The Autumn Of The Witch

The Autumn Of The Witch
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. A marriage in name only… There is only one way Stephanie can save her father from absolute ruin. She must become the wife of wealthy Sicilian Santiano Venturo! Stephanie has no allusions about this marriage of convenience - surely Santiano only married her to give his motherless daughter a companion anyway? But she can’t help finding Santiano irresistibly attractive, and something in his behaviour suggests he might have deeper feelings for her too… Is it better to keep their union on a superficial level, or can Stefanie risk revealing to her new husband what really lies in her heart?

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.

The Autumn of the Witch

Anne Mather

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

Table of Contents

Cover (#uf2fc3c4c-863b-5b56-920c-046d02bc61e7)

About the Author (#u5dce3f39-1366-5693-a930-6d2a4a149d77)

Title Page (#ud8546992-5647-5ad1-887f-834a6c3aa731)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#u0ca0f4e6-3632-5273-87f6-d5a705816f8a)

HIGH above the black rocks of the Baia del Fortezzo on the western coast of Sicily stood the Castello di Strega. Built more than a hundred years ago, its walls weathered by the elements of countless seasons, it possessed the kind of grim majesty which commanded respect, and Pietro Bastinado thought it a fitting background for its owner, Santino Ventura. The Ventura family had owned this stretch of the island for generations, land which Pietro knew only too well had been tom by savagery and blood feud, land which knew no authority but its own.

Below the castello terraces of vines and orchards of almond, fig and lemon trees led down to a plain which would have been arid had it not been for the artificial channels which irrigated it, tended lovingly by the Venturas’ workers whose livelihood it represented. Away to the west in complete contrast stretched the sun-warmed waters of the Mediterranean which provided a blessed escape from the sweated labour in the fields. It was a land of contrasts, thought Pietro as he turned the Lancia on to the steep drive up to the castello. A land of great wealth and abject poverty, of fertile huertas and barren wasteland, of seething, pulsating humanity and splendid isolation. A land which for centuries had written its own laws and still attempted to do so.

Pietro’s employer, Santino Ventura, who was also his brother-in-law, was perhaps the wealthiest man on the island. He was not, however, dependent on the precarious success of his crops for his prosperity. Early in life he had learned that affluence did not appear, it might be sought, and breaking the traditions of years he had widened his horizons and moved into the world of high finance. Using his excellent brain and inbred sense of cunning, he had speculated profitably, and he had gained a reputation in business circles of being completely ruthless, sentiment never being allowed to colour his judgment. He was a hard man, even his most loyal peasant would never have attempted to deny that, a man of extreme ideals and his enemies might say selfish arrogance, yet for all that Pietro knew that he was a man who cared passionately for his people, despising the system he used so expertly to his own ends. His only weakness, if it could be classed as such, was his small daughter Lucia whose mother, Pietro’s sister, had died giving her birth.

Now Pietro brought the sleek sports car to a halt at the foot of the steps which led up to the heavy door of the castello, and sliding out shed the driving gloves he had been wearing. Then he ran lightly up the steps and thrust open the door, entering the high-ceilinged hall of the building. In recent years many improvements had been made to the castello, and now the hall was terrazzo-tiled and the curving staircase was polished marble. The walls were intricately sculpted in wood and the burnish of years was upon them. High overhead a single chandelier was suspended and at night it gleamed from a thousand prisms. A magnificent background indeed, he thought, for a man who was master of his own destiny, and the destinies of his people.

An elderly woman, dressed entirely in black in the manner of her ancestors, came through a door below the curving staircase and approached him. This was Sophia Vascente, Santino’s housekeeper.

‘Good morning, Sophia.’ Pietro spoke in their own language. ‘Are you well? It seems almost cool outside today.’

‘It is early yet, signore,’ observed Sophia dourly. ‘You have come to see the padrone?’

Pietro smiled goodnaturedly. ‘It is not in order for me to do so?’ he inquired lightly.

‘The padrone is not yet up, signore,’ replied Sophia. ‘Do you wish for some coffee?’

Pietro gave a wry grimace. ‘Yes, I wish for some coffee,’ he answered, nodding. ‘Dare I ask if the padrone has had breakfast?’

A faint smile touched Sophia’s lips, albeit unwillingly. ‘It has been taken up to him, signore. No doubt he will have heard your arrival and will be down presently.’

Pietro raised his dark eyebrows. ‘Do I sense a reproof in your voice, Sophia?’

Sophia put her hands on her hips. ‘The padrone was working very late last night, signore. He is tired.’