Savage Innocence

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 mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Savage Innocence
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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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

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS incredibly hot and airless in the attic. Despite its being a fairly cool July day outside, whatever sun there’d been in recent weeks seemed to have been trapped here in the roof void, and Isobel panted a little as she clambered over trunks and cardboard boxes that hadn’t seen the light of day for years.

It was her own fault, of course. She could have refused to do it—though she had to admit she hadn’t expected that clearing the house would prove such an arduous task. Sitting back on her heels, surveying the accumulation of what was little more than junk that had collected here over the years, she tried not to feel anxious. But she wondered if she hadn’t bitten off more than she could chew.

But there was no one else willing to do it. Marion wouldn’t dream of soiling her hands by climbing up here. Besides, as she was always telling Isobel, there simply weren’t enough hours in the day to do all she had to do anyway. And Malcolm wouldn’t thank her if she gave what little time she had to sorting her late mother’s rubbish. Her husband saw little enough of her as it was.

Isobel, who taught at the local comprehensive, was assumed to be able to take a day off to deal with the aftermath of a family bereavement without any problem at all. If her classes had to be covered by someone else, or she got behind in her marking schedule, she’d have to deal with it. Marion had people depending on her, staff, whom she couldn’t possibly neglect to dispose of her mother’s things.

Isobel supposed it was true. As well as having a husband and an eight-year-old daughter, Emily, Marion also ran her own employment agency. She was always busy interviewing people or attending ‘important’ meetings. Isobel sometimes wondered why she’d bothered to get married at all.

Isobel wasn’t married, which she knew delighted Marion immensely. She knew little of her sister’s private life, of course, but the fact that Isobel didn’t have a steady boyfriend pleased her no end. Isobel’s best friend, Michelle Chambers, said it was because Marion was jealous of her. But why Marion should be jealous of her adopted sister didn’t seem to make much sense, in Isobel’s view.

Isobel thought Marion was basically unhappy. Despite her assertions to the contrary, she never seemed to enjoy her success. Isobel knew their mother had seen more of Emily than Marion had been able to, and the little girl was going to miss her grandmother terribly.

Mrs Dorland had died six weeks ago. She’d been suffering from a terminal illness for the past three years, so no one was actually shocked by her death. But, for all that, Isobel was amazed at the gulf her mother’s loss had left in her life. There was so much she hadn’t told her; so much she wanted to tell her now.

Although she’d initially put off Marion’s suggestion that the house should be cleared, she’d known that sooner or later she would have to do it. Their father had died some years ago, and although Isobel wasn’t married she no longer lived at home, which meant the house in Jesmond Dene was now empty. But she’d known that disposing of her mother’s belongings would be painful, and she’d waited until the emotional dust had settled before tackling the job.

Now, however, she didn’t have a choice. She was going away herself soon, and Marion was agitating about selling the house while the market was still buoyant. Isobel knew Marion’s share of the proceeds was earmarked for the business, and she wished she could insist that her sister had it all.

But the solicitor had been quite adamant on that point. Mrs Dorland’s will stated clearly that both her daughters should inherit in equal shares. As far as her mother was concerned, she’d never made any distinction between them, and Isobel had sometimes wondered whether that was why Marion had always worked so hard to gain her parents’ approval.

It had been easy enough arranging for the furniture to be dealt with. There were firms who specialised in house clearances and, apart from the one or two personal items Isobel had selected, everything else had been despatched to the saleroom.

It was not until Isobel had opened the trap door into the attic that she’d realised the enormity of her task. Unless they were willing to allow strangers to root around in family papers and suchlike, she would have to dispose of these old trunks and boxes herself. Despite the fact that all she’d discovered so far were old clothes and books and photograph albums, she couldn’t find it in her heart to just burn them, unseen. There might be something of value. She owed it to her mother’s memory to take the trouble to look.

All the same, she hadn’t expected it to be so hot up here. And the nausea that had troubled her earlier that morning was beginning to make her sweat all over again. If she didn’t get something to eat soon, she was going to start retching, and that was one consequence of her efforts she didn’t want to face.

