Mask Of Scars

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 [e-mail] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Mask of Scars

Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

BY the time the train pulled into the station at Lagos, Christina felt she had had a surfeit of glorious countryside and even more delightful coastline lit by the brilliance of the Mediterranean sun, and she would have been prepared to forgo such beauty in favour of a cooling shower and a change of clothes. Although she was wearing the minimum in underwear, the thin cotton jeans were clinging to her slender legs and the pink shirt which had been crisp and attractive when she set out from the pensao in Lisbon that morning was now limp, too. She felt hot and sticky and she half wished she had buried her pride and used the money Bruce had sent to buy an air ticket to Portugal.

But knowing her sister-in-law as she did she was firmly convinced that she knew nothing of her husband’s generosity, and it was quite within Sheila’s capabilities for her to question how Christina, who was apparently without funds, could afford the air fare to Faro. And the very last thing Christina wanted was to create friction between her brother and his wife at the start of her stay.

Lagos was the train terminal and there were several other passengers disembarking as Christina tugged her duffel bag and rather shabby suitcase on to the platform. Some of the other passengers were tourists, and in expensive continental gear and with porters carrying their blatantly new suitcases they were in complete contrast to Christina’s crumpled appearance. But she didn’t mind. With the inconsequence of youth it never troubled her what anyone thought about her, and she tossed back the curtain of corn-coloured hair that fell straightly about her shoulders as she bent to lift the duffel bag on to her back, and regarded her fellow passengers with something like amused tolerance in her clear grey eyes.

Outside the station the taxis were quickly commandeered and Christina looked about her doubtfully, wondering which way was the bus station. If she had troubled to inform Bruce of her estimated time of arrival, she knew he would have either sent someone to meet her or come himself, but she preferred the independence of making her own arrangements, a trait which had landed her in trouble at the University on more than one occasion.

Lagos seemed an attractive little town and even at this early hour of the evening, there were plenty of people strolling about, enjoying the sunshine or taking coffee at one or other of the exotic little open-air cafés and restaurants. Christina would have liked to have had some coffee and a sandwich herself, but Bruce’s small hotel was not here, it was at Porto Cedro, and she realised she would have to make some definite move towards getting there before it was dark.

Dropping her suitcase, she rummaged in her duffel bag and brought out a rather tattered-looking map which she had picked up for a few pence in Chelsea High Street, and spreading it awkwardly, she traced the line of her route from Lagos to the small village where her brother lived. According to the map it was some five miles west on the road to Sagres, and with an indifferent shrug she folded the map again and put it away. Five miles wasn’t far. She could probably walk it more easily than she could struggle to find the bus station when her knowledge of Portuguese was limited to a phrase book tucked into her jeans’ pocket.

Swinging the duffel bag back on to her shoulders, she made her way towards the outskirts of the small town, using the coastline as a guide. But as she neared the steep cliffs which fell away to a beach bleached almost white by the sun she wanted to linger and savour the knowledge that for three months she would be able to feast her eyes on such scenes and luxuriate in the deepening warmth of the sun. She longed to go down on the beach and find coolness in the creaming blue waters that lapped the shoreline, but common sense told her that she could not do so now. But tomorrow, she promised herself fiercely, tomorrow …

The road to Sagres was dusty and narrow, and although the sun was sinking it was still very hot. Christina ran a hand round the back of her neck under the weight of her hair and sighed in incredulity when she considered that it had been raining when she left London yesterday and for June the weather was unseasonably cold. Or was it? she thought wryly. Wasn’t English weather always unseasonable?

A lumbering cattle truck passed her, throwing up a cloud of dust which made her stop and cough chokingly for a moment. The driver halted and waved to her, obviously offering a lift, but although the prospect was inviting Christina declined. It wasn’t that she had never accepted a lift before, but simply that she preferred to take this slower pace. After all, no matter how attractive these three months in Porto Cedro might seem, she was quite aware that Sheila would demand and get value for her so-called hospitality, and Christina was prepared to make beds and scrub floors and wash dishes and do all the mundane tasks necessary to the efficient upkeep of a small hotel. But no matter how arduous these three months might be, at the end of each day she would be her own mistress, and there was always Bruce to share her enjoyment with.

She trudged on, the suitcase getting heavier by the minute and the duffel bag’s ropes digging into her shoulders. She should have taken the lift she had been offered. She would have been in Porto Cedro by now. She sighed. The last signpost a few yards back had said only four more kilometres to the village. Surely they would not take her much longer now.

