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Dark Castle
Anne Mather
Mills & Boon are excited to present The Anne Mather Collection – the complete works by this classic author made available to download for the very first time! These books span six decades of a phenomenal writing career, and every story is available to read unedited and untouched from their original release.When ‘strictly business’ turns to pleasure…Anything Julie may have felt for Jonas Hunter is history – and has to stay that way! Despite their magnetic attraction, she can never forget the way he betrayed her…When business forces them together at his remote Scottish castle, Julie is determined to keep their relationship on a professional level. But she is soon struggling to keep her emotions buried, especially when she discovers that the past may not have been as clear-cut as she first thought – and that Jonas’ attraction to her still burns as strongly as ever…
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 (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
Dark Castle
Anne Mather
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#u55790fcf-9be0-5377-ae3b-25bcc7c2fae7)
About the Author (#ua1258c5e-da66-5323-854b-46e125353012)
Title Page (#u44aa5358-0ba1-5772-8cf3-d3ed20dd2ce1)
CHAPTER ONE (#u31ae6bf6-aebd-5b62-9d22-a2eb0435636a)
CHAPTER TWO (#u4991d49a-d3cc-5f7b-93c6-c7cb513be1e3)
CHAPTER THREE (#u17d3136c-06b1-5363-a3ce-ef6ad6d0c774)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_a3d2b07d-4e33-5e09-ac53-2fee8ffe7299)
THE train pulled out of the station at Inverness and as its lights disappeared into the misty darkness all Julie was left to look at was her own pale reflection through the window of the compartment. The train was almost empty, but that didn’t surprise her. It was not the time of year for holidays, and there was a faint air of melancholy about the empty seats which until a few weeks ago had been full of visitors eager to sample the delights of this single-track journey to the Kyle of Lochalsh.
Not that Julie knew the area or the delights of the journey. Until a few weeks ago she had never even heard of it. But Mark had, and it was Mark’s idea that she should come here, and perhaps he had thought the beauty of the scenery might in some way make up for what he was making her do.
She sighed. It had been a long and tedious journey, and she was tense and tired. She had not wanted to come in the first place, and the prolonged hours of isolation in the northbound express had not altered her opinion. She had chosen to travel by train instead of using her car for two reasons – firstly, because she had thought it would be quicker, and secondly, because it would be less tiring. But as the hours had gone by, and the sleeper she had booked for the first stage of her trip had proved of little use to her over-active mind, she had begun to wish she had had the concentration of driving to distract her from the discomfort of her own thoughts.
She shivered. She was cold. She had been waiting at Inverness for almost four hours, and not even the warmth of her sheepskin coat had been sufficient to ward off the onslaught of the chill winds that blew down from the mountains and whistled through the small station. But this train ran only twice daily and although she had only a few more miles to go it was her only link with Achnacraig.
Achnacraig! She stared broodingly out into the darkness. How like Jonas to be so unaccommodating as to put himself almost beyond approach. And yet she would never have imagined him living so far from London, or his beloved Yorkshire, or any of the places he had previously favoured. She knew he still had his apartment in St. James’ Mews because she had rung there first, only to be told by the caretaker that Mr. Hunter had left for Scotland some weeks before.
Her hands curled in her lap. She had written, to the address at Achnacraig which his publisher had kindly given her, but Jonas’ reply had been brief and to the point. If she wanted to see him, she would have to come to Scotland.
She glanced irritably round the compartment. Her only companions were a red-faced man carrying fishing tackle, and a woman who had probably been shopping in Inverness. Their interest in her had been fleeting and now they both seemed sunk in their own thoughts.
She tried to think positively. She hoped there would be a decent hotel in Achnacraig. She wanted the reassurance of a good meal and a night’s sleep before summoning all her courage for the interview with Jonas. She had written and told him she was coming, and if, as she hoped, she could see him tomorrow, she would be able to return to Inverness tomorrow night and complete her journey back to London the following day.