She was crawling back to where the loft ladder pointed down to the first-floor landing when she saw the small dust-covered suitcase. It had been pushed away beneath one of the beams, and it was doubtful if she’d have seen it if she hadn’t been on all fours. As it was, she pulled it out, saying a not very ladylike word when the handle came away on one side and a screw scraped her finger. Then, tucking it beneath her arm, she climbed down to the landing below.

First things first, she thought, looping her curly hair behind her ears and descending the stairs to the ground floor. There was no food in the house, but she had brought a flask of coffee and some biscuits with her. Thank goodness, she thought weakly, stuffing a handful of arrowroot fingers into her mouth.

The nausea subsided, as she’d known it would, and, after pouring herself a cup of coffee from the flask, she carried the suitcase into the kitchen. Then, unlocking the back door, she stepped out into the watery sunshine and seated herself on the bench that circled the old apple tree.

This was where her mother used to sit in summer, she remembered sadly. And when she and Marion were schoolgirls, their father had hung a swing from one of its gnarled branches, but that had gone now. Even the blossom, that had flowered so incongruously, she’d felt, just after her mother died, had faded, the grass at her feet strewn with its decaying petals.

Sighing, she thrust her melancholy thoughts aside and turned to the suitcase. It was little more than the size of a briefcase, really, and Isobel couldn’t remember ever having seen it before. Perhaps it hadn’t belonged to her parents, she thought. Her grandparents had lived in the house before her father and mother were married, so it could have belonged to them. Whatever, it was unlikely to contain anything of importance. All her mother’s private papers had been kept by her solicitor.

She thought at first that the case was locked. Her first attempts to flick the twin catches met with no success. But a foray into the toolshed, which still contained some rusty tools and a broken lawnmower, unearthed an old screwdriver, and when she used this to pry at the catches, they gave in.

As she’d expected, the box was just another repository for papers. Letters this time, postmarked from an address in Cornwall, all of them at least twenty-five years old. Isobel frowned. She was not aware that her parents had known anyone who lived in Cornwall. If they had, neither of them had ever mentioned it to her. And she doubted that if Marion had known about it she’d have kept something like that to herself.

Unless…

She shook her head. Were these letters anything to do with her adoption? She knew virtually nothing about her real parents. She’d been told that her birth mother had been killed in a car accident just after she was born, and that as she’d been an unmarried mother, living alone, her baby had been taken into care. Isobel had always assumed that she’d lived in Newcastle, too, which was how the Dorlands had come to adopt her. Mrs Dorland had always wanted a large family, but after Marion was born she’d discovered she couldn’t have any more children.

Isobel wondered now why she hadn’t asked more questions about her adoption. She supposed the truth was that her mother had always got very touchy whenever the subject was broached. Isobel had been taught from an early age that she was lucky to be part of a proper family, and somehow asking about her birth mother’s background was ungrateful and disloyal.

Which probably had nothing to do with these letters, she decided, pulling off the elastic band, which had held them together, and studying the envelope with thoughtful eyes. It was addressed to her mother, she saw, and her nerves tightened, needlessly she was sure. She was regarding the letters far too seriously, she thought. They were probably from a friend her mother had known when she was young.

She felt a twinge of conscience as she pulled one of the letters out of its envelope. Perhaps she ought to wait and ask Marion what she should do with them. But then curiosity, and the knowledge that Marion had eschewed all interest in their mother’s effects, encouraged her to investigate further. After all, it was only her imagination that was giving them a significance they probably didn’t deserve.

She read the address at the top of the letter first: Tregarth Hall, Polgarron. Impressive, she though wryly, and, even though the letter was old, the quality of the paper was still evident. Then she noticed it started ‘Dear Iris,’ which was her mother’s name, and not Mrs Dorland. Her unease slackened, and she glanced at the bottom of the page. The signature was Robert Dorland. She grimaced. They were obviously from some relation of her father’s.

