Loren's Baby

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.

Loren’s Baby

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

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

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 had all the time in the world.

Putting the engine into gear again, she drove forward and with a feeling of inevitability brought the car to a halt at the stone posts supporting the sign ‘Water’s Reach’. There was nothing else for it; she would have to ask directions. Surely whoever owned Water’s Reach would know where Druid’s Fleet could be found.

Beyond the gateposts, the drive sloped away quickly between pine trees, and with a shrug she locked the car and with her handbag slung over one shoulder, descended the steep gradient. She could see the roof of a house between the branches of the trees, and as she got nearer she saw it was a split-level ranch-style building whose stonework blended smoothly into its back-drop of fir and silver spruce. A porch provided shelter as she rang the bell, and she stood back from the entrance as she waited, admiring the view away to the right where the dipping rays of the sun turned the sails of a yacht on the horizon to orange flames of colour. Only the wind was a little chilly now, striking through the fine wool of her violet jersey suit.

The door had opened without her being aware of it; and she turned to face cold grey eyes set beneath darkly-arched brows. Expertly streaked blonde hair was drawn smoothly into a chignon on the nape of the woman’s neck, while the elegant navy overall she wore bore witness to the fact that she had been interrupted while she was baking.

‘Oh, I beg your pardon.’ Caryn hid her nervousness in a smile. ‘I wonder if you can help me.’ The woman, Caryn guessed she must be about thirty, said nothing, just continued to stare inquiringly at her, and she hurried on: ‘I’m looking for a house called—Druid’s Fleet. Do you—’

‘Who is it, Marcia?’

The impatient male voice from somewhere inside the house was vaguely familiar, and the woman turned automatically towards the sound. Caryn, half afraid she was about to close the door in her face, exclaimed: ‘I’m so sorry if I’ve come at an inconvenient moment, but—’

She broke off abruptly as a man appeared behind the woman. For a moment she was too shocked to do anything but stare at him, but perhaps he was used to the effect his appearance had on girls. And why not? Those harshly etched sardonic features, vaguely haggard in appearance, were apparently capable of mesmerising his viewers, and Loren had told her he got more mail than any other interviewer in his field. For all that, he was taller than she had expected, and his lean body showed no signs as yet of the dissipations he indulged in, and considering she knew he was at least forty, his corn-fair hair showed little sign of grey. Of course, he was deeply tanned from his last assignment in East Africa, the one Loren had kept all those cuttings about, and his hair was no doubt bleached by the sun, thus disguising any unwelcome signs of encroaching age, but in his dark mohair business suit, he didn’t look a day over thirty-five.

Recovering herself, Caryn realised both he and the woman were looking at her now, and colouring hotly, she said: ‘Mr Ross?’ annoyed to find her voice trembled a little as she spoke.

‘Yes?’ He sounded impatient now, and she felt resentful that he should. After all, she had not expected to find him here. Come to think of it, what was he doing here?

‘I—I’ve been looking for your house, Mr Ross,’ she said carefully, unwilling to say too much in front of the woman, and his expression suddenly changed.

‘Hey!’ he exclaimed, his impatience disappearing as swiftly as it had come. ‘You’re not from the agency, are you? My God! I never thought they’d send anyone so promptly.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Hell, I’ve got to be at the studios in half an hour. Can you wait till I get back?’

Caryn opened her mouth to protest that she was not from any agency, and then closed it again. Why not, if it served the purpose? She could easily explain her subterfuge when they spoke privately together.

‘Druid’s Fleet?’ she ventured, avoiding a direct reply, and he shook his head.

‘This is Druid’s Fleet,’ he explained apologetically. ‘I guess you saw the old sign on the gatepost. I keep that there to discourage unwelcome sightseers. That’s who we thought you were.’

‘Oh.’

Caryn was taken aback, and the woman, Marcia, gave Ross a curious look. Then Tristan Ross was inviting her in, and feeling only slightly guilty, Caryn stepped inside.

She found herself in a large open hall, with stairs leading both down and up. The floor was polished here, heavy wood blocks with a gleaming patina, that were an attractive foil for the skin rugs that enhanced its aura of age. There was an antique chest supporting a bowl of creamy yellow roses, and matching silk curtains billowed in the breeze beside the archway that led through to the dining room.

As Caryn followed Tristan Ross down the steps which led into the main body of the house, she was aware of Marcia coming behind her, and speculated on her relationship to the master of the house. His girl-friend, perhaps; or his mistress, she mused rather bitterly. He seemed to like to have a woman about the place. Loren had discovered that.

He led the way into a magnificent sitting room with long windows that looked out over the estuary. A padded window seat invited relaxation, or there were two squashy velvet couches, one either side of the stone fireplace, matching the heavy apricot velvet of the floor-length curtains. A coffee-coloured carpet fitted every comer, and the casual tables set around the room in no way encroached upon the feeling of space the room engendered.

