Follow Thy Desire

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.

Follow Thy Desire

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

CHAPTER TWELVE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IT was just a week to the wedding. Sitting before the mirror of her dressing table, putting the finishing touches to her make-up, Helen couldn’t quite believe it. Wide-eyed, she stroked mascara on to her lashes, her brows ascending in a gesture of incredulity. Six months ago, when Barry had first put his ring on her finger, the fifteenth of October had seemed a very long way away. But gradually, through those warm lazy days of summer, the time had slipped away, and now it loomed ahead with nothing between but a last-minute fitting for her bridal gown, and the usual round of gatherings arranged to meet the members of Barry’s family with whom she had yet to become acquainted. Barry had still to meet her aunt from Coventry who was coming north for the wedding, and her cousins Alison and Linda, who were to be bridesmaids, and there was his uncle and aunt from Basingstoke, and his stepbrother, Morgan, from East Africa, all of whom Helen had never met.

She had heard of Morgan, of course. Barry’s father had died when he was quite young and his mother had married again, to a widower who already had a teenage son. Barry had been too young to have much in common with his older stepbrother, and university followed by several years training at a London teaching hospital had not helped to seal the gap. By the time Barry was old enough to go to university, Morgan had married and left the country, and was presently living in Osweba, one of the emergent African states. Barry didn’t talk much about him, but his stepfather did, more in fact as time went by, and Helen guessed the old man regretted that his only son should have chosen to live so far away from his family. Yet his marriage to Barry’s mother had produced a daughter, and Barry and Susan were as close as any brother and sister. She was also to be one of Helen’s bridesmaids, although Helen herself found the younger girl rather silly and spoilt.

Rising from the padded bench that faced the mirror, Helen considered her reflection with critical eyes. Shoulder-length hair, the colour of maple syrup, framed a face which what it lacked in beauty more than made up for in warmth and vivacity. Wide brown eyes, unusual with her colour of hair, high cheekbones, and a full-lipped generous mouth, she attracted attention wherever she went, and while she wasn’t conceited, she was aware that men found her attractive. She was quite tall and slim, although not excessively so, and her work in therapy had taught her the art of listening to what people were saying and giving them her full attention, which was in itself an attractive trait. So many girls were too busy or too full of their own importance to pay attention to what other people were saying, particularly older people, but Helen always showed interest and maybe that was why Barry’s father had confided his anxiety about his son to her.

Wrapping the long cream velvet skirt about her waist, she recalled what he had told her the previous week. Mr Fox had written to Morgan, inviting him and his wife and daughter to the wedding, telling him that they were welcome to stay with the family. Morgan’s reply had been less than reassuring. He would be coming to England for the wedding, he said, but his marriage had broken up and his daughter, fifteen-year-old Andrea, preferred to stay at their home in Nrubi and therefore would not be accompanying him.

Now, as Helen tied the cords of the cream figured jerkin that matched her evening skirt, she felt a pang of sympathy for the man who had always treated Barry like his own son. Still, Morgan had arrived home early this morning, and when Barry telephoned her later, inviting her round for dinner that evening, he had not sounded too concerned about his stepfather.

‘I can’t promise you the fatted calf,’ he had teased his fiancée, ‘but Mum and Mrs Parsons have been in the kitchen since nine o’clock, and I’m pretty sure it will be something special.’

Helen had laughed and said she was looking forward to meeting his brother, but she couldn’t help wishing Morgan Fox had not brought his troubles to blight this week which should have been such a happy one for all of them.

Her bedroom door opened as she was adding a touch of perfume to her wrists, and her younger sister, Jennifer, stood regarding her admiringly. Jennifer was just fourteen, but she was tall, as tall as Helen, in fact, and although Susan Fox was three years older they were much of a size. Jennifer was the fourth bridesmaid, and as it was her first opportunity to attend at a wedding, she was more excited about the ceremony than Helen herself.

‘Barry’s here,’ she said now, hands tucked into the waistband of the jeans she invariably wore. ‘Are you ready?’

Helen nodded. ‘I think so. Do I look all right?’

Jennifer pulled a critical face. ‘I guess so. That’s new, isn’t it? Honestly, you’ve got more clothes than anyone I know!’

Helen gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘When you start earning some money,’ she replied, ‘you’ll be able to buy your own clothes, too. And besides, this is part of my trousseau.’

‘So why are you wearing it tonight?’

Helen sighed. ‘I don’t see what it has to do with you, but as I’m meeting Barry’s brother for the first time, I wanted to look—decent.’

