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.

Edge of Temptation
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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IT was surprising how small the valley looked from the helicopter. Perhaps it was the fact that it was a valley that accounted for that feeling of compression, of compaction, of hills giving on to hills with little between but the restless waters of the Llanbara. The sweeping slopes where he had ridden all his life, the high pastures where Powys herded his sheep and Meredith had his forestry plantation, were telescopically condensed into narrow bands of green and brown, the trees so close the sun could not penetrate. It was an illusion, of course. As the blades of the propellers swept them lower, the rocky outcrop of Morfa Crag could clearly be seen, the sun-dappled hillside a patchwork of shifting shades and shadows, with the roofs of farm buildings clustering together in settlements dotted about the valley floor. Penwyth. His home, and his heritage. And what was it worth?

‘Lead has always been in demand, of course,’ Sir George Marland was saying now, ‘but really, it’s only during the last few years that we’ve turned back on our own resources. I think the oil crisis in 1974 alerted the government to its dependence on other countries for its essential needs, and awakened a kind of national determination to avoid any exploitation of that kind in the future.’

Rafe nodded. In all honesty, he was not paying a great deal of attention to what Marland was saying. Marland was a government official, and like all government officials, in Rafe’s opinion, he said what he had to say in as many words as possible, instead of as few.

‘Man is a hungry individual, Glyndower—some might say greedy. He’s a consumer, and in this day and age, he consumes more than he has ever done before. World mineral deposits are running low. Even the oil we’re presently pulling out of the North Sea may not see us to the turn of the century. We must constantly be on the alert for new sources, new deposits, and lead is a very valuable commodity.’

Rafe glanced at John Norman, his eyes expressive. What did Marland think he was? A moron? He knew the state of the world’s economy—who better, when it was brought home to him constantly in the day-to-day demands of the estate. He knew that cash was in short supply, and that any substantial deposit of ore on his land would benefit him and the country both. Ever since they lifted off, Marland had been expounding in this vein, and quite frankly, Rafe was sick of the sound of his cultivated tones. He didn’t need some pompous bureaucrat implying where his duties lay, explaining the situation to him as if he was some ignorant schoolboy, not conversant with the simple mathematics of economics.

‘I think Mr Glyndower understands your position, Sir George,’ Norman interposed now. ‘However, Penwyth has belonged to his family for many generations, and the farmers—the tenant farmers, that is—–’

‘Farmers!’ Marland’s tones mirrored the contempt he felt for such an interruption. ‘My dear John, the wealth accrued from such land is negligible. What is it? Sheep country at best! There’s your equation. In my view, there is no problem. And let us not forget that it’s Lord Penwyth’s decision, not Glyndower’s.’

‘My father has put the affair into my hands,’ retorted Rafe tersely, pulling a case of the narrow cheroots he smoked out of the pocket of his tweed hacking jacket. When both men declined his offer of the case, he put one of the slim cigars between his teeth, and added: ‘Conversely, I’m of the opinion that there are conflicting interests here. Interests of humanity, and ecology. This country of ours—and I mean Wales, not England, or Great Britain, as it sometimes suits the government to call us—has been torn apart by mining of one sort or another. Pits, spewing slag and slurry all over our hillsides, belching black dust into air that was once clean and pure. Is that an equation, Sir George? Is that what you mean by mineral wealth?’

Marland’s plump shoulders stiffened. He was not used to such plain speaking. His heavy jowls above the starched white collar of his shirt visibly stiffened. Brushing an imaginary speck of dust from the ironed crease in his pin-striped trouser leg, he adopted an air of frosty forbearance.

‘I trust you’re not about to enter that as a serious point of opposition, Glyndower,’ he observed sourly. ‘With your apparent concern for humanity, you should be the first to realise that without the coalmines, the people you so staunchly defend would have starved.’

Rafe put away the lighter he had used to light his cheroot and drew deeply on the tobacco, exhaling a cloud of aromatically-flavoured smoke into the enclosed cabin of the helicopter. He supposed it was impolite of him to smoke in such a confined atmosphere, when neither of his colleagues was doing so, but right now he needed the sustenance it gave him. Lucy would not approve, he knew that, but then there were a lot of things he did of which Lucy did not approve, and at the moment her approval was not in question.

Of course, he knew he had been a fool, bringing up the subject of coalmining. Marland could cut any argument he might make to ribbons, and the humane aspects of rheumatic diseases and silicosis were more than compensated by the rewards offered. Or so it seemed. There were still plenty of men willing to risk life and limb to bring up the energy-bearing carbon, and his own ancestors had not been unwilling to take their fair share of the patrimony offered. It was as well Marland knew nothing of his own history, and besides, what bearing did it really have on what was happening here?

‘I’m simply saying that—enough is enough,’ he replied now, weariness descending like a shroud. ‘I don’t know that in this case, the end justifies the means.’

‘Rafe!’ It was John Norman who spoke, his good-natured features drawn into an uncharacteristic frown. ‘You know perfectly well, Penwyth needs the capital.’

Rafe moved his shoulders impatiently. ‘I don’t deny that. But is that sufficient reason to deny a man his livelihood?’

Marland cleared his throat. ‘I understand that without a—shall we say—substantial investment of capital, the estate may have to be sold any way.’

Rafe stiffened now. ‘Where did you hear that?’ He glanced at John Norman again. ‘Was that your opinion, too?’

The president of the Norcroft Mining Company shifted uncomfortably. ‘One doesn’t have to be a fortune-teller to see for oneself, Rafe,’ he demurred. ‘You’ve said yourself…’

‘We’re going through a rough patch, yes.’ Rafe inclined his head. ‘But it’s been rough before. We’ve survived.’

‘An estate like Penwyth is an anachronism,’ declared Marland heavily. ‘Too small to be efficient, too hilly to farm economically. Who would want this land anyway? Fields and fields of rough turf, climbing among acres of second-rate timber. Pretty, maybe—valuable, it’s not.’

Rafe stilled the ready retort that sprang to his lips. Now was not the time to sentimentalise or offer emotive reasons why he wanted Penwyth to stay the same as it had always been. In all honesty, Sir George was probably right: Penwyth was not a viable proposition. It never had been. The house was a rambling mausoleum, badly in need of roofing and repair, and the acres of garden that surrounded it were gradually running to seed. Old Laurence did what he could, but there was a limit to one man’s abilities in that field, and the man was old—too old to handle a garden like the Manor’s, yet not old enough to pension off. And if they did pension him off, who would take it on? The young people left the valley in search of work in Cardiff or Swansea, and he hadn’t the time to handle it himself. Not along with everything else.

How much easier it had been years ago, he reflected bitterly. The rents from the farms had never contributed much towards the upkeep of the Manor, but in those days, the subsequent lords of Penwyth had had independent means. They had had the money to maintain the valley as an oasis of peace and tranquillity in a world being torn by economic collapse and starvation, money derived from sources it was not always polite to question. They had not been crippled by a series of taxes and death duties, supplemented by rising costs and soaring prices, that left Penwyth almost bankrupt and struggling to survive. Now the rents from the farms were a much-needed necessity, though they went only a small way towards the upkeep of the estate, and his father’s lengthy illness had even eaten into Lucy’s allowance.

‘What would you suggest I tell my tenants?’ he asked Marland now. ‘Like me, they were born and brought up in this valley. They don’t know any other life. It takes some swallowing, doesn’t it? Destroying a whole community!’

‘How many farms are involved? Six? Seven?’ Marland sniffed. ‘You can’t seriously consider the needs of half a dozen families more important than the wealth of the nation as a whole.’

‘How dramatic!’ Rafe’s lips twisted. ‘No, Sir George, I’m not that arrogant—or altruistic. I know what granting exploratory rights means, and I’m aware how important such a find might be.’ He shook his head. ‘It just seems ironic that it was Mervyn Powys who brought that axe to me. He had no idea what it would lead to.’

Marland shrugged. ‘The luck of the game, Glyndower. Now, can we discuss primary claims?’

It was after five before they had completed the aerial survey. The helicopter belonging to the Norcroft Mining Company came down on the field below the manor, and levering himself out beneath the lethal blades of its propellers, Rafe felt it was incumbent upon him to offer his guests some refreshment before they returned to their hotel in Llandrindod Wells. Lucy would expect it, he knew, and besides, he would be interested to have her opinion of Sir George Marland. Lucy was quite a shrewd judge of character, and just because he didn’t like the man, it did not mean he was unlikeable. He was not surprised when his offer was accepted. No definite decision had yet been made, and he knew both Marland and Norman would welcome this opportunity to further their mutual ends.

While the pilot stilled the noisy propellers, Rafe walked towards the Land Rover he had left parked earlier in the afternoon. His dog, a golden-haired Labrador named Rufus, awaited him, sitting patiently in the front of the vehicle, only exploding excitedly when he opened the door.

‘Easy, boy, easy,’ he murmured, fondling the golden head affectionately, as the dog displayed its welcome, and then fastening his fingers around its collar as Sir George and his satellite came importantly across the turf to join them.