Ross halted in the middle of the room and turned to face her. ‘Have you eaten?’

Caryn shook her head, but hastened to add that she wasn’t particularly hungry.

‘Nonsense,’ he exclaimed. ‘Marcia will see you get something that appeals to you, and I’ll be back in about two hours. I’m sorry about this, but I did warn the agency—’

‘It’s all right, really.’ Caryn didn’t want to get involved in discussions about the agency right now. ‘I—I don’t mind waiting.’

‘Very well.’ He raised his eyes to Marcia who was standing in the doorway. ‘Can I leave it to you to see that Miss—Miss—’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, you didn’t give me your name.’

Caryn thought quickly. ‘Er—Mellor,’ she got out jerkily. ‘Susan Mellor.’

She thought his eyes narrowed for a moment, but then he was walking swiftly across the room again, past her to the door. ‘Look after Miss Mellor, will you, Marcia?’ she heard him say quietly, and then she heard him mount the steps again to the front door. It closed behind him a few moments later, and she was alone with her unwilling hostess.

The silence that followed his departure was broken only by Caryn smoothing moistened palms down her skirt. Then she faced Marcia with an apologetic smile.

‘There’s really no need to go to any trouble on my account. I—er—I honestly am not very hungry.’

Marcia considered her silently, and it was unnerving. What was wrong with the woman? Caryn thought impatiently. Why didn’t she say anything?

‘Have you lived here long?’ she asked, and then realising how pointed that sounded, added: ‘I mean—it’s a very beautiful place to live, isn’t it? I love Wales. I used to come here as a child. We used to camp on the Gower peninsula …’

Marcia inclined her head, as if in acknowledgement of Caryn’s words, and then turned and walked away, across the lower hall and down two steps and through another door. Leading where? Caryn wondered. The kitchen, probably. What a taciturn creature she was! As if she couldn’t have said something!

Left to herself, she relaxed somewhat. Well, she was here, and she was within reach of her goal. Or at least within sight of it. And she had been given two hours grace to augment her defences.

She walked across to the windows and admired the view. Then her eyes dropped to the terraced garden that fell away beneath her, and to the wooden flight of steps which led down to the boathouse. Loren had said there were thirty-seven steps, and she had had plenty of time to count them. Dangerous for a child perhaps, but that was not her problem.

Dropping her handbag on to the padded chocolate-brown cushions of the window seat, she half knelt beside it, feeling the familiar pang as she remembered what Loren had suffered. Why should he get away scot free?

She had been kneeling there for some time, hardly aware of the light fading until the switching on of a lamp brought her round with a start. Marcia had re-entered the room in that silent way of hers, and in her hands she carried a tray.

‘Oh, you shouldn’t have bothered!’ Caryn exclaimed, sliding off the window seat, as Marcia set the tray down on one of the low tables nearby. But the smell of minestrone and fresh salmon was delectable, and she looked down on the meal the woman had prepared for her with undisguised gratitude.

Marcia spread her hands, and Caryn felt the guilt of false pretences colouring her cheeks once more. ‘I say—won’t you join me?’

Marcia shook her head. Her expression seldom altered, and Caryn was perplexed. Unless the woman couldn’t speak, of course. But she must be able to hear. She had answered the doorbell, hadn’t she? Yet how could she broach such a suggestion?

Marcia withdrew again, and with a shrug of defeat, Caryn seated herself on the couch beside the tray. She was hungry, she realised that now, and she remembered the old adage about fighting better on a full stomach.

But as she ate, she couldn’t help wishing she had been able to ring Bob and Laura before coming here. It was going to be so late now before she got back to the hotel in Carmarthen, and she hoped they wouldn’t worry. Still, he was in good hands, and that was the main thing.

Marcia reappeared with coffee as Caryn was finishing sampling the delights of a chocolate pudding. She had shed her overall to reveal a plain tailored grey dress, and looked more than ever like the lady of the house. Perhaps she was, thought Caryn doubtfully. Perhaps she should find out before Tristan Ross got back.

‘That was absolutely delicious,’ she said now, wiping her mouth on a napkin. ‘Did you make the minestrone yourself? I’ve never tasted anything nicer.’

Marcia nodded, and retrieved the tray after setting down the coffee pot beside it. She was about to withdraw again, and on impulse Caryn got to her feet.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Don’t rush away on my account.’

But Marcia’s thin lips merely twitched slightly before she bowed her head and went away.

Caryn subsided on to the couch again. If Marcia wasn’t dumb she was giving a damn good imitation of being so. She sighed, and reached for the coffee pot. Oh, well! If she didn’t want to talk, she didn’t want to talk. And maybe it was as well. She didn’t want to get involved here—not more than necessary, anyway.

