Praise for the author:

“Margaret Way delivers … vividly written, dramatic stories.”

—RT Book Reviews

“With climactic scenes, dramatic imagery and bold characters, Margaret Way makes the Outback come alive …”

—RT Book Reviews

“He’s mine, isn’t he?” Rohan ground out. His tone was implacable.

Charlotte wasn’t up to this. She was a lost soul. She was acutely aware of the pronounced pallor beneath Rohan’s golden-olive skin. He was in shock too. She wanted to touch his face. Didn’t dare. She felt sorrow. Guilt. Pity. Remorse. Her heart was fluttering like a frantic bird in her breast. She had to work out how to deal with the whole momentous issue. She needed time to think. She allowed a fallen lock of hair to half shield her face.

“Is that why you’re trembling from head to foot?” he asked curtly. “Christopher is mine. My child.”

Welcome to the intensely emotional world of Margaret Way

where rugged, brooding bachelors meet their match in the burning heart of Australia …

About the Author

MARGARET WAY, a definite Leo, was born and raised in the subtropical River City of Brisbane, capital of the Sunshine State of Queensland. A Conservatorium-trained pianist, teacher, accompanist and vocal coach, she found her musical career came to an unexpected end when she took up writing—initially as a fun thing to do. She currently lives in a harbourside apartment at beautiful Raby Bay, a thirty-minute drive from the state capital, where she loves dining alfresco on her plant-filled balcony, overlooking a translucent green marina filled with all manner of pleasure craft: from motor cruisers costing millions of dollars, and big, graceful yachts with carved masts standing tall against the cloudless blue sky, to little bay runabouts. No one and nothing is in a mad rush, and she finds the laid-back village atmosphere very conducive to her writing. With well over one hundred books to her credit, she still believes her best is yet to come.

WEALTHY
AUSTRALIAN,
SECRET SON

MARGARET WAY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE
The present

IT WAS an idyllic day for a garden party. The sky was a deep blue; sparkling sunshine flooded the Valley; a cooling breeze lowered the spring into summer heat. A veritable explosion of flowering trees and foaming blossom had turned the rich rural area into one breathtakingly beautiful garden that leapt at the eye and caught at the throat. It was so perfect a world the inhabitants of Silver Valley felt privileged to live in it.

Only Charlotte Prescott, a widow at twenty-six, with a seven-year-old child, stood in front of the bank of mirrors in her dressing room, staring blindly at her own reflection. The end of an era had finally arrived, but there was no joy in it for her, for her father, or for Christopher, her clever, thoughtful child. They were the dispossessed, and nothing in the world could soothe the pain of loss.

For the past month, since the invitations had begun to arrive, Silver Valley had been eagerly anticipating the Open Day: a get-to-know-you garden party to be held in the grounds of the grandest colonial mansion in the valley, Riverbend. Such a lovely name, Riverbend! A private house, its grandeur reflected the wealth and community standing of the man who had built it in the 1880s, Charles Randall Marsdon, a young man of means who had migrated from England to a country that didn’t have a splendid past, like his homeland, but in his opinion had a glowing future. He’d meant to be part of that future. He’d meant to get to the top!

There might have been a certain amount of bravado in that young man’s goal, but Charles Marsdon had turned out not only to be a visionary, but a hard-headed businessman who had moved to the highest echelons of colonial life with enviable speed.

Riverbend was a wonderfully romantic two-storey mansion, with a fine Georgian façade and soaring white columns, its classic architecture adapted to climatic needs with large-scale open-arched verandahs providing deep shading for the house. It had been in the Marsdon family—her family—for six generations, but sadly it would never pass to her adored son. For the simple reason that Riverbend was no longer theirs. The mansion, its surrounding vineyards and olive groves, badly neglected since the Tragedy, had been sold to a company called Vortex. Little was known about Vortex, except that it had met the stiff price her father had put on the estate. Not that he could have afforded to take a lofty attitude. Marsdon money had all but run out. But Vivian Marsdon was an immensely proud man who never for a moment underestimated his important position in the Valley. It was everything to him to keep face. In any event, the asking price, exorbitantly high, had been paid swiftly—and oddly enough without a single quibble.

Now, months later, the CEO of the company was finally coming to town. Naturally she and her father had been invited, although neither of them had met any Vortex representative. The sale had been handled to her father’s satisfaction by their family solicitors, Dunnett & Banfield. Part of the deal was that her father was to have tenure of the Lodge—originally an old coach house—during his lifetime, after which it would be returned to the estate. The coach house had been converted and greatly enlarged by her grandfather into a beautiful and comfortable guest house that had enjoyed a good deal of use in the old days, when her grandparents had entertained on a grand scale, and it was at the Lodge they were living now. Just the three of them: father, daughter, grandson.

Her former in-laws—Martyn’s parents and his sister Nicole—barely acknowledged them these days. The estrangement had become entrenched in the eighteen months since Martyn’s death. Her husband, three years older than she, had been killed when he’d lost control of his high-powered sports car on a notorious black spot in the Valley and smashed into a tree. A young woman had been with him. Mercifully she’d been thrown clear of the car, suffering only minor injuries. It had later transpired she had been Martyn’s mistress for close on six months. Of course Martyn hadn’t been getting what he’d needed at home. If Charlotte had been a loving wife the tragedy would never have happened. The second major tragedy in her lifetime. It seemed very much as if Charlotte Prescott was a jinx.

Poor old you! Charlotte spoke silently to her image. What a mess you’ve made of your life!

She really didn’t need anyone to tell her that. The irony was that her father had made just as much a mess of his own life—even before the Tragedy. The first tragedy. The only one that mattered to her parents. Her father had had little time for Martyn, yet he himself was a man without insight into his own limitations. Perhaps the defining one was unloading responsibility. Vivian Marsdon was constitutionally incapable of accepting the blame for anything. Anything that went wrong was always someone else’s fault, or due to some circumstance beyond his control. The start of the Marsdon freefall from grace had begun when her highly respected grandfather, Sir Richard Marsdon, had died. His only son and heir had not been able to pick up the reins. It was as simple as that. The theory of three. One man made the money, the next enlarged on it, the third lost it. No better cushion than piles of money. Not every generation produced an heir with the Midas touch, let alone the necessary drive to manage and significantly enlarge the family fortune.

Her father, born to wealth and prestige, lacked Sir Richard’s strong character as well as his formidable business brain. Marsdon money had begun to disappear early, like water down a drain. Failed pie-in-the-sky schemes had been approached with enthusiasm. Her father had turned a deaf ear to cautioning counsel from accountants and solicitors alike. He knew best. Sadly, his lack of judgement had put a discernible dent in the family fortunes. And that was even before the Tragedy that had blighted their family life.