Wondering why that conclusion didn’t douse her interest, she turned back to the beginning. Dear Iris, she read again, and then went on. All the arrangements are now in place. Matty will bring the child to you on August 8th.

The child? Matty?

Isobel’s throat went dry, but she forced herself to read on.

I know you consider my actions reprehensible, but there is no way I can keep her even if I wished to, which I do not.

Isobel caught her breath, but she had to go on.

I trust George (her father, Isobel acknowledged tensely) will learn to live with it. He was always a sanctimonious devil, even in his youth, and, had it not been for your intervention, I am sure the child would have found no favour with him. Still, who am I to judge him? As George would say, I have made my bed, now I should lie on it. He never could forgive anyone’s weaknesses. Which is why, I suppose, my father left Tregarth to me, and not him. I doubt if we’ll be in touch again, dear Iris. My thanks and my best wishes for the future.

The air escaped from Isobel’s lungs in a pained rush, and the nausea she had defeated only minutes before attacked her again. This time there was no escape. She barely made it to the downstairs cloakroom before she was violently sick, and it was several minutes after that before she was able to drag herself to her feet again.

She felt chilled now. Whereas earlier she had been sweating in the heat of the attic, now goosebumps feathered her skin. She found the jacket she’d left hanging on the banister, and pushed her arms into the sleeves, clutching its warmth about her. But the chill she felt was as much psychological as physical, and it was some time before she could bring herself to return to the bench.

When she did, she found the dozen or so letters scattered in all directions. They’d tumbled from her lap as she’d rushed into the house, and, although she was tempted to toss the lot of them into the dustbin, she forced herself to pick them up again. Looking at the date of the postmarks on the envelopes, she discovered that the letter she’d been reading had been the last one to arrive. They must have been saved, one on top of the other, in reverse order, which was how she’d come to read the last letter first.

And that letter was dated August 1975, which was only a few weeks after she’d been born. According to her birth certificate, her birthday was the twelfth of July 1975, and it was highly improbable that her mother should have been involved with two babies at that time.

Which meant…? That this man, whoever he was, was her real father? That he’d got some poor girl pregnant and then reneged on his responsibilities towards her? Although George Dorland had always maintained that he had no relatives, it seemed obvious now that Robert Dorland must be his brother. His younger brother, by the sound of it. And instead of spending his early years in East Anglia, as he’d told his daughters, he’d actually been born in Cornwall instead.

Isobel swallowed, turning the other letters over in her hands. The last thing she wanted to do now was read them, yet she had to know how—why?—her own parents hadn’t brought her up.

From the tone of the letter she’d read, she thought she could guess at least part of the story. If anything the Dorlands had told her was true, then her mother must have died, as they’d said. But if she’d lived in Newcastle, claiming to be a single mother, how had Robert Dorland become involved with the baby? And who on earth was Matty? Isobel knew from what she’d been told that her real mother’s name had been Frances Parry.

She turned, somewhat apprehensively, to the earliest dated letter and drew the two sheets of paper out of the envelope. The address was the same: Tregarth Hall, Polgarron. And it both confirmed Robert Dorland’s identity and proved that Mrs Dorland had known him personally.

Dear Iris,

I am writing to you and not to that hidebound brother of mine because I’m hoping that what I have to tell you may strike a chord of sympathy in your heart. Ten months ago, I did something totally selfish and totally stupid. I betrayed Justine by having a brief fling with a young woman I met while I was in London, visiting my solicitor. Believe me when I say that I’ve regretted it ever since, and I had no intention of having anything more to do with the woman involved. Unfortunately, circumstances have contrived against me, and I now find that a child resulted from that reckless union. How do I know this? you ask. Because the child’s mother has now died, leaving the infant in my care. Not literally, of course. At least, not yet. At present, she is in the care of Southwark Social Services, but I have been contacted, as the child’s father, and I fear it’s only a matter of time before Justine finds out. You know how distressed she’s always been at not being able to have any children herself, and there’s no way I can confess the truth to her. I’ve thought of denying any knowledge of the woman, but who knows what other incriminatory evidence she may have left? No. It’s obvious that I’ve got to find an alternative home for the child, and, knowing how much you and George would have liked a larger family, I’m hoping you might agree to adopt your niece. Yes. In spite of everything, I know she is my daughter. I’ve seen her, and although her colouring is much darker than mine, the resemblance is there. Naturally, Justine must know none of this. Some other explanation must be found for your decision, but I’m sure we can work something out. What do you think? Will you do this for me? For Justine? For an innocent child? I beg you not to let me down.

