The Autumn of the Witch

  Harlequin 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.

  The Autumn of the Witch

  Anne Mather

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  HIGH above the black rocks of the Baia del Fortezzo on the western coast of Sicily stood the Castello di Strega. Built more than a hundred years ago, its walls weathered by the elements of countless seasons, it possessed the kind of grim majesty which commanded respect, and Pietro Bastinado thought it a fitting background for its owner, Santino Ventura. The Ventura family had owned this stretch of the island for generations, land which Pietro knew only too well had been tom by savagery and blood feud, land which knew no authority but its own.

  Below the castello terraces of vines and orchards of almond, fig and lemon trees led down to a plain which would have been arid had it not been for the artificial channels which irrigated it, tended lovingly by the Venturas’ workers whose livelihood it represented. Away to the west in complete contrast stretched the sun-warmed waters of the Mediterranean which provided a blessed escape from the sweated labour in the fields. It was a land of contrasts, thought Pietro as he turned the Lancia on to the steep drive up to the castello. A land of great wealth and abject poverty, of fertile huertas and barren wasteland, of seething, pulsating humanity and splendid isolation. A land which for centuries had written its own laws and still attempted to do so.

  Pietro’s employer, Santino Ventura, who was also his brother-in-law, was perhaps the wealthiest man on the island. He was not, however, dependent on the precarious success of his crops for his prosperity. Early in life he had learned that affluence did not appear, it might be sought, and breaking the traditions of years he had widened his horizons and moved into the world of high finance. Using his excellent brain and inbred sense of cunning, he had speculated profitably, and he had gained a reputation in business circles of being completely ruthless, sentiment never being allowed to colour his judgment. He was a hard man, even his most loyal peasant would never have attempted to deny that, a man of extreme ideals and his enemies might say selfish arrogance, yet for all that Pietro knew that he was a man who cared passionately for his people, despising the system he used so expertly to his own ends. His only weakness, if it could be classed as such, was his small daughter Lucia whose mother, Pietro’s sister, had died giving her birth.

  Now Pietro brought the sleek sports car to a halt at the foot of the steps which led up to the heavy door of the castello, and sliding out shed the driving gloves he had been wearing. Then he ran lightly up the steps and thrust open the door, entering the high-ceilinged hall of the building. In recent years many improvements had been made to the castello, and now the hall was terrazzo-tiled and the curving staircase was polished marble. The walls were intricately sculpted in wood and the burnish of years was upon them. High overhead a single chandelier was suspended and at night it gleamed from a thousand prisms. A magnificent background indeed, he thought, for a man who was master of his own destiny, and the destinies of his people.

  An elderly woman, dressed entirely in black in the manner of her ancestors, came through a door below the curving staircase and approached him. This was Sophia Vascente, Santino’s housekeeper.

  ‘Good morning, Sophia.’ Pietro spoke in their own language. ‘Are you well? It seems almost cool outside today.’

  ‘It is early yet, signore,’ observed Sophia dourly. ‘You have come to see the padrone?’

  Pietro smiled goodnaturedly. ‘It is not in order for me to do so?’ he inquired lightly.

  ‘The padrone is not yet up, signore,’ replied Sophia. ‘Do you wish for some coffee?’

  Pietro gave a wry grimace. ‘Yes, I wish for some coffee,’ he answered, nodding. ‘Dare I ask if the padrone has had breakfast?’

  A faint smile touched Sophia’s lips, albeit unwillingly. ‘It has been taken up to him, signore. No doubt he will have heard your arrival and will be down presently.’

  Pietro raised his dark eyebrows. ‘Do I sense a reproof in your voice, Sophia?’

  Sophia put her hands on her hips. ‘The padrone was working very late last night, signore. He is tired.’

  Pietro sighed. ‘Well, what I have to tell him will waken him up. I’ll be in the study. Will you bring the coffee there?’

  ‘Yes, signore.’ Sophia stiffened her shoulders and accepting the veiled command in Pietro’s tones moved away.

  Pietro walked swiftly across the cool hall to the leather padded door of Santino’s study. This was where his employer worked when he was at the castello, and adjoining it was another room which Pietro had exclusively for his own use. There were offices, too, in Palermo, but most of Santino’s business took him abroad, to Rome or Paris or New York, and sometimes to London. He sat on the boards of several European companies and his opinion was frequently sought when decisions had to be made. His business colleagues recognized in him the power to abjure any kind of emotionalism or sentiment in his reasoning and in consequence his judgments were razor-sharp and incisive. But for all that Pietro knew that part of their respect was grounded in fear and Santino possessed considerable influence because of this.

  Sophia
brought in the tray of coffee and placed it on the desk. ‘Will that be all, signore?’ she asked politely.

