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.

Dark Castle
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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE train pulled out of the station at Inverness and as its lights disappeared into the misty darkness all Julie was left to look at was her own pale reflection through the window of the compartment. The train was almost empty, but that didn’t surprise her. It was not the time of year for holidays, and there was a faint air of melancholy about the empty seats which until a few weeks ago had been full of visitors eager to sample the delights of this single-track journey to the Kyle of Lochalsh.

Not that Julie knew the area or the delights of the journey. Until a few weeks ago she had never even heard of it. But Mark had, and it was Mark’s idea that she should come here, and perhaps he had thought the beauty of the scenery might in some way make up for what he was making her do.

She sighed. It had been a long and tedious journey, and she was tense and tired. She had not wanted to come in the first place, and the prolonged hours of isolation in the northbound express had not altered her opinion. She had chosen to travel by train instead of using her car for two reasons – firstly, because she had thought it would be quicker, and secondly, because it would be less tiring. But as the hours had gone by, and the sleeper she had booked for the first stage of her trip had proved of little use to her over-active mind, she had begun to wish she had had the concentration of driving to distract her from the discomfort of her own thoughts.

She shivered. She was cold. She had been waiting at Inverness for almost four hours, and not even the warmth of her sheepskin coat had been sufficient to ward off the onslaught of the chill winds that blew down from the mountains and whistled through the small station. But this train ran only twice daily and although she had only a few more miles to go it was her only link with Achnacraig.

Achnacraig! She stared broodingly out into the darkness. How like Jonas to be so unaccommodating as to put himself almost beyond approach. And yet she would never have imagined him living so far from London, or his beloved Yorkshire, or any of the places he had previously favoured. She knew he still had his apartment in St. James’ Mews because she had rung there first, only to be told by the caretaker that Mr. Hunter had left for Scotland some weeks before.

Her hands curled in her lap. She had written, to the address at Achnacraig which his publisher had kindly given her, but Jonas’ reply had been brief and to the point. If she wanted to see him, she would have to come to Scotland.

She glanced irritably round the compartment. Her only companions were a red-faced man carrying fishing tackle, and a woman who had probably been shopping in Inverness. Their interest in her had been fleeting and now they both seemed sunk in their own thoughts.

She tried to think positively. She hoped there would be a decent hotel in Achnacraig. She wanted the reassurance of a good meal and a night’s sleep before summoning all her courage for the interview with Jonas. She had written and told him she was coming, and if, as she hoped, she could see him tomorrow, she would be able to return to Inverness tomorrow night and complete her journey back to London the following day.

She opened her handbag and took out her compact, surreptitiously examining her reflection in the small mirror. Wide-spaced hazel eyes, thickly lashed, gazed back at her, slightly shadowed after the restless night spent in the sleeper, while the severity of her hairstyle drew attention to the paleness of her cheeks. She couldn’t help wondering whether Jonas would notice any change in her appearance, in the finer contours of her bones, in the hollows of her throat. She was slimmer now than she had been, although not so thin as in the few months after their separation …

She snapped the compact shut and thrust it back into her handbag. She would not think of that. She was not here to indulge in maudlin sentimentality. This was purely business, and she had no intention of allowing emotion to creep into it. All that had been over long ago, and if Jonas had not uprooted himself and left for some outlandish part of South America before any formal severing of their marriage could be arranged, no doubt they would have been divorced by now.

But she still felt restless. It was all very well telling herself not to think, but the subconscious mind had a habit of disregarding advice. And after all, perhaps it would be better if she did think of what was past, of the way Jonas had behaved, of the humiliation she had suffered at his hands. She drew an unsteady breath. It still hurt – but then pride was a very sensitive thing.

She forced her thoughts into other channels, opening the small briefcase she had on the seat beside her and extracting the file she had begun to compile. She read the bare details she had written with as much detachment as she could summon:

Jonas Hunter is the son of the late Professor Godfrey Hunter, lecturer and statistician. Educated at Winchester and Cambridge, Mr. Hunter joined the staff of a national newspaper after leaving university and achieved considerable success as a journalist. Later he turned to television and became an overseas correspondent based mainly in South America. Recently returned to this country, Mr. Hunter has written a political thriller with all the attributes of a major novel. The novel is to be filmed.

She paused and stared moodily through the window. The train was pulling into a station, but it was not Achnacraig. She watched almost absently as the red-faced man with the fishing tackle left his seat and pushed open the door of the carriage. His departure left only herself and the woman in this part of the train.

There was a whistle and with a jerk the train started away again. With reluctance, Julie forced herself to go on. After all, Mark would expect a good interview from her. Her work was good. She knew that. It always had been. It was the one thing she and Jonas had had in common, although in the end it had been instrumental in driving them apart. But now she must not allow personal issues to stand in the way.

She moistened her lips. After the bald statement of facts she had written – age, description, personal details, etc. She bit her lip. These were things she knew only too well. She hesitated. What she needed to know from him was his motive for writing such a novel, such an indictment of the political system. Had he based his novel on fact, on his own experiences, did it reflect his own views? Then there was the question of whether he was planning another novel, whether indeed he had already started it, and if so, what was it to be about? His reasons behind living in some remote castle in Scotland bore speculation, and finally, what were his plans for the future?

She penned a few brief queries and then closed the file. What a situation, she thought bitterly. Was she mad in coming here? Was any job worth such a sacrifice? Of course, Mark saw no sacrifice in it. So far as he was concerned, her marriage to Jonas had ended when they had separated, and just because he was prepared to use that connection to gain an interview hitherto denied to any other magazine it did not mean that he considered their association in any way binding. And the way he had phrased his request had made it plain that if she wanted to remain his assistant and maintain her position on the magazine she should do this small thing for him.

She put the file back into the briefcase and closed the zip. When she had first written to Jonas about a possible interview she had half expected him to refuse, she knew. That was why she had accepted Mark’s ultimatum so calmly. After all, Jonas had refused all kinds of publicity and was fast gaining a reputation for being something of a recluse, a fact Julie had found very hard to believe. All the same, the proof had been there and she had expected her request to be received as unfavourably as the rest. The fact that it had not, that Jonas had actually invited her to visit him in his Scottish retreat for the purpose of gaining an interview, had created a situation which had filled Mark Bernstein with delight and Julie with despair. Jonas’s only stipulation had been that she should not bring a photographer with her, that she should come alone. But the worst part of all had been having to tell her mother … and Angela.

It was, she supposed, a curious anomaly that she and Angela should have remained friends after everything that had happened. But Angela had wanted it that way, and she had, after all, been the innocent party to Jonas’s deceit. When Julie and Jonas split up she had been so upset, so sympathetic, so eager to show how sorry she was that things had turned out the way they did. Julie had still been in a state of shock and in no fit state to withstand the combined persuasions of her mother and Angela, and after a time it hadn’t seemed to matter much, one way or the other.

She had a lot to thank Angela for, actually. It was she who had introduced Julie to Mark Bernstein and been instrumental in getting her this job on his magazine, Peridot. She had found Julie a flat when she had no longer wanted to stay with her mother, and of course she and Julie’s mother were the best of friends. And why not? Angela was the daughter of Mrs. Preston’s old school friend, and Julie and Angela had known one another since they were children.