With a sigh of regret, Charlotte picked up her lovely hat with its wide floppy brim, settling it on her head. She rarely wore her long hair loose these days, preferring to pull it back from her face and arrange it in various knots. In any case, the straw picture hat demanded she pull her hair back off her face. Her dress was Hermes silk, in chartreuse, strapless except for a wide silk band over one shoulder that flowed down the bodice and short skirt. The hat was a perfect colour match, adorned with organdie peonies in masterly deep pinks that complemented the unique shade of golden lime-green.

The outfit wasn’t new, but she had only worn it once, at Melbourne Cup day when Martyn was alive. Martyn had taken great pride in how she looked. She’d always had to look her best. In those days she had been every inch a fashionista, such had been their extravagant and, it had to be said, empty lifestyle. Martyn had been a man much like her father—an inheritor of wealth who could do what he liked, when he liked, if he so chose. Martyn had made his choice. He had always expected to marry her, right from childhood, bringing about the union of two long-established rural families. And once he’d had her—he had always been mad about her—he had set about making their lifestyle a whirl of pleasure up until his untimely death.

From time to time she had consoled herself with the thought that perhaps Martyn, as he matured, would cease taking up endless defensive positions against his highly effective father, Gordon, come to recognise his family responsibilities and then pursue them with some skill and determination.

Sadly, all her hopes—and Gordon Prescott’s—had been killed off one by one. And she’d had to face some hard facts herself. Hadn’t she been left with a legacy of guilt? She had never loved Martyn. Bonded to him from earliest childhood, she had always regarded him with great affection. But romantic love? Never! The heart wasn’t obedient to the expectations of others. She knew what romantic love was. She knew about passion—dangerous passion and its infinite temptations—but she hadn’t steered away from it in the interests of safety. She had totally succumbed.

All these years later her heart still pumped his name.

Rohan.

She heard her son’s voice clearly. He sounded anxious. “Mummy, are you ready? Grandpa wants to leave.”

A moment later, Christopher, a strikingly handsome little boy, dressed in a bright blue shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons and grey cargo pants, tore into the room.

“Come on, come on,” he urged, holding out his hand to her. “He’s stomping around the hall and going red in the face. That means his blood pressure is going up, doesn’t it?”

“Nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart,” Charlotte answered calmly. “Grandpa’s health is excellent. Stomping is a way to get our attention. Anyway, we’re not late,” she pointed out.

It had been after Martyn’s death, on her father’s urging, that she and Christopher had moved into the Lodge. Her father was sad and lonely, finding it hard getting over the big reversals in his life. She knew at some point she had to make a life for herself and her son. But where? She couldn’t escape the Valley. Christopher loved it here. It was his home. He loved his friends, his school, his beautiful environment and his bond with his grandfather. It made a move away from the Valley extremely difficult, and there were other crucial considerations for a single mother with a young child.

Martyn had left her little money. They had lived with his parents at their huge High Grove estate. They had wanted for nothing, all expenses paid, but Martyn’s father—knowing his son’s proclivities—had kept his son on a fairly tight leash. His widow, so all members of the Prescott family had come to believe, was undeserving.

“Grandpa runs to a timetable of his own,” Christopher was saying, shaking his golden-blond head. She too was blonde, with green eyes. Martyn had been fair as well, with greyish-blue eyes. Christopher’s eyes were as brilliant as blue-fire diamonds. “You look lovely in that dress, Mummy,” he added, full of love and pride in his beautiful mother. “Please don’t be sad today. I just wish I was seventeen instead of seven,” he lamented. “I’m just a kid. But I’ll grow up and become a great big success. You’ll have me to look after you.”

“My knight in shining armour!” She bent to give him a big hug, then took his outstretched hand, shaking it back and forth as if beginning a march. “Onward, Christian soldiers!”

“What’s that?” He looked up at her with interest.

“It’s an English hymn,” she explained. Her father wouldn’t have included hymns in the curriculum. Her father wasn’t big on hymns. Not since the Tragedy. “It means we have to go forth and do our best. Endure. It was a favourite hymn of Sir Winston Churchill. You know who he was?”

“Of course!” Christopher scoffed. “He was the great English World War II Prime Minister. The country gave him a huge amount of money for his services to the nation, then they took most of it back in tax. Grandpa told me.”

Charlotte laughed. Very well read himself, her father had taken it upon himself to “educate” Christopher. Christopher had attended the best school in the Valley for a few years now, but her father took his grandson’s education much further, taking pride and delight it setting streams of general, historical and geographical questions for which Christopher had to find the answers. Christopher was already computer literate but her father wasn’t—something that infuriated him—and insisted he find the answers in the books in the well-stocked library. Christopher never cheated. He always came up trumps. Christopher was a very clever little boy.

Like his father.

The garden party was well underway by the time they finished their stroll along the curving driveway. Riverbend had never looked more beautiful, Charlotte thought, pierced by the same sense of loss she knew her father was experiencing—though one would never have known it from his confident Lord of the Manor bearing. Her father was a handsome man, but alas not a lot of people in the Valley liked him. The mansion, since they had moved, had undergone very necessary repairs. These days it was superbly maintained, and staffed by a housekeeper, her husband—a sort of major-domo—and several ground staff to bring the once-famous gardens back to their best. A good-looking young woman came out from Sydney from time to time, to check on what was being done. Charlotte had met her once, purely by accident …

The young woman had left her Mercedes parked off the broad gravelled driveway so she could take a good look at the Lodge, screened from view by a grove of mature trees. Charlotte had been deadheading the roses when her uninvited visitor—brunette, dark-eyed, in a glamorous black power suit worn with a very stylish snow-white ruffled blouse—had near tumbled into view on her very high heels.

“Oh, good afternoon! Hope I didn’t startle you?” she’d called, the voice loud and very precise.

Well, sort of, Charlotte thought. “You did rather,” she answered mildly. The woman’s greeting had been pleasant enough. The tone wasn’t. It was seriously imperative. Charlotte might as well have been a slack employee who needed checking up on. “May I help you?” She was aware she was being treated to a comprehensive appraisal. A head-to-toe affair.

The young woman staggered a few steps further across the thick green grass, thoroughly aerating it. She had to give up as the stiletto heels of her expensive shoes sank with every step. “I don’t think so. I’m Diane Rodgers, by the way.”

“Well, hello, Diane Rodgers,” Charlotte said with a smile.

Ms Rodgers responded to that with a crisp look. “I’ve been appointed by the new owner to oversee progress at Riverbend. I just thought I’d take a look at the Lodge while I was at it.”

“May I ask if you’re an estate agent?” Charlotte knew perfectly well she wasn’t, but she was reacting to the tone.

“Of course I’m not!” Ms Rodgers looked affronted. An estate agent, indeed!