Jennifer grimaced. ‘Decent!’ she echoed. ‘You always look decent, and you know it. What is it with this brother of Barry’s? Why should you want to impress him?’

‘It’s not a question of impressing him,’ exclaimed Helen tersely. ‘Anyway, you should mind your own business.’

‘Why? He’s nobody. He’s old, isn’t he? Barry’s twenty-four, and he said he was at least twelve years older than him.’

Helen raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh? So you’ve been talking to Barry about him, too, have you?’

Jennifer coloured then. ‘I only asked. I was curious, that’s all. Barry said I could go round and meet him tomorrow, if I liked.’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ Helen was beginning to feel impatient now. ‘Mum and Dad are inviting him to dinner on Tuesday. You can meet him then.’

‘Barry says he has a daughter about the same age as me, but she’s not coming to the wedding. He said that he and his wife have split up.’

‘Barry seems to have said an awful lot,’ declared Helen, picking up her fur jacket and slinging it about her shoulders, not quite knowing why that knowledge irritated her so, and Jennifer made another face before flouncing off downstairs ahead of her.

Barry was waiting with her parents in the lounge. He was a tall, good-looking young man, with dark curly hair and blue eyes. After passing his exams he had got a good job in the Borough Surveyor’s department, and he and Helen were to live in a furnished flat in York until they could afford to buy a house of their own. Helen was to go on working for the time being, and as she was only twenty-one, there would be plenty of time for having children later. She had known Barry for years, they had attended the same grammar school, but it was not until about a year ago that she had actually consented to go out with him.

Now he came to greet her warmly, bending his head to bestow an affectionate kiss on her lips. ‘You look great!’ he murmured, and then moved aside to allow her parents to look at her.

‘Are you sure that skirt won’t get marked?’ asked Mrs Raynor anxiously. ‘It would be a shame if you spoiled it before you went away.’

Their honeymoon was booked in Majorca, and they all hoped the weather would be warmer there than it was in England at present.

‘It is washable,’ said Helen tolerantly, and her father from his stance before the hearth added: ‘Take no notice of her, love. You look beautiful, doesn’t she, Barry? All in cream like that. Could be a wedding gown!’

‘Oh, don’t say that!’ exclaimed Mrs Raynor, shaking her head. ‘Don’t you know it’s unlucky for the groom to see the bride in her wedding dress before they’re in church!’

‘But she’s not wearing her wedding dress, is she?’ demanded her husband irritably. ‘I only said—–’

‘I know what you said,’ Mrs Raynor interrupted him, and sensing an argument, Helen took Barry’s arm and drew him towards the door.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s leave them to it. I’m hungry if you’re not.’

Outside, Barry’s sleek Triumph sat smugly on the drive of the Raynors’ semi. He helped Helen into the front seat, and then walked round the bonnet to climb in beside her, flashing her another smiling look of possession as he stretched for the ignition.

‘Dinner’s not until eight,’ he said, reversing carefully into the road. ‘Morgan’s slept most of the day, so Mum’s put the meal back an hour.’

Helen nodded. ‘I expect he was very tired. It’s a long journey.’

‘Yes.’ Barry frowned. ‘I’m surprised he came, actually, as Andrea wasn’t coming and Pamela’s left him.’

‘Well, I’m not.’ Helen’s brows drew together. ‘Mr Fox is his father, after all. And he hasn’t seen him for—what? Five years?’

‘Four,’ said Barry shortly. ‘But I don’t see the connection. We’ve seen next to nothing of him ever since he qualified.’

‘Yes, but you’re getting married now,’ said Helen gently. ‘Naturally he would want to attend your wedding.’

‘Would he?’ Barry didn’t sound convinced, and Helen wondered if he wasn’t feeling just the tiniest bit resentful of the fuss his parents were making of the prodigal.

Deciding a change of subject was needed, she put her hand on his arm and said softly: ‘I wonder what we’ll be doing this time next week?’ and was rewarded by a return of Barry’s good humour.

‘Well, not spending the evening having dinner with my parents,’ he declared huskily, and she bent her head to rest it against his shoulder.

‘I can’t; help wishing it was this time next week,’ she murmured, but not quite for the reasons he imagined. ‘I shall be glad when all the fuss is over. I wish we’d planned to have a quiet wedding, with just the two families, instead of this enormous affair at St Giles, and a hundred guests at the reception.’

‘You’ll enjoy it,’ exclaimed Barry, covering her hand with his own. ‘You’ll see. Besides, after the way Morgan went off and got married in a register office, Mum wanted me to have a proper wedding. We couldn’t disappoint everyone.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ Helen allowed a faint sigh to escape her, and then Barry was turning between the gates of Banklands, the Foxes’ detached house on the outskirts of town.

