Wealthy Australian, Secret Son. Margaret Way

Rohan. She’d love to catch up.”

      “It would be a pleasure.” Rohan gave a slight inclination of his handsome dark head.

      The doctor lifted a hand in general farewell, then walked off towards the entrance hall.

      “You must allow me to run you back to the Lodge at least, Charlotte,” Rohan said, with a compelling undernote she couldn’t fail to miss. “I’ll make sure Chris gets home.”

      “Thank you, Rohan,” Christopher piped up. “Can’t take the helicopter, I suppose?” he joked, executing a full circle, arms outstretched. “Whump, whump, whump!”

      “Not that far.” Rohan returned the boy’s entrancing smile. “But I promise you a ride one day soon.”

      Christopher looked blown away. “Gee, that’s great! Wait until I tell Peter.”

      “Maybe Peter too,” Rohan said.

      “That’d be awesome! So where’s Grandpa?” Christopher suddenly asked of his mother. “Why didn’t he come into the house?”

      “He may well be outside, Christopher,” Rohan answered smoothly. “Why don’t you go and see? Your mother is safe with me.”

      “Is that all right, Mummy? I can go?” Christopher studied her face. His mother was so beautiful. The most beautiful mother in the world.

      “Of course you can, darling.” Charlotte summoned up a smile. “I want you to enjoy yourself.”

      “Thank you.” Christopher shifted his blue gaze back to Rohan. “It’s great to meet you, Rohan.” He put out his hand. Man to man.

      Rohan shook it gravely. “Great to meet you too, Christopher,” he responded. “At long last.”

      Many things in life changed. Some things never did.

      CHAPTER THREE

      THEY were quite alone. It was terrifying. Was she afraid of Rohan? That simply couldn’t be. But she was terrified of the emotions that must be raging through him. Terrified of the steel in him. Where had her beautiful white knight gone? A shudder ripped through her. This was a Rohan she had never seen.

      The village ladies had gone back outside, to enjoy the rest of the afternoon. Diane Rodgers had hovered, but Rohan had given her a taut smile and told her in his dark mellifluous voice to go and take a look at the roses. They were in magnificent full bloom. Ms Rodgers looked as though she had been planning something entirely different. One would have had to be blind to miss Ms Rodgers’s keen interest in Rohan. And who could blame her?

      The pulverising shock had not worn off. Nor would it for a long time. Now she felt an added trepidation, and—God help her—the old pounding excitement. He looked wonderful. Wonderful! The man who had loved her and whom she had loved in return.

       Rohan.

      She saw how much she still loved him. No one else had ever mattered. But now wasn’t the time to fall apart. She had to keep some measure of herself together. “I can walk back to the Lodge,” she said, although her voice was reduced to a trembling whisper. “You don’t have to take me.”

       “Don’t I?”

      The slash of his voice cut her heart to ribbons.

       God—oh, God!

      Recognition of the trouble she was in settled on her.

      He took hold of her bare slender arm, pulling her in to his side. “He’s mine, isn’t he?” he ground out. His tone was implaable.

      She wasn’t up to this. She was a lost soul. She was acutely aware of the pronounced pallor beneath his golden-olive skin. He was in shock too. She wanted to touch his face. Didn’t dare. She felt sorrow. Guilt. Pity. Remorse. Her heart was fluttering like a frantic bird in her breast. She had to try to evade the whole momentous issue. She needed time to think.

      “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rohan.” She allowed a fallen lock of hair to half-shield her face.

      “Is that why you’re trembling from head to foot?” he answered curtly. “Christopher is mine. My child—not Martyn’s.”

      She tried to disengage herself, but didn’t have a hope. He was far too strong. “Are you insane?” Her voice shook with alarm.

      “God!” Rohan burst out, his breathing harsh. “Don’t play the fool with me, Charlotte. He has my eyes. My nose. My mouth. My chin.”

       Your beautiful smile. The habit you had of flipping your hair back with an impatient hand.

      “He’s going to get more and more like me,” Rohan gritted. “What are you going to do then?”

      “Rohan, please,” she begged, hating herself.

      He took no pity on her. It was all he could do not to shake her until her blonde head collapsed against his chest. Despite himself, he was breathing in the very special scent of her—the freshness, the fragrance. He could breathe her in for ever. He was that much of a fool.

      “How could you do this, Charlotte? It’s unforgivable what you’ve done. No way is Christopher Martyn’s child.”

      “Please, Rohan, stop!” She shut her eyes tight in pain and despair. She was still light-headed.

      “You made the decision to banish me from your heart and your head,” he accused her. “You know you did. No love in a cottage for Charlotte Marsdon. God, no! Poor Martyn was always crazy about you. You were the ultimate prize, waiting for him. Did he know the child wasn’t his?”

      Years of unhappiness, pain and guilt echoed from her throat. “How could he know?” she shouted. “I didn’t.”

      “What?” He took a backward glance through the mansion, then led her away into the splendid book-lined library.

      Her father had taken his pick of the valuable collection of books. Even in her highly perturbed state she could see their number had been replaced.

      “You mean you were having sex with us both?” Rohan asked, looking and sounding appalled. “Oh, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know,” he groaned.

      She had to turn away from the anger flashing in his blue eyes. “It wasn’t like that, Rohan. You were lost to me. Forever lost to me.’

      His brief laugh couldn’t have been more bitter or disbelieving. “You’re lying again. You knew I would never let you go. I had to make something of myself, Charlotte. I had to have something to offer you. All I needed was a little time. I told you that. I believed you understood. But, no, you got yourself married to Martyn in double-quick time. Poor gutless Martyn, who went around telling everyone who would listen that I had goaded Mattie into trying to swim the river. Martyn was the golden boy in the Valley, not me. I was Mary Rose Costello’s bastard son. Yet I thought the world would freeze over before you ever gave yourself to Martyn.”

      “Maybe he took me, Rohan. Ever think of that?” She threw up her head in a kind of wild defiance, though she was on the verge of breaking down completely.

      “What are you saying?” There was fire in his eyes.

      Rivers of tears were threateningly close. “I don’t know what I’m saying.” Her heart was labouring in her chest. “I never thought I would lay eyes on you again.”

      “Rubbish!” he responded violently. “You knew you would see me again. With Martyn gone. I’ve given you enough time to recover.’

      “There would never be enough time.” Her green eyes glittered. “What do you expect me to say? Welcome back, Rohan?”

      A