“Just checking. The Lodge is private property, Ms Rodgers. But I’m sure you know that.”

“Surely you have no objection to my taking a look?” The question was undisguisedly sarcastic. “I’m not making an inspection, after all.”

“Which would be entirely inappropriate,” Charlotte countered.

“Excuse me?” Ms Rodgers’s arching black brows rose high.

“No offence, Ms Rodgers, but this is private property.” The woman already knew that and didn’t care. Had she tried a friendly approach, things might have gone differently.

As it was, Diane Rodgers was clearly on a power trip.

She gave an incredulous laugh, accompanied by a toss of her glossy head. “No need to get on your high horse. Though I expect it’s understandable. You couldn’t bear to part with the place. Isn’t that right? You’re the daughter of the previous owner.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Why would you assume that?” Charlotte resumed deadheading the exquisite deep crimson Ecstasy roses.

“I’ve heard about you, Mrs Prescott.” The emphasis was heavy, the smile knowing—as if Charlotte’s secret was out. She had spent time in an institution. Possibly mental. “You’re every bit as beautiful as I’ve been told.”

“Beauty isn’t the be all and end all. There are more important things. But may I ask who told you that?” There was a glint in Charlotte’s crystal-clear green eyes.

“Sorry, that would be telling. You know yourself how people love to talk. But being rich and beautiful can’t prevent tragedy from occurring, can it? I hear you lost a brother when you were both children. Then a husband only a while back. Must have been frightful experiences? Both?”

Charlotte felt her stomach lurch. Who had this remarkably insensitive young woman spoken to? Someone she’d met in the village? Nicole, Martyn’s younger sister? Nicole had always resented her. If Ms Rodgers’s informant had been Nicole she would have learned a lot—most of it laced with vitriol.

A moment passed. “I’m sure you heard about that too, Ms Rodgers,” Charlotte said quietly. “Now, you must excuse me. I have things to do. Preparations for dinner, for one.”

“Just your father and your son, I’m told?”

It was more or less a taunt, and it bewildered Charlotte. Why the aggression? The expression on Ms Rodgers’s face was hardly compassionate. Charlotte felt a wave of anger flow over her. “I must go in, Ms Rodgers.” She folded her secateurs, then placed them in the white wicker basket at her feet. “Do please remember in future the Lodge is off-limits.”

Diane Rodgers had intended to sound coolly amused, but she couldn’t for the life of her disguise her resentment—which happened to be extreme. Who was this Charlotte Prescott to be so hoity-toity? She had well and truly fallen off her pedestal. At least that was the word. “Suit yourself!” she clipped, making too swift an about turn. She staggered, and had to throw a balancing arm aloft, making for the safety of solid ground.

Everyone appeared to be dressed to the nines for the Open Day. Filmy pastel dresses and pretty wide-brimmed hats were all the rage. Women had learned to take shelter from the blazing Australian sun. Sunscreen. Hats. Charlotte recalled how her mother had always looked after her skin, making sure her daughter did the same. Early days. These days her mother didn’t talk to her often. Her mother didn’t talk to anyone from the old days. Certainly not her ex-husband. Her parents had divorced two years after the Tragedy. Her mother had remarried a few years after that, and lived in some splendour in Melbourne’s elite Toorak. If she had ever hoped her mother would find solace in her beautiful grandson, Christopher, she had been doomed to bitter disappointment. There had only been one boy in her mother’s life: her pride and joy, her son Matthew.

“Mummy, can I please go off with Peter?” Christopher jolted her out of her sad thoughts. Peter Stafford was Christopher’s best friend from day one at pre-school. He stood at Christopher’s shoulder with a big grin planted on his engaging little face.

“I don’t see why not.” Charlotte smiled back. “Hello there, Peter. You’re looking very smart.” She touched a hand to his checked-cotton clad shoulder.

“Am I?” Peter blushed with pleasure, looking down at his new clothes. Christopher had told him in advance he was wearing long trousers, so Peter had insisted his mother buy him a pair. His first. He felt very grown-up.

Christopher hit him mildly in the ribs. “You know Mummy’s only being nice.”

“I mean it, Peter.” Charlotte glanced over Peter’s head. “Mum and Dad are here?”

Peter nodded. “Angie too.” Angie was his older sister. “We had to wait ages for Angie to change her dress. I liked the first dress better. Then she had to fix her hair again. She was making Mum really angry.”

“Well, I’m sure everyone has settled down,” Charlotte offered soothingly. She knew Angela Stafford—as difficult a child as Peter was trouble-free. “We’re all here to enjoy ourselves, and it’s a beautiful day.” Charlotte placed a loving hand on top of her son’s head. “Check in with me from time to time, sweetheart?”

“Of course.” He smiled up at her, searching her face in a near-adult way. “If you prefer, Pete and I can stay with you.”

“Don’t be silly!” she scoffed. “Off you go.” Christopher—her little man!

The boys had begun to move away when Peter turned back. “I’m very sorry Riverbend is going out of the family, Mrs Prescott,” he said, his brown eyes sweetly sympathetic. “Sorry for you and Mr Marsdon. Riverbend would have come to Chris.”

Charlotte almost burst into tears. “Well, you know what they say, Peter,” she managed lightly. “All good things must come to an end. But thank you. You’re a good boy. A credit to your family.”

“If he is, so am I!” Christopher crowed, impatiently brushing his thick floppy golden hair off his forehead. It was a gesture Charlotte knew well.

She turned her head away. She had to keep her spirits up. Her father was deeply involved in a conversation with the rotund, flush-faced Mayor. The Mayor appeared to be paying careful attention. The Marsdon name still carried a lot of clout. She walked on, waving a hand to those in the crowd who had stuck by her and her father.

Her parents’ separation, and subsequent divorce, had split the Valley. Her beautiful, very dignified mother had chaired most of the Valley’s charity functions, opening up the grounds of Riverbend for events much like today’s. She had been well respected. Her father had never approached that high level of Valley approval, though he was supremely unaware of it such was his unshakeable self-confidence.

The Tragedy had torn her mother to pieces. Her father, grief-stricken, had managed to survive.

What exactly had happened to her? She had grown up knowing her mother loved her, but that Matthew, her older brother, the firstborn, was the apple of their mother’s eye—her favourite. Her mother was the sort of woman who doted on a son. Charlotte hadn’t minded at all. She had adored her brother too. Matthew had been a miraculously happy boy. A child of light. And he’d always had Rohan for his best friend. Rohan had been the young son of a single mother in the Valley—Mary Rose Costello.

