Come The Vintage

Come The Vintage
Anne Mather

Mills & Boon are excited to present The Anne Mather Collection – the complete works by this classic author made available to download for the very first time! These books span six decades of a phenomenal writing career, and every story is available to read unedited and untouched from their original release.If she wants her inheritance, she must marry!Ryan Ferrier assumes that claiming her inheritance will be easy. But there is a rather disconcerting clause in her father’s will! To gain her share in his successful wine empire, she must marry his business partner - the mysterious Frenchman Alain de Beaunes…Ryan reluctantly becomes Alain’s wife. But while she sees it as purely a business arrangement, Alain seems determined to assert his claim on her. At first she is unwilling, but Ryan soon learns to appreciate Alain’s charms – perhaps there is more than business to this marriage, after all?

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

Come the Vintage

Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Table of Contents

Cover (#u67563141-2a78-56a2-a99d-fbb23762f68c)

About the Author (#u88afdd35-2f8c-5ed1-947f-62ba848f783c)

Title Page (#u63fd3059-9a24-56c5-97c4-8e966a0c9ea4)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#u3fafcaf3-ff75-5518-a693-f8b40293c51a)

A FINE grey drizzle filtered down through the bare branches of the trees and dampened the shoulders of the few mourners gathered about the open grave. It was a fitting day for a funeral. Since early morning, clouds had hung low over the valley, and a chill wind brought the breath of snow from the Jurals not far away. The cemetery was erected on the hillside, above the village, and the weathered gravestones of its occupants were streaked with rain and sodden leaves. Autumn had come late to the valley, but it was here now, and Ryan shivered in spite of her warm coat and trousers.

She had her arms wrapped closely about her as if to ward off the chill which came as much from within as without. Despite the solemnity of the occasion, the brass-handled coffin lying in its six feet of earth, the sombrely clad group around her, she found it all very hard to believe. Was it possible that in the space of four short weeks her whole life could change so dramatically that she no longer recognized it as being her life?

Four weeks ago when Aunt Maggie died, her grief had been tempered by the letter her aunt had left. The letter, which had given her her father’s address and begged her to go and see him. Since Ryan’s mother had died five years before, Aunt Maggie had talked often about her father, softening the bitterness she had always felt towards him on her mother’s behalf. Aunt Maggie had tried to make her see that Pierre Ferrier had not been wholly to blame for the break-up of her parents’ marriage, there had been faults on both sides; most particularly her mother’s refusal to return with him to France.

Ryan had thought for a long time before contacting her father. It was ten years since she had seen him, and then she had been a mere child of some nine years, totally incapable of judging what manner of man he might be. But the realization that with the death of her aunt she was alone in the world had persuaded her to send him a letter advising him of her aunt’s death. His reply had been reassuringly swift, in the form of an invitation, urging her to give up her job as an assistant librarian in a small south coast town, and join him at Bellaise in the valley of a tributary of the River Rhone. The Ferrier vineyards were there, her father’s inheritance, and he wished for her to share his life.

In the days that followed Ryan had pondered his suggestion. Although her father was French, she was not, and although she spoke the language she had been taught at school, not by experience. It was a big step, expecting her to give up everything she had known and cared about and leave England to make her life in a strange country.

She had discussed the matter at length with her aunt’s solicitor, and it was this which had finally decided her to go. Her aunt’s house was rented, she was told, and the owners required possession as soon as possible. What little money her aunt had left would barely pay the funeral expenses, and her own earnings would scarcely enable her to rent a flat in these inflationary days. If she remained in England, she would need to find a room in a boarding house, and that prospect had filled her with dismay.

The priest’s voice was droning on and Ryan felt a certain dryness in her throat. Could anyone have foreseen that fate would play such cruel games with her? If she had known her father would die of a heart attack within four days of her arrival in France, would she then have come? Would she have risked so much for four short days?

She did not know. Meeting her father again after all the years had been a bitter-sweet experience. He had seemed so much older than she had expected, thin and grey-cheeked, nothing like the dark-haired man she could vaguely remember. But of course, she had been unaware of his illness …

His delight in seeing her had dispelled a little of the grief she had felt at the death of her aunt. Although there were things between them which could never be erased, they had both felt an immediate affinity which time and experience would have strengthened. It was eight years since her mother had divorced her French husband, but he had not married again. Ryan was his only offspring. But she had had no idea of his intentions …

She raised her eyes now and looked across the yawning chasm of the grave to the man standing alone at the opposite side. Alain de Beaunes – her father’s partner, though she had been unaware he had a partner until she met the man.

As his curious tawny eyes lifted to meet hers, she quickly looked away. There were things which had been said between them that morning which she did not want to have to remember until she was forced to do so. Even so, that did not prevent her from shivering at the recollection of the scene which had taken place.

The priest was sprinkling soil down on to the coffin. It echoed hollowly as it fell on the hard surface, and Ryan wondered morbidly how long it would take to rot in this damp ground. Not long. She took an involuntary step backward. For a moment she felt dizzy, probably because she had had nothing to eat since morning, and she had a horror of pitching forward into the grave.

The short service appeared to be over. The priest had moved from his position and was now talking in undertones to Alain de Beaunes. Ryan couldn’t help looking at them wondering what they were discussing so earnestly. Was it to do with her? Her gaze flickered over the surplice-clad figure of Abbé Maurice. Thin and slight, the frailty of his appearance was accentuated by the tall powerful frame of the man standing beside him, his head stooped to listen to what the priest was saying. Alain de Beaunes was a big man. He in no way resembled the man who had been his partner, Ryan’s father. Ryan had felt an aversion to him on sight, due no doubt to the bluntness of his manner, the lack of common politeness in his treatment of her. Looking at him now, noting the strong, Slavic features, the thick neck and square powerful shoulders, the long, muscular legs moulded against his trousers by the pressure of the wind, she felt totally incapable of facing what was to come. She didn’t know why he intimidated her so, but he did, and she turned her attention to his shabby overcoat and carelessly blown hair in an attempt to disparage her fears. He was not a handsome man, nor yet a particularly young one. She guessed him to be in his early forties, and although some women might find his harshly carved features and heavy-lidded eyes attractive, she was repelled by him. His hair had a generous sprinkling of grey, she noticed with satisfaction, but as it had once been very fair it had now acquired the ash-blond appearance much sought after by women in expensive hair salons. Nevertheless, she regarded him as a peasant, and found no pleasure in his company. She had resented her father’s obvious dependence on him, the way he had deferred to the younger man in all things, and now that her father was dead she resented his authority over her.

But what authority was it? She scuffed her boot impatiently against the stony earth. None that she could actually lay her finger on, and yet he controlled her future as surely as if her father had left her in his care. Why had her father done such a thing? Why had he made the situation so impossible? Was it a final gesture against his dead wife? She didn’t know. All she knew was that she was in the most ignominious position of her life.