Moon Witch

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 and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Moon Witch

Anne Mather

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE pretty stewardess came down the aisle of the Super VC 10, and stopped beside the seat of one of her first-class passengers. ‘We’ll be landing in fifteen minutes, Mr. Kyle,’ she said, smiling politely.

The man looked up from the file of papers he had been studying with deep concentration, frowning slightly at the interruption. ‘What? Oh yes, fifteen minutes, thank you.’ He nodded briefly, and returned to his papers, and the stewardess gave an almost imperceptible lift of her shoulders before returning to her position at the rear of the plane. She looked resentfully at her fellow-stewardess and said:

‘Honestly, I don’t know when I’ve ever been so disappointed!’

The other girl smiled questioningly. ‘Why?’

‘Well, having Jarrod Kyle as a passenger, of course. Heavens, the reputation he has I thought he’d at least notice me! As it is, I don’t think he sees me as anything more than part of the fuselage!’

The other girl laughed. ‘And is he attractive?’

The stewardess shrugged. ‘Not particularly. In fact he’s quite unattractive. He has one of those hard, craggy faces; I’m sure his nose has been broken. He’s big, of course, and having hair of that silvery shade is unusual, I suppose, but he’s very thin!’

‘Poor Mr. Kyle,’ said the other girl, still amused. ‘You’re certainly exploding the myth. Which one is he?’

‘I’ll show you, as they leave,’ replied the stewardess tartly, and returned to her duties.

Jarrod Kyle was surprised when the huge airliner landed at London Airport to find both stewardesses appraising him thoroughly. Turning his blue eyes on them, he said: ‘Say, is anything wrong? Did I snore in my sleep or something?’

Both girls gave embarrassed smiles, and one of them said: ‘I hope you enjoyed the flight, Mr. Kyle.’

Nodding, he shrugged his broad shoulders and walked down the catwalk into the airport buildings. As he disappeared, one of the girls looked exasperatedly at the other. ‘Did you say he wasn’t attractive!’ she exclaimed.

Meanwhile, Jarrod Kyle was given V.I.P. clearance of Customs and carrying his briefcase, his overcoat slung over one shoulder, he crossed the reception hall to where John Matthews, his personal assistant, was waiting for him. ‘Hi, Matt,’ he said warmly.

‘Good to see you, Jarrod. Did you have a good holiday?’ responded Matt, grinning.

‘Fine,’ Jarrod nodded, falling into step beside the other man. ‘Plenty of fishing—the way I like it.’

‘Catch anything?’ Matt glanced his way.

‘Depends what you mean,’ remarked Jarrod dryly. ‘How’s the old man?’

‘J.K.? Oh, he’s okay, I guess. Are you driving up there tonight?’

Jarrod glanced at his watch. ‘I guess so. It’s after five-thirty—let’s go have a drink and you can tell me what’s been happening.’

Matt looked at him thoughtfully. ‘I think that would be a good idea, Jarrod,’ he agreed mildly, pushing open the door of the bar.

Over whisky on the rocks, the way Jarrod liked it, Matt said: ‘There’s been quite an unexpected bombshell, actually. Want to hear about it?’

Jarrod lit a cigar. ‘Of course,’ he said, his eyes narrowing. ‘Not the Bradford merger?’

‘No,’ Matt shook his head. ‘That deal went through all right. J.K. handled it himself. I guess he thought he ought to pick up the reins in your absence, so to speak. I don’t think he’ll ever completely retire, do you?’

Jarrod took his cigar out and studied the glowing tip. ‘So? What’s this bombshell? Don’t keep me in suspense, Matt.’

Matt swallowed a mouthful of whisky before replying. ‘You might find it amusing,’ he said. ‘You seem to have got yourself a ward, unless your solicitors can extract you from the involvement, which, knowing them, I guess they will.’

Jarrod stared at him curiously. ‘A ward? What the hell are you talking about? A ward!’ he looked exasperated. ‘What kind of ward? A hospital ward? A political thing? What?’

