Dark Castle

Dark Castle
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.When ‘strictly business’ turns to pleasure…Anything Julie may have felt for Jonas Hunter is history – and has to stay that way! Despite their magnetic attraction, she can never forget the way he betrayed her…When business forces them together at his remote Scottish castle, Julie is determined to keep their relationship on a professional level. But she is soon struggling to keep her emotions buried, especially when she discovers that the past may not have been as clear-cut as she first thought – and that Jonas’ attraction to her still burns as strongly as ever…

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.

Dark Castle

Anne Mather

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

Table of Contents

Cover (#u55790fcf-9be0-5377-ae3b-25bcc7c2fae7)

About the Author (#ua1258c5e-da66-5323-854b-46e125353012)

Title Page (#u44aa5358-0ba1-5772-8cf3-d3ed20dd2ce1)

CHAPTER ONE (#u31ae6bf6-aebd-5b62-9d22-a2eb0435636a)

CHAPTER TWO (#u4991d49a-d3cc-5f7b-93c6-c7cb513be1e3)

CHAPTER THREE (#u17d3136c-06b1-5363-a3ce-ef6ad6d0c774)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_a3d2b07d-4e33-5e09-ac53-2fee8ffe7299)

THE train pulled out of the station at Inverness and as its lights disappeared into the misty darkness all Julie was left to look at was her own pale reflection through the window of the compartment. The train was almost empty, but that didn’t surprise her. It was not the time of year for holidays, and there was a faint air of melancholy about the empty seats which until a few weeks ago had been full of visitors eager to sample the delights of this single-track journey to the Kyle of Lochalsh.

Not that Julie knew the area or the delights of the journey. Until a few weeks ago she had never even heard of it. But Mark had, and it was Mark’s idea that she should come here, and perhaps he had thought the beauty of the scenery might in some way make up for what he was making her do.

She sighed. It had been a long and tedious journey, and she was tense and tired. She had not wanted to come in the first place, and the prolonged hours of isolation in the northbound express had not altered her opinion. She had chosen to travel by train instead of using her car for two reasons – firstly, because she had thought it would be quicker, and secondly, because it would be less tiring. But as the hours had gone by, and the sleeper she had booked for the first stage of her trip had proved of little use to her over-active mind, she had begun to wish she had had the concentration of driving to distract her from the discomfort of her own thoughts.

She shivered. She was cold. She had been waiting at Inverness for almost four hours, and not even the warmth of her sheepskin coat had been sufficient to ward off the onslaught of the chill winds that blew down from the mountains and whistled through the small station. But this train ran only twice daily and although she had only a few more miles to go it was her only link with Achnacraig.

Achnacraig! She stared broodingly out into the darkness. How like Jonas to be so unaccommodating as to put himself almost beyond approach. And yet she would never have imagined him living so far from London, or his beloved Yorkshire, or any of the places he had previously favoured. She knew he still had his apartment in St. James’ Mews because she had rung there first, only to be told by the caretaker that Mr. Hunter had left for Scotland some weeks before.

Her hands curled in her lap. She had written, to the address at Achnacraig which his publisher had kindly given her, but Jonas’ reply had been brief and to the point. If she wanted to see him, she would have to come to Scotland.

She glanced irritably round the compartment. Her only companions were a red-faced man carrying fishing tackle, and a woman who had probably been shopping in Inverness. Their interest in her had been fleeting and now they both seemed sunk in their own thoughts.

She tried to think positively. She hoped there would be a decent hotel in Achnacraig. She wanted the reassurance of a good meal and a night’s sleep before summoning all her courage for the interview with Jonas. She had written and told him she was coming, and if, as she hoped, she could see him tomorrow, she would be able to return to Inverness tomorrow night and complete her journey back to London the following day.

She opened her handbag and took out her compact, surreptitiously examining her reflection in the small mirror. Wide-spaced hazel eyes, thickly lashed, gazed back at her, slightly shadowed after the restless night spent in the sleeper, while the severity of her hairstyle drew attention to the paleness of her cheeks. She couldn’t help wondering whether Jonas would notice any change in her appearance, in the finer contours of her bones, in the hollows of her throat. She was slimmer now than she had been, although not so thin as in the few months after their separation …

She snapped the compact shut and thrust it back into her handbag. She would not think of that. She was not here to indulge in maudlin sentimentality. This was purely business, and she had no intention of allowing emotion to creep into it. All that had been over long ago, and if Jonas had not uprooted himself and left for some outlandish part of South America before any formal severing of their marriage could be arranged, no doubt they would have been divorced by now.

But she still felt restless. It was all very well telling herself not to think, but the subconscious mind had a habit of disregarding advice. And after all, perhaps it would be better if she did think of what was past, of the way Jonas had behaved, of the humiliation she had suffered at his hands. She drew an unsteady breath. It still hurt – but then pride was a very sensitive thing.

She forced her thoughts into other channels, opening the small briefcase she had on the seat beside her and extracting the file she had begun to compile. She read the bare details she had written with as much detachment as she could summon:

Jonas Hunter is the son of the late Professor Godfrey Hunter, lecturer and statistician. Educated at Winchester and Cambridge, Mr. Hunter joined the staff of a national newspaper after leaving university and achieved considerable success as a journalist. Later he turned to television and became an overseas correspondent based mainly in South America. Recently returned to this country, Mr. Hunter has written a political thriller with all the attributes of a major novel. The novel is to be filmed.