A couple of cars passed her going in the opposite direction and she thought how wonderful it would be if she were to meet Bruce in that way. But then perhaps not, she amended to herself dryly. If Sheila were with him she would be horrified at Christina choosing to walk all this way along roads she did not know when anyone might happen along to molest her. But then Sheila was a very correct person, and perhaps that was why she and Christina had never got along very well together. It was not that Christina was entirely irresponsible; it was simply that Sheila did not and had not ever understood the independence of youth.

The sound of tyres on the dusty road came to Christina’s ears and she glanced round in time to see a huge black limousine approaching. With a casual movement she jerked her thumb in the direction she was going, her thoughts of Sheila goading her into doing the very thing she knew her sister-in-law would most disapprove of.

But she need not have bothered. The huge car with its sleek lines and a rather curious insignia engraved on its side swept past in complete indifference to her presence, although as the dust surged over her Christina was indignantly aware that the car had passed deliberately closely, almost forcing her on to the grass verge.

Hunching her shoulders, Christina looked resentfully after the retreating chauffeur-driven vehicle and then with a characteristic shrug, she again pressed on.

At last the outlying cottages of the village came into view and Christina could not suppress the wave of excitement that enveloped her. It was almost a year since she had last seen her brother and previously they had been very close, not even Sheila’s jealous hostility causing more than a brief ripple on the surface of their friendship.

In his letter Bruce had told her that the Hotel Inglês stood above a small cove. He had said that the whole area was riddled with small coves and rocky promontories giving way to caves and rock-pools when the tide was out. He had said the swimming was excellent and that he himself had taken up snorkelling and skin-diving. He had said the sea was amazingly clear, and looking down on its lucid depths Christina could quite believe it.

Porto Cedro nestled on the side of the cliffs, a market square providing a small bus station and its focal point a stone fountain. The houses around the square were painted in pastel shades with white shutters and deliciously hanging eaves that provided slanting patches of shade on the paths. Some had grilles in wrought iron, and arches, relics of Moorish occupation and influence. There was something faintly eastern about it and Christina found it all very picturesque. Her vivid imagination conjured up scenes of Moorish pirates swarming along these narrow streets swinging cutlasses and carrying off the most beautiful women for their harems.

She smiled to herself suddenly and in so doing attracted the attention of a group of young men passing by so that they spoke to her invitingly in their own language, raising their dark eyebrows and allowing their breath to be expelled in low whistles.

Christina shook her head almost imperceptibly and turned determinedly through a walk between tall dark houses that led to the sea-front, to her relief she saw the sign for the Hotel Inglês almost immediately. Porto Cedro did not sport many hotels, and in fact the Hotel Inglês was little more than a glorified pensao. In the glittering rays of the setting sun, it looked less glamorous somehow than she had imagined it, some of the paintwork peeling in the heat, the tables standing carelessly before it still covered in dirty crockery where someone, tourists possibly, had taken afternoon tea. But for all that she felt a surge of pride that Bruce should have such an establishment, and she walked quickly up the shallow steps and through the screen of hanging plastic beads that protected the hall from the glare of the sun.

The hall was tiled in plastic tiles and there was a small reception desk on which was a bell which indicated its use for attention. But Christina hesitated a moment before pressing it. She wanted to look around and absorb her surroundings before she warned anyone of her arrival.

From the hall, arched doorways led into the dining room and another room which could have been a lounge. To the left was the small bar, deserted at the moment, without even a barman to attend to any customer who might suddenly appear. Everywhere was clean, spotlessly so, and Christina’s spirits rose. It was foolish to allow this ominous feeling of anti-climax to cloud her happiness at being here—with Bruce.

The sound of footsteps coming along the corridor to her right caused her to swing round sharply just as Sheila, her sister-in-law, was beginning: ‘Sinto muito, menina—–’ But she broke off in obvious astonishment as she recognised Christina and her face changed remarkably from smiling welcome to veiled hostility: ‘Christina! In heaven’s name, Christina, what are you doing here?’

Christina felt the first twinges of real anxiety. ‘I—I walked here—from the station at Lagos!’

Sheila shook her head incredulously. ‘But what are you doing here in Portugal? I thought you were at university!’