Both Angela and Julie’s mother had shared her opinion about her proposed trip to Scotland, and they were more vehement about it.

‘I’ll speak to Mark,’ Angela had said at once. ‘He can’t possibly expect you to do this. Interviewing a man who was once your husband! It’s barbaric!’

‘He still is my husband,’ Julie had pointed out resignedly.

‘And he was unfaithful to you!’ Angela had retorted angrily, and not a little cruelly. ‘Julie, don’t be a fool! This place where he’s living is hundreds of miles away. Why can’t he come to London if he wants this interview?’

Julie had steeled herself as she had learned to do at the mention of Jonas’s infidelity. She was used to hearing Jonas spoken about in this way by her mother and Angela, but it was still possible for certain barbs to pierce the vulnerability of her shell.

Now she said: ‘But Jonas doesn’t want this interview, Angela, Mark does. You don’t suppose Jonas would put himself out for such a paltry reason, do you?’

‘But why is he living in Scotland?’ her mother had asked. ‘I thought his family lived in Yorkshire.’

‘They do. And I have no more idea than you why he should have taken himself off to some Scottish fastness, but he has, and that’s the situation.’

‘If Mark is so eager for the interview why doesn’t he go himself?’ Angela had persisted, and Julie had found herself colouring.

‘Because the interview has been granted to me,’ she had had to admit, and had seen the dawning concern in her mother’s eyes.

The discussion, if it could be called that, continued, but ultimately they had had to accept that unless Julie wanted to make things difficult for herself she would have to go.

‘And why not?’ she had challenged bravely, hoping to allay her mother’s anxiety. ‘Good heavens, we’re making far too much of it! Jonas is only a man, Mummy. Just a man – and the accident of our relationship is purely incidental.’

Angela would not let it rest there, however. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she had declared firmly. ‘I can get leave of absence from the salon—’ Angela was a masseuse, working in partnership with a cousin who was a hairdresser. They had built up a successful salon in the West End, and had many influential names on their books.

But Julie refused to consider her offer. She wasn’t feeling at all brave about the coming interview, but she did know that Angela’s presence was likely to undermine her confidence, and confidence was something she needed –badly. ‘No,’ she had averred determinedly, ‘you’re needed at the salon, and it’s about time I was able to stand on my own two feet where Jonas is concerned!’

Angela had protested, of course, and Julie’s mother had shed a few tears, but they had both realized that in this Julie was adamant. Perhaps it would do her good to see Jonas again, she had told herself in some of her bleaker moments. Although her love for him had died when she had discovered his duplicity, she had always considered him a fascinating man, and no doubt now that she was older she would see that hero-worship for what it was. She had been only nineteen at the time of their marriage while he had been thirty, and as the marriage had broken up after only a little over two years, she had been just twenty-one then. Now she was twenty-four, and far more capable of assessing a man objectively.

The train was pulling into another station and her nerves tightened, but again it was not Achnacraig. This time her companion got up to leave the train and Julie was alone in the compartment. She sighed, peering through the darkness in an effort to see what was beyond as they left the small station far behind. But the blackness was too complete and she glanced impatiently at her wrist watch. It was a little after seven and she knew that part of her coldness came from hunger. Perhaps she should have stayed overnight in Inverness and travelled on to Achnacraig in the morning. But that would have meant another day, and she was eager to get the interview over and done with and be gone. Even so, it would have given her the added advantage of arriving in daylight, whereas now it could have been midnight if one considered the deserted platforms of the stations they had passed. She hoped that Achnacraig was a little more prepossessing.

Her suitcase was lodged between two seats, so she got up and pulled it out, ready for alighting. It couldn’t be much further, surely. She fastened the buttons of her sheepskin coat and looked down at the long suede boots covering her legs to the knee. At least she looked business-like, she decided grimly. She had no intention of allowing Jonas any possibility of imagining that she had come here for any other reason than the given one.

The train was slowing again and Julie pressed her nose against the window pane, drawing back impatiently as her breath misted on the glass. She rubbed it clear and stared at the sign. Achnacraig.

Her pulses quickening in spite of herself, she gathered her handbag, briefcase, and the small suitcase she had brought and hurried to the carriage door. But as the train came to a jerky halt it swung open and had she not grabbed the panelling to save herself, she would have been projected forward into the arms of the man standing below her on the platform. He was a tall man, lean and dark-skinned, with overly long dark hair, dressed in a shabby navy duffel coat, dark trousers and wellingtons. Julie stared at him almost disbelievingly, but there was no mistaking the heavy-lidded dark eyes, the high cheekbones and mockingly twisted mouth with its full lower lip. He had always been a disturbingly attractive man, and she wondered with a fleeting sense of remorse whether women were always more prepared to condemn an attractive man than an unattractive one.

‘Jonas!’ she managed, as he stooped to pick up the briefcase she had dropped in her efforts to save herself. ‘What are you doing here?’

As soon as the words were out she realized how ridiculous they must sound. He straightened and regarded her humorously.

‘Didn’t you expect to see me?’ he queried sardonically.

‘Well, yes – yes, of course.’ She came down the steps on to the platform, looking about her in an effort to conceal the shock he had given her by confronting her so unexpectedly, and he took the suitcase from her unresisting fingers. ‘Wh-what I meant was – I – I didn’t expect you to meet me.’

‘Didn’t you?’ He glanced down at her. ‘But you wrote and told me when you were coming.’

‘Yes, I know I did …’ She paused, shivering in the wind that blew through the open ends of the small station. This wasn’t at all how she had planned the interview to be. How like Jonas to disconcert her like this, she thought rather uncharitably. ‘What I’m trying to say is – I merely wrote so that you would know when to expect me.’ She sighed. ‘I – I was planning to come and see you tomorrow.’

‘Were you?’ Jonas didn’t sound at all impressed. ‘And where were you proposing to spend the night? Or have you got a tent and sleeping bag in your suitcase?’

Julie looked up at him resentfully. ‘I intend to spend the night at the nearest hotel or guest-house.’

‘Do you?’ He had an annoying habit of questioning her every statement. ‘Well, shall we go? Old Angus won’t welcome you if you keep him waiting to collect your ticket.’

He started away towards the barrier and she had, perforce, to follow him. The wind was tugging wisps of hair from the chignon on the nape of her neck and she tried to tuck the chestnut strands back into place, without much success.

‘I – where do you think you’re going with my suitcase?’ she demanded breathlessly.

Jonas cast an impatient look at her. ‘Well, I’m not making off with it,’ he returned coolly. Then: ‘Ah, here we are, Angus. Last – but not least, as they say.’

As she fumbled for her ticket, Angus cast a dour look in Julie’s direction. He seemed awfully old still to be working, but perhaps it was the single swaying light above their heads that cast such shadows across his gnarled face.

‘Not much of a night, Mr. Hunter,’ he said, and Julie was momentarily distracted by his lilting brogue. ‘May be snow before morning, I shouldn’t wonder.’

Julie’s heart leapt as she handed over the ticket. Snow? In October? Surely not.

She hesitated as the old man was about to turn away, and said tentatively: ‘Excuse me …’

Jonas stopped some few feet ahead of her and turned, a frown marring his lean features.

‘Yes, miss?’ Angus looked expectantly at her.