‘You sit up front, Sir George,’ urged John Norman, politely climbing into the back, and Rafe’s mouth drew down in a wry curve as he allowed Rufus to bound into the back beside the mining company president.

Sir George used his handkerchief to dust the dog hairs from the seat before joining his host in front, and Rafe turned on the ignition with an inward grimace. He wished he could be done with the whole damn business, without the decision which he knew he was going to have to make.

Penwyth dreamed in the late afternoon sunlight. It was a beautiful house, built on the site of an ancient Cistercian monastery, destroyed in the sixteenth century. Stones from the original building had been used to build the manor house, and from time to time, rumours were spread of a shadowy monk being seen in the grounds, or a certain coldness being felt in various parts of the building. Rafe himself had never seen any ghost, or experienced any sense of chilling as he worked in his study, sometimes late into the night, but the Welsh were a superstitious people, and he respected their beliefs.

The house itself was built of mellowed stone, liberally covered with ivy. It was a constant battle trying to keep the creeping tendrils off the windows, but tinged with the russets and reds of autumn, as it was now, the vine gave the building a warm, welcoming appearance. It was approached beneath a Norman arch, set in a high stone wall, that gave on to a cobblestoned courtyard, where Rafe’s mother had cultivated plants that clung as tenaciously as the ivy to the uneven bricks. Here was honeysuckle and clematis, but late in the year, only the lingering scents of their blossoms remained, like a memory of summer.

Rafe brought the Land Rover to a halt to one side of the ivy-hung porch, and warning Rufus to remain where he was, invited his guests into the house. Sir George was mellowing, too, beneath the undoubted influence of historic architecture, his admiring gaze moving along the mullioned panes that flanked the porch at either side, and John Norman, who had seen it all before, exchanged an encouraging glance with their host.

William Morgan appeared as Rafe entered the hall, his elderly features expressing polite interest in the two men who were following his employer. The old man had been butler at the Manor for more than forty years, since the days when the Glyndowers had employed a housekeeper, too, and not relied on the mistress of the house to perform such menial duties. He was a luxury they could ill afford, Rafe had acknowledged many times, but like Percy Laurence, Morgan was too old to cast adrift.

‘Will you be wanting tea, sir?’ he enquired now, relieving Rafe of his jacket. ‘I believe Mrs Glyndower is in the library. Master Thomas is with her.’

For a moment Rafe forgot the presence of his guests, forgot the unpleasantness of the decision he was going to have to make, and felt only a sense of crushing disappointment.

‘Tom?’ he echoed. ‘Thomas is here?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Damn!’

Rafe felt his jaw clenching angrily, and then was reminded of his position once more as Sir George remarked: ‘Capital house you’ve got here, Glyndower. This panelling—magnificent! Seventeenth century, isn’t it? Beautiful.’

‘It’s early eighteenth, actually,’ replied Rafe absently, his mind still buzzing with the implications of his son’s arrival. Then, forcing a politeness he was far from feeling, he added: ‘Part of the foundations date back to the sixteenth century, and there are stone racks in the cellars, which we think were used for storing wine by the monks who used to live in the monastery that originally stood on this site.’

‘Is that so? Fascinating, fascinating …’

Sir George was clearly disarmed by his surroundings, and while he and John Norman shed their sheepskin jackets, Rafe had a swift exchange of words with the butler.

‘When did he arrive?’ he demanded in an undertone, and Morgan wasted no time in pretending he did not know who his employer was talking about.

‘Just after you left, sir,’ he exclaimed, rather reluctantly Rafe felt. Morgan had a soft spot for the youngest member of the household. ‘I—er—I understand he came up from Cardiff by train.’

‘Hitched a ride, you mean,’ muttered Rafe dourly. ‘God Almighty, this is all I need! I don’t suppose his mother was pleased.’

Morgan’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘No, sir.’

‘I thought not,’ Rafe thrust impatient fingers through the thickness of his hair. Dark, like his Celtic ancestors, it was now streaked with grey, no small contribution coming from the problems Thomas always created.

The opening of the library door brought his silent speculations to a halt. Lucy stood on the threshold, smiling warmly at John Norman, whom she knew, before awaiting her husband’s introduction to Sir George. Not very tall, and slender, with the smallest hands and feet he had ever seen on a woman, Lucy epitomised anyone’s ideal of a well-bred and attractive wife. But, after twelve years of marriage, Rafe now understood why size should never be equated with weakness. Lucy was strong, and determined, and at times she could display the ruthlessness of purpose her father had exhibited in the boardrooms of the Redvers grocery chain. As when dealing with their son, for example …

With the introduction over, Rafe suggested they continued their conversation in the library, and ignoring Lucy’s silent signals to adjourn to his study, he entered the room to find Thomas curled up mutinously on the window seat. His eyes widened hopefully when he saw his father, and then dropped again when he saw he was not alone, and Rafe had no opportunity to speak to him before John Norman saw him, too.

‘Hello, Tom,’ he greeted the boy smilingly, and Thomas was forced to vacate his window seat and come and shake hands with his father’s guests.

‘Hello, sir,’ he acknowledged politely, casting an appealing glance towards his father, and then shook hands with Sir George as he followed the others into the room.

‘This is your son, Glyndower?’ Marland exclaimed, taking a seat on the worn velvet sofa beside the fire, and holding out his hands to the blaze. ‘A fine boy. Isn’t he at school?’

‘He was.’ Lucy spoke, coming into the room after ordering tea, and urging Sir George to remain seated as he attempted to rise. ‘Unfortunately, Thomas doesn’t like work, and this afternoon he arrived home—unannounced.’

‘What my wife means is—this is the third time Tom has run away from his school,’ Rafe put in flatly. ‘Isn’t that right, Tom? You have made yourself absent without leave, haven’t you?’

Tom drew himself up to his full height of some four feet eight inches. At ten years of age, he was quite a tall boy, but so thin Rafe felt he could have snapped him in two.

‘Yes, Father,’ he answered now, making no excuses for his behaviour, and Sir George let out his breath in a puffing sound of disapproval.

‘Won’t do, young man, won’t do,’ he declared, as Lucy came to join him on the couch. ‘We all need to learn, as much as we possibly can these days. And accept discipline. That’s what keeps the wheels of industry turning.’

Tom made no reply, looking to his father for some sign that he at least understood why he had come home, but his mother was still in command.

‘Go along and see your grandfather, Thomas,’ she directed, as Morgan came in with a tray of tea. ‘Talk to him for half an hour. I shall speak to you later.’

Tom’s hesitation was minute, and although Rafe was tempted to countermand the order, he didn’t. But talking to old Lord Penwyth could be a trying business. His father had lapses of memory, a symptom of the disease that had stricken him down five years before, and he was poor company for a small boy.

Still, Tom went obediently out of the room, and Rafe moved to the drinks cabinet. He guessed his guests would prefer something stronger than tea to ward off the chills of the late September afternoon, and he ignored Lucy’s tightening lips when both Marland and Norman accepted Scotch.

With their glasses full, Rafe seated himself opposite his wife, long legs splayed carelessly, considering the mud on his boots with a critical eye. Lucy, as usual, presented an impeccable appearance, and he supposed he ought to be grateful she had her own allowance. Without it, Tom could not have attended his public school—however reluctantly he remained there—or Lucy herself been able to maintain her wardrobe in the manner to which she had become accusomed. This afternoon, her plain mushroom-coloured dress, of fine woollen jersey, proclaimed its exclusiveness in the simple elegance of its lines, and the chestnut darkness of her hair curved softly into her nape, styled by an expert hand. He knew she would not approve of his own informal attire of moleskin breeches and roll-necked sweater, but she would not say so, not in so many words. Like everything else, it would be implied, alluded to, and only aired if his own patience gave out and he brought the subject up.

Realising a conversation was going on around him, Rafe made an effort to pay attention to what was being said. But his thoughts were with his son upstairs, and he longed to go after him and find out why he persisted in disobeying orders like this. So far, all they had been able to get out of him was that he didn’t like the school or being away from home, but Rafe was convinced there was more to it than that. He had not liked boarding school either, but the comradeship and the facilities for sports had gradually compensated for the loneliness he had initially experienced. Of course, he had been older than Tom—twelve, before he left home for the first time—but Lucy found the boy so trying, he had eventually been obliged to consider boarding school as a solution.

‘Rafe! Rafe, did you hear what Sir George said?’

He lifted his head rather blankly to discover Lucy staring at him with scarcely-concealed disapproval. He hadn’t the faintest idea what Marland had said, and she knew it, and with some compunction he made his apologies.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, the blue eyes which could change so swiftly from sapphire to steely-grey warming in conciliation. ‘I was miles away. What were you saying, Sir George?’

Marland’s sniff was expressive, but Glyndower’s Scotch was good, and he was feeling considerably more mellow. ‘I was just telling your wife, and Norman here, how much I admire this house. Ever thought of selling? I’d guess it would make a tidy sum on the open market.’

‘I think not.’ Rafe had no intention of being rude, but selling Penwyth was never on the cards. ‘Besides, you’re too generous, Sir George. No one in his right mind would want to buy this white elephant. Woodworm, dry rot, a leaking roof—you name it, we’ve got it. Penwyth needs a small fortune spending on it, and even then, of what use is a house as large as this to anyone?’