Christina’s fingers fumbled with the ropes of her duffel bag. ‘I was. It’s the summer vac, Sheila.’

Sheila Ashley spread a hand helplessly. ‘Christina, maybe I’m phrasing my questions badly, or maybe you’re deliberately misunderstanding me, I don’t know, but I want to know why, even if it is the summer vacation, you’re here!’

Christina’s anxieties crystallised into real doubts. ‘Do—do you mean to say—I’m not expected?’ she ventured carefully, her grey eyes never leaving her sister-in-law’s face.

Sheila Ashley was an attractive woman. In her early thirties she had all the poise and elegance of a fashion model. Tall and slim, with sleek dark hair knotted at the back of her head, she had none of the slightly harassed air sometimes visible in the faces of married women, and Christina privately thought that that was because nothing ever moved Sheila. Nothing ever troubled her more than slightly, and as she had no children no disfiguring bulk of pregnancy had ever marred that slender frame. But right now Sheila was disturbed. It was visible in the tightening of her lips, in the narrowing of her dark eyes, in the way she plucked almost nervously at the fine material of her thin dress.

‘How could you be?’ she began now, in answer to Christina’s question. ‘We didn’t even know the term was over.’

Christina felt an overwhelming sense of impatience. It was obvious now. Bruce had not told his wife she was coming. And because she had not written to let him know when she was arriving he had not had a chance to tell her. She should have known that Sheila would be the last person to welcome her young sister-in-law into their home.

But now Christina had to say something, and realising it would serve no useful purpose to explain that Bruce had written to her inviting her to stay and help them with the hotel, she said:

‘I naturally assumed that once the university closed I would be welcome here for a couple of weeks. Now that Father’s dead—–’

‘But you should have let us know you were coming, Christina,’ Sheila burst out. ‘I mean, your father’s been dead ten months now, and you must have realised before the term ended that you would have to find a job of sorts to support yourself now that university’s closed!’

Christina hesitated. ‘Actually, I thought I might help you here, Sheila.’

Sheila’s eyes widened in amazement. ‘You mean—you mean work here—in the hotel!’

‘Yes.’ Christina glanced through the open doorway towards the uncleared tables on the forecourt. ‘Don’t you need some help?’

Sheila was clearly battling within herself now, unable to find any logical reason to reject such a suggestion. ‘We manage,’ she began. ‘There’s not just Bruce and me, you know. Julio serves in the bar in the evenings, and Maria does all the cooking.’

Christina wondered where Bruce could be. Standing here in the hall like this, arguing with Sheila, was hardly the welcome she had envisaged, and she had the distinct feeling that Sheila would send her away without even seeing her brother if she could.

‘Where is Bruce?’ she questioned now. ‘Isn’t he here?’

‘No—yes—that is, he’s out right now.’ Sheila bit her lip. ‘Look, Christina, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but quite honestly you’re not the type to work in the hotel.’ She surveyed Christina’s appearance critically. ‘What on earth could you do?’

‘I can make beds, wash dishes—anything you like.’ Christina sighed. ‘Do you think I could have a cup of tea? I’m terribly thirsty.’

Sheila gave in with ill grace. Short of physically ejecting Christina from the building there was little else she could do. ‘Very well,’ she agreed shortly. ‘Come through here. Our rooms are at the back of the hotel.’

Christina followed her sister-in-law along a white-emulsioned passage to a room at the back of the building which overlooked a walled garden. It was not a big garden, but it was a veritable wilderness of flowers and flowering shrubs. Christina stared out at the confusion in delight, wondering how anyone could allow such beauty to go to waste.

Sheila, noticing her interest, commented off-handedly: ‘We don’t have time to attend to the garden. When Bruce has the time, he’s going to find a gardener.’

Christina thought she might have added, when Bruce can afford it, but she refrained from making any response and dropping her duffel bag and suitcase thankfully, she flung herself into a low basket weave chair. Sheila walked through into a small kitchen, and Christina could hear her filling the kettle and setting cups on saucers. There was a kind of suppressed violence about the way each cup clattered into its place, and Christina sighed, cupping her chin on one hand dejectedly. She had expected antipathy from Sheila, but not to this extent.

Sheila came back into the room. ‘How long did you expect to stay?’ she asked abruptly.