Mary Rose, orphaned at an early age, had been “raised right” by her maternal grandmother, a strict woman of modest means, who had sent her very pretty granddaughter to the district’s excellent convent school. Mary Rose Costello, with the Celt’s white skin and red hair, had been regarded by the whole community as a “good girl”. One who didn’t “play around”. Yet Mary Rose Costello, too young to be wise, had blotted her copybook by falling pregnant. Horror of horrors out of wedlock or even an engagement. The odd thing was, in that closely knit Valley, no one had been able to come up with the identity of Rohan’s father. Lord knew they had all speculated, long and hard.

Mary Rose had never confided in anyone—including her bitterly shocked and disappointed grandmother. Mary Rose had never spoken the name of her child’s father, but everyone was in agreement that he must have been a stunningly handsome man. And clever. Rohan Costello, born on the wrong side of the blanket, was far and away the handsomest, cleverest boy in the Valley. When Mary Rose’s grandmother had died, she’d had the heart to leave her granddaughter and her little son the cottage. Mary Rose had then worked as a domestic in both the Marsdon and Prescott residences. She’d also done dressmaking. She had, in fact, been a very fine dressmaker, with natural skills. It was Charlotte’s mother who had encouraged Mary Rose to take in orders, spreading the word to her friends across the Valley. So the Costellos had survived, given her mother’s continuing patronage.

Up until the Tragedy.

People were milling about on the lush open lawn that stretched a goodly distance to all points of the compass, or taking shelter from the sun beneath the magnolia trees, heavy with plate-sized waxy cream flowers. Children were playing hide and seek amid the hedges; others romped on the grass. The naughty ones were running under the spray from the playing fountain until some adult stopped them before they got soaked. Everyone looked delighted to have been invited. A huge white marquee had been erected, serving delicious little crustless sandwiches, an amazing variety of beautifully decorated cupcakes, and lashings of strawberries and cream. White wine, a selection of fruit juices and the ubiquitous colas and soft drinks were also provided. No one would be allowed to get sozzled on alcohol that afternoon.

Charlotte had a few pleasant words with dozens of people as she threaded her way through the crowd. Her smile was starting to feel like a glaze on her face. It wasn’t easy, appearing relaxed and composed, given the melancholy depths of her feelings, but she’d had plenty of practice. Years of containing her grief had taught control, if nothing else. Years of going down to breakfast with the Prescotts, a smile glued to her face, after another fierce encounter with Martyn. At such times he had hit her. Lashed out. Nowhere it would show. That would have caused an uproar. Though spoilt rotten by his mother and sister, his father would swiftly have taken him to account. Domestic violence was totally unacceptable. A man never hit a woman. It was unthinkable. Cowardly.

Only Martyn, who had turned out to be a bully, had desperately wanted what she could never give him. Her undivided love. He had even been jealous of Christopher. Had he ever dared lift a hand to her son she would have left him. But as it was, pride had held her in place. It wasn’t as though she could have rung home and said, I’m up to the neck with this marriage. I want out. I’m coming home.

Her mother had been endeavouring to make a new life for herself elsewhere. Her father at that stage would have told her to “pull her socks up” and make her marriage work. It was only after Martyn had been killed and the scandalous circumstances were on public record that her father had welcomed her back—lonely, and totally unused to running a house. That was women’s work. He’d detested the cleaning ladies who came in from time to time. His daughter would take over and cook him some decent meals. Such was his Lord of the Manor mentality. Besides, he loved his little grandson. “Chip off the old block!” he used to say, when Christopher unquestionably wasn’t.

He took it for granted that Charlotte would stay, when she knew she could not. But when would the right time arrive? Christopher was now seven. No longer a small child.

Everyone was agog to meet the new mystery owner. So far he hadn’t appeared, but an hour into the afternoon a helicopter suddenly flew overhead, disappearing over the roof of the mansion to land on the great spread of lawn at the rear of the house. Ten minutes later there was a little fanfare that got everyone’s attention. A tall man, immaculately tailored with a red rosebud in his lapel, followed by no less a personage than Ms Diane Rodgers in full garden party regalia, came through the front door.

Even at a distance one could see this was someone quite out of the ordinary. He moved with lithe grace across the colonnaded verandah, coming to stand at the top of the short flight of stone stairs that led to the garden. His eyes surveyed the smiling crowd as he lifted a hand.

Immediately, enthusiastic clapping broke out. Here was their host at last! And didn’t he look the part! They were just so thrilled—especially the children, who had stared up in wonderment at the big silver helicopter with its loud whirring rotors.

How is Dad going to handle this? Charlotte thought.

Her father revealed his class. He strolled out of the crowd, perhaps with a certain swagger, to greet the CEO of the company that had bought the ancestral home. “Come along, Charlotte,” he commanded, as he drew alongside her. “It’s just you and me now. Time to greet the new owner. I very much suspect he’s more than just a CEO.”

Unfailingly, Charlotte supported her father.

“My, he is a handsome man.” Her father pitched his voice low. “And a whole lot younger than I would have expected,” he tacked on in some surprise. “I fully anticipated someone in their late forties at least. Hang on—don’t I know him?”

Charlotte couldn’t say whether he did or he didn’t. Even with the broad brim of her picture hat the slanting sun was in her eyes. But she did manage to put a lovely welcoming smile on her face. They were on show. Anyone who was anyone in the Valley was ranged behind them—every last man, woman and child keen observers of this meeting. This was an historic day. The Marsdons, for so long lords and ladies of the Valley, now displaced, were expected to act with grace and aplomb.

Except it didn’t happen that way.

“Good God, Costello—it can’t be you?” Vivian Randall bellowed like an enraged bull.

He came to such an abrupt halt Charlotte, slightly behind him, all but slammed into him, clutching at his arm to steady herself. She saw the blood draining out of her father’s face. A hard man to surprise, he looked utterly poleaxed.

She, herself, had felt no portent of disaster. No inkling that another great turning point in her life had arrived. She couldn’t change direction. She was stuck in place, with such a tangle of emotions knotted inside her they could never be untied.

There wasn’t a flicker of answering emotion on the man’s striking, highly intelligent face. “Good afternoon, Mr Marsdon,” he said suavely, coming down the stone steps to greet them. Effortless charm. An overlay of natural command. His voice was cultured, the timbre dark. An extremely attractive voice. One people would always listen to. “Charlotte.” He turned his head to look at her. Blazing blue eyes consumed her, the electric blueness in startling contrast to his colouring—crow-black hair and brows, olive skin that was tanned to a polished bronze. The searing gaze remained fixed on her.

She was swamped by an overwhelming sense of unreality.

Rohan!

The intervening years were as nothing—carried away as if by a king tide. The day of reckoning had come. Hadn’t she always known it would? Her heart was pumping double time. The shock was devastating—too excruciating to be borne. She had thought she had built up many protective layers. Now she was blown away by her own emotional fragility. She tried to get her breath, slow her palpitating heart. She felt as weak as a kitten. She raised one trembling hand to her temple as a great stillness started to descend on her. She was vaguely aware she was slipping sideways …

No, no—don’t give way! Hold up!