Marland’s eyes flickered. ‘It’s a show-piece, and you know it, Glyndower. Dry rot and all. With a few thousands invested, it could rival the stateliest homes in the country.’

‘You’re not suggesting I should put it into the hands of the National Trust, are you, Sir George?’ Rafe enquired shortly, and Lucy cast him an impatient look before hurrying into speech.

‘I’m afraid you’ve touched on rather a sore point with us, Sir George,’ she declared. ‘Penwyth is my husband’s one weakness; nothing and no one will induce him to leave this house voluntarily.’ She made an expressive gesture. ‘I can’t imagine why.’

‘Can’t you?’

The challenge was unexpected, and she gave her husband another disapproving stare before offering their guests another drink.

John Norman chose to intervene at this point, turning the conversation into less explosive channels, and for a while there was no contention between them. But Sir George was not a patient man, and soon he returned to the subject which had brought him to the valley.

‘You will let us have your decision soon, Glyndower,’ he remarked, making it more a statement than a question, and Rafe inclined his head. ‘You do realise there’s the possibility of a public enquiry if the scheme is mounted, and that could delay us even further?’

Rafe frowned. ‘A public inquiry?’

‘Of course.’ Marland sighed. ‘Norman, didn’t you explain all this?’

‘Until Mr Glyndower agrees to a test bore, I see no reason to anticipate the worst, Sir George.’

‘In my experience, it pays to anticipate the worst. Then one is never disappointed, Norman.’ Marland shook his head. ‘You do appreciate my position, Glyndower? I need a decision to take back to the Minister.’

‘And you shall have it. Tomorrow,’ Rafe assured him briefly, rising to his feet, decisively ending the meeting.

John Norman hastily finished his drink and rose, too, but Sir George was less enthusiastic. However, he had little choice in the matter, and Rafe saw Lucy’s pained expression as Marland offered her his thanks for their hospitality.

‘We hope to see you again, Sir George,’ she demurred, accompanying them to the door, but Rafe cast an impatient look upstairs as he put on his jacket once more. He had still to drive the two men back to the helicopter, and again, Tom would have to wait.

It was getting dark when he got back to the house. This time Rufus accompanied him indoors, bounding off towards the kitchen for his supper at his master’s command. Removing his jacket again, Rafe hesitated in the hall, torn between the desire to speak to Tom and the awareness of Lucy’s disapproval emanating from behind the closed door of the library.

Stifling a curse, he turned towards the library, throwing open the door and entering the room with little regard for its occupant. As expected, Lucy was still sitting beside the tray of tea, gazing throughtfully into the glowing embers of the fire. With her shoulders hunched, and her head turned away from him, she had a delicate air of helplessness, and his conscience stirring within him, he closed the door with more consideration. She did not stir, and on impulse he crossed the room towards her, and bent to bestow a light kiss on the curving nape of her neck.

‘Don’t touch me!’

Her harsh words froze the spark of emotion that had prompted his action. With a jack-knifing movement she put the length of the couch between them, to sit regarding him with angry, resentful eyes.

Rafe needed no reminder of the uselessness of appealing to Lucy in this mood. She could suppress her emotions without effort, so successfully, in fact, that at times he suspected they were as counterfeit as the fragile appearance she presented to the world. It was not in her nature to compromise, and right now, she was in danger of losing everything she had worked for.

Pulling the case of cheroots out of his pocket, Rafe ignored the sound of distaste she made, and bent to light his cigar with a taper from the fire. Then, straightening, he said: ‘I might as well go and speak to Tom, if you’ve got nothing to say.’

It was the match to the dynamite and as he had expected, Lucy exploded: ‘Is that all you can think about? Your precious son! When there are matters of supreme importance to discuss, all you can think about is that disobedient little horror upstairs!’

Rafe inhaled deeply. ‘He’s your son, too,’ he pointed out mildly, refusing to be aroused by Lucy’s vituperation. It was a deliberate attempt, he knew, to incite his anger, and in so doing, weaken his arguments against Norcroft. In the heat of the moment, he was apt to say things he would later regret, and Lucy never let him forget anything.

‘You don’t care about anyone but yourself!’

This was another favourite accusation of hers. It wasn’t true. He did care. He cared deeply for the people in the valley, the people he had known since he was a boy himself. He cared about Penwyth, and he knew that if ever his father had to move from the house, it would kill him. He cared about Tom—and Lucy, although his feelings for her had changed from the boyish infatuation she had first inspired to a kind of patient toleration. She was his wife, the mother of his son. He could admire her. He freely admitted that she was a better business person than he was. But there were times, as now, when her determination and self-interest, her ambition, appalled him, and he refused to be browbeaten into accepting a situation just to sustain her good humour.

‘If that’s what you think, I shall go and speak to Tom,’ he said now, moving towards the door, and she sprang to her feet, fists clenched in frustration.

‘Rafe!’ She was obviously fighting the desire to rant at him. ‘Rafe, listen to me. This is our chance, our opportunity; the only opportunity we’re ever likely to have. All right, so I know I’ve got no love for this place, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to see it restored to what it was. Just think what we could do! That dampness in your study—the roof—–’

‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Rafe’s lips tightened. ‘We need the money—I’m not denying it. But … I don’t know …’

‘Rafe, Rafe …’ She sensed his weakening, and came to stand near him. ‘I know how you feel. But really, you mustn’t confuse compassion with sentiment. Do you think any of these people—these people that you consider of such account—would hesitate, given your opportunities? If they owned their own land? Do you think they wouldn’t grant mining rights? Oh, Rafe, you know they would!’

‘I don’t know,’ he persisted grimly. ‘Lucy, this isn’t your valley. These are not your people. I know that. But they’ve been good tenants—–’

‘You’re a good owner!’ she countered sharply. ‘My God, I think they must think you’re soft. Those rents haven’t been raised for—–’

‘I know, I know.’

Rafe raked back his hair with a weary hand, wishing his father was still master of the estate, in anything more than name. This shouldn’t be his decision, and God alone knew, he was no Solomon.

‘So …’ Lucy’s small fingers dug into his forearm. ‘Oh, Rafe, don’t let’s quarrel any more tonight. Let’s just talk about it, hmm? We could go out for dinner. Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ve got a dress I bought the last time I was in London. I’d be glad of the opportunity to wear it.’

‘Haven’t you forgotten Tom?’ enquired Rafe dryly, and was not surprised when Lucy’s hand was withdrawn, and her features resumed their earlier expression of irritation.

‘Thomas!’ she almost spat the word. ‘I should have known that little horror would come first on your list!’

Rafe sighed. ‘As you said a few moments ago, don’t let’s quarrel any more tonight, Lucy. In any case. I’m too tired to go out this evening. I need a bath, and a change of clothes …’

‘You don’t have to tell me that!’ Lucy wrinkled her small nose distastefully. ‘You stink of oil and tobacco, and you’re covered in dog hairs! I was ashamed, when Sir George was here—–’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?’ remarked Rafe flatly. ‘If you’ll excuse me now, I’ll go and speak to our son.’

‘He’s going back tomorrow!’ said Lucy shrilly.

‘I haven’t denied it, have I?’

‘Well, don’t come looking for me after you’ve let him walk all over you. I shall eat dinner in my room, and I don’t want to see you again until the morning.’

‘Point taken.’

Rafe reached for the door handle, but Lucy wasn’t quite finished.

‘By the way,’ she muttered reluctantly, ‘someone’s coming to see you in the morning—some female. I don’t know who she is. Says her name is Tempest, or something.’

‘Tempest?’ Rafe’s dark brows descended. ‘Who is she? Some friend of yours?’

‘Mine?’ Lucy sounded amused. ‘You must be joking! Her uncle lives in the valley, apparently. She said you would know who she was.’

Rafe stared at his wife broodingly for a moment. Then, recognition dawned. ‘Catherine Tempest?’

‘I think that was what she called herself. Why? Do you know her? Who is she?’

‘Only Mervyn Powys’s niece!’ Rafe’s jaw tightened. ‘I wonder what she wants. Didn’t she say anything?’

‘Only that she wanted an appointment to see you.’ Lucy’s lips twisted mockingly. ‘Some admirer of yours, is she? One of these “people” you keep talking about?’

‘No!’ Rafe expelled his breath impatiently. ‘As a matter of fact, she was born and brought up near London. Her mother was Powys’s sister, but she left the valley twenty-five—maybe thirty years ago.’

‘Then how do you know this girl?’ demanded Lucy shortly. ‘How does she know you?’

Rafe’s expression softened slightly. ‘She used to spend her summer holidays at the farm. When I was a boy I used to spend time down there, too.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Lucy was scathing. ‘A boy-and-girl relationship.’

‘No, nothing like that.’ Rafe was tight-lipped. ‘My God, she was only a kid! Nine, ten at most.’

‘And you were?’

‘Fifteen, sixteen—I don’t know.’

Lucy looked amused. ‘Hero-worship, then.’ She shook her head. ‘No wonder Thomas is such an undisciplined little devil! I don’t suppose your father approved of you being so familiar with the tenants.’