She opened her handbag and took out her compact, surreptitiously examining her reflection in the small mirror. Wide-spaced hazel eyes, thickly lashed, gazed back at her, slightly shadowed after the restless night spent in the sleeper, while the severity of her hairstyle drew attention to the paleness of her cheeks. She couldn’t help wondering whether Jonas would notice any change in her appearance, in the finer contours of her bones, in the hollows of her throat. She was slimmer now than she had been, although not so thin as in the few months after their separation …
She snapped the compact shut and thrust it back into her handbag. She would not think of that. She was not here to indulge in maudlin sentimentality. This was purely business, and she had no intention of allowing emotion to creep into it. All that had been over long ago, and if Jonas had not uprooted himself and left for some outlandish part of South America before any formal severing of their marriage could be arranged, no doubt they would have been divorced by now.
But she still felt restless. It was all very well telling herself not to think, but the subconscious mind had a habit of disregarding advice. And after all, perhaps it would be better if she did think of what was past, of the way Jonas had behaved, of the humiliation she had suffered at his hands. She drew an unsteady breath. It still hurt – but then pride was a very sensitive thing.
She forced her thoughts into other channels, opening the small briefcase she had on the seat beside her and extracting the file she had begun to compile. She read the bare details she had written with as much detachment as she could summon:
Jonas Hunter is the son of the late Professor Godfrey Hunter, lecturer and statistician. Educated at Winchester and Cambridge, Mr. Hunter joined the staff of a national newspaper after leaving university and achieved considerable success as a journalist. Later he turned to television and became an overseas correspondent based mainly in South America. Recently returned to this country, Mr. Hunter has written a political thriller with all the attributes of a major novel. The novel is to be filmed.
She paused and stared moodily through the window. The train was pulling into a station, but it was not Achnacraig. She watched almost absently as the red-faced man with the fishing tackle left his seat and pushed open the door of the carriage. His departure left only herself and the woman in this part of the train.
There was a whistle and with a jerk the train started away again. With reluctance, Julie forced herself to go on. After all, Mark would expect a good interview from her. Her work was good. She knew that. It always had been. It was the one thing she and Jonas had had in common, although in the end it had been instrumental in driving them apart. But now she must not allow personal issues to stand in the way.
She moistened her lips. After the bald statement of facts she had written – age, description, personal details, etc. She bit her lip. These were things she knew only too well. She hesitated. What she needed to know from him was his motive for writing such a novel, such an indictment of the political system. Had he based his novel on fact, on his own experiences, did it reflect his own views? Then there was the question of whether he was planning another novel, whether indeed he had already started it, and if so, what was it to be about? His reasons behind living in some remote castle in Scotland bore speculation, and finally, what were his plans for the future?
She penned a few brief queries and then closed the file. What a situation, she thought bitterly. Was she mad in coming here? Was any job worth such a sacrifice? Of course, Mark saw no sacrifice in it. So far as he was concerned, her marriage to Jonas had ended when they had separated, and just because he was prepared to use that connection to gain an interview hitherto denied to any other magazine it did not mean that he considered their association in any way binding. And the way he had phrased his request had made it plain that if she wanted to remain his assistant and maintain her position on the magazine she should do this small thing for him.
She put the file back into the briefcase and closed the zip. When she had first written to Jonas about a possible interview she had half expected him to refuse, she knew. That was why she had accepted Mark’s ultimatum so calmly. After all, Jonas had refused all kinds of publicity and was fast gaining a reputation for being something of a recluse, a fact Julie had found very hard to believe. All the same, the proof had been there and she had expected her request to be received as unfavourably as the rest. The fact that it had not, that Jonas had actually invited her to visit him in his Scottish retreat for the purpose of gaining an interview, had created a situation which had filled Mark Bernstein with delight and Julie with despair. Jonas’s only stipulation had been that she should not bring a photographer with her, that she should come alone. But the worst part of all had been having to tell her mother … and Angela.
It was, she supposed, a curious anomaly that she and Angela should have remained friends after everything that had happened. But Angela had wanted it that way, and she had, after all, been the innocent party to Jonas’s deceit. When Julie and Jonas split up she had been so upset, so sympathetic, so eager to show how sorry she was that things had turned out the way they did. Julie had still been in a state of shock and in no fit state to withstand the combined persuasions of her mother and Angela, and after a time it hadn’t seemed to matter much, one way or the other.