“Rohan!” she breathed.

He was as familiar to her as she was to herself. Yet he had never given a hint of warning—right up until this very day. It was cruel. Rohan had never been cruel. But it was abundantly clear he wanted to shock her far more than he wanted to shock her father. He wanted to stun her to her very soul. She read it in his dynamic face. Revenge, smoothly masked. But not to her. She knew him too well. So long as there was memory, the past lived on. One might long to forget, but memory wouldn’t allow it.

Her pride broke.

“You do this to me, Rohan?” She knew she sounded pitiful. The immediate world had turned from radiant sunshine to a swirling grey fog. It smothered her like a thick blanket. Her ears seemed stuffed with cotton wool. She was moving beyond complete awareness, deeper into the fog, oblivious to the strong arms that shot out with alacrity to gather her up.

A little golden-haired boy ran out of the crowd, crying over and over in a panic, “Mummy … Mummy … Mummy!”

His grandfather, beside himself with sick rage, tried to catch him. The boy broke away, intent on only one thing: following the tall stranger who was carrying his beautiful mother back into the house.

This was the new owner of Riverbend! By now everyone was saying his name, turning one to the other, themselves in a state of shock.

Rohan Costello.

Fate had a way of catching up with everyone.

CHAPTER TWO
Silver Valley, summer fourteen years ago

IT WAS one of those endless afternoons of high summer—glorious months of the school vacation, when the heat sent them racing from the turquoise swimming pool in the mansion’s grounds into the river. It meandered through the valley and lay in a broad glittering curve at Riverbend’s feet. They knew they were supposed to keep to the pool that afternoon, but it wasn’t as though they weren’t allowed to take frequent dips in the river. After all, their father had had a carpenter erect a diving dock for their pleasure. Prior to that they had used a rope and an old tyre, fixed to stout branches of a river gum to swing from.

She was twelve, and very much part of the Pack of Four, as they had become known throughout the Valley. She didn’t feel honoured to be allowed to tag along with the boys. She was one of them. All three boys were inseparable friends: her older brother Mattie, Rohan—Mrs Costello’s son—a courtesy title insisted on by their mother, because Mrs Costello was really a miss, but who cared?—and Martyn Prescott, young son of the neighbouring estate, High Grove. Charlotte was their muse.

Although she would have died rather than say it aloud, Rohan was her shining white knight. She loved him. She loved the burning blue looks he bent on her. But these days a kind of humming tension had cut into their easy affection. Once or twice she’d had the crazy desire to kiss him. Proof, if any were needed, that she was fast growing up.

Rohan easily beat them into the water that day, striking out into the middle of the stream, the ripples on the dark green surface edged with sparkles the sunlight had cast on the river. “What’s keeping you?” he yelled, throwing a long tanned arm above water. “Come on, Charlie. You can beat the both of them!”

He was absolutely splendid, Rohan! Even as a boy he had a glamour about him. As her mother had once commented, “Rohan’s an extraordinary boy—a born leader, and so good for my darling Mattie!” In those early days their mother had been very protective of her only son.

“Won’t do him a bit of good, wrapping him in cotton wool.” That irritated comment always came from their father, who was sure such mollycoddling was holding his son back.

Perhaps he was right? But their mother took no notice. Unlike her young daughter, who enjoyed splendid health, Matthew had suffered from asthma since infancy. Mattie’s paediatrician had told their anxiety-ridden mother he would most likely grow out of it by age fourteen. It was that kind of asthma.

That fatal day Charlotte remembered running to the diving dock, her long, silver-blonde hair flying around her face. It was Martyn who had pulled her hair out of its thick plait. It was something he loved to do. Most of the time she rounded on him—“How stupid, Martyn!” was her usual protest as she began to re-plait it.

“You look better that way, Charlie. One day you’re going to be an absolute knockout. Mum and Dad say that. Not Nicole, of course. She’s as jealous as hell. One day we’re going to get married. Mum says that too.”

“Dream on!” she always scoffed. Get married, indeed! Some husband Martyn would make.

Mattie always laughed, “Boy, has he got a crush on you, Charlie!”

She chose not to believe it. She didn’t know then that some crushes get very crushed.

Rohan never laughed. Never joked about it. He kept silent on that score. The Marsdons and the Prescotts were the privileged children of the Valley. Certainly not Rohan Costello, who lived with his mother on the outskirts of town in a little cottage hardly big enough to swing a cat. Their mother said the pair would have to shift soon.

“Rohan is quickly turning into a man!”

At fourteen, nearing fifteen, it was apparent the fast-growing Rohan would easily attain six feet and more in maturity. Mattie, on the other hand, was small for his age. Rohan was by far the strongest and the best swimmer, though she was pretty good herself—but built for speed rather than endurance.

Totally unselfconscious, even with her budding breasts showing through her swimsuit and her long light limbs gleaming a pale gold, with Rohan—her hero—watching, she made a full racing dive into the water, striking out towards him as he urged her on, both of them utterly carefree, not knowing then that this was the last day they would ever swim in the river.

Years later she would shudder when she remembered their odd near-total absorption in one another that summer afternoon. A boy and a girl. One almost fifteen, the other twelve.

Romeo and Juliet.

Martyn appeared angry with them, sniping away. Jealous. Mattie was his normal sweet self. At one stage he called out that he was going to swim across to the opposite bank, where beautiful weeping willows bent their branches towards the stream.

“Stay with us, Mattie,” Rohan yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth.

“What’s the matter? Reckon I can’t do it?” Mattie called back, sounding very much as if he was going to take up the challenge.

“‘Course you can!” she had shouted, always mindful of her brother’s self-esteem, undermined by his sickness. “But do like Rohan says, Mattie. Stay with us.”

Mattie appeared persuaded. He turned in their direction, only then Martyn yelled, his voice loud with taunt, “Don’t be such a cream puff, Marsdon! Are you always going to do what Mummy says? Are you always going to stick by Rohan’s side? Rohan will look after Mummy’s little darling. Isn’t that his job? Go for it, Mattie! Don’t be such a wimp!”

“Shut up, Martyn!” Rohan roared, in a voice none of them had ever heard before. It was an adult voice. The voice of command.

Immediately Martyn ceased his taunts, but Mattie confounded them all by kicking out towards the opposite bank, his thin arms stiff and straight in the water.

“Perhaps we should let him?” Charlotte had appealed to Rohan, brows knotted. “Mummy really does mollycoddle him.”

“You can say that again!” Martyn chortled unkindly. Everyone in the Valley knew how protective Barbara Marsdon was of her only son.