Julie caught her breath. ‘I – is there somewhere – that is – do you happen to know where I might find accommodation for the night?’

‘Accommodation, was it?’ Angus shook his head slowly and Julie’s heart sank. Then Jonas was beside her, his hand hard and unyielding about her arm.

‘There are no hotels in Achnacraig, Julie,’ he said coldly, his eyes daring her to contradict him. ‘Besides, I have – accommodation arranged for you.’

Angus had lost interest and was already turning away into his cosy office leaving them alone on the deserted platform. Julie turned to Jonas angrily. ‘What do you mean – you have accommodation arranged?’

‘Just what I say.’ Jonas shifted her suitcase into his other hand.

‘At a guest-house, you mean?’

‘Julie, there are no guest-houses open in Achnacraig at this time of the year. It’s almost November. The tourist season is long over.’

Julie felt upset and frustrated. ‘Then where am I to stay?’ she demanded, steadying her voice with difficulty.

‘At Castle Lochcraig, of course. Where else?’

‘Castle – Lochcraig?’ Julie gathered the lapels of her coat together with a gloved hand. ‘But – but that’s your – your—’

‘Castle? Yes, I know.’ Jonas sounded almost indifferent. ‘But don’t let that intimidate you. It’s not a very large place. Now – my car’s parked over here.’

‘I’m not coming with you!’

Julie remained where she was, her handbag clutched tightly between her fingers, shivering as much with reaction as cold now. This was the very last thing she had expected. That Jonas should meet her was startling enough. That he should expect her to stay at his castle was – ludicrous!

Jonas shrugged and crossed to where a sleek sports saloon was parked, its expensive outline visible in the shadowy light. He opened the door, tossed her briefcase and suitcase on to the back seat and then levered himself behind the wheel with lithe easy grace. It wasn’t until he slammed the door and she heard the roar of the engine that she realized he had accepted her refusal and intended leaving her there. She couldn’t believe he would do such a thing, but the sports car was most definitely beginning to move.

‘Wait!’

She rushed across the station forecourt and reached his side of the car as he slowed and rolled down his window.

‘Yes?’

Julie bit her lip. ‘Where do you think you’re going? You’ve got my suitcase – my briefcase!’

Jonas regarded her from between narrowed lids. He had long thick lashes and they successfully concealed his expression. ‘You can collect them tomorrow when you come for that interview,’ he remarked dryly.

‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous! I shall need my things tonight.’ Julie stared impotently round the station yard. ‘There has to be habitation here somewhere. Surely someone will put me up for the night.’

Jonas’s mouth thinned. ‘Don’t be so childish, Julie,’ he snapped cuttingly. ‘What’s the matter? Are you afraid to stay at my house?’

‘Of course I’m not afraid—’

‘Then where’s your problem?’

‘I’d rather not accept your hospitality,’ she declared vehemently.

His smile was not pleasant. ‘Oh, really? Then I suggest you take the next train out of here. There may be one later. I’m not really sure.’

Julie gasped. ‘You can’t – you can’t mean you’d refuse me the interview after I’ve travelled all this way …’ Her voice trailed away into silence.

Jonas tapped his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel. ‘Are you going to get into the car, Julie?’ he inquired, in ominously level tones.

Julie straightened. She licked her lips and took another look around the dark station yard. The train had departed to continue its journey, and apart from the light in the ticket office, everywhere seemed desolate. She looked down at Jonas again.

‘I – that’s blackmail,’ she protested, shivering uncontrollably.

He thrust open the passenger side door. ‘You’re going to get pneumonia if you don’t make up your mind soon,’ he observed. ‘Get in. You have no choice, do you?’

Julie’s fists clenched. She felt she had never despised anyone as she despised him at that moment. Without another word she walked round the vehicle and climbed into the squab seat beside him, tucking her skirt down over her knees and slamming the door. But she still continued to shiver. Not even the warmth, the reassuring smell of leather and good tobacco, could rid her of that mingled sense of indignation and resentment, and – yes, apprehension.

The car swung out of the yard, its headlights illuminating hawthorn hedges and the narrow road ahead. Once on to the road, Jonas pressed his foot down harder on the accelerator, and the sleek vehicle almost leapt forward. Jonas had always liked travelling at speed, Julie remembered, but he had always been in control and she had never felt nervous with him. Now, however, it was different, and as the road curved first this way and then that, and the headlights caught the winking blackness of a stretch of water on their left, she felt sure he intended plunging them both into its chilling depths.

‘Must you drive so fast?’ she exclaimed at last, driven beyond bearing by his oppressive silence.

Jonas dropped his speed by five miles an hour and she pressed her hands tightly together. It was scarcely a concession. She turned her head and tried to see some indication of where he was taking her, but there was no sign of life. Just the water, and shadowy clumps of trees and bushes, and occasionally the unexpected glimpse of some night creature. They had covered perhaps four miles already. How much further was Castle Lochcraig?

Presently the car began to slow and a bend in the road brought them to a gravelled area by a stone jetty which jutted out into the murky water. She saw the outline of what appeared to be a boathouse although a few moments later she realized it was a garage – for this car.

Jonas stopped the car, got out and unlocked the garage doors. Julie, the chilliness in her bones dissipated by the tension of the journey, opened her door tentatively.

‘Wh-what are you doing?’

Jonas opened the garage doors wide and then said: ‘You can get out. This won’t take a minute.’

Still Julie hesitated. ‘Is – is this it?’ she ventured, despising herself for the tremor in her voice.

Jonas cast a disparaging look in her direction, his features clearly visible in the light from the headlamps. ‘Hardly,’ he commented dryly, and came back to drive the car inside.

Julie hesitated only a moment longer and then got out, watching mutinously as he garaged the vehicle and closed the doors securely. The jetty mocked her and she refused to look towards it. It seemed apparent that Castle Lochcraig was not on the mainland.

‘What – what is this stretch of water?’ she asked, as he came towards her carrying her cases.

‘Loch Craig.’

‘A loch? Oh, of course.’ Julie sighed. ‘I thought it was the sea.’

‘It could have been, but it isn’t. There are sea lochs, you know, mere continuations of the sea into inland lakes. However, we are some distance from the sea.’

Julie felt suitably reprimanded. It had been a silly statement. The train had travelled inland from Inverness. Jonas walked towards the jetty and in the pale light from a moon tossed about by clouds she saw a small boat with an outboard motor.

‘Come on,’ he said, unceremoniously tossing her belongings into the bottom of the craft. ‘It’s not much further now.’

‘How reassuring!’ Julie spoke with a sarcasm she was far from feeling. ‘You didn’t warn me that your castle was on an island.’

‘Does it matter?’ He sounded resigned. ‘Look, Julie, you’re beginning to annoy me. You asked for this interview, not me. Have the decency to behave like a mature adult. This kind of childish bickering is going to get us nowhere.’

Julie felt her cheeks begin to burn in the darkness, not least because of the truth in what he had said. She had asked for the interview, albeit on Mark’s behalf, and since her arrival she had done nothing but argue with him. But that was because everything had gone so horribly wrong, she justified herself defensively. How had she been expected to know that Achnacraig was little more than a halt on the line and that she would be unable to find accommodation? All the same, if Jonas hadn’t come to meet her things might have been even worse.