She had a lot to thank Angela for, actually. It was she who had introduced Julie to Mark Bernstein and been instrumental in getting her this job on his magazine, Peridot. She had found Julie a flat when she had no longer wanted to stay with her mother, and of course she and Julie’s mother were the best of friends. And why not? Angela was the daughter of Mrs. Preston’s old school friend, and Julie and Angela had known one another since they were children.
Both Angela and Julie’s mother had shared her opinion about her proposed trip to Scotland, and they were more vehement about it.
‘I’ll speak to Mark,’ Angela had said at once. ‘He can’t possibly expect you to do this. Interviewing a man who was once your husband! It’s barbaric!’
‘He still is my husband,’ Julie had pointed out resignedly.
‘And he was unfaithful to you!’ Angela had retorted angrily, and not a little cruelly. ‘Julie, don’t be a fool! This place where he’s living is hundreds of miles away. Why can’t he come to London if he wants this interview?’
Julie had steeled herself as she had learned to do at the mention of Jonas’s infidelity. She was used to hearing Jonas spoken about in this way by her mother and Angela, but it was still possible for certain barbs to pierce the vulnerability of her shell.
Now she said: ‘But Jonas doesn’t want this interview, Angela, Mark does. You don’t suppose Jonas would put himself out for such a paltry reason, do you?’
‘But why is he living in Scotland?’ her mother had asked. ‘I thought his family lived in Yorkshire.’
‘They do. And I have no more idea than you why he should have taken himself off to some Scottish fastness, but he has, and that’s the situation.’
‘If Mark is so eager for the interview why doesn’t he go himself?’ Angela had persisted, and Julie had found herself colouring.
‘Because the interview has been granted to me,’ she had had to admit, and had seen the dawning concern in her mother’s eyes.
The discussion, if it could be called that, continued, but ultimately they had had to accept that unless Julie wanted to make things difficult for herself she would have to go.
‘And why not?’ she had challenged bravely, hoping to allay her mother’s anxiety. ‘Good heavens, we’re making far too much of it! Jonas is only a man, Mummy. Just a man – and the accident of our relationship is purely incidental.’
Angela would not let it rest there, however. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she had declared firmly. ‘I can get leave of absence from the salon—’ Angela was a masseuse, working in partnership with a cousin who was a hairdresser. They had built up a successful salon in the West End, and had many influential names on their books.
But Julie refused to consider her offer. She wasn’t feeling at all brave about the coming interview, but she did know that Angela’s presence was likely to undermine her confidence, and confidence was something she needed –badly. ‘No,’ she had averred determinedly, ‘you’re needed at the salon, and it’s about time I was able to stand on my own two feet where Jonas is concerned!’
Angela had protested, of course, and Julie’s mother had shed a few tears, but they had both realized that in this Julie was adamant. Perhaps it would do her good to see Jonas again, she had told herself in some of her bleaker moments. Although her love for him had died when she had discovered his duplicity, she had always considered him a fascinating man, and no doubt now that she was older she would see that hero-worship for what it was. She had been only nineteen at the time of their marriage while he had been thirty, and as the marriage had broken up after only a little over two years, she had been just twenty-one then. Now she was twenty-four, and far more capable of assessing a man objectively.
The train was pulling into another station and her nerves tightened, but again it was not Achnacraig. This time her companion got up to leave the train and Julie was alone in the compartment. She sighed, peering through the darkness in an effort to see what was beyond as they left the small station far behind. But the blackness was too complete and she glanced impatiently at her wrist watch. It was a little after seven and she knew that part of her coldness came from hunger. Perhaps she should have stayed overnight in Inverness and travelled on to Achnacraig in the morning. But that would have meant another day, and she was eager to get the interview over and done with and be gone. Even so, it would have given her the added advantage of arriving in daylight, whereas now it could have been midnight if one considered the deserted platforms of the stations they had passed. She hoped that Achnacraig was a little more prepossessing.
Her suitcase was lodged between two seats, so she got up and pulled it out, ready for alighting. It couldn’t be much further, surely. She fastened the buttons of her sheepskin coat and looked down at the long suede boots covering her legs to the knee. At least she looked business-like, she decided grimly. She had no intention of allowing Jonas any possibility of imagining that she had come here for any other reason than the given one.