“I’m going after him.” It only took a little while of watching Mattie’s efforts for Rohan to make the decision. “You shouldn’t have taunted him, Martyn. You’re supposed to be Mattie’s friend. He’s trying to be brave, but the brave way is the safest way. Mattie doesn’t have your strength, or mine. He isn’t the strongest of swimmers.”

“He’ll make it.” Martyn was trying not to sound anxious, but his warier brain cells had kicked in. Rohan was right. He shouldn’t have egged Mattie on. He went to say something in his own defence, only Rohan had struck out in his powerful freestyle while Charlotte followed.

Martyn chose to remain behind. He thought they were both overreacting. Mattie would be okay. Sure he would! The distance between the banks at that point wasn’t all that wide. The water was warm. The surface was still. There was no appreciable undercurrent. Well, not really. The waters were much murkier on the other side, with the wild tangle of undergrowth, the heavy overhang of trees, the resultant debris that would have found its way into the river. For someone like Rohan the swim would be no more than a couple of lengths of the pool. But for Mattie?

Hell, they could be in the middle of a crisis, Martyn realised—too late.

One minute Mattie’s thin arms were making silver splashes in the water, and then to their utter horror his head, gilded by sunlight, disappeared beneath the water.

All of a sudden the river that had taken them so many times into its wonderful cool embrace seemed a frightening place.

“Oh, God—oh, God!” Charlotte shrieked, knowing in her bones something was wrong. “Get him, Rohan!” she cried hysterically.

“Come on, don’t be stupid, Charlie. He’s only showing off,” Martyn shouted at her, starting to feel desperately worried. The traumas of childhood had a way of echoing down the years. Martyn felt shivers of prescience shoot into his gut.

Charlotte ignored him, heart in her mouth. Martyn never was much good in a crisis. It was Rohan who knifed through the dark green water with the speed of a torpedo.

She went after him, showing her own unprecedented burst of speed. “God—oh, God!” Tears were pouring down her face, lost in river water.

There was no sign of Matthew. She knew he wouldn’t be playing games. Matthew was enormously considerate of others. He would never frighten her, never cause concern to the people he loved. He loved her. He loved Rohan, his best friend. He wouldn’t even have caused dread to Martyn, who had taunted him either.

“Mattie … Mattie Mattie … !” She was yelling his name at the top of her lungs, startling birds that took off in a kaleidoscope of colour.

Rohan too had disappeared, diving beneath the dark green water. She followed his example, fear reverberating deep within her body. Lungs tortured, she had to surface for air. As she came up she thought she saw something shimmering—a shape moving downstream. She went after it. Rohan beat her to it. She was screaming in earnest now. Rohan was cradling a clearly unconscious Mattie like a baby, holding him out of the water in his strong arms. A thin runnel of blood was streaming off Mattie’s pale temple.

Fate could swoop like an eagle from a clear blue sky.

“I’ll tow him to the bank,” Rohan shouted to her. His voice was choked, his handsome young face twisted in terror. ‘I’ll try CPR. Keep at it. Charlie—get help.”

But Mattie was gone. She knew it. Lovely, laughing Mattie. The best brother in the world.

A swim across the river. She could have done it easily. Yet Mattie might have plunged into a deep sea in the blackness of night. There was no sign of Martyn either. He must have run back to the house for help. She thought she might as well drown herself with Mattie gone. There would be no life at Riverbend now. Her mother would most likely go mad. She knew her father would somehow survive. But her mother, even if she could get through the years of annihilating grief, wouldn’t stay within sight of the river where her adored Matthew had drowned. She would go away, leaving Charlotte and her father alone.

Except for the gentle shadow of Matthew Marsdon, who would always be fourteen.

The whole tragic thing would be blamed on someone. Her inner voice gave her the sacrificial name.

Rohan.

Rohan the born leader, who would be judged by her parents, the Prescotts, and a few others in the Valley resentful of the Costello boy’s superior looks and high intelligence over their own sons, to have let Matthew Marsdon drown.

Such an intolerable burden to place on the shoulders of a mere boy. A crime, and Rohan Costello was innocent of the charge.

The present. The garden party.

Rohan Costello had returned to the scene of his childhood devastation. That showed passion and courage. It also showed that the cleverest boy in the Valley had become extraordinarily successful in life. Matthew Marsdon’s tragic death had locked the daughter, Charlotte, and Costello even more closely together. Eventually they’d gone beyond the boundaries, but that had never been known, or if suspected never proved. What was known was that the Tragedy had never driven them apart—even when Charlotte’s parents, in particular her mother Barbara, had burned with something approaching hatred for the boy she had in a way helped nurture.

There had only been one course left to the Costellos. Mother and son had been virtually driven out of the Valley, the sheer weight of condemnation too great.

The brutality of it!

People could only wonder if Rohan Costello had returned to Silver Valley to settle old scores? The past was never as far away as people liked to pretend.

Charlotte’s faint lasted only seconds, but when she was out of it and the world had stopped spinning she was still in a state of shock, her body trembling with nerves. She was lying on one of the long sofas in the drawing room, her head and her feet resting on a pile of silk cushions. Her hair had all but fallen out of its elegant arrangement. She was minus her hat and, she noted dazedly, her expensive sandals.

Rohan was at her head. Christopher was at her feet. Diane Rodgers and a couple of her mother’s old friends stood close by. Her mother’s friends’ watching faces were showing their concern. Not so Ms Rodgers, whose almond eyes were narrow. There was no sign of her father, but George Morrissey, their family doctor, hurried in, calling as he came, “Charlie, dear, whatever happened?”

Morrissey had brought the Marsdon children into the world, and Charlotte had always been a great favourite.

“How are you feeling now?” He sat down beside her to take her pulse. A few more checks, and then, satisfied there was nothing serious about the faint, he raised her up gently, while Rohan Costello, the new owner, resettled the cushions as a prop at her back.

“The heat, George,” she explained, not daring to look up at Rohan, who had so stunningly re-entered her life. What she wanted to do was seize hold of her little son and run for her life. Except there was no escape. Not now. “I must be going soft.”

“That’ll be the day!” the doctor scoffed.

“Mummy?” Christopher’s lovely olive skin had turned paper-white. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, darling.” She held out a reassuring hand. “Come here to me.” She tried hard to inject brightness into her voice. “I love you, Chrissie.”

“Mummy, I love you too. You’ve never fainted before.” He clutched her hand, staring anxiously into her face.

“I’m fine now, sweetheart. Just a little dizzy.” She drew him down onto the spot Dr Morrissey had readily vacated, putting a soothing arm around him and dropping a kiss on the top of his golden head. “I’ll get up in a minute.”

“Give it a little longer, Charlie,” Morrissey advised, happy to see her natural colour returning. He very much suspected extreme shock was the cause of Charlotte’s faint. Incredible to think young Costello had become so successful. Then again, not. Rohan Costello had been an exceptionally bright lad.