‘My father always cared for their welfare.’

‘How feudal!’

‘It was why you married me, remember?’ retorted Rafe, stung into uncharacteristic bitterness. He had never referred to the reasons why Lucy, the daughter of a self-made millionaire, should have succumbed so eagerly to his amateurish attempts at seduction. Twenty-one, and fresh out of university, his experiences with girls had been limited to minor successes with waitresses, and office workers. Lucy Redvers, a year his senior, and already socially sophisticated, had seemed much too experienced to find him attractive. It was months before he understood, months before he realised the fact that as heir to his father, Lord Penwyth, he was infinitely more desirable in Lucy’s eyes than any wealthy businessman might have been. But by then, of course, it had been too late. They were married, and any doubts he might have had he stifled.

Now Lucy’s lips quivered, and had he not known better, he might have been disarmed by the break in her voice. ‘I married you because I loved you, Rafe,’ she declared tearfully, pulling out a handkerchief. ‘I don’t know why you say such cruel things to me. Just because I’m trying to help us both, to help all of us. You’re so bigoted. You won’t accept Daddy’s help—–’

‘His charity, you mean? No.’ Rafe was adamant, but there was a note of frustration in his tones. ‘Oh, Lucy, why do you do this? Do you never try to put yourself in my position? Why do you persistently ignore the human problem here?’

‘I have problems, too, and I’m human,’ she retorted indignantly. ‘You—you’re impossible! You know you’ll have to give in, sooner or later.’

Bitterness turned to bile in the back of Rafe’s throat. The trouble was, he knew she was speaking the truth. In spite of himself, he was going to have to grant that permission; that, or have it taken out of his hands. How much longer could Penwyth survive without an influx of capital? One year? Two, at most. And then what? Bankruptcy? Penury? An unpalatable prospect for himself, an impossible one for Lucy, and for Tom. And his father …

‘Yes,’ he said now, the word torn from him. ‘Yes, I expect you’re right. But that doesn’t—–’

The sentence was never finished. Lucy was grasping his arm, gazing up at him with eyes avid with excitement. ‘You mean—you mean—–’

‘I mean—I’m going to speak to my son,’ said Rafe flatly, pulling his arm from her grasp, leaving the room and mounting the stairs on leaden feet.

CHAPTER TWO

CATHERINE Tempest swung her small Renault on to the private road that led to Penwyth manor house with some misgivings. The road was a gravel track, loosely made up and moist after the rain, and the tyres protested as they slid across its surface, but Catherine scarcely noticed. She was intent on the interview ahead of her, and in no way convinced that she was doing the right thing. It was strange really. If she had not taken it into her head to open a boutique in Pendower, she might never have become involved in her uncle’s affairs, and this business about drilling for lead in the valley would not have concerned her.

But she had always loved the valley. She remembered those holidays as a child, spent on the slopes above Penwyn. She even remembered the horse she used to ride, a disreputable old gelding, with a temper to match its uncertain colouring. Perhaps it was her maternal ancestry which had instilled such a sense of belonging inside her. Certainly she had never felt a stranger here, and although she had lived in London for more than twenty-five years, she had seldom experienced the happiness there that she had enjoyed in the valley.

Of course, in latter years her visits to Penwyn had necessarily decreased, both in frequency and dimension. Since leaving school eight years ago, she had had neither the time nor the funds to spend eight weeks every year running free across these hills, and since opening the boutique in Hammersmith, she had been too absorbed with business affairs to pay more than an occasional weekend’s visit to Penwyn.

The fact that the Hammersmith boutique had been so successful had enabled her to look farther afield, however, and despite her mother’s opposition, she had decided to open a second branch in Pendower, the small country town only ten miles from her uncle’s farm.

Mrs Tempest, widowed these ten years, had recently remarried, so Catherine felt no sense of belonging with her. Her stepfather was all right, but there was obviously friction between them, belonging as he did to one of those freakish political organisations with fanatical doctrines long out of date. Catherine had already moved into a flat of her own in London, in spite of all the empty rooms in the house her father had bought for them, and it was only a small upheaval to transplant herself temporarily into a small cottage in Pendower.

It was a whim really, a foolish ideal of recapturing the dreams of her childhood, and she had told herself she could afford one mistake. The fact that the shop had prospered seemed more good luck than anything, and it was ironic when her affairs were going so well that her uncle’s should be going so badly.

Lately, she had spent more and more time at the farm, and the reasons were here, at Penwyth. Her uncle was making himself ill with worry, and her cousin, Owen, was not much better. Owen had recently married, and his wife was expecting a baby. None of them had ever considered having to leave the valley, and the tenancy of the farm. had been passed down from father to son for generations.

A gust of wind sent a shower of raindrops from the overhanging trees on to the windscreen of the car, and Catherine automatically set the wipers in motion. She was almost there. She could see the ivy-hung walls of the manor house on the rise above her and she changed into a lower gear to negotiate the slope. Her knees felt distinctly wobbly as she thrust the lever forward, and she had to concentrate on what she was doing to rid herself of the feeling of impending disaster.

What was she doing here? she asked herself uneasily. Why had she allowed herself to be persuaded to speak to Mr Glyndower on her uncle’s behalf? What could she possibly say to deter him? And why should she imagine he would listen to her? She wasn’t involved, not directly anyway, and just because she had a little more experience in negotiation than either her uncle or her cousin, it did not mean she could conduct this interview with success. What had bargaining for materials to do with farming, or outfitting boutiques to do with mining for lead?

Her fingers were slippery against the wheel, despite the chilly autumn day outside. She was nervous—oh, how nervous she was!—and how she longed to turn the car and drive back to Pendower and put all thoughts of her uncle’s problems behind her.

She expelled her breath on a sigh. He would probably not even remember her. It was years since she had seen him, and then only from a distance. They had never been friends, not in the real sense of the word. They had known one another, shared a common interest in horses and riding, even played together, although he had been so much older, almost grown-up in Catherine’s eyes, but never really talked together. They had danced together once …

Her mind recoiled from that particular recollection. He would not remember that, but she did. After all, it was only—what? Eight years ago? The last year she had come to Penwyn for the summer. Her last year at school. That last holiday before she started work in one of the big stores in Oxford Street, and learned about clothes and the aptitude she had for designing them. There had been a country ball, she remembered, a village affair, with the squire’s son and his lady graciously attending the proceedings. A barn dance had been announced, she recalled, and the Glyndowers had been persuaded to join in. Her own partner, a boy of her cousin Owen’s age, had swung her into the line, and halfway through the dance she had halted before Rafe Glyndower.

Her lips quivered in remembrance. He had been totally unaware of her identity, and she had not attempted to enlighten him. They had danced a few bars of a waltz together, and then the music had changed again, and they had both moved on to other partners. It had been a perfectly innocent incident, he had been polite, but nothing more, yet Catherine remembered the feel of his hand at her waist, and the strength of his body, long after the ball was over.

She drew an uneven breath. She wondered if he remembered her name, if nothing else. It was unlikely, she supposed. After all, a lot could happen in sixteen years, and it must be that long since he had played with her at the farm. He was virtually the squire now. His father was senile, or so it was rumoured, feeble-minded after the stroke which had put him into the county hospital. Rafe had been married for quite a number of years; his wife was beautiful, and, by all accounts, could wrap him round her little finger; and they had a son called Thomas.

It was smattering with rain as she drove beneath the arch that gave on to the courtyard before the heavy oaken door. So this was Penwyth, she mused, trying to keep a sense of perspective. It was certainly imposing, yet apart from viewing the rooftops from a position higher up the valley, she had never been this close before. The tenants never came here, or very seldom anyway. They paid their rents to the estate’s agent, and had no reason to approach the Glyndowers themselves.

Parking the Renault, she quickly pulled down the sun visor above the passenger seat and gave her reflection a critical appraisal in the mirror that was attached. Her nose was not shining and her lipstick was not smudged, but her pupils were slightly dilated. Blinking, to remedy this revealing feature, she tucked the strands of honey-brown hair behind her ears, and wondered if she ought to have worn a skirt instead of slacks. It was too late now to alter this, however, and gathering up her handbag, she opened her door and climbed out.

Drawing the collar of her suede jacket about her ears, she hurried towards the porch, sheltering under the overhang as she rang the bell. It was quite a modern bell, of the press-button variety, but hanging beside it was the iron bell-rope which had once been pulled to gain admittance. Shades of Dickens, she thought ruefully, and then stiffened as the heavy door was opened.

The elderly man who faced her was vaguely familiar. She recognised him from occasions she had seen him about the village. She thought her aunt had told her his name was Morgan, but she couldn’t be sure.

‘Yes miss?’ he enquired now, sparse brows descending. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Oh—yes.’ Catherine glanced round at the downpour which had opened behind her. ‘I—er—I have an appointment with Mr Glyndower. My name is Tempest, Miss Tempest.’

‘Mr Rafe is expecting you, miss?’

‘I believe so.’