With a reluctant shrug of her shoulders she moved towards the jetty. ‘I’m – sorry,’ she mumbled ungraciously.

Jonas put out a hand to help her into the boat, making no response to her unwilling apology, and she put her hand into his. Even through the material of her glove she could feel the hard strength of his fingers and for a moment when she dropped down into the boat beside him she was close enough to feel the warmth of his breath against her forehead. A quivering awareness of him spread over her, and as she huddled into the plank seat at the end of the boat she felt resentfully aware that his sexual attraction was as strong as ever. She was glad she had not succumbed to the fleeting desire to wear her most attractive clothes and do her hair in a loose and appealing style. The temptation had been there, to show him that she was not allowing his defection to ruin her appearance, that she was still capable of attracting men, but it had been discarded. And now she was glad it had. She would have hated him to think she was using this interview as a futile means of showing him exactly what he had lost. No, dressed as she was, in her plain city clothes, the thick, waving coil of golden chestnut hair confined in the unbecoming chignon, she would incite no man’s interest, least of all a man like Jonas Hunter …

CHAPTER TWO

THE outboard motor started at the first attempt and soon they were moving away from the jetty, bouncing across the wind-choppy water to where a dark mound could just be seen rising out of the loch. As they drew nearer, Julie could distinguish the twin towers of a small castle that stood in the middle of the island, and the thick belt of firs that surrounded it. It stood on a rise, and the ground fell away sharply in places towards a shoreline fringed with jagged rocks like giant’s teeth. Julie wondered how on earth anyone could land here, but Jonas circled the island until he came to a shingled stretch, perhaps six feet wide, where he could beach the boat. He stepped out into the water in his boots and dragged the craft up the shingle before offering Julie his hand again to climb out.

The high heels of her boots sank into the small stones as Jonas lifted her cases out of the boat and then drew a torch from his pocket and handed it to her.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘You may need this. I know my way. Just follow me.’

They crossed the stretch of shingle and began to mount steps cut out of the rock. Julie was glad of the light of the torch because the steps were uneven in places and her boots were not meant for climbing. She realized she was out of condition, too, as she began to pant while Jonas strode ahead without any apparent sign of fatigue.

At last the steps gave on to a rough stone walk and looking back she saw that they were high above the rocky shoreline now. Ahead she could see the stone towers she had glimpsed earlier guarding an inner courtyard that was surrounded on three sides by the fortified walls of the castle. A dog barking somewhere at the back of the building was a reassuring sound, as were the lights at some of the narrow windows, but Julie still glanced rather apprehensively at her host.

Jonas stopped at the foot of some steps leading up to an iron-studded door set in one of the turreted towers. Julie followed him slowly as he mounted the steps, gradually regaining her breath after the climb, and entered the panelled hall of the tower. It was almost round, of course, with a passage leading off to the left, and a spiral staircase winding away out of sight. The lighting came from gas lamps which cast a mellow glow over the dark wood. The staircase was stone, as Julie knew the walls to be beneath their panelling, but a soft brown and cream carpet added warmth and colour.

She was still admiring her surroundings when a small dark woman came hurrying along the corridor towards them. ‘So you’re back then, Mr. Hunter.’ The woman’s voice was pleasantly accented, with the same brogue as old Angus had used. ‘And this would be Mrs. Hunter, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Jonas had put Julie’s cases down and now turned to her with enigmatic coolness. ‘Julie, this is Mrs. Macpherson. She and her husband, Rob, have lived and worked here at Castle Lochcraig for over twenty years.’

Julie was still getting over the shock of being introduced as Mrs. Hunter. For years she had thought of herself as plain Julie Preston, the name she had always used professionally. That was why she had been so astounded that Mark should have discovered her relationship with Jonas. She had never discussed that period of her life with anyone, not after they had split up, and when Angela had introduced her to Mark it had been as Julie Preston.

But here, apparently, Jonas had explained that she was his estranged wife, and with no small feeling of embarrassment, she shook hands with Mrs. Macpherson and hoped she looked less confused than she felt.

‘Your hands are frozen, Mrs. Hunter,’ exclaimed the housekeeper, looking reprovingly at Jonas. ‘I’m sure you must be tired after your journey. If you’ll away with me, I’ll show you to your room and you’ll have a few minutes to warm yourself and freshen up before I serve dinner.’

Julie forced a smile. ‘That would be lovely, Mrs. Macpherson,’ she agreed, looking down at her suitcase. ‘Shall I bring this?’

‘Rob will see to your case, Julie,’ said Jonas quietly, divesting himself of his duffel coat, revealing a navy silk shirt beneath. The dark colours accentuated the tan of his skin, heightened no doubt by the years he had spent in South America. The shirt was open at the throat and Julie could see the silver medallion suspended from its slender chain which she had given him for his birthday five years ago. The sight disconcerted her. She would have expected him to have got rid of it long ago. She was almost glad when Mrs. Macpherson touched her arm and said:

‘Come along, Mrs. Hunter. It’s this way.’

All the same, as they mounted the spiral staircase with the narrow windows let in at intervals, Julie couldn’t rid herself of the remembrance of that silver medallion or the memories it so painfully evoked. Memories of Jonas in the first year of their marriage, relaxed and laughing, on that holiday they had spent in Barbados. She had bought him the medallion there and it conjured up memories of Jonas trying to teach her to sail, to go snorkelling and skin-diving – of him asleep beside her early in the morning, when the silver medallion had been his only adornment …

Her cheeks flamed and she was glad that Mrs. Macpherson was ahead of her and could not see. She must be mad, allowing such thoughts to invade her head simply because she had happened to see again a cheap piece of jewellery she had purchased in a Bridgetown market. She had to remember that at least one other woman had seen Jonas in that lazily intimate state, and that Jonas himself had been responsible for the destruction of their marriage.

The staircase opened on to a landing with a gallery leading off before continuing on its way, but Mrs. Macpherson indicated that Julie should follow her along the carpeted gallery. The gallery followed the outer wall of the main part of the building and Julie couldn’t help noticing how much thicker the stonework was on one side than the other. No doubt in daylight the view from the windows on the outer side would be quite magnificent, but tonight, with the gaslights flickering disconcertingly, it had an eerie atmosphere.

Mrs. Macpherson glanced round. ‘All the bedrooms and guest rooms open off the gallery, Mrs. Hunter,’ she explained. ‘And directly below us is the main hall and dining area, and the reception rooms. Mr. Hunter’s private rooms are in the tower where you entered. He doesn’t bother much with the formal apartments, although perhaps he will now that you’re here.’ She smiled encouragingly.

Julie’s face felt stiff. What on earth did Mrs. Macpherson mean? Surely it was obvious from the small amount of luggage that she had brought with her that she was not here on a prolonged visit. Hadn’t Jonas discussed the length of her stay with his housekeeper? She didn’t know how to answer her, so she merely managed a smile and said nothing.

They had passed several heavy doors set into the stonework before Mrs. Macpherson stopped and opened one of them and went inside, beckoning Julie to follow her. The gas lamps here had been turned down, but the housekeeper quickly turned them up and smiled in satisfaction when she saw Julie’s obvious admiration of the huge bedroom which they had entered.

