not be at home. But Loren had said … Besides, if she was truly honest with herself she would admit that her tiredness had more to do with her mental than her physical state, and until she had this interview with Tristan Ross over, she was not likely to feel much better.
She sighed. Was she making a mistake? she wondered for the umpteenth time. Ought she to go through with this? Could she go through with it? And then she remembered Loren’s face as she had last seen her, the cheekbones exposed and skeletal in her thin face, her eyes hollow and haunted. Her features had relaxed in death, but she would always remember her pain and despair. Always.
She came to the fork that led across a narrow suspension bridge shared by a disused railway line, and drove swiftly across it, glancing at her wristwatch as she did so. It was after six, but it had taken longer than she expected, and if Tristan Ross was put out by her late arrival, there was nothing she could do. Perhaps she should have driven into the village after all and asked for directions. But she was loath to draw attention to herself, particularly in the circumstances, and surely she was on the right track now.
The village was in sight again, but across the river now, and Caryn drove more slowly, watching for any sign which might indicate a dwelling of some kind. She saw a sign that said ‘Water’s Reach’ and pulled a wry face. Why couldn’t that have been Druid’s Fleet? How much further did she have to go?
After reaching a point which at a lower level precisely matched the point she had reached on the opposite bank, she stood on her brakes and chewed viciously at her lower lip. She was getting nowhere, and not particularly fast. Where the devil was the house? She couldn’t have missed it. There simply wasn’t another house in sight.
Another three-point turn, and she was facing back the way she had come once more. Below her, in the estuary, the tide was beginning to turn, and ripples of water set the smaller craft stirring on their ropes. The sun was sinking steadily now, and a cool breeze drifted through the open window of the car. It would be dark soon, she thought crossly, and she was sitting here watching the tide come in as if she