The Forbidden Innocent

This month, Ashley finds that secrets and desire are a potent combination:

All she could see was the sudden flintiness of his eyes—and the cold glint of pain at their depths. And she thought to her herself, Surely a man shouldn’t look like this just before he kisses you?

‘Jack, we mustn’t,’ she whispered.

‘Oh, but we must,’ he negated harshly, compelled by something far stronger than reason or the sudden frantic clamour of his conscience. ‘Because I think I’m going to go crazy unless we do.’

Dear Reader,

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia to escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx

Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…

Author Note

I came to Jane Eyre late. Unlike most people, I’d never read the book at school, where my tastes ran more to Orwell, Huxley and Shakespeare.

Novels become classics for a reason—but your age at the time of reading them will inevitably alter their impact. An impressionable young girl visiting a famous love-story for the first time is bound to view the book differently from a mature woman who has experienced love herself.

Yet such is the power of Brontë’s story that I was as swept away by it as any sixteen year old and, like Jane—I fell in love with Edward Rochester—the man with the brilliant black eyes and brooding presence.

Translating the story to the present day posed problems. It had to reflect the times while retaining it’s particular theme of forbidden love. A modern Jane would (I think) sleep with Edward. And a modern Edward would be unlikely to keep his wife imprisoned in an upstairs room!

But the essential elements remain: for me, their story was as much about a meeting of minds as a powerful passion which could not be denied. And all about the redemptive power of love, it’s ability to adapt—and to heal.

I hope you enjoy THE FORBIDDEN INNOCENT—and I’d love to hear your views on the story.

www.sharonkendrick.com

The Forbidden Innocent

Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to Anna Wilson—

a brilliant wife, mother, daughter, doctor and friend.

Love lives on.

Contents

Cover

Extract

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE last thing she wanted was a walk. The air was raw and the grey skies heavy but Ashley was jittery. Her morning had been spent on a stuffy train, watching the bleak and unfamiliar landscape whizzing by while she psyched herself up to meet her new boss. Telling herself that there was no need to be jittery and that he couldn’t possibly be as intimidating as the woman at the employment agency had implied.

Unfortunately, her arrival at his imposing manor house had done little to reassure her—because the powerful and wealthy Jack Marchant wasn’t there. And when she’d asked Christine—his part-time housekeeper—when he was expected, the middle-aged woman had raised her eyes to heaven in that you-tell-me kind of way.

‘Oh, you never can tell with Mr Marchant,’ she’d pronounced airily. ‘That man is a law unto himself.’

Now, as Ashley made her way along the frozen lane, flexing her fingers inside her woollen gloves to try to keep them warm, she realised that Jack Marchant seemed to have a daunting effect on women of a certain age. The woman at the employment agency had already described him as ‘formidable’—a word which covered a multitude of sins, in Ashley’s experience. Did that mean he was bad-tempered and bossy—or just rude enough not to bother turning up to meet his new secretary?

Not that it mattered what he was like—his personality was irrelevant. Ashley needed this job and she needed the money. Badly. It was a lucrative short-term contract and she could put up with pretty much anything—even this brooding northern landscape where the air seemed so cold and so biting.

She still wasn’t good at change—even with all the practice she’d had growing up in the care system, and then being passed from one foster family to another. She still got that claustrophobic feeling of dread whenever she had to meet new people and ease herself into a different situation. Learning what people liked—and, more importantly, what they didn’t like. Listening out for what they said—but looking in their eyes to see what they really meant.

Because almost from the cradle, she had learnt to read between the lines. To differentiate between words and intent. To trace the truth behind a smile. She had learned her lessons well. It had been a survival technique at which she had grown to excel and one she still instinctively practised all the time.

Her fingers fractionally warmer now, she stood still for a moment as she looked around her. Leafless trees stood sentry over the bare branches of the high hedgerows and over to the left lay the wild expanse of the moors. It was a lonely place, she thought—with a stark and austere air to it. But as she walked further up the incline of the lane towards the brow of a hill she could see the distant spire of a church and the jumble of rooftops. So at least there was a village—with people and shops and who knew what else?

And if she turned to look the other way, she could see Blackwood Manor spread out below her. From this distance, it looked even more imposing than when she’d been inside—its elegant grey form straddling the land and making her realise just how large the house was. From here she could see its dark woods and the scattering of outbuildings—as well as the distant glitter of a lake.