From the minute she entered the castle, Julie had realized that some sort of central heating system was in operation, and along the gallery she had noticed huge pipes and an old-fashioned radiator which had definitely taken the chill from the air. But the bedroom was really warm, heated by an enormous log fire burning in an equally enormous grate. There was an immense tester bed, the hanging canopy of which, although faded, bore the unmistakable imprint of years of intricate tapestry work; there were two massive wardrobes and a tallboy full of drawers, a dressing table with five folding mirrors that could throw back one’s reflection from every possible angle, and two wingbacked armchairs set at either side of the hearth. The silk-hung walls were unadorned, and overhead the ceiling had been panelled and carved. Julie shook her head helplessly. She had never seen such a bedroom outside of a stately home. But, she supposed wryly, that was exactly what Castle Lochcraig was.

‘It’s very nice, Mrs. Macpherson. Thank you,’ she said.

Mrs. Macpherson waved her thanks away. ‘It’s good to see the rooms used again,’ she protested. ‘Mrs. Drummond always slept in this room.’

Julie would have liked to have asked who Mrs. Drummond was, but she thought that perhaps it was something she ought to know, and she decided to ask Jonas rather than question the housekeeper.

‘You’ve a bathroom through here,’ went on Mrs. Macpherson, opening an inner door. ‘See – it’s quite modern.’

Julie peered into the shadowy bathroom. The bath was huge, like everything else here, and the massive, throne-like water closet filled her with amusment. It was good to feel a lightening of her spirits after the day it had been.

‘You’ll be able to find your way downstairs again, Mrs. Hunter?’ The housekeeper paused by the door.

‘Oh, yes, I think so.’ Julie nodded, glancing at her watch. ‘What time have I got?’

‘Will twenty minutes be enough for you?’

‘I should think it would.’ Julie smiled. ‘And thank you again. I’m sure I shall be very comfortable here.’

Mrs. Macpherson nodded. ‘If you’re not, I’ve no doubt Mr. Hunter will soon let me know,’ she commented dryly.

The housekeeper’s words aroused just the faintest sense of apprehension, but Julie dismissed the feeling impatiently. Left alone, she was free to explore her domain, but first she would take off her boots and allow her feet to sink into the soft cream carpet underfoot, and warm herself by the fire.

After a wash, she examined her appearance critically. She had shed her sheepskin coat to reveal a plain tweed suit and high-necked white blouse. She had had to put her boots on again as her shoes were in the case downstairs. Her hair needed little attention, the few strands which had escaped from the chignon soon tucked back into place. She applied a light foundation cream to her skin, added a little eye-shadow, and was satisfied with the result. The wind had added a little colour to her cheeks, but it was not unattractive. She sighed. It would be a simple matter to change her image – to loosen her hair and add lustre to her lips, but she restrained the impulse.

With a few minutes to spare she wandered round the room, examining the carvings that were an integral part of the furniture. The drawer handles on the tallboy were shaped like lion’s heads and one inserted one’s fingers into the open jaws to draw them out …

She stood back in surprise. She had opened a drawer, almost without being aware of doing so, and now she stared at its contents. It was filled with filmy lingerie, pants and bras and slips in a variety of shades, fragile chiffon garments and pure silk that clung to her fingers.

She closed the drawer with a jerk and turned away, unaccountably disturbed. Whose garments were they? What were they doing here in this bedroom that Mrs. Macpherson had implied had been long unused? Or had she said that? She had said that the formal apartments downstairs were seldom used, but that didn’t mean that no one had used this bedroom. On the contrary, she had said that Mrs. Drummond had always slept here. But somehow Julie knew that the Mrs. Drummond who had always slept here was not the person to wear such extravagant underwear.

Her brows drew together. The articles she had seen were not old. Whose ever they were they had been put there only recently. Had Jonas had some woman staying with him? The idea was distasteful to her. And yet why should it be so? She and Jonas were separated. What he did was his own affair. And if he chose to take some woman as his mistress, it was nothing to do with her.

Even so, there was an awful curling sensation in the pit of her stomach when she considered him sharing this bed with another woman. If he had, she would rather not sleep in it.

She looked towards the embroidered quilt that covered its enormous width. The bed could have comfortably accommodated half a dozen people, she thought with aversion. Oh, why had she opened that drawer? Like Pandora, she had released something totally unexpected.

She picked up her handbag and walked towards the door, but then she remembered she had not turned down the lamps. She went back to do so and as she passed one of the wardrobes her reflection mocked her. Curiosity was like a cancer inside her and without hesitation she reached out a hand and opened the wardrobe door. Inside were hanging perhaps a score of dresses, both long and short, suits and slack suits, skirts and trousers.

She stared at them in amazement. Surely no woman would go away and leave so many clothes behind her! So what did it mean? That some other woman was still staying at the castle? That she had given up her room to Julie? It didn’t make sense.

She turned down the lamps, closed the wardrobe door, and left the bedroom walking swiftly along the shadowy gallery to the spiral staircase. Before going down she looked upward, seeing the spiral disappear towards some upper section of the building. Were there other floors? And if so, did anyone occupy them?

She shook her head. She was becoming fanciful. The sooner she went downstairs and stopped speculating about things that did not concern her, the better it would be.

When she reached the lower hall she looked round. Now she could see that the reason the hall was not completely circular was that two doors had been set into the panelling and beyond them no doubt lay Jonas’s private rooms, the rooms Mrs. Macpherson had mentioned.

She was hesitating about which door to open, when a voice behind her said quietly: ‘Did you find the accommodation to your liking?’

She swung round to find that Jonas had come along the passage without her being aware of it and was standing supporting himself with one hand against the arched stonework of the aperture. He had clearly washed, too, and combed his hair which now lay smoothly against his head, flicking over the collar of his shirt at the back. He had also added a maroon velvet waistcoat which went well with his dark attire.

Mentally squaring her shoulders, she replied: ‘Everything seems very comfortable, thank you.’

Jonas’s mouth turned down at the corners and straightening he passed her to open one of the doors she had been hesitating over.

‘Won’t you go in?’ he invited, standing aside for her to do so. ‘This is my sitting-room. I spend most of my free time in here. The room next door is my study. We can have a drink before Mrs. Macpherson arrives with our meal. I’ve told her we’ll eat in here this evening.’

Julie entered another strikingly attractive room. It was a curious shape, having three straight walls and one curved one, but its decoration more than made up for its lack of design. A soft apricot and olive green carpet flowed into every corner, no doubt to allay the chill of stone floors, long velvet curtains in matching shades covered the narrow windows, while soft cream leather armchairs and a well-worn cream and green tapestry-covered couch looked superbly comfortable. A small display case contained some exquisite Wedgwood pottery, while the shelves that flanked the fireplace were filled with books and magazines. Another log fire burned cheerfully in the grate and the flames winked on the collection of bottles and decanters which stood on the open flap of a cocktail cabinet. It was an elegant room, and yet it had a relaxing, lived-in sort of atmosphere, and as it was much smaller than the bedroom upstairs it was also less imposing.

Jonas closed the door and nodded towards the chairs and the couch. ‘Sit down,’ he suggested, walking towards the cocktail cabinet. ‘What can I offer you to drink? Sherry? A Martini? Or do you still like Pernod?’

