Long Night's Loving

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.

Long Night’s Loving

Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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 CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

MAGGIE got off the train at Newcastle.

The icy wind hit her as soon as she emerged from the insulated warmth of the carriage, and she shivered, in spite of the long cashmere coat and fur-lined boots she was wearing.

The shiver was more than just a reaction to the elements, however. For the past three hours she had felt a curious kind of detachment within the bustling community of the train. She’d almost been able to enjoy the journey, despite her apprehension at its completion. For a while, at least, she had put the reasons for making it aside, allowing herself the luxury of putting her fears on hold.

Still, now that she had actually made the decision to approach Neil, she was feeling a certain amount of relief. She hadn’t realised it, but she had been fighting the idea for so long, she was weary, and, giving in to what he would probably see as a sign of weakness, she had surrendered the independence she had once considered so important.

Of course, he could refuse to help her. To help Lindsey, she amended firmly, even though she knew she was here as much for herself as for her daughter. Lindsey’s attitude in recent weeks had left her feeling helpless, and curiously lost. Lindsey seemed to blame her for everything, and the knowledge that she could no longer get through to the girl was more than she could take.

Maggie knew her daughter had taken her parents’ divorce badly, and for that she had no one to blame but herself. But it wasn’t her fault that Lindsey refused to discuss the present situation with her, and ignored her mother’s wishes out of hand.

Now, looking hopefully round the platform, she was not really surprised that there was no sign of Neil, or Luke Parry. She hadn’t really expected her ex-husband would take the time to come and meet her, but she had hoped that Luke might have made the trip. She pulled a wry face. But then, she reflected, why should Neil make this easy for her? If past experience was anything to go by, she was probably wasting her time—and his.

She sighed. It wasn’t the first time she had come here, hoping for Neil’s understanding. When he’d first told her he was getting a divorce, she had flown up from London then, desperate to explain what had happened, but Neil wouldn’t listen to her. He was not a man who forgave easily, she had discovered, and she had no reason to believe he had changed since. Her only justification for making this trip was that in this instance he had agreed to see her, and that only after she had mentioned Lindsey’s name, and the fact that it was their daughter and not herself she wanted to discuss.

It was a cold grey day. It wasn’t the time of year to come this far north and she thought, with a momentary trace of wistfulness, of the winters they had once spent in Antigua or St. Lucia. She hadn’t appreciated it then. She’d been too young and foolish to be grateful for the advantages Neil’s success had given her. She’d taken everything for granted, not least that as Neil’s wife she was given the kind of respect she had neither earned nor warranted.

There were taxis waiting, their windows steamed by the breath of their idling drivers. She wondered how much it would cost to take a taxi to Bellthorpe. It used to cost quite a lot five years ago, and what with the rising cost of petrol, and inflation...

The alternative was to take a bus, and she seemed to remember the coach station was off Percy Street. Which meant quite a walk lugging her belongings. She didn’t have a suitcase—she wouldn’t have presumed to look as if she expected to stay the night—but she did have a canvas holdall, and she knew from experience how heavy it could feel after she’d carried it some distance.

There was a canopy outside the station, enabling travellers to get in and out of their cars without the inconvenience of getting wet. But it didn’t prevent the wind from sweeping up from the river, and Maggie cast a doubtful look at the waiting cabs.

At last deciding she couldn’t stand here indefinitely, she moved with some reluctance to the front of the queue of cars. The taxi occupying the pole position wasn’t the one she’d have chosen, if she’d had the chance, but she knew better than to approach one of the other drivers, and have him accused of jumping the queue.

But, as she bent to ask the driver how much he’d charge to take her the twenty or so miles to Bellthorpe, another car accelerated into first place. Not a taxi this time, but a mud-splattered Range Rover, with a scowling, dark-haired man at the wheel.

‘Mags!’

Neil’s curt voice arrested her, and she turned, not without a quiver of anticipation, to see her ex-husband thrusting open the passenger door from inside. The irritation she used to feel at his diminution of her name was absent, however. She was so relieved to see him; so relieved that she wouldn’t have to spend more of her hard-earned cash on a taxi fare.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, exchanging a challenging look with the driver of the cab, who had suddenly lost a passenger. ‘Get in.’ he added, as if the other man’s feelings mattered to him, but she knew of old that however resentful the driver might be he’d get no satisfaction from Neil.

‘Thanks.’

Because of the tightness of her skirt, Maggie scrambled without much dignity into the car. God, she thought, with a feeling of impatience at her ungainly entry. Had Neil brought this vehicle deliberately? It was worse than getting on a bus.