She looked down at the estate and tried to imagine what it must be like to own that much land. Was that what made Jack Marchant so ‘formidable’? Did having buckets of money corrupt you, as people often said it did? She was so lost in this particular daydream that at first she barely registered an unexpected sound until it grew louder, and closer. An unfamiliar noise was reverberating through the air and it took a few seconds for Ashley to realise that a horse was approaching.

Taken off guard, she felt disorientated—a feeling which only increased when she saw a colossal black shape thundering down the lane towards her. It was a huge beast of a thing, which looked as if it had sprung straight from some childhood nightmare—its powerful limbs rippling beneath the dark silk of its glossy coat. On its back was a man who, stupidly, wasn’t wearing a protective helmet, so that the wind streamed through his raven hair. Ashley blinked.

She became aware of faded blue jeans, a powerful body—and a face which was hard and forbidding. And she found herself staring into a pair of steely eyes—eyes as black and fathomless as a starless night.

Standing transfixed in the middle of the lane, she was stilled as much by the expression on the man’s face as the sensation of seeing such an enormous animal at such close quarters. But suddenly the horse seemed almost on top of her and she jumped out of the way with a little yelp. Instantly, the horse reared up in alarm—just as a large black and white dog rushed out from one of the hedgerows and began to chase after it.

Suddenly, everything became a blur and she heard a succession of noises. Another whinnying sound. A muffled but furious curse—followed by a sickening thud—before the horse crumpled to the ground, swiftly followed by the man riding it.

The dog was barking dementedly. It came running up to her—as if demanding that she help—and Ashley rushed forward, scared at what she might find. The horse struggled to its feet, but the prone shape of the rider was terrifyingly still. Fear clutched at her throat as she crouched down beside him and bent over him. Was he… was he… dead? Her heart raced as she touched his shoulder with shaking fingers. ‘Hello? Hello? Are you okay?’

The man moaned and Ashley winced. ‘Can you hear me?’ she questioned urgently—because hadn’t she read somewhere that you were supposed to keep injured people from drifting into unconsciousness? ‘I said—can you hear me?’

‘Of course I can hear you—when you’re inches away from my ear and bellowing into it! ‘

His voice was deep and surprisingly strong—and more than a little irritated. Thick lashes parted by a fraction to reveal a gleam of the steely eyes she’d seen just before he’d fallen and Ashley felt a huge rush of relief flood over her. He was alive!

‘Are you hurt?’ she questioned.

He grimaced as he stared up into a wide pair of anxious eyes and trembling lips and his own mouth hardened. What a stupid question! Why act concerned when it was her own stupid behaviour which had caused the fall in the first place? ‘What do you think?’ he questioned sardonically as, gingerly, he moved his leg.

For a moment Ashley was distracted by the movement and even more by the muscular thigh which was covered in faded denim. She swallowed. ‘Can I… can I do anything?’

‘Well, you could start by giving me some space,’ he growled. ‘Stand back, woman—and let me breathe.’

His voice was so authoritative that Ashley found herself obeying him, watching as he tried to stand up—but he didn’t make it any further than kneeling. At this, the dog went completely crazy—barking and leaping at the man until he silenced it with a terse command.

‘Quiet, Casey!’

He seemed to slump—before sitting back down heavily in the lane and, instinctively, Ashley moved closer. ‘Look, you really shouldn’t move.’

‘How do you know what I should do?’

‘I read it in a first-aid book. And if you’re hurt—which clearly you are—then I could go and get help. I think you should stay put. I’ve got my mobile, I can ring for an ambulance. You might have broken something.’

Impatiently, he shook his dark head. ‘I haven’t broken anything. It’s probably just a strain—and certainly nothing to fuss about. Wait a minute.’ At this, he tried standing again, and then groaned.

Ashley didn’t move as he gathered his breath, taking the opportunity to have a closer look at him. Because he was the kind of man who made you want to keep on looking.

Even his current crumpled stance couldn’t hide his impressive height, the broad sweep of his shoulders or the powerful, denim-clad legs. His windswept hair was raven-black and his eyes looked blacker still. At some time he might have been in a fight—or perhaps an accident—for there was a tiny scar by the side of his lips. Sensual lips, Ashley found herself thinking—though their cushioned curves were outlined by a hardness which seemed to have been stamped on them indelibly. Perhaps because they were twisted in pain from his fall.