  Pietro looked up from some papers he had been studying and frowned. ‘What? Oh—oh, yes, thank you, Sophia.’ He inclined his head coolly and with a slight tightening of her lips Sophia left him. He was in the process of drinking his second cup of coffee when his employer entered the room.

  Santino Ventura was a man in his late thirties whose hard, slightly cruel features bore witness of the experiences life had written there. His hair was thick and black and sideburns darkened his already tanned jawline. Taller than the average Italian, he had broad muscular shoulders tapering to narrow hips, and there was not an ounce of spare flesh on his lean frame. Possessing none of the flaccid good looks of his race, he was nevertheless a man whom women found immensely attractive, for there was a kind of animal magnetism about the dark depths of his eyes and the full sensuality of his lower lip. However, he seldom bothered with women. Since Sancia’s death, he had lived a singularly unattached existence, caring little for the kind of social life he could have enjoyed. He seemed content to spend what free time he had with Lucia, for she was a lonely child and in Pietro’s opinion needed a woman to care for her.

  Now Santino walked with lithe easy grace into the room, coming across to his assistant and shaking hands with him warmly. ‘Well, Pietro?’ he said questioningly. ‘You are indeed an early riser. Do I take it your news is good, or excessively bad?’

  Pietro swallowed the remainder of his coffee hastily, replacing his cup in its saucer. ‘I flew back from London last night, but as the plane was forced to land in Zurich with engine trouble it was the early hours before we reached Palermo,’ he explained. Flexing his muscles tiredly, he went on: ‘There didn’t seem much point in going to bed after that.’

  ‘I see.’ Santino extracted a thick cigar from a box on his desk and lit it thoughtfully. ‘And what about W.A.A.? Did you do it?’

  Pietro gave a reluctant smile. ‘You don’t waste much time on formalities, do you?’ he queried, with the familiarity of years. ‘But if you mean that business over the shares, yes, I did it.’

  ‘Good!’ Santino Ventura looked positively delighted. ‘I knew I could rely on you, Pietro. Was it easy?’

  Pietro grimaced and reached for the coffee pot again. ‘I don’t like that kind of an assignment, Santino,’ he said grimly.

  Santino shrugged, flinging himself into the soft swinging leather chair behind his desk, resting one leg casually over an arm. He drew deeply on his cigar, obviously deep in thought, and Pietro took the opportunity to help himself to more coffee. Then he became aware that Santino’s eyes were upon him again, and he said: ‘The shares are divided almost equally between Mrs. McMaster and Evelyn Lacey, McMaster’s sister.’

  ‘And?’ Santino prompted.

  ‘Jennifer McMaster is up to her eyes in debt. The Lacey woman; I’m not so sure.’

  ‘But I am!’ Santino’s tones brooked no argument. He slid his leg off the arm of his chair and leaning forward flicked through some papers on his desk. ‘There’s the contract. Have you read it?’

  ‘Yes. It’s pretty rough.’

  Santino got to his feet. ‘McMaster’s made his own mistakes. I can’t be held responsible for the failure of the firm’s managing director.’ He chewed on his cigar irritably. ‘You know perfectly well I wanted a straight merger. If he hasn’t the sense to play along, then it’s his own funeral.’

  Pietro sighed. He knew Santino was right. Western Amalgamated Airlines had been losing money for the past three years. They were on a downhill slope and couldn’t afford to be so awkward. Even so, McMaster himself had not yet grasped the calibre of the man he was dealing with. Santino Ventura had broken stronger men than he.

  ‘So now—’ Santino looked at Pietro thoughtfully, ‘I think I will take it from here, as you find the subject so distasteful.’

  Pietro flushed. ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘I know. But you don’t like my methods in this instance, and I need a man here who isn’t afraid of the consequences.’

  Pietro shook his head helplessly. ‘I can do it.’

  Santino studied him with understanding eyes. ‘I know it. But I’ll still take over. You can come with me if you like. It may prove edifying yet.’

  ‘What do you intend to do?’

  Santino frowned. ‘I want that airline. It’s not a big concern, it’s not an important concern even, but I need its connections.’ He half smiled. ‘However, McMaster doesn’t know that, unless you’ve told him, so I think in this instance we can afford to play it cool.’

  Pietro raked a hand through his hair, looking rather young and innocent suddenly. ‘I don’t understand. What do you intend to do?’

  Santino regarded him with his grave dark eyes. ‘Why, draw out of the deal, of course.’

  Pietro stiffened. ‘You mean you intend to bankrupt him?’

  Santino gave an expressive gesture. ‘Oh, no, not that. Frighten him a little, that’s all. He’s caused us enough trouble. He’s wasted us enough time, don’t you think? Don’t you think he deserves a little trouble of his own?’

