For The Love Of Sara

For The Love Of Sara
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.He will win back the mother of his child!Rachel’s affair with Joel Kingdom ended in anger and bitterness – but now he is back in her life! For the sake of their small daughter, Rachel is now marrying Joel’s father. What right does he have to object? But Joel won’t give up Rachel and his daughter without a fight. And Rachel soon finds that her feelings for him are not as deeply buried as she first thought…

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.

For the Love of Sara

Anne Mather

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

Table of Contents

Cover (#u8631eec7-e03b-5f1b-a04a-536e0140f258)

About the Author (#uc4dec62d-c7d1-50f1-bd28-07ad26f751d1)

Title Page (#u26ec0758-93da-5788-bdf0-3e2e30f879da)

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 (#u58e16b3f-55b3-5e21-9bf6-5d6ed687da2b)

JOEL left the motorway at the Salton turn-off and drove west into open country. Beyond the few villages which flanked the motorway, miles and miles of gorse-strewn moorland stretched before him, interspersed here and there with cottages, their smoking chimneys the only sign of habitation. There were sheep in plenty, of course, straying carelessly on to the road in front of him so that he was continually bearing down on the brake, and the impatience that filled him at the necessity for this journey grew with every second wasted. At any other time, the artistic sensitivity which had ensured his success in his chosen profession would have responded to the almost miraculous blending of colour as evening had shadowed the slanting rays of the sun. The pale turquoise of the horizon now the sun had set shimmered with the approaching dusk and set the stars trembling. But right now Joel’s thoughts were much less pleasantly occupied, and he felt no affinity with this windswept landscape, only irritation that his destination was so remote from the civilisation he was used to. The occasional cars that passed him going in the opposite direction were forced to remove themselves from their positions on the crown of the road by the sheer width of the Mercedes, and he reflected broodingly that drivers around here apparently considered they had the free and only rights to the highway. He was not in a mood to be generous in this direction; his stomach was telling him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and he longed for a drink to cool his frustration.

He glanced at the plain gold watch on his wrist. It was already past seven o’clock. It would be night soon, and he had no desire to negotiate these roads after dark. It was incredible to think that only a little over an hour ago he had been bypassing the industrial centres of Doncaster and Leeds when now he seemed distant from everything urban. That was why he hadn’t stopped earlier although the service areas on the motorway had mocked his good sense. He estimated he had only another five or six miles to go to Langthwaite, and with a bit of luck the hotel there would be able to supply all his needs. At least, until tomorrow.

He sighed and flexed the fingers of first one hand, then the other. It had been after two when he left London, so he supposed he had made reasonable time. He hadn’t rushed, but again he hadn’t wasted time. He had been singularly reluctant to reach his destination when he set off, and although that had changed, his feelings were definitely mixed. Deep inside him there was a hard core of bitterness about the whole affair, and no amount of soul-searching would convince him he was doing the right thing. He had said he would do it for Francis’ sake, but was that entirely true

He shifted irritably, unwilling to investigate his motives. He was here now, he had to go through with it. Twilight was deepening, but there were lights up ahead and he turned on the car’s lights to read the sign. He almost missed it, a gravestone-like fixture at the side of the road, half hidden by the long grass. He wondered if the connotation was significant and then shook his head impatiently. This was no time for self-doubt or self-delusion.

The village was small, a collection of cottages clustered about a cobbled square. There was the inevitable telephone box outside the post office, a general dealers, which looked as though it sold everything, but probably didn’t, and the inn. The Golden Pheasant! Joel’s mouth turned down at the corners. It made a change from the Black Bull or the Bay Horse, he supposed. It certainly did not have the appearance of a five-star hostelry, but if the beds were clean and the beer was cold, he would have no objections.

There were one or two teenagers loafing about in the square, and the sight of the sleek cream Mercedes attracted a few coarse comments. Joel was forced to leave the car outside the inn, trusting to God and providence that no one would run a rusty nail along its side. Where was the age-old rustic charm he had imagined? Gone like everything else beneath the heel of indifference? At least there was no regimented housing estate encroaching on the village boundaries, and it was too far from the nearest town to attract evening commuters.

Leaving his one case in the boot, Joel pulled his sheepskin jacket on over his shirt and pants, and sliding the knot of his tie up to his collar he entered the bar entrance which appeared to be the only means of access. It was still comparatively early in the evening, and there were only one or two elderly patrons occupying the tables in the bar, but the girl who was serving was young, and pretty too if you liked buxom blondes. She was obviously intrigued by the appearance of a dark stranger, and Joel could feel her assessing him from the thickness of his straight hair to the soles of his suede boots. What she saw she apparently approved of, because the look she bestowed on him was warm and encouraging.

“Yes, sir? What will it be?”

Joel hesitated, then he drew his wallet out of his inside pocket. “Oh — er — I’ll have a beer.” He glanced round. “You do take overnight visitors here, don’t you?”

The girl filled his glass and pushed the foaming beverage across to him. Her eyes had widened and she was regarding him curiously now. “Overnight visitors, sir? At the inn? Well, I think Mr. Harris takes one or two. I’m not sure whether at this time of year…” She handed him the change from a pound note, holding his gaze with her own. “Would you like me to find out for you?”

Joel slid the silver into his pocket. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he agreed, raising the glass to his lips and drinking thirstily.

The girl regarded him for another inquisitive moment, and then with a shrug she turned and went out. Joel lowered his weight on to a bar stool. The beer was good — cold, as he liked it, and refreshing after his hours at the wheel. He was aware that his presence was causing a minor argument in the corner between two of the older patrons, and he guessed they got few visitors in Langthwaite at this time of year.

The girl was coming back and with her was a middle-aged man, obviously the licensee. Joel forced a smile and had it doubtfully returned. “You’re wanting accommodation, I hear,” Mr. Harris stated, leaning on the bar. “Would it be for long?”

“One night only, I expect,” replied Joel evenly.