His features were too rugged to be described as conventionally handsome—but something about his presence made him seem compelling. He exuded a rampant masculinity which should have unnerved her—but oddly enough, did not. Because in that moment—wasn’t he injured, and therefore a little vulnerable?

‘I can’t possibly think of leaving you—not like this,’ she said stubbornly.

He shook his head. ‘Of course you can! It’s getting late and these lanes aren’t good to walk on in the dark. Especially when the cars come speeding along.’ Granite-hard eyes bored into her curiously. ‘Or maybe you know the area well?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Not at all well.’

‘No, I guess if you did you’d have realised you shouldn’t stand motionless in a blind spot in the path of a galloping horse,’ he said drily, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck as he flicked her another look. ‘Where do you live?’

‘Actually, I’ve just moved to the area today.’

‘Oh?’

It seemed foolish in the light of his accident and the fact that she was crouching rather uncomfortably in a damp lane to be discussing what she was doing there. But there was something so insistent about the way he was looking at her—those hard black eyes firing out a question—which made it impossible for her not to answer. And impossible for her not to feel a little dizzy. as if he were sucking all the strength from her with that strange, searing gaze of his. ‘To Blackwood Manor,’ she said.

Black brows arrowed together and his lips quirked into an odd kind of smile. ‘Ah. So you live there, do you—the grey house which overlooks the moorland?’

Ashley nodded. Strange to think that the imposing manor was now her home. ‘Yes.’ She gave a little wriggle of her shoulders. ‘It’s not mine, of course. The house belongs to my new boss.’

‘Really?’ he mused, his black eyes flicking over her. ‘And what’s he like, this new boss of yours?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t met him yet—he was out when I arrived. I’m his new PA—well, I’m more of a secretary really. He’s.’ She was about to start telling him that she’d been employed to type his novel for him but suddenly Ashley halted, feeling a fool—and wondering why on earth she was telling this complete stranger her business. Was it something to do with that intense way he had of looking at her? Or the fact that it seemed easier to talk than to focus on the odd prickling of her senses, which seemed to stem from his rather daunting proximity.

She began to scramble to her feet to put some distance between them. Discretion was a necessary part of being someone’s personal assistant—and what if Mr Marchant got wind of the fact that she’d been blabbing indiscriminately to someone she’d just met? ‘Actually, I’d better get going, if you’re absolutely sure there’s nothing I can do,’ she said hurriedly. ‘He might be back by now and I wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.’

‘Hold on a moment,’ he said suddenly as he prepared to stand up. ‘You can help me if you want. Just catch hold of my horse, will you? ‘

It was the first time that Ashley had even considered the riderless horse and now she glanced over at it. A great big powerhouse of a beast—it was even more intimidating than its rider. Standing a little way down the lane, it was stamping its hooves in turn and snorting great clouds of smoky breath into the chilly atmosphere.

‘Or are you afraid?’ he questioned silkily, his gaze running over her face and lingering there.

She felt more fearful of that brilliant black gaze than of anything the horse could throw at her—but Ashley knew enough about self-preservation to realise when it was necessary to admit ignorance.

‘I don’t really know anything about horses,’ she confessed.

He nodded. ‘Then don’t go near him. I’ll manage,’ he said. ‘Hold still.’

Placing his hand on Ashley’s shoulder, he rose slowly to his feet and she experienced the weirdest sensation as his fingers pressed into her flesh. Was it because she had so rarely been touched by a man that it felt suddenly intimate? As if that brief touch had scorched through her clothes to the chilled body beneath—setting her skin on fire. Little flames of something unfamiliar licked at the pit of her stomach and she swallowed as he steadied himself.

In the cool of the darkening afternoon, their eyes met and Ashley felt as if she were melting beneath the scorching impact of his gaze. Was it her imagination or did his mouth tighten and a little nerve begin to flicker at his temple? Was she alone in the bizarre thought that somehow it felt as if the most natural thing in the world was for him to take her in his arms? And to then crush her against that hard, powerful body of his. She felt her mouth dry and then, abruptly, he pulled away and began to walk slowly towards his horse, making small crooning noises beneath his breath as he approached it.

Mesmerised, Ashley watched him as he sprang onto his horse—the way she’d seen it done countless times on TV. And it was as if his fall and the fact that he’d been temporarily winded had been nothing but a figment of her imagination—for he made the movement look completely effortless. It was poetry in motion, she thought as he leaned over and patted the animal’s flank and then glanced up to find her eyes still fixed on him.