Christina was taken aback. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Of course it matters. Christina, this is Porto Cedro, not the Kings Road! Things are different here. Oh, I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to you, but—well, your ways are so very different from ours. People here are not so—easy-going, as they are back in England. I can’t speak for Portugal as a whole, of course, but here in the Algarve, in Porto Cedro particularly, we observe the codes of conduct that have been upheld here for centuries!’

Christina frowned. ‘Don’t you mean the rules for the Portuguese?’

‘Yes, of course. And as we live here—we make our living in this village—we are expected to conform, too.’

‘You can’t be serious!’ Christina stared at her.

‘Of course I’m serious. That’s why I find your presence here so hard to condone. Christina, you’re a nice girl, and I’ve no doubt in England your attitudes would go unnoticed—–’

‘What do you mean? My attitudes?’ Christina was stung by the scathing note in Sheila’s voice.

‘Well, honestly, dear, one doesn’t wear slacks, let alone jeans, unless one is going sailing, of course. And young women are protected here. They’re not even allowed to mix with their fiancés unless a chaperon is on hand—–’

‘But I’m not Portuguese, Sheila—–’

‘But can’t you see, Christina, I’m trying to explain. When one lives in a country—when one makes one’s living from that country—one is expected to observe the rules,’

‘Rules!’ Christina raised her eyes heavenward. ‘Honestly, Sheila, you can’t expect me to believe that no tourists appear here dressed as I’m dressed. That everyone who visits Porto Cedro observes these so-called rules!’

‘Of course I’m not saying that. As a tourist I suppose you’d go unnoticed. But you’re not a tourist, are you, Christina? You’re Bruce’s sister. And once that gets about, you’ll be expected to behave as we do.’

Christina hunched her shoulders. ‘Why don’t you just say you don’t want me here whatever the circumstances and be done with it?’ she demanded hotly. ‘You don’t really expect me to stomach all that rubbish about my clothes and mixing with the opposite sex—and being protected, do you?’

Sheila stiffened. ‘All right, Christina. As you insist on putting everything in such crude terms, I’ll be honest. I admit I don’t want you here. But regardless of anything I feel personally, the situation remains the same. You simply wouldn’t fit in.’

‘What’s going on here? Christina!’

The male voice that broke into their conversation brought both women up short. Bruce Ashley stood in the doorway, tall and broad and to Christina, dearly familiar. She flung herself out of her chair and across the room into his arms, uncaring what Sheila might think.

Bruce held her closely for a few minutes and then he held her at arm’s length and stared at her as though he could not believe his eyes. ‘Christina! What the hell do you mean by appearing like this? Why didn’t you let me know so that I could meet you? Have you come by air?’

Christina shook her head quickly. ‘Where would I get the money to buy an air ticket?’ she asked meaningfully, holding his eyes with hers, trying to convey wordlessly what had passed between herself and Sheila.

Bruce frowned, but he seemed to gather what she meant, for he inclined his head slowly, and said: ‘Well, anyway, you should have written and told us when to expect you.’

Sheila looked at him suspiciously. ‘Did you know Christina was coming, Bruce?’ she asked sharply.

Bruce hesitated. ‘I thought she might. Why not? We’re her only kin. Why shouldn’t she come here? This is her home?’

‘Christina is eighteen, Bruce. Not a child.’

‘Eighteen? What’s eighteen?’ Bruce chewed his lip. ‘If we’d still been living in Kensington, she’d have come to us then, wouldn’t she?’

‘Maybe. But we’re not still living in Kensington, Bruce. The situation here is different—I’ve been trying to explain. Christina just wouldn’t fit in here. She’s not used to restrictions.’

‘What nonsense!’ Bruce released Christina and felt about in his pockets for his cigarettes. ‘Why shouldn’t she fit in here? She—er—she could help about in the hotel. That way she’d earn her keep.’

Sheila pushed past him and walked into the kitchen to make the tea. When she came back with the tray a few moments later Christina could see she was having difficulty controlling her temper.

Meanwhile Bruce had flung himself into a comfortable chair and was asking Christina about her work at the university. It had been unfortunate that Mr. Ashley had died within a week of her taking up her studies, but the different environment had in some ways allayed the grief she would otherwise have suffered. They had been very close, she and her father, particularly since Bruce was married and his wife had never shown any desire to involve herself with her husband’s family. Christina’s mother had died when she was twelve, and she remembered her only as a rather fragile individual, always suffering from headaches and ill health, spending her days on the couch in the lounge of the house they had had in Wimbledon.