“This is a surprise, Rohan,” he said, turning to hold out his hand.

Rohan Costello took it in a firm grip. The doctor could hardly say, given the circumstances of Rohan Costello’s departure, Welcome back to Silver Valley!

“It’s good to see you again, Dr Morrissey,” Rohan answered smoothly. “You were always kind to my mother and me.”

“You were both very easy to be kind to, Rohan,” Morrissey assured him with genuine warmth. “And how is your mother?”

“She’s doing very well, sir,” Rohan responded pleasantly, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to be more forthcoming.

“Good, good! I’m very glad to hear it. Do you intend to spend much time in the Valley, Rohan?” Morrissey dared to ask. “You must have become a very successful businessman?”

Rohan gave him a half smile that bracketed his handsome mouth. “I’ve had a few lucky breaks, Doctor.”

“I think it would have more to do with brain power. You were always very clever.”

George Morrissey, the keeper of many secrets, turned back to take another look at Charlotte and her precious boy. What a beautiful child Christopher was, with those glorious blue eyes! One rarely saw that depth of colour. He had delivered Christopher Prescott, Charlotte’s baby, who had come a little early. He was sure everyone had believed him. He was the most respected medical doctor in the Valley. After the tragic death of Charlotte’s young brother Matthew, and the flight of her mother from the “haunted” Valley, he had become very protective of Charlotte Marsdon, who had gone on to marry a young man who in his opinion had simply not been worthy of her. Martyn Prescott—who himself had met a tragic fate.

Christopher too wanted to talk to the tall stranger—the man who had carried his mother so effortlessly into their house. Well, his house now. And it seemed to suit him just fine. Christopher was very thankful the right person would have ownership of Riverbend. He looked just the sort of man to look after it.

Christopher stood up, wondering why his mother was trying to grab hold of his arm. He held out his hand, as he had been taught. “Hello, I’m Christopher. We used to live here.”

“I know that, Christopher,” the man answered quietly, moving in closer.

The man’s blue eyes made contact with his own, and Christopher felt transfixed. “Do you know Mummy?” He didn’t see how the man could, yet those vibes he seemed to have inherited from someone told him this man and his mother knew one another well. It was a mystery, but there it was!

Charlotte put her feet to the floor, unsure if she could even stand, still not looking at Rohan but acutely aware that the full force of his attention was focused on her and her son. “Mr Costello is a very busy man, Chris,” she said. Christopher was so sharp. “We mustn’t keep him from mingling with his guests.”

“No, Mummy.” Christopher nodded his head in agreement, but continued with a further question. “How do you know my mother?” It seemed important he find out. Perceptive beyond his years, he felt the tension between his mother and the tall stranger. He couldn’t figure it out. But it was there. Mummy was nice to everyone, yet she wasn’t being exactly nice to Mr Costello. Something had to be worrying her.

“Your mother and I grew up together, Christopher,” Rohan explained. “I left the Valley when I was seventeen. I’m Rohan. No need to call me Mr Costello.”

“Oh, I’d like that,” Christopher said, his cheeks taking on a gratified flush. “We thought you were going to be pretty old. But you’re young!”

“Your mother has never mentioned me?”

Christopher shook his blond head. “Did you know my dad died?” He edged closer to the man. It was like being drawn by a magnet. It sort of thrilled him. He felt he could follow this man Rohan like the disciples in Bible stories had followed their Master. It both pleased and puzzled him.

“Yes, I did, Christopher. I’m very sorry.” Rohan’s voice was gentle, yet his expression was stern.

“There’s just Mummy and me now.” Christopher felt the sting of tears at the back of his eyes. He had loved his dad. Of course he had. One had to love one’s dad. But never like he loved his mother. What was really strange was that he cared for his grumpy old grandfather more than he had cared for his dad. “And Grandpa, of course,” he tacked on. “You must have known my dad and Uncle Mattie?”

“Oh, darling, not all these questions!” Charlotte spoke with agitation. He had sussed out enough already. Something had happened to Christopher of late. He was picking up on vibes, on looks and words that appeared to him laden with meaning. He was growing up too fast.

For once, Christopher didn’t heed her. “Uncle Mattie is still around,” he told Rohan, staring up at him. He was really surprised by the way he felt drawn to his man. “I often feel Uncle Mattie around.”

Rohan didn’t laugh or deride his claim. “I believe it, Christopher,” he said. “I feel Mattie too, at different times. He would have loved you.”

“Would he?” Christopher was immensely pleased. Uncle Mattie would have loved him! He was liking Rohan more and more. “Mummy said I looked like him when I was little.” He continued to meet Rohan’s amazing blue eyes. They glittered like jewels. “Do I?”

Rohan considered that carefully. “You might have, Christopher, when you were younger. But not now.”

“No.” Christopher shook his blond head, as though his own opinion had been confirmed. “I don’t look like anyone, really,” he confided.

Oh, yes, you do!

Charlotte kept her head down, her heart fluttering wildly in her breast. Christopher’s face had changed as the baby softness had firmed and his features became more pronounced. Heredity. It was all so dangerous.

It was Diane Rodgers who located Charlotte’s expensive sandals, then passed them to her in such a manner as to suggest a hurry-up. There was a faint accompanying glare as well. Charlotte bent to put her strappy sandals back on, then made an attempt to fix her hair. She felt totally disorientated. And there was Christopher, chattering away to Rohan as if he had known him all his young life. It almost broke her.

“Here’s your hat, love.” A familiar face swam into view. Kathy Nolan—a good friend to her mother and a good friend to her. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you, Kathy.” Charlotte took the picture hat in her hand.

“Feeling better now, love?” Kathy Nolan was very fond of Charlotte.

“Much better, thank you, Kathy. I’m so sorry I embarrassed you all. The heat got to me.”

Kathy, a kindly woman, let that go. A beautiful breeze was keeping the temperature positively balmy. Charlotte had fainted because Rohan Costello was the last man in the universe she would have expected to buy the Marsdon mansion, Kathy reckoned. To tell the truth she felt a little freaked out herself. Rohan Costello, of all people! And didn’t he look marvellous! Always a handsome boy, the adult Rohan took her breath away. Many people in the Valley—herself and her husband certainly—had been unhappy when the Costellos had left after Rohan had completed his final year at secondary school. Later they had learned he was their top achiever. The highest category. No surprise.

Poor Barbara had never made allowances for the ages of the other children when Mattie had drowned. It had been a terrible accident. With all the care in the world, accidents still happened. Yet Barbara had gone on a bitter, never-ending attack. So very sad! Loss took people in different ways. Bereft of her son, Barbara Marsdon had been in despair. That inner devastation had brought about the divorce. The marriage had been beyond repair. Barbara had told her she’d doubted her ability to be a good mother to Charlotte. She wasn’t functioning properly. That had been true enough. Charlotte was to remain with her father.