Robert.

Isobel was shaking violently when she finished reading the letter. To think, all these years, when she’d believed she had no blood relations, she’d had an aunt, an uncle, a cousin—and a father! She couldn’t believe it. She didn’t want to believe it. Somehow it made a mockery of her life so far.

Why had no one ever told her? Why leave these letters for her to read when for more than twenty-five years she’d been kept in the dark? Surely her feelings had had as much relevance as Justine’s? As soon as she was old enough to understand the significance of what had happened, she should have been told the truth.

Stuffing the letter back into its envelope, she reached for the second, and the third, flicking through them with trembling fingers. There were fifteen letters in all, and, however reluctant she was to continue, she knew she had to read them all. Somehow she had to come to terms with what she’d learned, and the only way to do that was to try and understand why it had happened.

But the tenor of the letters changed after that first one. It soon became evident that this was because Robert Dorland’s plea had not met with universal approval. George Dorland had apparently refused at first to have anything to do with his brother’s problems, and, judging by the response his reaction had earned, there’d been no love lost between the two men.

Slowly, however, perhaps because of Iris’s intervention—Isobel would never know now—a compromise had been reached. However opposed to the idea her husband had been, Iris’s wishes had prevailed, and he had eventually agreed to adopt the child.

Herself, thought Isobel disbelievingly. She was the child they’d fought over, and, ultimately, she was the one who’d benefited. But at what cost? George Dorland had driven a hard bargain, and his agreement had entailed stringent conditions.

The first was that he’d never wanted to see his brother again. There would be no familial visits; no opportunity for Robert Dorland to secretly drool over his handiwork; to feel a sense of pride in the child he’d been prepared to give away.

The second was that Isobel herself was never to know the truth, which explained her ignorance. Whatever bitterness there’d been between the brothers had been reinforced by her adoption, and was obviously why George Dorland had always denied any connection with his past. And why she’d never been told she’d been born in London, instead of the north of England.

Spots of rain were dotting the knees of Isobel’s leggings by the time she’d snapped the elastic band back around the bundle of letters. Returning them to the case, she closed the lid, and got to her feet. It was odd, she thought, she felt entirely different now from the woman she’d been before she opened the case. Pandora’s Box, she thought painfully, as she walked back into the house. She should have burned the letters without reading them as her conscience had prompted her to do.

And yet…

She sighed. Why had her mother kept the letters? She suspected her father hadn’t been aware of it, which might account for the fact that the case had been hidden away beneath the beam. It seemed that as far as George Dorland was concerned, his brother had ceased to exist on the day the baby—herself—had been handed over. But Iris had been made of gentler stuff. Was that why she’d hung onto the letters all these years?

Isobel frowned. She wondered if Marion had known anything about it. Did she remember her aunt and uncle, for example? Surely she’d have mentioned them if she had. And when their father died—and their mother—had anyone informed Robert Dorland? Always supposing he was still alive, of course. As the younger brother, it was reasonable that he might be.

The breath caught in Isobel’s throat at that thought. My God, she thought. Her father—her real father—could still be living in another part of the country. The implications of that conclusion were both thrilling and terrifying. Had Robert Dorland thought about her at all since he’d abandoned her? Goodness, he might not even know that his brother and his wife were dead.

But what if he did…?

She ran a protective hand across the slight mound of her stomach. Ever since she’d learned of her condition she’d been thinking that history always repeated itself. Like mother, like daughter, she’d thought, but without knowing all the facts. Now, the comparisons between them were even more pertinent. Except… She took a deep breath. She had no intention of putting Jared’s name on the birth certificate…