Catherine glanced round again, hoping he was not about to keep her waiting on the doorstep. It was cold, as well as wet, and she felt at enough of a disadvantage as it was.

‘You’d better come in, then,’ the butler invited grudgingly, and, relieved, Catherine stepped into the warm mustiness of a hall that was panelled in a dark wood that gleamed with the patina of age. The floor reflected a similar lustre, but the wooden blocks were worn and strewn with rugs. As the door was closed behind her, Catherine heard the distinct chink of glass, and glancing upward, she caught her breath in admiration for the magnificent chandelier suspended overhead. She could imagine it illuminated on a cold winter’s evening, its warming glow reflected in the panelling, and casting shadows on the shallow treads of the staircase that curved along one wall.

‘If you’ll wait here, I’ll see if the master is in his study,’ declared the butler formally, and Catherine hid a smile at the use of the title. The master, she thought, shaking her head. One could get delusions of grandeur for less.

‘Miss Tempest?’

He had come upon her unawares, and she was annoyed. She had intended to control this interview from start to finish. Now, swinging to face him, she was immediately at a disadvantage, shaken by his sudden appearance, and by the immediate attraction she felt towards him. That hadn’t changed, even though she had convinced herself that it must, and she chided herself for allowing a girlish infatuation to effect her so strongly.

‘It is—Catherine Tempest, isn’t it?’ he was saying now, holding out his hand towards her, and despite her misgivings she was forced to take it, hoping he would not associate the dampness of hers with anything more than the weather.

He hadn’t changed. He was still the most disturbing man she had ever met, and as soon as it was possible she snatched her hand away, twisting her fingers together, forcing herself to appear composed. She had known she should not have agreed to conduct this interview, had known her reasons were not wholly altruistic. She had wanted to see him again, to speak to him as an equal, and now she was here, and she felt tongue-tied.

As if aware of her embarrassment, Rafe turned aside then, gesturing towards the open doorway she now saw behind him, inviting her into his study. On unsteady legs, she preceded him into the room, and schooled her features as he closed the leather-covered door behind them.

As he moved behind the square desk that dominated the room, she allowed herself a surreptitious appraisal of the boy who had grown into such an attractive man. Those summer days at Penwyn had never seemed so distant, or her own relationship with him so remote and unreal. He was truly his father’s successor, while she—she was still just the niece of one of his tenants, and no amount of success in her own field would alter that. He was older, of course. There were strands of grey in his dark hair, and the lines beside his mouth were deeply engrained. But his hair was still as thick as it had ever been, and longer than he used to wear it, and his mouth as deeply sensual as his lower lip denoted. He wore casual clothes—moleskin pants that clung to the powerful muscles of his thighs, a black shirt that accentuated the darkness of his skin, evidence of the time he spent outdoors, and a dark green corded jacket, with leather patches at the elbows.

‘Now, Miss Tempest,’ he said, indicating that she should take the leather chair opposite him. ‘Why did you want to see me?’

Catherine made a movement towards the chair, and then stilled. It might be easier standing up, although she sensed his mild impatience when he was obliged to remain standing, too. Clearing her throat, she endeavoured to meet his gaze, and was surprised to find a certain guardedness about his eyes.

‘My uncle asked me to speak to you,’ she said, and then wished she had not put it quite like that. ‘That is—he would have spoken to you himself, but—well, I offered to come.’

‘Did you?’ His dark eyebrows ascended.

‘Yes.’ He wasn’t making it any easier for her. ‘You—you must know why I’m here.’

‘I have a strong suspicion,’ he agreed evenly. Then: ‘Won’t you sit down? I’m sure you’d find it much more comfortable.’

Catherine hesitated only a moment longer before moving forward, albeit reluctantly, to seat herself in the chair he offered. With a sigh of satisfaction, Rafe Glyndower took his own leather armchair, and with long fingers beating a tattoo on its arm, he said: ‘Your uncle wants to know whether any decision has yet been made about the mine.’

Catherine pressed her lips together. ‘Yes.’

He nodded. ‘I guessed as much.’ His fingers stilled.

‘Naturally, he’s worried,’ Catherine justified herself. ‘It is his livelihood—the livelihood of his family. Naturally, he wants to know what’s going on.’

‘Naturally,’ agreed Rafe Glyndower dryly, and she wondered for a moment whether he was mocking her. But his expression was perfectly serious, and in any case, his next words drove all thought of mockery out of her mind. ‘You can tell him that no decision has been made—yet. When I do know anything definite, he’ll be the first to hear.’

‘Thank you.’ There was not much else she could say, even though she had still to voice her own opinion in the matter. ‘I’ll tell him what you’ve said. I know he’ll be relieved.’

‘Good.’ Was there a trace of anger in his voice now? ‘I’m glad to have been of service.’

Was that all? Catherine sought for words to express herself. ‘Do you—that is—do you know when you’ll have something definite to relate?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ He, was definitely withdrawing now, pushing back his chair, getting to his feet. ‘It’s been very nice seeing you again, Miss Tempest. Give my regards to your aunt and uncle, won’t you?’

Wait a minute!

The words were never spoken, but they drummed in Catherine’s head. Any minute now, she was going to be dismissed, and she still hadn’t voiced any of the objections she had come here to espouse.

‘Mr Glyndower …’

He was moving round the desk towards her as she spoke, but her words arrested him. ‘Yes?’ He was cautious, and pushing back her chair, she rose to face him.

‘You—you do appreciate my uncle’s position, don’t you, Mr Glyndower?’ she ventured nervously, and although his lids lowered ominously, she hastened on: ‘I mean—there’s more to this than just losing the land.’

‘I do know the arguments for and against,’ he reminded her, his tone colder than before, but now she had his attention, she was not about to relinquish it.

‘It would—destroy the whole community,’ she continued. ‘I don’t know what’s involved, but I do know that new roads would be needed for the vehicles transporting the ore to the smelting plant—would that be in the valley, too, by the way?—and the cottages in the village simply aren’t built to withstand that kind of vibration.’

‘Your concern does you credit,’ Rafe retorted shortly, but when he would have moved towards the door, she went on:

‘That’s without the destruction of the beauty of the valley. The river—would it become polluted, too? And what would they do with the rock they dig out? Would there be piles of debris everywhere?’

‘Miss Tempest—Catherine!’ He spoke through his teeth. ‘I know very little more about what’s involved here than you do. I’m as appalled as anyone else by the possible effects such a scheme might have on the ecology of this area, but there are other considerations. So far, all that’s been determined is that there are grounds for believing that a seam of ore may exist in the land above Penwyn. Your uncle knows there have been geologists working in the area. As yet, no actual drilling has been done, so all their work is purely speculative. It could be a cold trail. No one knows. Without further exploration, they never will.’

‘And—and that’s your decision. Whether or not to grant drilling rights?’

‘Yes.’

Catherine gazed at him, trying to read his mind, trying to penetrate the mask-like schooling of his features. For the first time she noticed the muscle jerking at his jawline, and the lines of weariness around his eyes. They were revealing aspects, and she realised, with a stirring of compassion, that he was not without a conscience. This was not easy for him, and after all, he need not have agreed to see her. For a moment the gulf between them narrowed, but as she parted her lips to utter some conventional words of gratitude for granting her this interview, the door opened behind him, and a slim, dark-haired young woman stood on the threshold.

Catherine recognised Lucy Glyndower at once. Apart from that occasion when she had accompanied her husband to the ball, she was regularly seen about the town. She drove a Volvo estate car, and Catherine had encountered her in the supermarket on more than one occasion. Not that Lucy acknowledged her. She seldom acknowledged anyone other than the manager of the store, and Catherine had heard the girls at the check-out grumbling about her haughty ways. Until this moment she had thought they exaggerated, but the look Mrs Glyndower cast in her direction was completely devoid of interest, and she turned immediately to her husband, almost as if Catherine wasn’t there.

‘I’ve just been speaking to Thomas!’ she declared, and there was a note of anger in her voice. ‘Are you aware—–’

Her husband’s intervention halted her tirade. ‘We have a guest, Lucy,’ he reminded her evenly. ‘Miss Tempest was just leaving. We can discuss Thomas later.’

His eyes held hers, and Catherine sensed the antipathy between them at that moment. Then, as if unwillingly accepting her husband’s injunction, Lucy Glyndower turned to face her.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘You’re Powys’s niece, aren’t you?’ The way she said it made Catherine’s resentment bristle, but she managed to disguise it. ‘My husband remembered your name. But you don’t live here in the valley, do you, Miss Tempest? So the loss of your uncle’s farm will mean little to you.’

Catherine squared her shoulders, glad that in height at least she had the advantage, although Lucy’s daintiness was obviously more feminine. ‘I live in Pendower, Mrs Glyndower,’ she retorted smoothly. ‘But I’ve always considered the valley my second home. Anything that affects Uncle Mervyn affects me, too.’

‘Oh, dear!’ Lucy didn’t sound at all sympathetic, though. ‘Still, I’m sure he’ll be well compensated.’

Catherine blinked. ‘Well—compensated?’

‘Yes,’ Lucy nodded. ‘When he has to move.’