For one insane moment she wanted to beg him not to go—to stay and make her feel properly alive again—so that she could experience that strange and disconcerting clamour of her senses once more. But the insanity passed as she looked up at him.

‘Thanks for your help,’ he said abruptly. ‘Now go. Quickly. Before it gets dark and you startle some other hapless person with those big, wide eyes of yours. Casey! Here, boy!’ The dog came running up and the man tightened his knees around the horse’s sides—sending Ashley one final mocking look before he began to canter off down the lane.

For a moment, Ashley didn’t move—she just stood watching as they faded into the distance, the lengthening shadows of the lane gradually swallowing them up as the clopping sound of hooves died away. Her fingers moved to her face to rest beneath her eyes. Nobody had ever told her they were big and wide before—and certainly not anybody who looked like that. Just who was the rugged stranger with the powerful body and the brooding expression? she wondered.

Her walk now abandoned, she made her way back towards Blackwood Manor—and when a tight-lipped Christine opened the door, a large black and white dog shot forward and began jumping up.

‘Casey!’ said Ashley without thinking as the animal instantly began licking at her hand. But Christine seemed too preoccupied to notice that she knew the dog’s name—and Ashley’s thoughts buzzed in confusion as she wondered what it was doing here. Swallowing down a mixture of panic and excitement, she turned to the housekeeper. ‘Whose dog is that?’

‘It belongs to Mr Marchant.’

‘Is he… is he back then?’

Christine nodded. ‘Oh, he came back all right, but not for long.’ Her face was grim. ‘Actually, he’s had an accident.’

‘An accident?’ said Ashley as the knot in the pit of her stomach began to tighten.

‘Yes, tumbled off his horse just down the lane from here. He’s driven himself off to the hospital for an X-ray.’

The dog. An accident. The sudden recognition of what the word ‘formidable’ really meant. Little pieces of reality began to lock together to form a bigger picture which suddenly became crystal-clear.

And Ashley’s heart began to pound as she realised just who the man on the horse had been. Her brand-new boss—Jack Marchant.

CHAPTER TWO

THE bare branches of the tree rattled wildly against Ashley’s window but she barely heard them as she stared out into the garden. All she could think about was the man with the hard black eyes who had fallen from his horse—and how she had unwittingly tumbled across her new boss in the most bizarre of circumstances.

Her new boss.

She swallowed down her panic. Was he hurt? Badly hurt? Lying even now in some sterile cubicle at the local accident and emergency department—with some slow haemorrhage seeping all the lifeblood out of him? So that maybe she would never get the chance to see him or speak to him again.

She wondered what the X-ray would show—because she knew how life could change in a heartbeat. One moment, you could be out galloping and enjoying life and the next. She swallowed. What if he had been badly injured—and if that were the case, then hadn’t she been a fool for letting him ride off alone like that?

But Christine had said there was no news—and nothing for her to do until Mr Marchant returned—and so Ashley had gone to her own room, to quieten her thudding heart and try to calm herself. And once she had washed her hands and brushed her hair she looked around at the subdued comfort of her brand-new room to try to calm her ruffled nerves.

She was more used to accommodation the size of a shoe-box but this one was huge. There was a queen-sized bed covered with a cashmere throw—as well as extra blankets in the cupboard, since Christine had warned her that these northern temperatures could plummet. A sofa heaped with cushions overlooked the gardens and there was a small television set perched on top of a beautiful chest of drawers.

‘Mr Marchant doesn’t really watch a lot of television and we don’t have it on much downstairs,’ Christine had confided. ‘But I told him that you can’t bring people out into the middle of nowhere without giving them anything to entertain themselves of an evening!’

Ashley had smiled. No, she couldn’t really imagine the brooding Jack Marchant huddled over a soap opera or some kind of reality game show.

Actually, she wasn’t a great fan of TV herself and, pulling a paperback from the small pile of books she’d brought with her, she sat down and began to read as she waited for news from the hospital. But for once the words failed to conjure up the power to take her into the imaginary world she preferred to the real-life version. Instead, she kept seeing images of that powerful body lying crumpled and temporarily winded.

So that had been Jack Marchant. She had been expecting someone older—and more remote. Some bespectacled and crusty academic, perhaps—as befitted the author of several well-received military biographies who was branching out into novel-writing. But he had been the very opposite of that. Different, in fact, from anyone she’d ever met.