‘No, Jarrod, nothing like that! A ward—a kid, you know!’

‘You mean like I’ve been made guardian to some kid?’ Jarrod looked astounded.

‘Something like that!’ Matt grinned. ‘Quaint, isn’t it?’

Jarrod swallowed his whisky at a gulp, and ordered another. ‘I don’t know what in hell you’re talking about, Matt. Come on, let’s have it. From the top!’

Matt twisted his glass round in his fingers. ‘It’s quite simple, really, Jarrod. Some old guy has made you his granddaughter’s guardian, till she’s twenty-one. Or eighteen, maybe. I’m not too sure about that.’

Jarrod was growing impatient. ‘What old guy?’ he asked shortly.

Matt looked amused. ‘A man called Jeffrey Robins. He died a couple of weeks ago.’

‘Jeffrey Robins!’ Jarrod looked blank. ‘Do I know him—or should I say—did I know him?’

Matt shook his head. ‘Unlikely,’ he replied, ‘he was a foreman in the Bridchester warehouse for forty years before he died.’

Jarrod breathed down his nose hard. ‘Matt, I’m warning you——’

Matt laughed. ‘Hold it, Jarrod, don’t blame me! It’s not my pigeon. Your father knows all about it. He used to know Jeffrey Robins.’

‘At last! The first bit of information. How did my father know him?’

‘Well, I believe they began in the textile trade together, years ago, but when J.K. left to start his own company, they lost touch. Then in the war they met again, and I believe it was during the early fifties when your father moved the head office to London they lost touch again.’

‘I still don’t understand, Matt. If J.K. knew him so well, why didn’t he make my father this kid’s guardian? And where are her own parents, anyway?’

Matt accepted his second whisky. ‘Well, it’s like this, you see, Jarrod, old man Robins made the chairman of Kyle Textiles his granddaughter’s guardian. He wasn’t to know your father would have to retire and give the chairmanship over to you when he was only fifty-eight.’

Jarrod stubbed out his cigar savagely. ‘My God!’ he said, shaking his head. ‘That was eight years ago!’

‘Yes, well, like I said, he was out of touch. I don’t suppose he expected to die so suddenly—after all, he was only sixty-eight himself.’

‘I see.’ Jarrod thrust his arms into the sleeves of his overcoat. ‘What a goddamned situation! And what about this kid’s parents? Where are they?’

‘Her mother died in childbirth, and the father got himself killed in an earthquake in South America. He worked for an insurance agency or something.’

‘Ah!’ Jarrod nodded, chewing his lip thoughtfully. ‘Oh well, come on, Matt. You can tell me more on our way to town.’

Outside the warm brilliance of the airport buildings a chilly fog had descended, making a damp January evening even more dismal. Jarrod turned up the collar of his coat, and glanced cheerfully at Matt. ‘I guess I should have stayed away longer. Who in hell would want to come back to London from Jamaica at this time of the year? I must be crazy!’

Matt allowed Jarrod to slide behind the wheel of the huge Mercedes that awaited them. ‘You know fine you can’t keep away,’ he remarked dryly. ‘It’s in your blood: high finance, boardrooms, mergers, take-overs; you name it, you can do it!’

Jarrod shrugged, turning the car expertly on to the main thoroughfare. ‘You make me sound like a machine,’ he remarked wryly.

Matt grinned, glancing out of the windows at the heavy gloom, illuminated by the orange glow of fog-lamps. ‘You’re far from that, Jarrod, thank God!’ he said, with enthusiasm. ‘Sometimes your father would say—too far!’

Jarrod gave a short laugh. ‘Jealousy, that’s all, Matt. The old man was never able to settle for a quiet life. He’d love to have been born thirty years later.’

Matt laughed now. ‘Oh yes, one of the jet set, eh? Dolly birds, fast cars, the dolce vita!’

‘Something like that,’ agreed Jarrod, pressing his foot down on the accelerator. ‘Tell me about the child now. What is she like?’