Once she was inside, however, she had to admit it was comfortable. And roomy; and it was warm, which was something she appreciated. She thrust her holdall into the back and slammed her door securely. Only then did she glance at her ex-husband as he concentrated on rejoining the stream of traffic heading towards Elswick.

It was a nerve-racking moment. It was almost five years since she’d seen him, and somehow she’d expected he would have changed. The fact that, apart from a certain narrowing of his features, he hadn’t was hardly reassuring. He was obviously living his life quite happily, without worrying about her—or Lindsey—at all.

A few specks of rain hit the windscreen and because the silence in the car was getting to her Maggie gestured towards the darkening sky. ‘Typical,’ she said. ‘It’s raining. It always rains when I come to Newcastle.’

‘Then it’s just as well the reservoirs don’t depend on you for their existence,’ remarked Neil drily. ‘We’d have had a drought.’

Maggie’s breath surged from her lungs. ‘Is that supposed to mean something?’ she demanded, hurt by his sarcasm, and Neil sighed.

‘It was supposed to be a joke,’ he said shortly, and without much sympathy. ‘Did you have a pleasant journey? Perhaps we can talk about that without you getting in a snit.’

‘I’m not in a snit.’ Maggie took a defensive breath, calming herself. ‘And—yes, I had a very pleasant journey. The train wasn’t full, and it was on time.’

‘Unlike me?’ suggested Neil, with another wry look in her direction, and Maggie wondered if it was his intention to provoke her.

‘As you say,’ she answered, without rising to his bait. ‘But that wasn’t what I meant either. I—wasn’t sure you’d meet me.’

‘As a matter of fact, I didn’t intend to,’ said Neil, his hands drawing her attention against her will. He had attractive hands, long-fingered and artistic. ‘Luke was going to meet you, but he twisted his knee this morning, so he had to cry off.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Maggie meant it. For all he was Neil’s ally, not hers, she had always had a soft spot for Luke Parry. He and Neil had grown up together in Byker, and when Neil had formed his first band Luke had played keyboard. But that was many years ago now, long before Neil had struck out on his own. In later years, Luke had been his road manager, before disillusionment—and the problems she and he were having—had driven Neil back to Tyneside. Luke was his assistant now, and part-time secretary. Their friendship had withstood the test of time.

‘No sweat,’ Neil declared now, switching on the wipers to clear the screen. ‘He probably won’t mention it, but he’s having some trouble with his hip. He had a motorcycle accident about two years ago, and none of us are as young as we were.’

‘Luke’s not old!’

‘He’s nearly forty, the same as me,’ observed Neil carelessly. ‘We’re not kids any more, Maggie. We’re almost middle-aged.’ His lips twisted. ‘Not that I’ve forgotten I can give you a few years.’

Maggie said nothing, concentrating on the wet slick of the road ahead instead of giving in to the urge to look at him again. Almost forty, she thought, which meant she was almost thirty-six. As he’d said, they weren’t kids any more. So why did she feel so immature suddenly?

‘Are you well?’ she asked, aware of the muscled length of his thigh, taut beneath its worn covering of denim. Almost involuntarily she was aware that he was wearing a loose knitted sweater beneath his leather jacket, long boots on his feet, manipulating the controls.

‘Fine,’ he answered briefly. ‘And you?’

‘Fine,’ she mimicked, without thinking. ‘Um—is Mrs Benson still at the house?’

‘No. She retired,’ he responded, and Maggie felt an enormous sense of relief. The elderly housekeeper had always resented her for being a ‘Southerner’, and it was one less person for her to confront.

‘So—so who’s looking after you now?’ she asked, and he cast her an amused look.

‘Do you really care?’ he asked, his dark eyes bright with unconscious irony. ‘As I remember it, my welfare was never high on your list of priorities, not even when we were living together.’

‘That’s not true!’

Her denial was instinctive, but although she stared at him indignantly he turned his attention back to the road. It was getting dark, so she could hardly blame him for that, but it was infuriating that he should still be able to wound her after all this time.

While she absorbed this evidence of her own weakness, they negotiated the southern outskirts of the city, and turned west onto the road for Carlisle. Signs indicating the nearness of the Roman Wall loomed at frequent intervals, and the announcement that this was ‘Catherine Cookson Country’ was vaguely familiar.

But it was a bleak landscape in the fading light of a January afternoon. Skeletal trees bent into the wind, and the few animals that had braved the weather huddled together in the corners of the fields, seeking shelter. It was the time of year, of course, but she felt a sense of isolation. Perhaps she’d lived too long in London, as Neil used to say. Perhaps she was afraid of the silence of her thoughts.