The train was slowing again and Julie pressed her nose against the window pane, drawing back impatiently as her breath misted on the glass. She rubbed it clear and stared at the sign. Achnacraig.
Her pulses quickening in spite of herself, she gathered her handbag, briefcase, and the small suitcase she had brought and hurried to the carriage door. But as the train came to a jerky halt it swung open and had she not grabbed the panelling to save herself, she would have been projected forward into the arms of the man standing below her on the platform. He was a tall man, lean and dark-skinned, with overly long dark hair, dressed in a shabby navy duffel coat, dark trousers and wellingtons. Julie stared at him almost disbelievingly, but there was no mistaking the heavy-lidded dark eyes, the high cheekbones and mockingly twisted mouth with its full lower lip. He had always been a disturbingly attractive man, and she wondered with a fleeting sense of remorse whether women were always more prepared to condemn an attractive man than an unattractive one.
‘Jonas!’ she managed, as he stooped to pick up the briefcase she had dropped in her efforts to save herself. ‘What are you doing here?’
As soon as the words were out she realized how ridiculous they must sound. He straightened and regarded her humorously.
‘Didn’t you expect to see me?’ he queried sardonically.
‘Well, yes – yes, of course.’ She came down the steps on to the platform, looking about her in an effort to conceal the shock he had given her by confronting her so unexpectedly, and he took the suitcase from her unresisting fingers. ‘Wh-what I meant was – I – I didn’t expect you to meet me.’
‘Didn’t you?’ He glanced down at her. ‘But you wrote and told me when you were coming.’
‘Yes, I know I did …’ She paused, shivering in the wind that blew through the open ends of the small station. This wasn’t at all how she had planned the interview to be. How like Jonas to disconcert her like this, she thought rather uncharitably. ‘What I’m trying to say is – I merely wrote so that you would know when to expect me.’ She sighed. ‘I – I was planning to come and see you tomorrow.’
‘Were you?’ Jonas didn’t sound at all impressed. ‘And where were you proposing to spend the night? Or have you got a tent and sleeping bag in your suitcase?’
Julie looked up at him resentfully. ‘I intend to spend the night at the nearest hotel or guest-house.’
‘Do you?’ He had an annoying habit of questioning her every statement. ‘Well, shall we go? Old Angus won’t welcome you if you keep him waiting to collect your ticket.’
He started away towards the barrier and she had, perforce, to follow him. The wind was tugging wisps of hair from the chignon on the nape of her neck and she tried to tuck the chestnut strands back into place, without much success.
‘I – where do you think you’re going with my suitcase?’ she demanded breathlessly.
Jonas cast an impatient look at her. ‘Well, I’m not making off with it,’ he returned coolly. Then: ‘Ah, here we are, Angus. Last – but not least, as they say.’
As she fumbled for her ticket, Angus cast a dour look in Julie’s direction. He seemed awfully old still to be working, but perhaps it was the single swaying light above their heads that cast such shadows across his gnarled face.
‘Not much of a night, Mr. Hunter,’ he said, and Julie was momentarily distracted by his lilting brogue. ‘May be snow before morning, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Julie’s heart leapt as she handed over the ticket. Snow? In October? Surely not.
She hesitated as the old man was about to turn away, and said tentatively: ‘Excuse me …’
Jonas stopped some few feet ahead of her and turned, a frown marring his lean features.
‘Yes, miss?’ Angus looked expectantly at her.
Julie caught her breath. ‘I – is there somewhere – that is – do you happen to know where I might find accommodation for the night?’
‘Accommodation, was it?’ Angus shook his head slowly and Julie’s heart sank. Then Jonas was beside her, his hand hard and unyielding about her arm.
‘There are no hotels in Achnacraig, Julie,’ he said coldly, his eyes daring her to contradict him. ‘Besides, I have – accommodation arranged for you.’
Angus had lost interest and was already turning away into his cosy office leaving them alone on the deserted platform. Julie turned to Jonas angrily. ‘What do you mean – you have accommodation arranged?’
‘Just what I say.’ Jonas shifted her suitcase into his other hand.
‘At a guest-house, you mean?’