Matt shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea. I haven’t seen her. I only know she’s still at school.’

Jarrod raised his eyes heavenward. ‘And what does the old man say we do?’

‘I think he’s waiting for you to come home to discuss it. He wanted to bring you back sooner, but I persuaded him you needed a holiday.’

‘Thanks,’ said Jarrod dryly. ‘That’s what I was wondering about. It’s not like J.K. to hold back on me. He doesn’t usually pull his punches.’

‘No, well, anyway, you’ll hear all about it soon enough. He expects you to drive up to Malthorpe tonight.’

‘Does he? Yes, well, maybe I’ll take a rain check on that,’ said Jarrod, swinging round a jay-walking pedestrian.

‘Do you think you should? You know—his blood-pressure——’

‘All right, all right,’ muttered Jarrod impatiently. ‘All right, Matt, we’ll just call at the apartment and leave my things for Hastings, What a life! Six weeks in Jamaica, and within an hour of arriving back in this country I feel as though I’ve never been away.’

Malthorpe in the Forest was in Yorkshire, a comfortable village not far from the textile mills of Leeds and Bradford where the Kyle empire had had its source. Now, with factories in most of the larger countries of the world, it was an international organisation whose head office was in London. Jarrod’s father had founded the business before the Second World War and even he had had no idea of the impact his materials, carpets and designs would have on the rest of the world.

Jarrod and Matt arrived at the outskirts of Malthorpe late in the evening of the same day. J.K., as Jarrod’s father was always called, liked the kind of country squireship he had assumed upon buying the old country home of the Malthorpe family, all of whom were now only remembered by the gravestones in the cemetery beside the village church. Malthorpe Hall was large and sprawling, without much elegance of design outside. Its part-Georgian façade had been added to by succeeding generations without much discrimination and in consequence it now belonged to no period. Inside, Jarrod’s father had installed every kind of modern convenience. The large rooms suited his expansive personality, and he had spared nothing to make it the most talked about house in the district, much envied and admired by his friends and acquaintances. It stood in thickly wooded grounds, which stretched for some distance across the fields that gave on to the open moors. A high fence prevented would-be sightseers from getting too close, and as Jarrod approached its entrance he was forced to stop and identify himself to Hedley, the lodge-keeper.

‘Well, we’re in,’ he remarked dryly to Matt, as the car sped up the dark tree-lined drive. ‘It gets a little more like Fort Knox every time I come!’

‘Your father is afraid someone will steal his precious antiques,’ said Matt, as Jarrod brought the car to a halt in the gravelled courtyard before the front doors. ‘And every new piece he gets adds to his collection.’

‘And to his nerves,’ said Jarrod, sliding out of the car. ‘God, it’s cold! Have you had any snow yet?’

‘No, not yet. And it’s not that cold, Jarrod. It’s not even freezing, or you wouldn’t have been able to go as fast as you did on the motorway.’

‘Want a bet?’ asked Jarrod, mockingly, as the doors opened and light flooded out on to them. ‘Hello, Morris. On cue as ever!’

The uniformed butler bowed politely. ‘Good evening, Mr. Jarrod. I trust you’ve had a good journey.’

Jarrod nodded, walking round to the rear of the Mercedes and opening the boot. ‘Fine. How’s my father?’ He extracted his cases easily.

Morris came forward and took the cases from him firmly. ‘Your father is quite well, Mr. Jarrod. He is waiting for you in the library. Will you be wanting any supper, sir?’

Jarrod mounted the steps followed closely by Matt, carrying his briefcase and overcoat. ‘No, thanks, not tonight. See you later, Matt.’