At least it wasn’t snowing, she thought gratefully, and it could have been. These border counties of England saw more than their fair share of severe winter weather. She wondered what she’d have done if it had been snowing. Bellthorpe had been known to be cut off in the past.

‘How’s Lindsey?’

His question was sudden, if not unexpected. But Maggie didn’t want to get into their daughter’s problems in the car. No, she and Neil had to talk—it was why she was here, for heaven’s sake—and she wanted to be able to see his face when she told him. She had no intention of revealing her reasons for coming here in the anonymous shadows of the vehicle.

So, ‘She’s OK,’ she replied, after a moment’s consideration. ‘Um-did you have a good Christmas? I seem to remember there was snow in your part of the country, wasn’t there? White Christmases are so rare these days. I imagine it was quite—’

‘What do you want, Maggie?’

His curt interruption caught her unawares, and for a moment she could only look blankly in his direction.

‘Well, you didn’t come here to discuss the weather, did you?’ he countered, dark eyebrows raised in an interrogatory stare. ‘Come on, Maggie, spit it. out, why don’t you? It will save us from all this meaningless chatter.’

Maggie took a steadying breath. ‘I see you haven’t changed,’ she remarked, without answering him. ‘Patience was never your strong suit.’

‘And candour was never yours,’ he retorted harshly, accelerating to pass another car. ‘I’m tired of your secrets, Maggie. You’re here, aren’t you? At least have the decency to get to the point.’

Maggie refused to be stampeded. ‘When I phoned, you said I could spend the night.’

‘That doesn’t mean I’m prepared to entertain you,’ replied Neil, in a controlled voice. ‘Luke is at the house. It may be some time before we can talk privately. If what you have to say concerns Lindsey I’d rather know what it is now.’

Maggie couldn’t disguise her sudden intake of breath. ‘Why are you so aggressive?’ she protested.

‘Because of the way you avoided answering me before,’ he replied in a weary tone. ‘Don’t be tiresome, Mags, I’m not an idiot. What’s the matter with her? Has she got herself pregnant?’

Maggie gasped. ‘No!’

But she half wished she had. She might have been able to cope with an unwanted pregnancy. She wouldn’t have had to approach Neil for a start.

‘What, then?’

He was slowing now, indicating that he was turning right at the next junction, turning onto the narrower road that led first to Chollerford, and then on, into the less populated heart of Northumberland.

Maggie turned to look out of the window. ‘I’d rather not discuss it in the car.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I wouldn’t.’ She was feeling indignant now. ‘What’s the matter, Neil? Don’t you want to take me to the house?’

‘Not particularly,’ he answered, almost cruelly, and it took an enormous effort of will-power not to demand he take her back to the station right away. She should never have come here, she thought. She should have realised how he would regard it. She’d sworn she’d never ask him for anything ever again, and she hated going back on her word.

‘Well, at least I know where I stand,’ she said at last, managing to conceal the anguish his words had given her. ‘But I’m sorry. I have no intention of discussing your daughter at this moment. If you hadn’t wanted to accommodate me, you should have booked me a room at a hotel.’

‘Yes, I should,’ he remarked, pausing at the traffic lights at Chollerford Bridge. ‘How about here?’ He gestured towards the lights of the George Hotel that stood at the crossroads. ‘You could always get a taxi back to town.’

For a moment, she thought he meant it, and her face turned towards his in sudden anxiety. But when the lights changed, and he accelerated over the bridge, he didn’t turn into the hotel yard, and she realised he had only been baiting her again. It seemed he had accepted that, however compromised he might feel, he had to take her to Bellthorpe, to the dower house he’d purchased on the Haversham estate.

It was full dark by the time they reached Bellthorpe, and the rain that had accompanied them from Newcastle was now a steady downpour. Yet, for all that, there were a few people about in the village, and the windows of the post office and general stores cast a shaft of yellowish light across the road.

When Neil had first bought the house here, Maggie had thought he was crazy. When would he ever find the time to live here? she’d asked. His work was in London. The recording studios were there.

Of course she hadn’t realised then that Neil was planning on giving up his recording career, that his ambition had changed to one of writing music instead of performing it. She’d been so wrapped up in creating her own identity, she had not noticed he was having a crisis with his. She’d been so selfish—she could admit it now—and stupid. But she doubted Neil would believe her if she said so.

The Haversham estate extended almost to the outskirts of the village. When Neil had moved here from the house they had owned in Buckinghamshire—how many years ago? Six? Seven?—the estate had been owned by an elderly recluse called Sarah Cavendish, and Maggie remembered making a rather poor joke about Great Expectations, and what a pity it was that Miss Cavendish hadn’t been called Haversham, too. She’d even made fun of Neil, by suggesting that if he stayed here long enough people would forget him, as well. But, of course, they never had...

