Master Of Falcon's Head. Anne Mather

       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 [email protected] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

      Master of Falcon’s Head

       Anne Mather

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

       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

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      TAMAR SHERIDAN walked slowly along the gallery, pausing now and then to study a picture with critical eyes. Deserted now, apart from a solitary cleaner, the lights dimmed, it was rather a melancholy place.

      Another depth of feeling, another facet of emotional experience, another dimension, thought Tamar, amused by such dramatic inconsequence. She was allowing her imagination free rein because the exhibition was over, and although many of the pictures bore the satisfactory Sold tag, she felt rather melancholy herself because never again would she experience the thrill and achievement of a first exhibition.

      She came back along the gallery. She could see Ben in the small glass office talking to Joseph Bernstein. They were both smoking cigars, and feeling very pleased with themselves, and Tamar allowed herself a faint smile in their direction. It was good, she supposed, to find yourself an overnight success, and yet in all achievement there was an element of disappointment. As though the achievement was in itself an anti-climax. She sighed. It was as well that she had the party this evening. She was in a mood for self-depression, a mood she determinedly shrugged away.

      But near the end of the gallery, she halted beside the only painting that bore a Not for Sale notice. It was not one of her best – Tamar recognized this now. The brushwork was too harsh, the colours too insipid; and yet she would never sell it. Its subject prevented her from doing that. The pale oils gave the impression of mist and rain, an impression heightened by her own experiences. She felt derisive. Who would ever imagine that this amateurish attempt to transfer to canvas the splendid magnificence of Falcon’s Head represented the whole empty isolation of her life?

      She turned away abruptly, unable to look long at the picture without recalling vividly the bitter intensity of youth. Was it really only seven years since she had left Falcon’s Wherry? Was it really only seven years since she had been that impressionable eighteen-year-old, with a wild imagination and a talent for trouble? So much had happened since then, so many experiences had overridden the pain and humiliation she had once suffered. She was no longer impressionable, she was no longer an irresponsible girl, she was a woman, mature and dedicated to her career.

      Why then did she keep the painting? Why did she cling to it, persisting in tormenting herself this way? If she was as sophisticated and mature as she imagined herself to be, why did she not cast the painting aside?

      Because, she told herself fiercely, so long as I have that painting, I will not forget that once I made a terrible mistake, and only my talent, my painting, saved me from utter humiliation!

      ‘Penny for them!’

      She almost jumped out of her skin, so absorbed with her thoughts had she been.

      ‘Oh, Ben!’ she exclaimed, regaining her composure. ‘You startled me!’

      ‘Obviously.’ He smiled warmly down at her, then transferred his gaze to the painting. ‘What is it, Tamar? What is it about this old oils that disturbs you so?’

      Tamar turned her back on the painting deliberately. ‘There’s nothing about it, Ben,’ she denied smoothly. ‘I was merely comparing my work now with my earlier attempts. Terrible, isn’t it?’ She infused just the right amount of careless amusement into her voice, and Ben was distracted from his trend of questions. Even so, he said:

      ‘Well, why do you keep it, then?’

      Tamar shrugged. ‘Maybe to remind myself of my humble beginnings,’ she replied lightly. ‘What were you and Mr. Bernstein talking about?’

      Ben gave up his questions altogether, and fell into step beside her as they walked towards the office.

      ‘He’s enormously pleased with your success, of course,’ he said, grinning. ‘And incidentally his own, naturally.’

      ‘Naturally,’ said Tamar dryly, looking up at Ben with wide interested eyes.

      ‘He wants to give another exhibition for you in the autumn,’ went on Ben. ‘Do you think you could be ready by then?’

      Now