‘I’ll have a dry Martini, if I may,’ she replied, sitting down in one of the soft leather armchairs. Pernod, like the medallion, had too many associations with the past.

Jonas shrugged and turned to pour her drink, pouring himself a generous measure of Scotch as he did so. Then he handed the glass to her and came to sit near her on the tapestry couch, stretching out his long legs towards the fire. He swallowed half his Scotch without any effort, and then looked sideways at her.

‘So,’ he said, ‘and how are you?’

Julie stiffened. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

His eyes assessed her critically, moving over the severely styled hair, the tweed suit, to the slender legs concealed in the suede boots. ‘You’re thinner. Don’t you eat enough – or not often enough?’

Julie endeavoured to return his gaze coolly. She determined not to let him disconcert her again. ‘I don’t think my eating habits are any concern of yours,’ she retorted.

Jonas’s eyes were disturbingly intent. ‘I thought we had agreed to call a truce,’ he commented mildly.

Julie sighed. ‘All right. I’m fine. I eat as much as I need. As far as I know I’m perfectly healthy. Does that answer your question?’

Jonas raised dark eyebrows. ‘You’re becoming shrewish, Julie. It doesn’t suit you.’

Julie looked down at the glass in her hands. She was trembling, in spite of all her good intentions. ‘Jonas – I didn’t want to come here, to take this interview. It was all Mark’s idea—’

‘Mark Bernstein?’

‘Yes.’ She looked up. ‘Do you know him?’

‘I know – of him.’ Jonas felt in his pocket and drew out a case of cheroots. Putting one between his teeth, he said: ‘You don’t smoke, do you? I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything but these.’

Julie shook her head and watched unobtrusively as he reached for a taper and lit his cheroot from the fire. He inhaled with evident enjoyment, and then went on: ‘If you didn’t want to come here – why did you?’

Julie sipped her Martini. ‘You know why.’

‘No, I don’t.’ Jonas shook his head. ‘Oh, I admit, I insisted that it was you who interviewed me for the magazine, but you could have refused.’

‘Mark would never have forgiven me.’

‘And that’s important to you?’ His eyes narrowed.

‘To my career – yes.’

‘Ah, I see. Your career.’ He swallowed the remainder of his Scotch and rose to pour himself another. ‘And is Berstein also responsible for your appearance?’

Julie stared at his broad back indignantly. ‘What do you mean?’

He turned, his eyes assessing her again. ‘The way you wear your hair – that suit! You used to have excellent dress sense.’

Julie felt herself colouring. ‘My appearance is no more important than my size!’

‘I disagree.’ He leaned back lazily against the cabinet. ‘I think you dressed that way to annoy me. I wonder why.’

‘To annoy you!’ Julie could hear her voice becoming shriller, but there was nothing she could do about it. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’

As it happened, there was a knock at the door then and at Jonas’s summons Mrs. Macpherson entered the room wheeling a heated food trolley. She seemed to have noticed nothing amiss, and Julie reflected that the thick walls and heavy doors no doubt cut off all but the most piercing sounds.

‘There you are, sir,’ she said, spreading a cloth over a side table and drawing it forward. She turned to Julie. ‘Shall I serve the meal, Mrs. Hunter, or will you?’

Julie shifted awkwardly in her seat. ‘I – er – I can manage, thank you, Mrs. Macpherson. It – it smells delicious.’

‘Och, it’s only a beef stew with dumplings and vegetables, and there’s a syrup pudding to follow,’ declaimed the housekeeper with a smile, but it was obvious that she was pleased. ‘I’ll bring your coffee along later.’

‘Thank you, Mrs. Macpherson.’ Jonas accompanied her to the door and then closed it behind her.

Meanwhile, Julie was examining the various contents of the heated dishes. The meal smelt even better when she removed a steel lid to reveal a steaming dish of beef stew with tiny dumplings bobbing about its surface.

With a wry smile, Jonas seated himself opposite her, watching her, and forcing a composure she was far from feeling, she said: ‘Shall I serve yours?’

‘Sure. Why not?’ He inclined his head. ‘I like most things, you know that. I had to when we first got married, if you remember.’

Julie did remember, but she refused to rise to the bait and ladled some vegetables on to a plate and covered them with the savoury stew. Then she passed the plate across to him and served her own. She gave herself only a very small quantity of everything and was aware that Jonas had noticed. But he didn’t comment. Instead, he got up and brought a bottle of wine from the lower compartment of the cocktail cabinet and poured two glasses.

Although Julie had not expected to enjoy the food, she did, and the wine was a pleasing accompaniment. Eating at least curtailed conversation, but she was aware of Jonas’s eyes upon her from time to time.

The syrup pudding was as light as any she had tasted, and there was a jug of fresh cream to pour over it. Jonas, she saw, ate with obvious enjoyment, but his lean muscular frame seemed not to be showing any ill effects from Mrs. Macpherson’s generous helpings.

Julie finished first and gathered the dirty plates together and put them on the lower shelf of the trolley. Jonas finished his second helping of syrup pudding and lay back, replete, swallowing the dregs of the wine in his glass.

‘That’s better,’ he remarked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘A few weeks of Mrs. Macpherson’s cooking and you’d soon fill out.’

‘I have no desire to fill out, thank you,’ returned Julie, pushing the trolley aside. ‘I was never a filled-out person!’

‘No – but you were nicely rounded,’ replied Jonas unabashed.

Julie sighed and glanced pointedly at her watch. She was amazed to discover it was half past nine already. ‘Er – do you think Mrs. Macpherson will be long with the coffee?’ she asked. ‘I really am rather tired. I didn’t sleep much on the train last night, and I could do with an early night.’

‘An early night?’ Jonas lit himself another cheroot. ‘You disappoint me, Julie. I was looking forward to some after-dinner conversation.’

Julie drew a deep breath. ‘I shouldn’t have thought you were short of after-dinner conversation, Jonas,’ she said sharply.

Jonas frowned. ‘No? Why not? Have you no pity for a – lonely man?’

‘A lonely man?’ Her eyes were drawn to his. ‘Oh, come on, Jonas, that’s taking things a little too far, don’t you think?’

He considered her mockingly. ‘Do I denote a trace of maliciousness in your tones?’

‘No. No, why should there be?’ Julie hunched her shoulders, half regretting her outburst.

‘That’s what I’m asking myself.’

She sighed. ‘Oh, let’s stop all this verbal fencing!’

‘I couldn’t agree more.’

Julie hesitated. ‘All right. I – I opened a drawer. In the bedroom. I saw some – clothes.’

‘Ah! I begin to comprehend.’ Jonas inhaled deeply.

Julie stared at him, waiting for him to explain. But he merely nodded to himself and lay there, lazily blowing smoke rings into the air. She felt angry and frustrated, the more so because she guessed he would know how she was feeling, how eaten up with curiosity she was. But he was not about to satisfy her.

Her hands clenched. Cool down, she told herself furiously. What did it matter? She didn’t care whose clothes they were. This time tomorrow she would be long gone, and she hoped she never had to set eyes on him again. She would see her solicitor when she got back to town. A divorce shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange, not after all this time, and then she would be free – really free.

