Whisper Of Darkness

Whisper Of Darkness
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. Beware the boss…As the third governess to take on problem child Anya Shelton, Joanna was expecting a little more gratitude from Anya’s father, Jake Sheldon. She can’t believe the antagonism she encounters from her frosty, classically handsome employer. How dare he treat her in such an unprofessional manner? Soon Jake’s reclusive ways raise more questions – why does he persist in cutting himself and his daughter off from the world? But something about the prickly Jake draws Joanna in, and she has to ask herself – why is she so concerned about him…?

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.

Whisper of Darkness

Anne Mather

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

Table of Contents

Cover (#u23db74d7-513a-5015-bc95-ca66de23c4f1)

About the Author (#ue3275275-a80a-5142-81bd-70a6e7469f65)

Title Page (#u2a5abf43-ba4a-5525-babe-e98b28fa021b)

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 (#uab0e73da-f895-55c4-a58a-0a6601101f9c)

THE track to Ravengarth wound up over the rise, or so the bus driver had informed her, casting a rather amused glance at her high heels. It followed the contours of the low stone wall, narrow and pitted with tyre tracks, and treacherously slippy after the rain the night before.

‘There’s no proper road to Ravengarth,’ he had insisted, when she had protested she had been told otherwise, and the murmurings among the other passengers had convinced her that she was holding them up unnecessarily. She had climbed down, lugging her heavy suitcase behind her, and coughed in some resentment at its departing expulsion of fumes.

The road she was on was little more than a lane as it was. High hedges, thick with the fruits of autumn, hugged the ditches at either side, and the only sound after the bus had departed was the distant bleating of some sheep. It was remote, and isolated, and even slightly unnerving, a sensation Joanna was not at all used to feeling.

Stiffening her shoulders, she determinedly pushed such fanciful notions aside. There was no point in indulging in regrets. She was here. She had a job of work at last. And anything was better than the hand-to-mouth existence she and her mother had lived for the past six months.

Even so, as she began to climb the muddy track, sticking as close to the wall as she could to avoid the more obvious potholes, she couldn’t help a wry grimace at the realisation of how ill-prepared she had been to face a situation as this. Who would have thought that her education at an exclusive girls’ school, followed by an equally expensive sojourn at a finishing school in Switzerland, should have produced someone so evidently lacking in useful accomplishments? It was true that her schooldays had been dogged by reports that read: ‘Joanna is an intelligent girl, but she pays too little attention to her lessons.’ Or: ‘Joanna is very popular with her school friends, but she must spare more time for her studies.’ Nevertheless, her results had been only a little below average, and what use were ‘O’ or ‘A’ levels to someone who was destined to marry into a wealthy family like her own, and whose main task in life would be the running of her husband’s home?

At the top of the rise she stood for a moment, regaining her breath as she surveyed the distance she had yet to cover. The track wound down for a while, disappearing into a belt of trees, and beyond the trees she could vaguely see the chimneys of a house. That must be Ravengarth, she thought a little irritably. At least half a mile away. Couldn’t they have sent someone to meet her? There were not that many buses that ran from Penrith to Ravensmere. Surely someone could have taken the trouble to find out what time her train arrived.

Realising there was no point in wasting time in silent imprecations, she picked up her case again and began to descend the downward track. Although the climb she had just undertaken had been harder, she soon realised it was easier to keep one’s feet going up than coming down. Stones, seemingly embedded in mud, moved when she placed her foot upon them, and once or twice she had to snatch at the stone wall to keep her balance. Her temper was not improved by the knowledge that the mud would doubtless stain the navy blue suede of her boots, and it squelched sulkily beneath her, as if anticipating her eventual downfall.

By the time she reached the gate which opened into the copse, Joanna was hot and tired, and the autumn beauty of the surrounding hills made no impression on her irritated disposition. It was a cool September afternoon, and she had dressed accordingly in a belted coat of wine-dark suede over a sweater dress of a toning rose colour. Aunt Lydia had expressly said that she should be prepared for it being cooler in the Lake District, and she had taken her advice without question. Now, she felt she could have done without the warm clothing or the boots, though wellingtons would not have come amiss.

Beyond the gate, a notice reading: ‘Private Land. Trespassers will be prosecuted’ aroused only a moment’s interest. Obviously Mr Sheldon did not encourage visitors, and remembering what Aunt Lydia had told her about him, perhaps it was understandable. He had chosen to hide himself away from the world, and obviously he would not welcome intruders.

The birds in the trees all around her were making their preparations for the night, and protested loudly as her feet crunched on fallen twigs and other debris, left by the previous night’s rain. She supposed the lane was wide enough to take a Land Rover, and probably that was what one would need to get up that rutted track, but apparently Mr Sheldon’s staff were not cosseted in that way, and Joanna’s lips tightened as her case began to hang ever more heavily from her aching fingers.

Then two things happened so suddenly that seconds later the offending suitcase had fallen from her nerveless grasp. There was a shot, a distinct explosion of sound, that ricocheted round the copse with an ear-splitting blast that sent all the birds skyward in panic-stricken flight. Joanna knew how they felt. She wished she could escape in similar fashion. But instead she was forced to remain where she was, albeit shaking from the tips of her toes to the top of her head, and gaze at the diminutive figure that had sprung out of the trees just after the shot and now stood facing her in the middle of the track.

What was it? she asked herself, dry-mouthed, staring at the aggressive creature that confronted her, still gripping the smoking shotgun in its hand. No more than four and a half feet tall, dressed in filthy jeans and ragged sweater, a cap pulled down low over its eyes, she guessed it must be a poacher she had disturbed at his work, and judging by the size of him, little more than a boy.

Not that this reassured her. Nowadays children committed the most abominable crimes, and she was in no position to argue with a cartridge full of small shot. Somehow she had to convince him that she presented no threat to his livelihood, and to this end, she took a tentative step forward.

‘Stay where y’are!’