Catherine’s eyes went straight to Rafe Glyndower’s face, and what she saw there in no way reassured her. ‘You mean—you mean the decision has been made, then?’

‘Oh, yes.’ It was Lucy who answered. ‘Didn’t my husband tell you?’

‘Lucy!’

Rafe Glyndower’s warning came a little too late, however, and Catherine was already gazing at him in angry disbelief.

‘You said—you said—–’

‘My husband was probably trying to avoid any unpleasantness,’ Lucy remarked, shaking her sleek head. ‘Surely you realise, Miss Tempest, that we cannot allow sentiment to stand in the way of business?’

‘Lucy, for God’s sake—–’

‘Oh, please. Let her go on!’ Catherine’s fingers clenched painfully. ‘I’d rather hear the truth than a pack of lies!’

‘Miss Tempest!’ It was Lucy’s protest that rang out then. ‘I must repeat, whatever loyalty you may feel towards your uncle, this is not your affair, and coming here in an abortive attempt to appeal to my husband’s good nature—presuming on a relationship you may once have thought you had—–’

Catherine gulped. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean this—childish aberration you nurtured for my husband …’

‘Shut up, Lucy!’

‘He told me about it,’ Lucy continued, ignoring Rafe’s furious command, and his fingers digging into her shoulder. ‘I suppose you thought it gave you an advantage. Your uncle thought so, obviously. But being insolent is not going to solve anything!’

‘I warn you, Lucy—–’

But Catherine had heard enough. She could feel the hot colour surging into her cheeks, and knew that if she didn’t get out of here soon she would be tempted to slap Lucy’s taunting little face. So he had remembered, she thought bitterly, but it gave her no satisfaction. What had he said? What could he have intimated for his wife to get such an impression? It was galling and humiliating, doubly so, because she had never dreamed he suspected her infantile infatuation.

Brushing a hand across her eyes, she hurried blindly towards the door. She had to get out of here. It had been a waste of time coming. The decision was already made, and Rafe Glyndower had only been humouring her. She hated him for that. Hated him, for making a fool of her, for humiliating her in front of his wife. She would never forgive him. Never!

She had the impression that there was somebody in the hall as she stumbled awkwardly across it, someone standing on the stairs who watched her uneven progress with wide, curious eyes. But she didn’t stop to look. She wrenched open the heavy door without waiting for anyone’s assistance, and ran down the steps to the Renault, uncaring of the rain.

Fortunately, she had not locked it, but her cold fingers fumbled with the handle, and she had just managed to jerk it open when other fingers closed around her arm. Hard fingers, they were, but long and sensitive, powerful in their determination not to let her go.

‘Catherine, wait!’

The voice was familiar, much too familiar, and she struggled urgently to free herself, her long honey-coloured hair falling forward in a curtain, hiding the heated contours of her face.

‘Let go of my arm, Mr Glyndower,’ she said, with what she hoped was convincing coolness, but she knew from his angry oath that he had no intention of complying.

‘I want to talk to you,’ he told her harshly, and she lifted trembling fingers to loop back her hair.

‘There’s nothing more to be said, Mr Glyndower,’ she exclaimed unevenly. ‘And—and I’m getting wet.’

‘So am I,’ he retorted, and then, with an impatient glance back towards the house, he bundled her into the car and got in beside her, forcing her to scramble over into the passenger seat.

The Renault was a small car, hardly big enough to accommodate a man of his size, and with the rain drumming on the roof outside and running in a concealing shroud down the windows, Catherine felt a suffocating sense of constriction. Their combined breathing clouded the windows, concealing them behind its enveloping mist, and she shifted as far away from him as the narrow confines of the car would allow.

‘Now …’ Rafe rested his elbow upon the steering wheel and pushed back his hair with a weary hand. ‘Let’s get one thing straight, shall we? No decision has been made, whatever my wife may have said—–’

‘I don’t believe you!’

‘Why not?’

Catherine bent her head. ‘Why should your wife lie, Mr Glyndower?’

Rafe sighed. ‘She wasn’t lying—–’

‘There you are, then!’ Catherine was indignant.

‘—she was—anticipating.’

‘In other words, she knows what your decision is going to be!’ declared Catherine, sniffing as drops of rain trickled down her nose from the dampness of her hair. ‘You’re splitting hairs, Mr Glyndower.’

‘I’m speaking the truth,’ he retorted, turning his head to gaze impatiently at the clouded windows. ‘For God’s sake, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Like Lucy says, this has nothing to do with you, Catherine.’

‘I think it does, Mr Glyndower.’

‘And for God’s sake, stop calling me Mr Glyndower.’

Her breath caught in her throat. ‘What would you have me call you, Mr Glyndower? Rafe? I don’t think your wife would like that.’

He turned to look at her then, and she flinched beneath the cold contempt in his eyes. He had the longest lashes of any man she had ever known, but they did little to conceal his antagonism at that moment, and she shrank back in her seat, half afraid he was about to strike her.

‘My wife is not my keeper,’ he enunciated harshly. ‘Whatever you may have heard to the contrary.’

Catherine flushed then. ‘I—I didn’t say she was.’

‘No.’ He conceded her protest. ‘But I’m not a fool. I know what people think, but they’re wrong. Do you understand?’

Catherine shrugged. ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’

‘No, it’s not. But it may help to remember that when the decision is finally taken.’

Catherine licked her dry lips. ‘You—you are going to allow mining in the valley, aren’t you?’

‘Oh, God!’ He rested both elbows on the steering wheel then, cradling his head in his hands and hunching his shoulders. ‘I don’t see what else I can do,’ he muttered heavily. ‘The estate’s almost bankrupt as it is.’

Catherine caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘Can’t you—can’t you borrow money? From—from a bank or somewhere?’

He looked at her pityingly. ‘On what collateral? A crumbling manor house and a few uneconomic acres of land?’

Catherine hesitated. ‘But I thought—that is—isn’t Mrs Glyndower’s father—I mean—–’

Rafe’s mouth thinned. ‘You mean isn’t Hammond Redvers a wealthy man?’ Catherine inclined her head a trifle awkwardly, and he nodded. ‘Yes, Redvers has capital. And he’d invest it in Penwyth if he had the chance.’

‘He would?’ Catherine was confused and showed it.

‘Oh, yes.’ Rafe shifted his long legs uncomfortably. ‘Would you like to know what he has in mind?’ He raised dark eyebrows, and gaining her silent assent, explained: ‘He would like to sell the valley to one of those leisure consortiums. You know what I mean? Some kind of holiday complex, with swimming pools and sporting facilities, pony trekking, a marina—you name it, he’s thought of it.’

Catherine was horrified. ‘A—holiday camp?’

‘Well, I understand that designation doesn’t appeal these days. Complex, is the word they use. But generally speaking, they mean the same.’

‘With cabins, and things?’

‘Accommodation would be provided,’ Rafe agreed dryly, watching her growing concern.

‘That—won’t happen,’ she exclaimed. ‘Will it?’

‘Not as long as I have any say in the matter,’ Rafe declared shortly. ‘So now do you understand my position?’

Catherine made a negative gesture. ‘Surely—surely, as this valley means so much to you …’

‘No.’ Rafe shook his head. ‘Hammond Redvers didn’t get where he is today by philanthropising.’

‘But he’s your father-in-law!’

‘Yes. Well, he thinks I’m not realistic, and I think he’s a financial leech. We don’t exactly see eye-to-eye in these matters.’ He shook his head. ‘Although why I should admit that to you, I can’t imagine.’

Catherine met his gaze reluctantly. ‘Thank you, anyway,’ she murmured, half afraid of the penetration of those clear blue eyes, so unusual in someone so dark. ‘I—I do see your dilemma. I just wish there was some way …’

‘So do I,’ he retorted, with a return of abrasiveness, and thrusting open the door behind him, he levered himself out of the car. ‘Thank you for listening to me. Goodbye, Catherine.’

‘Goodbye—Rafe,’ she answered, although her tentative use of his name was drowned in the brisk slamming of the door.

CHAPTER THREE

THE bar of the Bay Horse was half empty at this hour of a Friday evening, and Catherine led the way to a table in the corner, near the crackling log fire. Seating herself on the banquette, she accepted Robert’s offer of a Scotch and soda, and warmed her hands at the blaze as he went to get their drinks. It was an attractive room, and her eyes strayed over the hunting trophies and horse brasses that decorated the walls. There had been a hostelry on these premises almost as long as there had been a manor at Penwyth, and she couldn’t help thinking that Josh Evans would not complain at the increase in trade a development in the valley might bring.

Robert came back, carrying two glasses, and she transferred her attention to him. A little over medium height and stocky, with a fair complexion and drooping moustache, he was an amusing companion, and she forced a smile to her lips as he seated himself on the banquette beside her.

‘Cheers,’ he said, swallowing a mouthful of his lager, and she took a mouthful of her own drink as he added: ‘Nice place.’ He waved his glass expansively. ‘Can we get a meal here?’

‘We can. A bar meal, at least,’ she conceded. ‘But we won’t. Aunt Margaret would never forgive me if I didn’t bring you over for supper.’