Matt nodded and turned to follow Morris up the stairs to the first landing. Jarrod crossed the wide hall, and entered a room on the far side. The hall was lit by an exquisite crystal chandelier and Jarrod heard the prisms tinkling slightly in the sudden draught from the front door. The hall was carpeted in dark blue and gold, the balustrade of the staircase echoing the gold in filigree work overlaying the mellowed panelling which Jarrod’s father had retained. The library which he entered was carpeted in dark green, its walls lined with hundreds of hidebound books that Jarrod was sure his father had never even opened. J.K. was not a scholarly man, his success had been due to his hard work and personality, and he was not content to sit back and let someone else handle all the action. Unfortunately, a severe heart attack eight years ago had convinced him that to carry on living at the rate he was doing would kill him inside a year, so he had handed over the chairmanship of the Kyle companies to his son Jarrod, with the intention of retaining an active role in its administration. However, he had acted without thought to Jarrod’s own part in the proceedings, and found that his son could be as obstinate as he was. Thus, Jarrod took complete control of the business, only consulting his father rarely, much to J.K.’s chagrin. Now, though, he found he admired his son immensely, and what he had done was no less than he would have done in his place.

Tonight J.K. was sitting beside a roaring fire, smoking a cigar and drinking some superlative cognac from a balloon glass as his son entered. Although the whole house was centrally heated, J.K. insisted that he retained the fire in the library. He looked up as Jarrod entered, and smiled warmly.

‘Well, hello, Jarrod,’ he said, nodding to the chair opposite him. ‘Come and sit down! Is it freezing outside?’

‘Not according to Matt,’ remarked Jarrod, pouring himself some brandy and taking the seat his father indicated. ‘But it’s bloody cold!’

J.K. laughed. ‘You’ve grown soft, out there in the Caribbean. Don’t know how you stand the heat myself. Give me a crisp autumn day and a good fire, and I’m content.’

‘You’re getting old, J.K.,’ said Jarrod deliberately, and laughed when his father looked annoyed. ‘Say, but let’s not waste time on trivialities; what’s all this about some kid I’m guardian to?’

J.K. drew on his cigar, nodding. ‘Yes, Sara Robins. Old Jeff’s granddaughter!’

‘But this is crazy, isn’t it?’ Jarrod looked impatient, running a hand through the silvery hair which grew low on the back of his neck. ‘Hell, how did he come to make you his granddaughter’s guardian?’

‘Not me, you!’ said J.K. with some satisfaction. ‘You, Jarrod! The chairman of Kyle Textiles!’

‘That’s only a formality,’ muttered Jarrod, chewing his cigar. ‘You know damn fine it was you, and not me, he was talking about. Anyway, you still haven’t explained.’

J.K. shrugged his broad shoulders. He was like his son; he had the same thick hair, but his was iron grey, and his features were more deeply carved. Also, his eyes were grey; Jarrod got his unusual eyes from his mother. ‘When I was a young man, Jeff and I were good friends. I guess when his daughter and son-in-law both died he felt disturbed for the child’s welfare. After all, his own wife died during the war, he must have felt the girl was completely alone.’

‘But why pick on you? For the money?’

J.K.’s lips curled. ‘If you had known Jeff Robins you wouldn’t say a thing like that. He was the most honest, upstanding man I know. If he had wanted money he could have had it. I offered him plenty of chances one way and another. No, Jarrod, it must just have been a kind of hopeful desperation, I guess. I don’t think he knew about his heart condition, or if he did, he didn’t broadcast it. I guess he hoped to be around till Sara was old enough to find herself a man and get married.’ He sighed. ‘But it wasn’t to be!’

‘And the child, have you seen her? Since her grandfather died, I mean.’

‘I’ve never seen her,’ said his father, lying back in his chair reflectively. ‘I suppose I ought to have gone over to Bridchester this past week, but I thought I’d wait——’

‘And let me do it,’ said Jarrod dryly. ‘Clever!’

His father grinned. ‘Well, Jarrod, you did insist on taking over every part of my duties. How was I to know you wouldn’t object to me interfering?’

‘Crafty devil!’ muttered Jarrod, walking across to help himself to another drink. ‘Okay, okay, what are we doing about it?’ He leant against a table, looking at his father. ‘Seriously!’

