Morgan's Child. 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.

      Morgan’s Child

      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

       CHAPTER FOURTEEN

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      FLISS let herself into the cottage and dropped her tote bag onto the iron chest that stood just inside the door. The living room was deliciously warm after the chilly air outside, and after bending to pick up the mail she surveyed her small domain with a certain amount of relief. It had been a long day and she was tired, and it was so nice to think that she had the weekend ahead, two whole days without any demands being made on her.

      Well, apart from Graham’s coffee morning, she acknowledged ruefully, but that wasn’t exactly an arduous affair. She’d promised to make some of her cheese scones, of course, but she could do them in the morning. Scones were always nicest fresh from the oven, and Graham was always so grateful for anything she did for his church.

      Dear Graham. She smiled and, crossing the living room, she entered the tiny kitchen that adjoined it. A cup of tea first, she decided, dropping the letters on the counter and plugging in the kettle. Then she was going to take a long hot bath. Graham had his bible class this evening, so she wasn’t expecting to see him again until the next morning at the church hall. Which meant she had no one to please but herself.

      Not that there was anything the least bit intimidating about seeing Graham, she mused, taking off her cashmere coat and Paisley scarf and hanging them in the understairs cupboard. Indeed, she had a lot to thank Graham for. She couldn’t forget all that he had done for her and their relationship had deepened over time. Without him, she might never have found the strength to drag herself out of the hole Morgan’s death had thrust her into, and it was in part thanks to him that she now had a home and a job in a place that was as far removed from the ravages of war-torn Nyanda as it was possible to be.

      And it was only natural, she thought, that the gratitude she had initially felt towards him should have eventually deepened into a stronger emotion. Graham was that kind of man; all his parishioners loved him, and she was sure Morgan wouldn’t resent her finding a less frenetic kind of happiness with another man.

      Or would he? As the kettle boiled, she admitted to herself that she didn’t really know how Morgan would feel. Their relationship had left little room for that kind of speculation, and there was no doubt that when they had been together no other man had stood a chance.

      Her mouth quivered with remembered anguish, and she hurriedly reached for the tea caddy, determined not to let any maudlin thoughts of her dead husband destroy the very real happiness she had found with Graham. Graham wasn’t Morgan, and she wouldn’t have wanted him to be. Her love for Morgan had been too strong, too passionate, and the pain she had suffered when it had ended so violently had convinced her that perhaps it was better not to feel so deeply. If she’d cared for Morgan as she cared for Graham, she would have been distressed when she had received the news of his death but she wouldn’t have been devastated; she wouldn’t have felt that life no longer had any meaning; that her whole world had fallen apart...

      The sound of the phone broke into her reverie, and she was grateful. From the beginning, the doctor had warned her not to brood about the past, and she was gradually coming to terms with it. Morgan was dead. They’d found the remains of his body in the burnt-out car. That period of her life was over, and she told herself that she had stopped looking back.

      Squaring her shoulders, she picked up the phone. ‘Hello,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Whittersley 2492.’

      ‘Felicity?’

      Fliss expelled a breath. Of all people, she thought ruefully, but her mother-in-law called her so infrequently these days that she wasn’t altogether sorry. ‘Yes. it’s me,’ she greeted the other woman warmly. ‘Hello, Celia. It must have been at New Year that I last spoke to you and James.’

      ‘Yes, well—’

      There was a wealth of unspoken censure in those two small words, and Fliss