Mr Fox was in the textile trade, and while some years ago his firm had suffered a recession, in recent months things had begun to improve. The introduction of chemicals into the wool fibre to enable it to be machine-washed without shrinking had rallied an already increasing demand for woollen products, and Helen knew Barry expected a generous donation towards the deposit on their house when they decided to buy. This mercenary streak in her fiancé was the only fault she abhorred, but she was sure that once they were married he would stop depending on his stepfather for every large outlay he had to make.

Banklands was a nice house, Helen thought. Built of Yorkshire stone, with square walls and a solid appearance, it had become almost a second home to her in recent months, and Mrs Fox already treated her like a second daughter.

It was Barry’s mother who met them when they entered the panelled hall of the house, looking much younger than her forty-seven years in a simple, but expensively-styled, gown of apricot silk. She exchanged a warm smile with her son, offered her perfumed cheek to his fiancée, and then said: ‘Oh, good. I’m glad you’re here. The dinner’s going to be ready a full fifteen minutes before we expected, so if you’d like to go and have a drink I’ll tell Mrs Parsons we’ll be ready at a quarter to.’

Helen removed her jacket and left it on the padded chair at the foot of the stairs, and then walked at Barry’s side across the carpeted floor and into the Foxes’ drawing room. This was the largest room in the house, with the high corniced ceiling of a bygone age. Mr Fox had employed a firm of interior decorators to do the house through just over a year ago, and now the tall walls were hung with gold-figured silk which exactly matched the tapestry work on the olive green sofas that faced one another across the width of the hearth. The thick carpet underfoot was green and gold, too, while the furniture was soft colours, teak and walnut, with an ebony baby grand piano to grace the window embrasure.

Mr Fox was standing on the hearth as they entered, talking to a man who was stretched lazily on one of the sofas, his head resting against the upholstery, his legs extended across the hearth. The man got to his feet politely as Helen and Barry entered the drawing room, and like his father he smiled as they approached.

But there the resemblance ended. Morgan Fox was an inch or two taller than both his father and Barry, and infinitely leaner. His skin, startlingly brown against that of the other men, was stretched tautly across his features, accentuating the hollows in his cheeks and drawing attention to the curious yellowish cast of his eyes. But it was his hair that attracted Helen’s interest—so pale as to appear silver in some lights and such an unusual contrast with such dark skin. His clothes, too, did not fit as snugly as Barry’s, as if he had lost weight recently; yet there was about him an aura of sensuality that required no further propagation. Altogether a disturbing man, Helen thought, shocked by her instantaneous recognition of this.

If she was disturbed by her reactions to Barry’s stepbrother, Morgan at least did not return her feelings. His polite smile of greeting did not reach those peculiar eyes, and almost immediately he turned to Barry, asking him what they would both like to drink.

‘I can manage, thanks,’ retorted Barry offhandedly, and asking Helen if she would like the usual, he went towards the bar which, when closed, was completely concealed behind a row of bookshelves. Presently, however, it stood open, displaying its mirror-lined interior, glittering with an array of bottles and glasses. Judging by the two empty glasses resting on the mantelshelf, Helen guessed that Morgan and his father had been imbibing already, which might account for that air of brooding detachment about him.

To cover the slight moment of embarrassment Barry’s behaviour might have caused, Helen exchanged a look of apology with Mr Fox and then smiled at Morgan. ‘Did you have a good journey?’ she enquired, hoping she sounded more casual than she felt, and was relieved when his father remarked:

‘I was just saying to Morgan how far away Africa always seems, and yet one can fly there in a matter of hours.’

‘Yes,’ Helen nodded. ‘The world’s getting smaller all the time.’ Then, realising her words were trite, she flushed as Morgan Fox’s eyes rested fleetingly upon her.

‘Have you travelled much—Helen?’ he asked in the space that followed, and she quickly made a negative gesture.

‘Oh, no, not really. Not any distance, anyway. Just to Spain—and to France. For holidays, you know. I went to France with the school, actually. Barry went too, as it happened, but he was older than I was and I didn’t know him very well in those days.’

She was chattering, and realising she was, she shut up, offering a look of apology to Barry as he came to rejoin them. He handed Helen a Martini and soda and then, raising his glass to her, took a mouthful of his own gin and tonic.

‘Is it cold out?’ asked Mr Fox, indicating that Helen should take a seat, and she sank down on to one of the low sofas as Barry said: ‘Not as cold as it was earlier. The wind’s dropped.’

