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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.
Dark Castle
Anne Mather
Table of Contents
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