Mask Of Scars

Mask Of Scars
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. Perfect wife material…? Christiana can’t think of a better way to spend her summer vacation than sun, sea and sand in the Algarve, Portugal. But when she arrives at her brother’s hotel, the reception from her sister-in-law is decidedly frosty. So she is grateful when she is offered a job by local ‘lord of the manor’ Dom Carlos Ramirez – despite his positively feudal attitude to women!Perhaps it is his dark good looks, but Christiana can’t help but be drawn to difficult Dom Carlos. But the Dom is already betrothed – and surely a suitable fiancée would make a better wife than an argumentative young English student anyway?!

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.

Mask of Scars

Anne Mather

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

Table of Contents

Cover (#uc83d42bb-f849-508a-81f2-52ec8010cc2e)

About the Author (#u062118f1-e555-5e75-aa60-5856475e340f)

Title Page (#u5ad6e694-db76-5b91-b523-32a0b7d0261e)

CHAPTER ONE (#ud9d9cd5b-6847-5dad-8369-a2e3e4864036)

CHAPTER TWO (#u91b69f0b-3273-588f-9c62-6b9d74248c40)

CHAPTER THREE (#u65727caf-76af-512a-88b7-dfcc7d8cd64d)

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_fb7ccfb9-9e07-5121-a2ca-c239f23d9fca)

BY the time the train pulled into the station at Lagos, Christina felt she had had a surfeit of glorious countryside and even more delightful coastline lit by the brilliance of the Mediterranean sun, and she would have been prepared to forgo such beauty in favour of a cooling shower and a change of clothes. Although she was wearing the minimum in underwear, the thin cotton jeans were clinging to her slender legs and the pink shirt which had been crisp and attractive when she set out from the pensao in Lisbon that morning was now limp, too. She felt hot and sticky and she half wished she had buried her pride and used the money Bruce had sent to buy an air ticket to Portugal.

But knowing her sister-in-law as she did she was firmly convinced that she knew nothing of her husband’s generosity, and it was quite within Sheila’s capabilities for her to question how Christina, who was apparently without funds, could afford the air fare to Faro. And the very last thing Christina wanted was to create friction between her brother and his wife at the start of her stay.

Lagos was the train terminal and there were several other passengers disembarking as Christina tugged her duffel bag and rather shabby suitcase on to the platform. Some of the other passengers were tourists, and in expensive continental gear and with porters carrying their blatantly new suitcases they were in complete contrast to Christina’s crumpled appearance. But she didn’t mind. With the inconsequence of youth it never troubled her what anyone thought about her, and she tossed back the curtain of corn-coloured hair that fell straightly about her shoulders as she bent to lift the duffel bag on to her back, and regarded her fellow passengers with something like amused tolerance in her clear grey eyes.

Outside the station the taxis were quickly commandeered and Christina looked about her doubtfully, wondering which way was the bus station. If she had troubled to inform Bruce of her estimated time of arrival, she knew he would have either sent someone to meet her or come himself, but she preferred the independence of making her own arrangements, a trait which had landed her in trouble at the University on more than one occasion.

Lagos seemed an attractive little town and even at this early hour of the evening, there were plenty of people strolling about, enjoying the sunshine or taking coffee at one or other of the exotic little open-air cafés and restaurants. Christina would have liked to have had some coffee and a sandwich herself, but Bruce’s small hotel was not here, it was at Porto Cedro, and she realised she would have to make some definite move towards getting there before it was dark.

Dropping her suitcase, she rummaged in her duffel bag and brought out a rather tattered-looking map which she had picked up for a few pence in Chelsea High Street, and spreading it awkwardly, she traced the line of her route from Lagos to the small village where her brother lived. According to the map it was some five miles west on the road to Sagres, and with an indifferent shrug she folded the map again and put it away. Five miles wasn’t far. She could probably walk it more easily than she could struggle to find the bus station when her knowledge of Portuguese was limited to a phrase book tucked into her jeans’ pocket.

Swinging the duffel bag back on to her shoulders, she made her way towards the outskirts of the small town, using the coastline as a guide. But as she neared the steep cliffs which fell away to a beach bleached almost white by the sun she wanted to linger and savour the knowledge that for three months she would be able to feast her eyes on such scenes and luxuriate in the deepening warmth of the sun. She longed to go down on the beach and find coolness in the creaming blue waters that lapped the shoreline, but common sense told her that she could not do so now. But tomorrow, she promised herself fiercely, tomorrow …

The road to Sagres was dusty and narrow, and although the sun was sinking it was still very hot. Christina ran a hand round the back of her neck under the weight of her hair and sighed in incredulity when she considered that it had been raining when she left London yesterday and for June the weather was unseasonably cold. Or was it? she thought wryly. Wasn’t English weather always unseasonable?

A lumbering cattle truck passed her, throwing up a cloud of dust which made her stop and cough chokingly for a moment. The driver halted and waved to her, obviously offering a lift, but although the prospect was inviting Christina declined. It wasn’t that she had never accepted a lift before, but simply that she preferred to take this slower pace. After all, no matter how attractive these three months in Porto Cedro might seem, she was quite aware that Sheila would demand and get value for her so-called hospitality, and Christina was prepared to make beds and scrub floors and wash dishes and do all the mundane tasks necessary to the efficient upkeep of a small hotel. But no matter how arduous these three months might be, at the end of each day she would be her own mistress, and there was always Bruce to share her enjoyment with.

She trudged on, the suitcase getting heavier by the minute and the duffel bag’s ropes digging into her shoulders. She should have taken the lift she had been offered. She would have been in Porto Cedro by now. She sighed. The last signpost a few yards back had said only four more kilometres to the village. Surely they would not take her much longer now.

A couple of cars passed her going in the opposite direction and she thought how wonderful it would be if she were to meet Bruce in that way. But then perhaps not, she amended to herself dryly. If Sheila were with him she would be horrified at Christina choosing to walk all this way along roads she did not know when anyone might happen along to molest her. But then Sheila was a very correct person, and perhaps that was why she and Christina had never got along very well together. It was not that Christina was entirely irresponsible; it was simply that Sheila did not and had not ever understood the independence of youth.

The sound of tyres on the dusty road came to Christina’s ears and she glanced round in time to see a huge black limousine approaching. With a casual movement she jerked her thumb in the direction she was going, her thoughts of Sheila goading her into doing the very thing she knew her sister-in-law would most disapprove of.

But she need not have bothered. The huge car with its sleek lines and a rather curious insignia engraved on its side swept past in complete indifference to her presence, although as the dust surged over her Christina was indignantly aware that the car had passed deliberately closely, almost forcing her on to the grass verge.