The house Neil had bought had once been occupied by the various widows of the family who’d owned the estate in the nineteenth century, when the eldest son inherited his father’s position in the community. But it was years since it had been used for its original purpose, and when Neil had bought the property it had been in an appalling state of repair. The last tenant had been a farm labourer, who had left before the last war, and Maggie had considered Neil’s offer ludicrous, for a house that, in her opinion, wanted pulling down.

Of course, she had had to eat her words. Time—and money—had worked wonders, and by the time it was ready for habitation even she had had to agree that it had become a home to be proud of. The trouble was, she had still wanted to live near London, and no house in Northumberland, however luxurious, could compensate her for that.

She remembered they had had their own entrance to the estate. The dower house was situated some distance from Haversham House itself, and it had been convenient, not just for Neil but for Miss Cavendish as well, for them to use an alternative way in. Consequently, she was surprised when Neil slowed at the tall iron gates that guarded the main entrance, and she cast him a puzzled look as they turned into the entry.

But before she could say anything a man emerged from the conical-roofed lodge that stood just inside the gates, and with some ceremony threw the gates wide for them to drive through.

‘Evening, Mr Jordan,’ he said as Neil lowered his window to thank him. He shielded his eyes against the downpour, and looked at Neil with evident respect. ‘I found that break in the fence, like you said, and I’ve had a word with Ben Armstrong’s man just this afternoon.’

‘Great.’ Maggie got the impression Neil would have avoided this discussion if he could. ‘I’ll talk to you about it tomorrow, Frank. You get on in out of this rain.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The man pulled a wry face. ‘At least it’s better than the snow. Did you hear the forecast? They say there’s a depression coming over from the continent.’

‘No, I didn’t hear that.’ Maggie could hear the controlled patience in Neil’s voice. ‘Goodnight, Frank. Give my regards to Rachel.’

‘I will.’

The man stood back, and Neil accelerated away along the drive. In the wing mirror on her side of the car, Maggie could see the lodge-keeper closing the gates behind them, and her brows drew together in an expression of disbelief.

‘You know,’ she said, trying to sound casual, ‘if I didn’t know better, I’d say that man was treating you like his employer.’ She paused. ‘Are you?’

Neil’s eyes were glued to the streaming track illuminated by the headlights. ‘Am I what?’ he asked, but she knew he was only avoiding the question.

‘His employer,’ she repeated tightly. ‘Dear God, Neil, do you own the whole estate?’

‘And if I do?’

Her lips parted. ‘You never told me!’

‘Why should I? What I do has nothing to do with you.’

There was an edge to his voice now, but she didn’t notice it. ‘So what happened to Miss Cavendish? Did you force her to leave, too?’

Neil cast her a look that she could only sense in the dim light from the dashboard, but the temperature in the vehicle had dropped several degrees. ‘She died,’ he said coldly. ‘People do, when they get old. Don’t judge everyone by your standards, Maggie. Miss Cavendish had done nothing wrong.’

Maggie’s jaw felt tight. ‘And I had?’

‘Well, hadn’t you?’ he queried, with an irritating trace of contempt in his voice. He heaved a sigh. ‘I think it’s best if we don’t discuss the past, don’t you, Maggie? We said all there was to say five years ago. There’s not much point in rehashing old scores now.’

Maggie said nothing. She was already regretting coming here, giving Neil the right to treat her as he liked. She didn’t want to be beholden to him; she didn’t want to ask him for anything. If it weren’t for Lindsey she wouldn’t be here. Couldn’t he at least give her the benefit of the doubt?

There were bushes edging the drive, dripping with water at present, a far cry from the riot of colour they presented in spring. When she’d first seen them, Neil had told her they were rhododendrons, and even she had had to admit that their lush blooms of yellow and red and purple were magnificent. On a clear day, they had provided a useful screen for the house, but tonight there was no need of any cultivated concealment.

Nevertheless, when they emerged from the tall banks of greenery onto the open forecourt before the house Maggie couldn’t deny a sudden feeling of liberation. The front of the house was illuminated, and the light spread over the blocked paving of the courtyard. She could see now that the stagnant pool that had once provided a centre-piece was gone, and in its place a fountain, in the shape of a nymph playing coyly in the water, added its rhythm to the falling rain.

Outwardly, the house itself was little changed. There was still greenery growing over its walls, and the tall mullioned windows still flanked the double doors with their pedimented portico. But instead of being dark many of the windows were lit, and in the late afternoon gloom it had an undeniable appeal.