Rachel Trevellyan

Rachel Trevellyan
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. A reluctant attraction…Rachel is far from happy at the Marquesa de Mendeo’s imposing quinta in Portugal. Despite being there at the Marquesa’s invitation, the Marquesa’s wife has makes no attempt to disguise that she is not welcome. The Marquesa’s son Luis, the deliciously attractive Marques de Mendao, has made his contempt for Rachel crystal clear too… and yet she can’t seem to control her unwilling attraction to him. Rachel is already married, and the situation can’t continue… but how can it possibly end well?!

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.

Rachel Trevellyan

Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Table of Contents

Cover (#ue8b0bc8e-3fbc-5165-9352-8a7341496573)

About the Author (#ucaa43daf-8e08-525c-98bc-26a310c694c1)

Title Page (#u69ef9056-e2e0-5e31-b7e1-3060888b0a52)

CHAPTER ONE (#u9e3b2608-38be-5129-8b5f-93cb007e9d99)

CHAPTER TWO (#u65247ba9-1f75-5ce3-b9c5-6a57e6570462)

CHAPTER THREE (#u3f18d1ed-a49c-5ae2-8f7a-d97487edf8b3)

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)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_d2be83af-8b76-5cec-b0a2-b4c749e6d559)

HE was tired, very tired. The road through Cornwall had not been at all what he had expected after the long, fast-moving roads of his own country, and it had slowed his progress considerably. It was now after eight o’clock, darkness had fallen, and to add to his difficulties a sea fret was making the road ahead very hard to distinguish even with powerful headlights.

From Launceston the road had twisted and turned narrowly, an annoyance to the most patient of drivers, which he would be the first to admit he was not, and since leaving Penzance it had deteriorated into little more than a country lane. A series of sharp bends and precipitous summits had kept him continually in a low gear, and demanded all his concentration.

Occasionally, it had occurred to him that he was a fool, that he should not have agreed to undertake this journey at this time of the year. Although it was spring back home, it was still winter here even in this southern corner of England. But his mother had been so persuasive that he had not had the heart to refuse her. Apparently, Malcolm Trevellyan’s family had been kind to her in the past, and now that Malcolm was ill it was only natural that she should want to try and repay that kindness in some way. It was a long time since he had seen his mother so agitated about anything, and he had submitted to her demands for urgency.

He realised, too, that in spite of his mother’s almost total adaptation to the Portuguese way of life, since his father’s death two years ago she sometimes felt lonely and perhaps longed for someone from her native country to talk to.

He consulted the broad gold watch on its plain leather strap which encircled his wrist under the cuff of his plain grey suede jacket. Surely it could not be much further to Mawvry. His mother had said it was about ten miles from Penzance, which in the measurements he was used to meant something over sixteen kilometres. But on these roads and in these conditions it had seemed much further.

He began considering the arrangements he had made to transfer Malcolm Trevellyan to Mendao. Trevellyan was not a young man, and disabled into the bargain. He had had a severe attack of thrombosis two months ago which had left him partially paralysed and therefore unable to walk. But he was capable of riding in the back of a car, and that was why he had had this luxurious limousine made available to him at London Airport. Tomorrow they would make the return journey to London, board the plane for Lisbon, and be in Mendao by late afternoon. It was as simple as that. He did not want to stay longer. He had his own reasons for wishing to return to his estate as soon as possible. And once at the Quinta Martinez, Malcolm Trevellyan would want for nothing—his mother would see to that.

A signpost loomed out of the mist and the word Mawvry could clearly be seen. He sighed with relief. He was here at last. Now all he had to do was find the house of Malcolm Trevellyan.

The village was small, and when he parked the car in the square and slid stiffly from behind the driving wheel, the tang of salt filled his nostrils. Obviously he must be very near the sea, but at the moment the mist shrouded everything but his immediate surroundings.

Across the square a swinging sign indicated a tavern which appeared to be doing good business judging from the noise from within, and deciding it would be simpler to enquire the whereabouts of Malcolm Trevellyan’s house rather than attempting to find it he pulled a fur-lined jacket from the back of his car. Sliding his arms into the sleeves, he crossed the square, his collar turned up against the weather. He shivered. Even in the coldest months Mendao was not like this, and he thought with longing of the baroque beauty of the quinta, the lush valley in which it was situated, and the vivid blueness of the ocean that lapped not too many miles away. It would have been so much easier, he thought, not to have come himself; to have sent Alonzo Diaz or Juan d’Almera. But his mother had been curiously determined that he should be the one, and he imagined she wanted Malcolm Trevellyan to know that her invitation was a personal one.

The noise in the thick, smoky atmosphere of the bar decreased almost immediately when he pushed open the door. He felt the wave of curiosity that swept over the room, a sense of almost alien hostility.

He made his way to the bar and stood there, tall and dark, taller and darker than most of these dark Cornishmen. Speaking in slightly accented English, he said: ‘Pardon me, but could you direct me to the house of a Senhor Malcolm Trevellyan?’

The bartender stopped polishing the glass in his hand and he could have sworn the hostility around him strengthened.