‘I expect it still feels pretty cold to you, Morgan, doesn’t it?’ his father commented wryly, and his son moved his shoulders in a dismissing gesture.

‘The nights can be damn cold where we live,’ he replied evenly, turning to lift his glass from the shelf. ‘Can I get you another drink, Dad? Or is that your limit?’

Mr Fox agreed to have another Scotch, and he accompanied his son to the bar as Barry dropped down on to the sofa beside Helen. ‘Drink all right?’ he murmured, the coolness he had exhibited towards his stepfather and Morgan evaporating as he looked at her, and she nodded.

‘How—er—how long is Morgan staying?’ she asked in a low voice, hoping to take the tension out of the situation, but Barry’s lips tightened as she mentioned his stepbrother’s name.

‘I don’t know. Ten days—a fortnight, maybe. He’ll be gone by the time we get back from our honeymoon, thank God!’

‘Why?’ Helen stared at him aghast, and his pale cheeks darkened with sudden colour.

‘Oh, I don’t know. He just rubs me up the wrong way, I suppose. Coming back here. Acting like he Owned the place. Offering me a drink!’

Helen smoothed the pad of her thumb round the rim of her glass. ‘Well, this is his home, too,’ she observed reasonably, and her fiancé gave her an impatient look.

‘It’s not his home. His home is in Nrubi, wherever that might be. It’s a pity he didn’t stay there.’

Helen sighed, and then Susan Fox erupted into the room with her transistor, slim and attractive in purple pants and an embroidered smock. ‘Hi, Helen,’ she greeted her brother’s fiancée lightly over the din of the pop programme being broadcast, and then went to join her father and Morgan by the bar. ‘Can I have a Martini?’ they heard her asking, before Morgan said something in response that made them all laugh.

Beside Helen, Barry stiffened, and she felt a reluctant sense of sympathy for him. He was jealous, she realised regretfully. For so long he had commanded Mr Fox’s undivided attention that he had come to regard it as his right. Morgan’s blood relationship to his stepfather was a thorn in his side, but it was only a temporary thing. Why couldn’t he see that? wondered Helen uneasily, herself aware that Morgan Fox was not a man one could ignore.

She was seated beside Morgan at dinner. In the spacious dining room they were seated at the square mahogany table which Mrs Parsons had decorated with slender silver rose holders, and the candles in the silver candelabrum gave off a delicate perfume as they ate. There was minestrone and roast beef, accompanied by real Yorkshire pudding, and a steamed pudding to follow.

‘Real north country fare,’ said Mr Fox with satisfaction, as Mrs Parsons brought in the apple dumpling, and Morgan gave him a wry smile.

‘You’re making me wish I’d never left home,’ he remarked, wiping his mouth with his napkin, and Mrs Fox regarded him reprovingly.

‘You look as though you could do with some home cooking,’ she commented with characteristic candour. ‘Look at your father and Barry. They must be at least half a stone heavier than you!’

Morgan accepted his generous portion of apple dumpling without comment, but glancing sideways at him, Helen caught the mocking gleam in his eye.

‘Do I look so undernourished?’ he asked in an undertone, and she had to school her features to prevent herself from giggling.

‘Not to me,’ she answered in a low voice, and this time he looked directly at her.

It was a devastating experience. This close she could see the silvery tips of his lashes, short thick lashes that just missed being feminine. But there was nothing feminine about his face, with its gaunt cheekbones and deeply set eyes. It was aggressively masculine, and possessed that doubtful distinction—sexuality. Returning his gaze was like looking into a deep pool, that invited as well as repelled.

The sure awareness that Barry was watching them brought her eyes back sharply to her plate, but when she ventured to lift her lids her fiancé was still looking at her. She arched her brows in silent, if not very convincing, interrogation, but Barry just continued looking at her, his eyes cold and lacking in sympathy.

The remainder of the meal passed, for Helen, in discomfited silence, and she was glad when Mrs Fox suggested they had coffee in the drawing room and she could escape from Barry’s inimical stare.

Susan joined her as they crossed the hall, whispering insinuatively: ‘Just six more days, Helen! Just imagine—a week tonight you’ll be in Alcudia.’

‘Yes.’ Helen sounded distracted and Susan gave her a second look.

‘What’s wrong? Getting cold feet?’

‘No—–’

Helen was impatient, but Susan overrode her denial insisting: ‘I know. It’s Morgan, isn’t it? I saw the way you were looking at him at dinner. Are you thinking he’s more of a man than Barry will ever be?’