Robert laughed goodnaturedly. It was an amiable sound, and Catherine thought how good it was to hear it. Robert was unfailingly cheerful, and right now he was exactly what she needed.

‘Aunt Margaret,’ he said, swallowing more of his lager. ‘And Uncle Mervyn, is that right? You see—–’ He held up a knowing finger. ‘I don’t forget these things.’

Catherine’s smile was less tense. ‘It’s good to see you, Robert. But you should have warned me you were coming. I promised to have supper at the farm last week, and I didn’t make it. I daren’t let them down again.’

‘That’s okay,’ Robert shrugged. ‘I like meeting your family. It makes me feel that I’m getting somewhere—–’

‘Now, Robert …’

‘Oh, don’t worry.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘I’m not going to bring that up again. I just—well, I like being with you, and I don’t mind where it is.’

Catherine looked down into her glass. ‘You should find yourself a woman who wants to settle down,’ she said quietly. ‘Not a career woman like me. You know you want a home and family. You’re not getting any younger—neither of us are. You should be looking around.’

Robert ignored her and looked round the bar. ‘This looks a pretty old place,’ he commented. ‘Stone floors no less. No wonder the beer’s cold!’

‘You’re right. The cellars are ancient. As a matter of fact, I was just thinking those very thoughts.’

‘Really?’ Robert grinned. ‘You see! We even think alike.’

‘Oh, Robert!’

Catherine applied herself to her drink again, and Robert looked about him. ‘Tell me who everyone is,’ he ordered. ‘Come on. The bartender, for example. Is he the publican?’

‘No, that’s Morris Evans, the publican’s son. Josh has the licence.’

‘You mean he owns the place?’

‘No, again.’ Catherine’s lips tightened. ‘All the property in the valley is part of the Penwyth Estate.’

‘Is that right?’ Robert’s fair brows ascended. ‘That would be the estate which has granted drilling rights on your uncle’s land?’

‘Yes.’ Catherine’s fingers tightened round her glass. She preferred not to think about that.

Sensing this, Robert went on: ‘So, who else is here? That fat old boy in the corner, for instance, with the pipe. Who’s he?’

Patiently, Catherine catalogued the various occupations of the people in the bar, realising that Robert was doing his best to cheer her up. He was a nice person, and she had been delighted when he walked into the boutique, right on closing time. She hadn’t seen him for over two months, not since the last time she was in London, and it was surprising how much she had missed his humorous face.

A sudden influx of customers caused him to glance round again, and in an undertone, he said: ‘Farmers! These days they don’t look any different from accountants.’

‘They may be accountants, for all I know,’ declared Catherine tersely, after giving the men a cursory look. ‘They’re Norcroft’s men—geologists or geophysicists or something. They’re the ones conducting the explorations at Penwyn. I believe they’re staying here at the inn. They’re engineers of some kind, but I don’t know them.’

‘I see.’ Robert considered the newcomers thoughtfully. ‘And—is there any news?’

‘Not yet.’

‘How long has it been?’

‘Since they arrived?’ Catherine shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘I don’t know. A month, six weeks—something like that.’

It was exactly six weeks, two days, and eight hours since she had had that interview with Rafe Glyndower, but she wasn’t going to tell Robert that.

‘Interesting.’ Robert nodded now, and then, in an attempt to justify this statement, he added: ‘I mean, if it was anywhere else than on your uncle’s land, it would be interesting, wouldn’t it? If they do find lead, it will be tremendously important. After all, everyone thought lead mining was virtually defunct in Britain.’

Catherine knew he was right. Such a find was potentially exciting, but not if one was personally involved. She could only see the effect it was having on her family, and that negated its importance so far as she was concerned. Not that the men’s appearance had interfered too much with the running of Penwyn, yet at any rate. Their present explorations were confined to the top field, and apart from the inconvenience, and an occasional tremor from their boring equipment, they could almost forget they were there. Indeed, it was always possible that their search would prove fruitless, in which case Rafe Glyndower had given an undertaking that her uncle should have first option should the land have to be sold.

It was the only light at the end of the tunnel, but she knew her uncle had little faith in it. From the moment the first drillings were heard, he had withdrawn into a shell of his own making, and no amount of sympathy or cajolement could bring him out of it. He was not eating, he had lost weight; and her aunt said he was sleeping badly. And all because his shepherd had found the head of a Roman axe among some rocks in the top pasture, and he had been honest enough to hand it over to the Glyndowers.

Yet for all that, she could not entirely blame Rafe Glyndower for what had happened, even though her attitude had enraged her cousin Owen. Rafe was as helpless as they were, at the mercy of his own needs and necessities, and there was no easy solution to any of their problems.

Supper at Penwyn was not a comfortable occasion, even though her aunt attempted to make it so. Uncle Mervyn was out attending to a cow that was calving, and apart from appearing for a brief moment halfway through the meal, he left his wife to entertain their guests.

‘Do you have a dairy herd, too, Mrs Powys?’ asked Robert politely, helping himself to another slice of savoury flan, and Catherine saw the way Owen glowered at him.

‘Oh, no.’ Aunt Margaret shook her head. ‘Just a few cows for our own use, that’s all.’

‘This is a sheep farm,’ Owen told him shortly. ‘Or at least, it was.’

‘Owen!’

His mother gave him a warning look, but it was too good an opportunity to miss, and turning on Catherine, he added: ‘We’re all indebted to my dear cousin here for removing the uncertainty.’

‘It’s not Catherine’s fault.’ It was Gillian, his wife, who defended her. ‘She only told you what Mr Glyndower had told her.’

Owen snorted. ‘That bastard! I wouldn’t believe a word he said. If he’s so desperate for cash, how come that son of his goes to public school? And what about the servants they employ—–’

‘Would you have him dismiss old Percy Laurence?’ demanded Catherine, stung by his indifference to anyone’s well being but his own. ‘And what about the butler? Morgan, isn’t it?’ She appealed to her aunt for confirmation. ‘Neither of them would get any other employment, you know that.’

‘They still have to be paid,’ insisted Owen moodily, pushing his pie round his plate. ‘And I know Linda Jones works there, too.’

‘Penwyth is a big place,’ retorted Catherine. ‘Someone has to work there.’

‘Then why doesn’t that wife of his get herself off her backside and do something?’

‘Really, Owen! At the supper table!’ His mother looked apologetically at Robert. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Brooke. My son isn’t usually so objectionable.’

‘Oh, really …’ Robert was seldom embarrassed, and his smile was reassuring. ‘Don’t apologise, Mrs Powys. I come from a large family, so I’m used to family squabbles. Besides, I’m enjoying myself. You’re an excellent cook, if I may say so. This flan is delicious!’

Aunt Margaret flushed with pleasure, and Catherine felt a surge of warmth towards him. Robert could always be relied upon to smooth over any difficulties, and Owen was forced to apply himself to his supper, aware that any further comment on his part could only be construed as boorishness.

When supper was over, Catherine offered to wash up, and she and Gillian shared the dishes while her aunt showed Robert the family photograph album.

‘Don’t take any notice of Owen,’ his wife urged her awkwardly. ‘You know what he’s like. He always expected to take over here.’

‘I know that.’ Catherine cast a sympathetic glance in the younger girl’s direction.

‘It’s different for you,’ went on Gillian. ‘You don’t live here. I know you like coming here, but you have your own life outside the valley.’ She paused. ‘Are you going to marry Robert?’

‘Heavens, no!’ Catherine was vehement, and Gillian looked at her strangely.

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘Why not? I saw the way he was looking at you during supper. Hasn’t he asked you?’

Catherine was amused, and her gurgling laughter rang around the stone-flagged kitchen. ‘Oh, Gillian,’ she exclaimed, ‘I don’t want to marry anyone. Not yet, at least,’ she added, sobering as an image of Rafe Glyndower’s dark features swam unexpectedly before her eyes.

Gillian was affronted. ‘I expect you do things differently in London,’ she mumbled, clattering two plates together, and Catherine sighed.

‘I expect we do,’ she conceded. Then, encouragingly: ‘You’re looking well. Being pregnant evidently agrees with you.’

Gillian nodded, obviously still brooding over what Catherine had said, and presently she pursued: ‘Do you sleep with him?’

Catherine didn’t pretend not to understand. ‘With Robert?’ She shook her head. ‘No.’

Gillian frowned. ‘But he’s staying with you tonight, isn’t he? I heard Owen’s mother asking where he was staying, and he said at your cottage.’

‘There are two bedrooms,’ Catherine pointed out patiently. ‘Gillian, I know this may not be easy for you to understand, but a man and a woman—they can be just friends.’

Gillian looked sceptical. ‘Can they? All the men I’ve known want just one thing—Owen included.’ She flushed. ‘And you’re not getting any younger.’

‘Thank you.’ Catherine’s tone was dry.

‘Well, it’s true. You’re not. I’m twenty-two, and you were always three years older than me.’

‘Well, that’s one thing that doesn’t change,’ remarked Catherine wryly, reaching for the towel to dry her hands. ‘It’s nice of you to be so concerned, Gillian, but there’s really no need. I guess I’m just a career woman at heart.’