Another knock heralded the return of Mrs. Macpherson, this time carrying a tray on which reposed a jug of coffee, cream, sugar, and two cups.

‘Now – did you enjoy your dinner?’ she inquired anxiously.

Julie forced an enthusiastic note to her voice. ‘Very much, Mrs. Macpherson. That syrup sponge was out of this world! You must give me the recipe before I leave.’

‘Before you leave, Mrs. Hunter? But you’ve only just got here—’

‘Mrs. Hunter means when we return to London,’ put in Jonas smoothly, levering himself off the couch and confronting Julie’s indignant stare. ‘Thank you, Mrs. Macpherson. We shan’t need you any more tonight.’

‘No, sir.’ Mrs. Macpherson moved slowly towards the door, propelling the trolley before her. ‘Oh, by the way, Rob’s taken up Mrs. Hunter’s cases. I hope you’ll be comfortable—’

‘I’m sure you’ve done everything to ensure that,’ interposed Jonas patiently, although it was obvious he was eager to have the housekeeper outside the door. ‘Good night, Mrs. Macpherson.’

‘Good night, sir. Good night, Mrs. Hunter.’

‘Good night.’ Julie spoke automatically, but as soon as the door was closed she sprang to her feet, and said: ‘Exactly what did you mean by that?’

Jonas was calm again, leaning back against the door with indolent grace. ‘By what? What did I say?’

‘Oh, stop it, Jonas, you know what you said. Look, I don’t know what you’ve told these people – or why you couldn’t have introduced me as – as a reporter from Peridot and nothing more! But the fact remains that Mrs. Macpherson imagines we’re a normal married couple and that I’m here on some sort of holiday!’

‘Don’t get so heated about it.’ Jonas drew lazily on his cheroot. ‘You want an explanation? All right, I’ll give you one. My grandmother knew I was married. Naturally Rob and Jennie Macpherson knew I was married. Around here, marriage means something.’

Julie shook her head confusedly. ‘Your grandmother?’

‘Laura Drummond. I inherited Castle Lochcraig from her.’

‘Mrs. Drummond! Oh! I see.’

‘I gather Mrs. Macpherson has mentioned her to you.’

‘Well, yes. She – she said that I’m sleeping in her bedroom.’

‘That’s right. You are. My grandparents always slept in the master bedroom. In the old days, things were done in style. It was my grandfather who had the gallery built on the upper floor. Until then, all the rooms led out of one another, which was rather awkward if one had visitors.’ He shrugged. ‘My grandfather did quite a lot of modernization one way and another, installing bathrooms and plumbing, central heating …’

It explained why the inner wall of the gallery was not as thick as the outer wall, but it didn’t really answer her question.

‘The Macphersons have never met me,’ she protested.

‘No. But they did see the wedding photographs. You remember there were photographs. Rather good ones, if I remember correctly.’

‘But – but your grandmother wasn’t at the wedding.’

‘No,’ he said again. ‘She was very old when she died. Too fragile to travel all the way to London just for the wedding of her grandson.’

‘But you never mentioned that she lived in a Scottish castle. That you expected to inherit.’ Julie was still groping to find some reasonable motive in all of this.

‘Would it have made any difference if I had?’ he queried levelly, and her nails dug indignantly into her palms.

‘Of course not. You know what I mean.’

‘Umm.’ He straightened, flexing his back muscles. ‘Well, I didn’t expect to inherit. The castle has always passed to the eldest heir. My mother, who incidently didn’t get on with her mother – my grandmother was a rather autocratic old lady and didn’t approve of my father at all – had a brother, my Uncle Stuart. He was expected to inherit. Unfortunately, Stuart never married, and he was killed eighteen months ago in an air disaster in Switzerland.’

‘I see.’ Julie tried to absorb this. ‘Was that when you came back to England?’

‘No.’ He moved away from the door and as this movement brought him nearer to her, Julie bumped down rather jerkily into her chair again. ‘I came back about a year ago. I lived in London for a time, working on my novel, and then when my grandmother died I came here.’

‘You – were – in London?’ Julie made a helpless little gesture. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘Why should you?’ His eyes challenged hers. ‘I was the last person you wanted to see, wasn’t I?’

Julie looked down at her hands, regretting her momentary lapse. But she had always had the feeling that if ever Jonas returned to live in London she would know about it, sooner or later.

‘I still don’t understand why, if it was going to create so many difficulties, you insisted that I came here.’

‘Did I say it created difficulties?’

‘No, but—’ Julie moved her shoulders indifferently. ‘So – if I accept your reasons for revealing my identity, unnecessary though they seem, what do you intend telling Mrs. Macpherson when I leave tomorrow?’

Jonas walked to the hearth and stood with his back to the fire, feet apart, the cheroot between his teeth. For a few moments he seemed to be considering what she had said, staring broodingly towards the heavy oak door. Then the dark eyes were turned on her.

‘Let’s face that when we come to it, shall we?’ he suggested evenly.

Julie pressed her lips together. She didn’t altogether trust him or his motives. She could imagine her mother’s and Angela’s horror if they could somehow see her now. In their estimation there would be absolutely no excuse for her being there. And even Julie herself had found no good reason for Jonas’s insistence of her taking this interview. Not to mention the disturbing question of those clothes …

Her head was beginning to ache from so much confused thinking. With a sigh, she got to her feet again.

‘Would you have any objections if I went to bed now?’

Jonas threw the end of his cheroot into the fire. ‘But you haven’t had your coffee,’ he pointed out.

Julie looked down at the exquisitely arranged tray. Mrs. Macpherson had obviously taken a great deal of trouble with it, but she could not stand any more of this ambiguous conversation. She needed to be alone for a while, to absorb what had been said, to try and make some sense of it all.

‘I really don’t think I want any coffee, thank you,’ she replied tautly. ‘I know my way to my room. So – so I’ll say – good night.’

‘Good night, Julie.’

Jonas inclined his head enigmatically and she moved towards the door. For a moment she was tempted to reveal her feelings, to confront him with her fears and suspicions, to see how he would react. But then reason prevailed. Unless she included the summons that had brought her here, he had done nothing to arouse her antagonism. Since her arrival, he had been unfailingly polite, and the accommodation he had provided for her was more than adequate.

Why then did she continually suppose there had to be some ulterior design behind it all? Had her own traitorous reactions to him in some way coloured her reasoning? She had known it would not be easy before she came here. Jonas had been, and would always be, a disturbingly attractive man, and it was natural that she, who had once been his wife in every sense of the word, should still experience a certain amount of awareness of his physical attractions. She could have refused to come, she admitted that now. But she had wanted to prove to herself that anything she had felt for him really was dead, and not just numbed by the shock of his guilt at the time of his betrayal.

She opened the door and looked back at him. He was standing staring into the fire and for a moment was unaware of her scrutiny. There was a curiously vulnerable twist to his lips as he stood there, and something inside her contracted painfully.

With a jerky movement she put herself outside the door and closed it behind her, closing her eyes for a heart-stopping moment. No, she told herself vehemently, no! Jonas knew every trick in the book, and she would not be fooled again.