Her coffee finished, she looked about her restlessly. There was no television, which was unusual. She would have expected him to have one in every room. Was he on this evening? Was that why he had had to leave for the studios in Carmarthen? Or was it simply a pre-recording for something that was going out later?

Getting to her feet, she wandered round the large room. It was a man’s room, she thought reluctantly. There were no ornaments to speak of, no china cabinet or collection of porcelain in sealed cases. There were bookshelves, but she couldn’t believe anyone actually read such heavy, boring tomes, and she longed for the sight of a paperback or a magazine, anything to fill the time until Tristan Ross returned.

A silver trophy on the mantelshelf turned out to be an award from the Television Academy of Arts and Sciences for his contributions to the popular news programme Action World, and beside it was a bronze shield denoting Tristan Ross as Outstanding Television Correspondent for 1976.

Caryn pulled a face and put the awards down again, wondering in passing whether a silver trophy would smash if it fell into the stone hearth. It probably would, but she was not brave enough to find out. She could imagine her stammering apology: ‘I—I’m s-sorry, Mr Ross. It—it just s-slipped out of m-my f-fingers …’

Outside darkness had fallen, and she went to take another look over the estuary. The lights of the village were comforting across the water, and here and there a mooring light winked on the rising tide. A person could get delusions of grandeur living here, she thought cynically. Remote from the problems of the world outside.

The sound of a car’s engine broke the stillness, and although she hadn’t heard him leave, Caryn guessed her host had returned. She glanced at her watch. Eight-thirty. She raised her dark eyebrows. He was prompt anyway; she should be thankful for small mercies.

A door slammed, and then surprisingly, a female voice called: ‘Marcia! Marcia, I’m back! Whose car is that parked at our gate? I almost ran into the wretched thing! ‘

Caryn stiffened. Another visitor? Someone well-used to coming here anyway. Who else had a key to the door? Her lips tightened as she thought again of Loren’s waxen features. Oh, Tristan Ross had such a rude awakening coming to him!

Light footsteps ran down the stairs, and a moment later a girl appeared in the open doorway—tall, slim, almost as tall as Caryn, in fact, who always considered her five feet eight inches to be less than an advantage, with straight fair hair and smooth pale skin. She was one of the most attractive young women Caryn had seen for some time, and her orange jump suit accentuated the slender grace of her figure while exposing more of the unblemished skin than was absolutely necessary.

She stopped short when she saw the other girl, and stared at her frowningly. Competition? wondered Caryn dryly, although she felt positively gipsy-dark beside such Scandinavian fairness. She tanned easily, and her skin was already brown, its texture caring nothing for the burning at of the sun. She guessed this girl would have to be careful, or she would burn all too easily. And she probably was, Caryn conceded. She looked as if she spent some time caring for her appearance.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded now, and relieved to find someone who was not averse to speaking with her, Caryn answered:

‘Susan—Mellor. I—I’m waiting to see Mr Ross.’

The girl frowned and came into the room. ‘Why?’

It was a leading question, and Caryn hesitated. She had no qualms about evading an answer, but she was curious to know who the girl was, and antagonising her was not going to help. In consequence she gave the answer Ross himself had suggested:

‘The—er—agency sent me.’

‘The agency!’

The girl stared at her, and Caryn realised in dismay that if the next question was ‘What agency?’ she was stumped. What sort of agency might a man like Ross have contacted? Hysterical humour bubbled in her throat. She ought to be hoping it was as innocent as it sounded.

But the girl said: ‘Do you mean the Llandath Agency?’ and that was even worse.

Crossing her fingers behind her back, Caryn nodded. ‘That’s right,’ she agreed manfully. ‘The Llandath Agency.’

‘You liar!’

It was worse than Caryn had imagined. The girl was staring at her unpleasantly, and what was worse, the woman Marcia had come to reinforce the opposition.

‘Tris asked me to call at the agency,’ the girl declared, glancing round at Marcia for her support. ‘And I forgot! So what the hell do you think you’re doing here? Are you a reporter or something? Or just one of those awful groupies?’

‘I’m not a groupie!’ exclaimed Caryn, fighting a ridiculous desire to laugh at the ludicrousness of the situation.

‘What are you, then? Because I’m damn sure you’re not a secretary!’

Caryn straightened her shoulders. ‘As a matter of fact, you’re wrong. I am a secretary,’ she stated, more calmly than she felt. ‘And—and Mr Ross—rang the agency.’

Half of it was true anyway, she consoled herself, but the girl wasn’t finished yet. ‘Tris wouldn’t do that. Not when he’d asked me to call. Why should he? He knew I’d be in Carmarthen all afternoon.’

‘Perhaps you’d better take that up with him,’ remarked Caryn equably, and then started as a masculine voice said: