Witchstone. 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.

      Witchstone

      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

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       CHAPTER TWELVE

       CHAPTER THIRTEEN

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      THE frosty afternoon sunlight was casting a final mellow glow over the rooftops as Ashley Calder turned into Bewford’s High Street and saw the small hotel ahead of her. Already it signified home, and unconsciously her step quickened as she thought of the glowing fire which would be burning in the grate of her aunt’s living room and the homely smell of baking which always drifted from the kitchen. This was something she had never been used to. She had been too young when her mother died to remember much of what had gone before, and although her father had done his best, their home had lacked a woman’s touch.

      The Golden Lion Hotel was a stone-built, attractively weathered building that blended well with the row of tall, somewhat old-fashioned shops of which it was an integral part. It had a history, too. It was said that once some prominent member of an exiled royal family had taken refuge there on his journey north to Scotland and safety, and although much of the building had been renovated it still maintained that aura of the past that was so evident in knotted floors and low oak beams. In the few weeks she had lived there, Ashley had already acquired a sense of attunement with the place. She loved history and she was beginning to find her memories of her life in London less painful to contemplate. Her aunt and uncle had been so kind to her, sharing her grief over the sudden death of her father, and making her feel as much a part of their family as her cousins, Mark and Karen, that the future which had looked so black eight weeks ago was beginning to have possibilities again.

      All the same, it had been quite a wrench leaving London, leaving everything and everyone she had ever really known to come north to Yorkshire to live with an aunt and uncle she could scarcely remember. She had met them once before, when she was five years old. But that was twelve years ago now, the time when her mother had died and her sister and her husband had come south for the funeral. She had been too young then to appreciate any family differences, but as she grew older she sensed the antagonism her father felt towards her mother’s sister. In any event, he had not encouraged Ashley to keep in touch with them, and distance had lent detachment. It was only now, after the kindness they had shown her since being informed of her father’s death, that Ashley had begun to wonder why her father had not wanted her to get involved with them. Perhaps he had been afraid they would take her away from him, she mused. Perhaps he had sensed that the quality of their life was so much warmer, and that Ashley might have responded to it, used as she was to a somewhat emotionless existence.

      Now Ashley shook her head. Surely her father had not believed that she would leave him alone. She would never have done that. She had loved him too much, even if sometimes she had suspected that she could never take the place of her mother in his affections.

      But that was in the past now. Her future was here, in Bewford, and she swung lightly through the arched entrance to the cobbled yard at the back of the small hotel.

      Her aunt was in the kitchen and looked up smilingly as Ashley came through the door bringing a chill gust of cold air with her. ‘Hello, love,’ she greeted her. ‘Have a good day?’

      ‘Hmm.’ Ashley came over to where Mona Sutton was spreading lemon icing over a batch of small cakes. ‘Can I have one of these, Aunt Mona?’

      Her aunt raised a resigned eyebrow. ‘I suppose so. Though where you put it all, I don’t know.’ She surveyed her niece’s slender figure with a shake of her head. ‘Aren’t you afraid you’ll get fat? Heavens, Karen only has to look at cakes and pastry and the inches seem to appear by magic!’

      Ashley chuckled, swallowing the rest of the lemon sponge with obvious enjoyment. ‘I’m just lucky, I guess.’

      ‘Yes.’ Her aunt sounded less than convinced. In her opinion Ashley’s slenderness owed more to lack of food than anything else. When she first arrived in Bewford, Mona had been appalled at how thin she was, and only now, after several weeks of good