‘Mmm.’

Gillian didn’t sound convinced, but Catherine had had enough of this particular conversation. Nevertheless, as she crossed the stone flags to the door leading into the passage beyond, she wondered if she would have felt differently had she been born to this environment. She had always been happy in the valley. Those summer weeks still possessed a dreamlike quality that she had never been able to duplicate anywhere else. Waking in the mornings in her little room under the eaves, hearing the wood-pigeons crooning on the chimneys, smelling the pervading scents from her aunt’s flower garden; all these things had imprinted themselves on her memory. But, more significantly, she associated Penwyn with her awakening from girlhood to womanhood, and the painful realisation that dreams were no substitute for reality …

It was a little after ten when they drove back to Pendower. Catherine would have left earlier, but Robert had shown a genuine interest in her aunt’s reminiscences, and with some misgivings she went to find her uncle in the cowsheds. Mervyn Powys was uncommunicative, however, and as the local vet was with him and she was obviously in the way, Catherine soon returned to the house.

‘I like your aunt,’ remarked Robert, as she drove up the winding road that led out of the valley. ‘She’s quite a character. Is she your mother’s sister? I must say, she’s not very like her.’

‘No.’ Catherine shook her head, concentrating on the narrow road ahead. ‘Uncle Mervyn is my mother’s brother. But Mummy left the valley nearly thirty years ago, and unlike me, she’s never wanted to come back.’

Robert shrugged. ‘You can’t blame her, I suppose. Life on the farm was probably pretty spartan in those days.’

Catherine nodded, changing into a lower gear as the Renault laboured up the steepest part of the pass, and then stepped automatically on the brake as some small creature flung itself across the road ahead of them.

‘What the devil was that?’ exclaimed Robert, gazing at her profile in the semi-darkness, and she made a helpless movement of her shoulders. ‘It almost looked human to me,’ he added, rolling down his window and staring towards the ditch that dipped beside them. ‘What did you think it was?’

Catherine was still shaken by the immediacy of her reaction, but she managed to say weakly: ‘I thought it was human, too. It had legs.’

Robert grimaced. ‘So do animals, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘No. I mean—two legs. I thought it was a child.’

‘A child! Up here? At this time of night?’

‘I know it seems crazy.’ Catherine removed her moist palms from the wheel. ‘Should we—should we look?’

But even as she said the words, they heard a whimper which sounded suspiciously like a sob, and without waiting for Robert’s answer, Catherine thrust open her door and got out, circling the car to reach the ditch. She wished she had a torch, or a match, although it would never have stayed alight in the stiff breeze that was blowing off the mountains. Instead, she concentrated on the shifting shadows beneath the level of the road, endeavouring to distinguish a human form among the ferns and undergrowth.

‘I know you’re there,’ she declared, annoyed to find her voice quavered a little as she spoke, and Robert at the elbow asked in a wry undertone whether she expected some imp of Satan to appear. ‘I don’t know, do I?’ she demanded, half irritated by his complacency, and then started again, as a small figure rose up in front of her.

‘Good God! It is a child!’ muttered Robert disbelievingly, while Catherine stared in amazement at the small boy who moved into the shadow of the car’s headlights.

‘I—I’m sorry if I startled you.’ The boy spoke clearly and well, she noticed. ‘I’m afraid I’ve hurt my knee. I didn’t hear the car, you see, because of the wind, and I fell getting into the ditch.’

Catherine shook her head helplessly. ‘Do you realise what time it is?’ she exclaimed, unable to think of anything else to say at that moment, and the boy nodded, apparently unconcerned.

‘It’s late, I know,’ he answered. ‘I missed the last bus from Pendower, so I had to walk, you see. Then I twisted my knee and—–’

‘But where are you walking to?’ demanded Robert, but as if freezing before the unmistakable exasperation in his voice, the boy made no response, merely shifting his weight from one leg to the other and offering a mutinous expression.

‘We can’t leave him here, you know,’ Robert added, close to Catherine’s ear. ‘Wherever he’s going, he could die of exposure before he gets there. It’s so damn cold!’

Realising she had to make the next move, Catherine gestured towards the car. ‘Can we give you a lift?’ she suggested, wondering how a boy of no more than ten years of age could be wandering these roads at this time of night. Who was he? Where had he come from? ‘It’s much warmer inside.’

‘I’m not allowed to accept lifts from strangers,’ the boy replied then, hunching one shoulder, but Robert stretched out a hand and caught his arm.

‘Well, we can’t leave you here, old man,’ he declared, urging him towards the Renault. ‘Come on. We can talk just as well inside.’

‘No, no! Let go of me!’ The boy fought like a little fury then. ‘I shall tell my father about this. He’ll be furious, I can tell you. He owns this valley—–’

‘What!’ Catherine detained Robert’s enforced abduction, grasping the boy’s shoulder and turning him so that she could see his face. Her heart lurched as Rafe Glyndower’s dark features were exposed to her stare; smaller, younger, perhaps a little fairer, but definitely related. ‘You mean—you’re Thomas?’

‘That’s right.’ He fought back a sob. ‘And you have no right to keep me here!’

Catherine gathered herself with difficulty. ‘Does your father know where you are?’ she demanded, knowing the answer before she voiced the question. If Glyndower’s son had been discovered missing, the whole valley would have heard about it by now. ‘You know he doesn’t. You’re supposed to be away at school, aren’t you? What’s happened? Have you run away?’

‘Yes—no. That is—it’s nothing to do with you!’

Shades of Lucy Glyndower, thought Catherine dryly. Then: ‘And do you think you’ll be welcome, at this time of night? I’d hazard a guess that your father will be less than pleased to see you.’

‘Catherine, we can’t stand here arguing the toss,’ Robert exclaimed shortly, showing uncharacteristic signs of irritation, and although she deplored his impatience, she appreciated his point.

‘I wasn’t going home,’ Thomas was saying now, shocking her still further. ‘There’s a shepherd’s hut not far from here. I was going to spend the night there and go home in the morning, only … only …’

‘Only what?’

‘Only—it’s jolly dark, isn’t it? I’m not afraid of ghosts, of course,’ he added, holding up his head, ‘but I might not find it in the dark, might I?’

Catherine felt an overwhelming surge of sympathy for him. ‘You have run away, then? From school?’

The boy nodded, looking down at his toes, and over his bent head Catherine exchanged an appealing look with Robert. Thomas was only wearing a blazer over his uniform grey shirt and trousers, and Robert hadn’t been far wrong when he considered the possible effects of exposure. The boy was shivering already, and a night spent in a shepherd’s hut …

Without hesitating, Catherine came to a decision. ‘Look,’ she said, squatting down beside him, ‘you know you can’t sleep in an old hut at this time of year. That might have been all right in the summer, when the nights were warm, but now it’s cold, very cold, and you could freeze to death.’

Thomas sniffed. ‘You’re going to take me home?’

‘Is that what you want?’

‘Oh, honestly, Catherine—–’

Overriding Robert’s exasperated ejaculation, she repeated the question, and this time Thomas shook his head. ‘Not—not tonight,’ he admitted unhappily, and she straightened with determination, taking his small cold hand in hers.

‘Now you listen to me,’ she said firmly. ‘How would you like to spend the night at my cottage in Pendower, then I’ll run you home in the morning myself?’

Her legs quivered at this prospect, but short of bundling the boy into the car and dumping him on his father’s doorstep at eleven o’clock at night, there was nothing else she could do.

‘You’re crazy!’ declared Robert, jerking open the car door. ‘Why can’t you take him home?’

‘What do you say, Thomas?’

The boy hesitated. ‘Do you have buttermilk?’

‘Oh, my God! Not only does he hesitate, but he makes conditions!’ exclaimed Robert frustratedly, but Catherine ignored him.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said to the child now, ‘I don’t have anything like that. Why? Is it your favourite?’

‘No!’ Thomas was adamant. ‘I hate it. My mother makes me drink it.’

‘I see.’ Catherine raised her eyebrows helplessly, as he suddenly smiled up at her.

‘I’ll come with you now,’ he said. ‘Can I sit in front?’

With much grumbling from Robert, Thomas was wedged between them, and the remainder of the journey was accomplished mostly in a stony silence. Thomas seemed to enjoy watching the road ahead, examining the instruments on the dashboard from time to time, and making comparisons between the Renault and his father’s Volvo, but otherwise there was no conversation. Catherine was glad when they reached their destination, although she was taken aback when Robert said he was going to move into the hotel.

‘You only have two beds,’ he pointed out shortly, as they stood in the small hallway of Catherine’s cottage in Pembroke Square. ‘And as you’ve given one away …’ He paused, significantly. ‘Unless you’d like me to share yours?’

‘Oh, Robert …’

‘I thought not.’ He marched angrily up the stairs. ‘Then I’ll just get my case and leave you two alone.’

‘Robert!’ Catherine felt terrible now. ‘Robert, there is the couch.’

‘No, thanks.’ He came down again, carrying the overnight bag he had taken up earlier. ‘I prefer a proper bed, thank you.’ He halted in the hall, and looked half longingly at her. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, shall I?’

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