CHAPTER THREE

WHEN Julie awoke next morning it was to the sound of the wind whistling eerily round the battlemented towers of the castle. The sound momentarily distracted her, arousing a feeling of warmth and security which was quickly dissipated as she remembered where she was. She blinked rapidly and reached for her watch from the bedside table, unable to judge from the dull light probing the heavy curtains exactly what time it might be.

The astonishing discovery that it was after eleven brought her upright in the huge bed, hugging herself as the chilliness of the bedroom swept over her. The fire had gone out and the heating wasn’t sufficiently powerful yet to have taken the iciness from the air. She crossed her arms protectively across her breasts, and as she did so she saw a tray of tea standing on the table on the opposite side of the bed.

She frowned, then she leant across and put tentative fingers against the bowl of the teapot. It was cold. Whoever had brought the tea had brought it some time ago. She quivered. Had it been Jonas? Had he stood beside the bed and watched her sleeping? The thought was disruptive, although looking down at the plain cambric nightdress she thought she had been more than adequately covered. But no, it would have been Mrs. Macpherson, and she had clearly decided to let her sleep on.

But now Julie was alarmed. She had yet to see Jonas and conduct that interview with him. She had notes to make and questions to be answered, and very little time to do it in.

She pushed her feet out of bed and stood for a moment looking about her. Then, unable to resist the impulse, she ran across to the window and pushed aside the curtains. The view that confronted her was not inspiring, shrouded as it was by a grey curtain of steadily falling rain, but she could imagine the beauty of the loch deepened to blue by a clear sky, and the distant hills shadowed with purple heather. The mainland was vaguely visible, but it seemed quite a long way away, and there was no sign of life either there or on the fir-clad slopes that fell away below her windows.

With a grimace, she opened the curtains to let a little more light into the room and went into the bathroom to wash. The water was reasonably hot and the activity warmed her. In the bedroom again, she knelt to her opened suitcase and took out some fresh underwear. Then she began to dress, reaching automatically for the white blouse and tweed suit. But they weren’t there!

She frowned, shivering a little in her flimsy undergarments, and made a thorough examination of the room. But it was useless. The blouse and suit had disappeared.

Her lips tightened. Someone had taken them away. And she didn’t think she had to be a mind-reader to guess who that someone was. She seethed. How dared he? He had criticized her clothes last evening, but that was quite a different matter from stealing them. Or perhaps stealing was too strong a word – confiscating them was nearer the mark.

Her fists clenched. Just what did he hope to gain by it? Did he imagine he had any rights to dictate what she should or should not wear? And what did he expect her to do now that he had taken her only outer garments? She could hardly go downstairs in her pants and slip!

She felt furiously angry, and her weakening response to his assumed vulnerability of the night before seemed like a betrayal of herself. What was she going to do now? She badly wanted to see him, to confront him with his duplicity, but she was confined here because she had no clothes.

She stared angrily round the room, wondering whether she could cover herself with the bedspread, when her eyes alighted on the wardrobe. There were clothes in there in plenty and surely some of them might fit her. Why shouldn’t she see if there was something she could wear? Anything was better than having to remain here like a prisoner until he chose to come and release her. Unless … Unless he had locked her in!

The thought sent her scurrying to the door, but it opened to her touch and she sighed with relief, closing it again and leaning weakly back against it.

She opened the wardrobe. What should she choose? Something plain and simple, but what? She sighed. It might be as well to see if anything fitted her first. She took out a cream slack suit and pulled on the trousers. They fitted very well, only the waistline being a little big for her. The jacket was the same. It could have been made for her, or perhaps for her as she had once been …

She thrust the idea aside and considered her reflection in the mirror. The suit needed no shirt or blouse, and she decided it would do. She suddenly had no desire to try on any more of the clothes.

With trembling fingers she brushed her hair and coiled it on to her nape. But her fingers were shaking so much that she couldn’t get the hairpins to stay in place and it kept falling silkily about her shoulders again. She sighed frustratedly. Oh, damn, she thought, was nothing to go right for her today? She would have to leave it loose.

She took another reluctant look at her reflection before leaving the bedroom. The image confronting her was utterly different from yesterday. She had always suited slack suits, and the warm creamy colour accentuated the glow of her skin. The smudges had gone from beneath her eyes and the loosened hairstyle made her look younger than her twenty-four years, deepening the colour of her eyes, drawing attention to the full beauty of her mouth. She was not beautiful, she knew that, indeed it had always been a source of amazement to her that Jonas Hunter should ever have shown any interest in her. Angela was much more his type of woman, tall and lissom, with a classically beautiful face and figure, and the kind of silvery hair that always attracts attention.

But Julie was apt to judge herself rather harshly against Angela’s more obvious charms, and failed to realize that the warmth and personality which emanated from her more than made up for a conventionally pretty appearance.

Now she picked up her briefcase and handbag, and balancing the tray with one hand went along the gallery and down the spiral staircase. She could hear the rain beating against the windows as she descended and couldn’t help thinking how cosy the castle would be on a winter’s evening.

Reaching the hall, she looked about her and then walked determinedly towards Jonas’s living-room door. But the living-room was empty and she frowned, setting down the tray, which was beginning to weigh heavily on her arm, on the table where they had eaten the night before. She sighed. Where was he? Then she nodded. Of course – he was probably working. He had told her that his study was next door.

She walked out of the living-room and knocked impatiently at the study door. She was tempted just to barge in, but her confidence would not stretch that far, resentful though she was.

‘Good morning, Mrs. Hunter. Are you looking for your husband?’

Mrs. Macpherson’s voice behind her was gently querying. Julie turned. ‘Oh, good morning, Mrs. Macpherson. Yes. Yes, I’m looking for – for him. Do you know where he is?’

‘Of course, madam. He’s away to Achnacraig—’

‘Achnacraig!’ Julie was horrified.

‘Yes, madam.’ Mrs. Macpherson frowned. ‘Is anything wrong? He told me you were still sleeping and that he didn’t want to disturb you. Was there something you were wanting?’

Julie opened her mouth to tell her, to denounce Jonas and his double-dealing, and then she closed it again. ‘I – no. No, not really.’ She sighed. ‘My – er – the tray’s in the living-room. I brought it down. I’m afraid it was cold when I woke up.’

‘Ah!’ Mrs. Macpherson nodded. ‘You slept well?’

‘Very well.’ Julie was short. She twisted her hands together. ‘Er – when – when will Mr. Hunter be back? Did he say?’

‘I don’t suppose he’ll be long, madam,’ Mrs. Macpherson smiled. ‘If you’ll go into the living-room, I’ll make you some more tea. Or perhaps you’d prefer coffee. And a lightly boiled egg, perhaps?’

‘Oh, really, no.’ Julie shook her head. She felt sick. She couldn’t eat a thing. ‘I – some coffee would be just fine, Mrs. Macpherson, thank you.’

‘Coffee it shall be.’ Mrs. Macpherson ushered her into the living-room and collected the unused tray of tea. ‘Now you sit here by the fire and keep warm. It’s a terrible morning. I’ll bring the coffee directly.’

‘Thank you.’

Julie obeyed. There was little else she could do. She wondered if Mrs. Macpherson had noticed the suit she was wearing and whether she had recognized it as belonging to someone else. She ought to have asked the housekeeper what had happened to her own clothes, but perhaps it was as well not to involve anyone else in what was purely a personal matter.

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