His father frowned. ‘Well, I guess it would be an easy matter to contest the will. After all, it wouldn’t be difficult to prove that it was I, and not you, who ought to be the—how shall I put it?—trustee! And as I’m now retired, I imagine that would absolve our responsibilities legally.’ He rocked the liquid in his glass. ‘Besides, the will was made without our consent, and I suppose that means something.’

Jarrod heaved a sigh. ‘What a situation! What will happen to the kid if we do—absolve ourselves?’

‘I suppose she’ll be put into a foster home, or something. Unless we provide funds to keep her until she’s capable of keeping herself.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘Staying with a neighbour, but as this neighbour has seven children of her own she’s made it plain, to the solicitors at least, that it can’t be a lasting arrangement.’

‘Poor kid!’ Jarrod swallowed the remainder of his brandy. ‘Well, I suppose you expect me to go see her.’

‘One of us has to,’ said his father, leaning forward. ‘After all, it’s only the decent thing to do.’

‘And then what?’ Jarrod stood down his glass, and loosened the top button of his shirt. ‘That’s better,’ he sighed. ‘I guess the best thing is to provide for her, isn’t it?’

His father shrugged. ‘I have a fancy to see Jeff’s granddaughter, Jarrod. Bring her here, to see me.’

Jarrod raised his dark eyebrows. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, I mean, you’re going to bring a kid here, to see—well—all this, and then put her back in her place! Don’t you think it’s likely to make her discontented?’

‘Not if she’s Jeff’s granddaughter,’ replied J.K. firmly. ‘He’ll have seen she has both feet on the ground.’

‘Anyway, how old is she?’ Jarrod frowned. ‘You never did get round to that.’

J.K. shrugged. ‘I’m not exactly sure. Fifteen or so, I think.’

‘Fifteen!’ Jarrod glared at him. ‘Fifteen. Don’t you realise that girls of fifteen are practically grown up!’

His father narrowed his eyes. ‘How do you know that, Jarrod? Or are your tastes in women changing?’

Jarrod threw the end of his cigar on the fire. ‘If anyone else had said that to me …’ he said harshly.

‘I know, I know.’ His father rose to his feet. ‘Nevertheless, you have known plenty of women, and maybe you’re right. Maybe she’s not a child after all. If this is the case, it would make our job easier. Unless …’ J.K. looked thoughtful. ‘I always wanted a daughter, Jarrod,’ he said reflectively. ‘Oh, I know I wanted a son—but afterwards——’ He sighed.

Jarrod walked to the door, stretching. ‘Oh, brother,’ he said with some sarcasm. ‘The brandy must be making you maudlin. I’m tired. I’m going to bed. Sleep on it, and let me know what you’ve decided in the morning.’

His father compressed his lips, looking annoyed. ‘All right, Jarrod, you’ve made your point,’ he said shortly. ‘How hard you are!’

Jarrod looked back at the slightly stooped figure of his father and repented. ‘I’m as you’ve made me, J.K.,’ he said slowly. ‘In your own image!’

Sara Robins walked home from school with Brian Mason, the eldest son of Mrs. Mason, who had been her grandfather’s neighbour for over fifteen years. It was with them that Sara was staying, while her future plans were considered. Although it was only a little over two weeks since her grandfather’s death, Sara felt as though a lifetime had gone by.

The reading of the will, and the discovery that her grandfather had placed her virtually in the care of a complete stranger had come as a shock to her. If she had ever considered her grandfather’s health, she had never dreamed that he might collapse before she had left school and got herself a job. Somehow he had always seemed so young, so robust, that he had never invited any anxiety about his condition. It was only now that Sara realised he must have had some warning of the heart disease he had suffered.

Mrs. Mason and her husband, who always seemed such a meek, long-suffering little man, compared to his domineering wife, had been very kind, but Sara knew that she could not stay with the Masons indefinitely. Accommodation was limited, and at the moment she was sleeping on a camp-bed in their sitting-room. The house next door had been put up for sale, but it was not expected that they would get much for it. Such furniture as had been suitable had been taken to the saleroom, and Sara averted her eyes when she passed the blank empty windows.