Yet here was Rohan Costello, back in the Valley. Not only that, taking possession of Riverbend. Fact is far stranger than fiction, Kathy thought.

Diane Rodgers, looking very glamorous in classic white, with a striking black and white creation on her head, spoke up. “Would you like me to help you back to the Lodge, Mrs Prescott? No trouble, I assure you.”

At the sound of those precise tones, Christopher swung back. “Mummy has me,” he said, not rudely—he knew better than that—but he didn’t like the way the lady was speaking to his mother. It didn’t sound gentle and caring, like Mrs Nolan. It sounded more like teachers at his school when the kids weren’t on their best behaviour.

“Wouldn’t you like to stay on, Christopher?” Rohan suggested. “I’m sure you have a friend with you. I’ll run your mother home.”

Christopher considered that for a full minute. “I won’t stay if you don’t feel well, Mummy,” he said, his protective attitude on show. “Peter will be okay.”

Charlotte rose to her feet, hoping she didn’t look as desperate as she felt. “Sweetheart, I don’t want you to bother about me. I don’t want anyone to bother about me. I’m fine.”

“You’re sure of that, Charlie?” Morrissey laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“You mustn’t let me keep you, George.” Charlotte gave him a shaky smile. “I know you and Ruth will love wandering around the grounds. They’re in tip-top condition.”

“That they are!” George Morrissey agreed. He turned back to the tall authoritative figure of the adult Rohan Costello. “I’d be delighted if you’d say hello to my wife, Rohan. She’d love to catch up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe Peter too,” Rohan said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Many things in life changed. Some things never did.

CHAPTER THREE

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

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

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

Rohan.

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

“Don’t I?”

The slash of his voice cut her heart to ribbons.

God—oh, God!

Recognition of the trouble she was in settled on her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A great anger was running in his veins. Whatever he had expected, it had never been this. He had learned early that she and Martyn had had a child—a boy. The agony of it, the pain of loss and betrayal, had nearly driven him mad. Day and night, month after month, year after year he had fought his demons. Charlotte and Martyn. Now he was confronted by the staggering truth. Christopher wasn’t Martyn’s at all. Christopher was his.

How terrible a crime was that? And what about the precautions she was supposed to have taken? “You’re a cheat and a liar, Charlotte,” he said, low-voiced and dangerous. “And I fully intend to prove it. You told me you loved me. You promised to wait for as long as it took. Why not? We had plenty of time. You were only eighteen. I hadn’t even turned twenty-one. I’m Christopher’s father. Don’t look away from me. Don’t attempt more lies. I will push this further.”

“A threat?”

“You bet!” he said harshly, even though to his horror the old hunger was as fierce as ever. Would nothing kill it? She was even more beautiful—her beauty more pronounced, more complete. Charlotte who had betrayed him. And herself.

“Please, Rohan, I don’t need this now.” There was anguish in her face and in her voice. “I can walk back to the Lodge.”

“Forget it. I’m driving you. Has your father the faintest clue? Or is he still hiding his head in the sand?” He compelled her out of the comfortable elegance of the library and back into the arched corridor, making for the rear of the house, where a vehicle was garaged and kept for his convenience.

“Dad loves Christopher very much.” There was a trembling catch in her voice.

“Not what I asked you,” he said grimly.

They were out in the sunshine now. The scent of the white rambling rose that framed the pedimented door and climbed the stone wall filled the air with its lovely nostalgic perfume. More roses rioted in the gardens, and lovely plump peonies—one of her great favourites.

“Chris did have a fleeting look of Mattie for a few years,” she offered bleakly. This was the age of DNA. There was no point in trying to delude Rohan. What he said was correct. Christopher would only grow more like him. Hadn’t she been buffeted by the winds of panic for some time? “Now that he’s lost his little-boy softness the resemblance has disappeared. He has our blond hair.”

“Isn’t that marvelous?” he exclaimed ironically. “He has the Marsdon blond hair! God knows what might have happened had his hair been crow-black, like mine. Or, even worse, red like my mother’s.”

“I loved you, Rohan.” The words flamed out of her.

In response he made a strangled sound of utter disgust. “You must have wept buckets after you decided to drop me. But there’s intense satisfaction in my being rich. Daddy turned out to be a real loser with his lack of financial acumen. I had nothing. Too young. Martyn stood to inherit a fortune. Must have ruined your day when you lost him. How come you’re living with your father? Didn’t Martyn leave you a rich woman?”

“Sad to say, no. It’s none of your business, Rohan.”

“I beg to differ. It’s very much my business. Martyn’s father was too smart to let go of the purse strings. And your mother? The self-appointed avenger?”

“My mother has settled—or tried to settle—into a different life. I don’t see much of her. She has little interest in my beautiful Chrissie.”

“Our beautiful Christopher,” he corrected curtly, usurping her as the single parent.

“He’s not Mattie, you see,” she continued sadly. “Really there was no one else for my mother.”

Rohan’s striking face was set like granite. “She loved you in her way. Of course she did.”

“Not enough,” she answered simply.

“I think I might find that a blessing,” Rohan mused. “Your mother keeping her distance from my son. Your mother is deeply neurotic. She would never accept me in any capacity. Not in a hundred lifetimes.”

She couldn’t deny it. Rohan had been chosen as the scapegoat. She had been the daughter of the family—a girl of twelve. Martyn Prescott the only son of close friends. It had to be Rohan Costello—Mary Rose’s boy. “My mother has been steeped in grief, Rohan. Dad has soldiered on.”

“Good old Vivian!” Rohan retorted with extreme sarcasm. “The fire’s not out in the old boy either. Did you hear the way he bellowed my name?”

Charlotte flinched, defending him quickly. “It was cruel not to let us know.”

“Cruel?” Rohan’s brilliant eyes shot sparks. “The hide of you to talk of cruelty! I can’t believe your treachery! I’ve missed out on the first seven years of my son’s life, Charlotte. First words. First steps. Birthdays. The first day at school. How can you possibly make it up to me for that?”

“I can’t. I can’t. I’m so sorry, Rohan. Sorry. Sorry, sorry. Do you want me to go down on my knees? I’ve raised Christopher as best I could. He’s a beautiful, loving, clever child. He’s everything in the world to me.”

“So that’s okay, then, is it? He’s everything in the world to you. What about me? I never held my newborn son in my arms. I was robbed of that great joy. Tell me, how did you manage to put it across Martyn? Or didn’t you? It’s common knowledge he had a young woman in the car with him. It’s a great mercy she wasn’t killed or injured as well. Tell me—did he fall out of love with you? Or did he get sick of what little affection you could show him? You didn’t love him. Don’t tell me you did.”

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