  ‘But, Santino, you’re already planning to take him over, with or without his consent. Isn’t that enough?’

  Santino tugged absently at the silken cords which laced the front of the cream silk shirt he was wearing. ‘This is a game, Pietro, nothing more. We will not cheat him over the price. In fact, I think I am being overly generous. I could destroy him if I wanted.’

  Pietro sighed. ‘But; why should you?’

  ‘Exactly. There are so many more interesting targets, are there not?’ Santino gave a quirk of his eyebrows. ‘Come. You think I am despicable. So we will leave it for now, and go and see Lucia. Yes?’

  Pietro shook his head helplessly. ‘You amaze me, Santino. One minute you are considering the destruction of a man who has attempted to thwart you in business, and the next you expect me to accept you as Lucia’s loving father. The transition is too much!’

  Santino smiled now, the relaxation of his features dispelling the deep lines that etched his eyes and mouth. ‘What would you have me do, Pietro? Allow McMaster to waste me literally millions of lire? I am not so careless of the organization’s money. I can only assume that the enchanting Mrs. McMaster is responsible for this softening of your attitudes.’

  Pietro coloured hotly. ‘I hardly know the woman,’ he denied swiftly. ‘Your knowledge of her is much greater than mine.’

  ‘Ah, yes, but you must admit she is considerably younger than her husband, and perhaps deserves a—shall we say—more active man?’

  Pietro’s colour deepened. ‘I know nothing about that. But in any case, she must have realized McMaster’s age when she married him. She is his second wife, after all.’

  ‘Is she?’ Santino listened with interest. ‘And how did you learn this? From her?’

  ‘No.’ Pietro was brief. ‘Fron—from McMaster’s daughter, by his first marriage.’

  ‘I begin to see.’ Santino’s eyebrows lifted. ‘It is not this Jennifer McMaster who causes you so much soul-searching, but the daughter, McMaster’s daughter…’

  Pietro gave an impatient shrug. ‘Oh, let’s change the subject, Santino. I am not interested in McMaster or his daughter!’

  Santino gave a gesture of dismissal respecting Pietro’s appeal, but he was quite aware that to some extent his assistant’s involvement with the McMaster family was not wholly impersonal.

  * * *

  Lucia Ventura was a delightful child. At four years of age she was small and slender and extremely feminine. Her colouring matched that of her father, but her hair was long and luxuriant and invariably tied with a satin ribbon. Her eyes were enormous in her small face and her features, while resembling Santino’s, had none of the severity and all of the charm. She was the one being in his eyes who could do no wrong and yet she had not been spoiled. On the contrary, Pietro considered her a rather lonely child, relying constantly
on the company of the members of Santino’s staff. Santino was away a lot and it was difficult to keep anyone youthful in a household so remote from the rest of the island, and consequently her companions were usually elderly women who stayed for a while and then returned to their families. It was unfortunate that her mother had died, for Sancia Ventura had loved the isolation.

  Lucia was in the nursery with her present companion, Maria Vitali, and when her father opened the door her eyes darted to his with great excitement. Then she left what she was doing to fling herself across the room and into his arms.

  Santino caught her up in his strong arms, swinging her high into the air before allowing her to fall against his chest where she wound her arms around his neck and hugged him.

  ‘Hey, Lucia,’ he exclaimed, disentangling her arms from his neck goodhumouredly, ‘your Uncle Pietro is here. Do you have nothing to say to him?’

  Lucia lifted her head from her father’s shoulder and her eyes twinkled at Pietro. ‘Hello, Uncle Pietro,’ she said smilingly. ‘Have you come to stay?’

  Pietro glanced wryly at Santino. ‘For a little while,’ he conceded gently. ‘But you are looking particularly pretty today, Lucia. Is that a new dress?’

  Lucia glanced down at the printed nylon. ‘Maria made it for me,’ she said, looking across at the elderly nursemaid. ‘Did you not, Maria?’

  Maria who had risen to her feet at their entrance stood with folded hands, smiling benevolently, and Santino gave her a brief nod indicating that she should be seated again. Then he said: ‘And your lessons, Lucia? You have been learning your numbers and your letters?’

  Lucia wrinkled her nose. ‘Yes, Papa,’ she said reluctantly.

  Santino frowned at her crumpled face. ‘Is that true, Lucia?’

  Lucia pressed her lips together. ‘But it is so difficult,’ she exclaimed. ‘I cannot make these letters.’

  Pietro glanced at his brother-in-law. ‘Surely she is too young for a formal education, Santino,’ he commented swiftly.

  Santino shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘They are not formal lessons, Pietro. They are simple little exercises for simple little minds. My daughter should not find them difficult.’