Relative Sins

Relative Sins
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. Whose baby?When Sara’s husband dies, the only person she can turn to for comfort is his brother. She has always been irresistibly drawn to gorgeous Alex, and she is finding it increasingly difficult to keep her distance now! Especially as Alex is so good with her young son Ben.But could Alex have guessed Sara’s deepest secret? Perhaps now is the time to make her shocking revelation…

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.

Relative Sins

Anne Mather

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

Table of Contents

Cover Page (#ud1e29434-d620-5a02-bc81-9780d817d05e)

About the Author (#u74c6affc-e2dc-5f61-ab75-d73c0b502e65)

Title Page (#u9b7ef673-c435-51f3-965c-dbda2ffb6819)

Chapter One (#ube2403c8-9f34-56ec-b8f8-19c9fe9f5cf2)

Chapter Two (#u270e4c86-d3c2-5bfe-9aae-43db216ac969)

Chapter Three (#u035d7023-d11f-538a-9523-0346ad4b0d74)

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)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_ba6bfc43-528c-572a-b766-40b70d0ffe64)

‘I AM the resurrection, and the life, said the Lord…’

The minister’s voice went on, the strangely familiar words of the funeral service arousing disbelief as well as numbing grief. The November day was icy, and the crowd gathered about the grave huddled deeper into their dark coats and warm gloves. Sara was fairly sure that they were wishing it were over, not just because of the unhappy circumstances, but because it reminded them of how truly mortal man was.

For herself, she had the feeling that she’d never be warm again. The chill she was experiencing came from inside as well as out. Her feet were freezing and her hands were cold, but she was hardly aware of physical discomfort. It was her emotions that felt as if they were encased in ice.

Thankfully, the ritual was almost over. In a little while she could escape so many sympathetic eyes and grieve in peace. One or two of those in attendance had raised handkerchiefs to their faces, quietly dabbing at their eyes or blowing noses to disguise an errant tear.

Harry’s mother was one of them, and Sara wished that she could feel closer to her mother-in-law. But Elizabeth Reed had never shown any affection for her daughter-in-law while Harry had been alive, and Sara suspected that she blamed her now for Harry’s untimely death.

The little boy standing beside Sara tugged at her sleeve, and she turned at once at the distraction. ‘Stand still, darling,’ she whispered softly. ‘We’ll be leaving soon.’ And then she immediately felt a pang of disloyalty for saying the words. All the same, if it hadn’t been for Elizabeth Reed Ben would not have attended his father’s funeral, and Sara was still of the opinion that her son was far too young to share their grief.

‘But I’m cold,’ Ben persisted, and scuffed his toe at a clod of earth.

‘I suppose we all are,’ Sara replied comfortingly. ‘But, I’ve told you, it won’t be long now. At least it isn’t raining.’ That would have been the final straw.

Ben’s dark head turned to look at the row of cars parked outside the churchyard. Watching him, Sara realised that her four-year-old son hadn’t comprehended the seriousness of the occasion. She’d told him that his father had gone to heaven, that he wouldn’t be coming back again. But she was sure he imagined heaven was some distant corner of his universe, and that in a while they’d all go home.

But where was home? she wondered unhappily, aware that Elizabeth Reed was watching them, and no doubt deploring Ben’s lack of discretion. Certainly not in Brazil, where Harry had died, and definitely not at Perry Edmunds, where her in-laws had always lived.

Tears came, unbidden, to Sara’s eyes and she tried to blink them away. She’d tried not show her grief too openly for Ben’s sake, but now and then the realisation overwhelmed her.

How could the urban guerillas whom Harry had so often negotiated with and trusted have mistaken him for a political opponent? The ambush, on a remote and mountainous section of the highway, had put Harry in the wrong place at the wrong time. The attempted assassination of the diplomat whom Harry had been accompanying had gone tragically wrong, and her husband had not expected to die at the hands of people he had previously befriended.

A bullet from one of the guerillas’ illegally obtained rifles had hit Harry in the neck, and although he had been rushed to a hospital in São Joaquim it had been too late. His life had proved to be just another trophy in the increasing war that was raging between affluence and poverty, power and subjugation in the world today. Ironically, Harry had been working to break down the very divides in the country’s class system he had died for. When they had brought the news to Sara in Rio she had felt his frustration above all else…

‘Will we be going home in that long black car?’

Ben’s question relieved the sense of anguish she was feeling, and she realised that she owed it to Harry’s memory to give her son all the love he deserved. It wasn’t his fault that his father was dead, nor hers—only Harry’s mother found that hard to accept. But she had to acknowledge that that part of her life was over, and she and Ben were on their own now against the world.

‘I expect so,’ she answered him gently, and as she returned her eyes to the coffin it was lowered majestically into the ground. It was left to her to make one final gesture, and, plucking a peach-coloured rose from a wreath, she tossed it swiftly into the grave.