The High Valley

  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.

  The High Valley

  Anne Mather

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title Page

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  Copyright

  CHAPTER I

  THE ballroom of the Monteraverdian Embassy adjoined the buffet area, allowing the guests free passage between the two. Tonight it was a blaze of light and colour, the high-arched ceiling with its intricately painted frescoes illuminated by a hidden iridescence in a multitude of shades, from palest yellow to deepest purple. The tall, fluted columns that supported the ceiling were festooned with climbing tropical plants that here and there blossomed into perfumed beauty, while the orchestra on its dais at the far end of the ballroom was partially concealed by a bank of flowers. The dancers themselves in their vivid evening attire provided a constant panorama of visual sensation, and a delicious aroma of Havana tobacco and expensive cosmetics mingled with the more exotic scents of good food and rich wine.

  Morgana Mallory glanced towards the spot where Ruth and her parents had been only a moment before, wondering how they were reacting to such an overwhelming atmosphere and found that she was momentarily alone.

  Immediately, she felt almost panic-stricken, her eyes searching the crowds that thronged around her in careless haste. She was not used to receptions of this kind, indeed this was the first she had attended, and she had not been long enough in Brazil to feel any confidence when she could not speak the language. After all, her life with her father back in England had been singularly uneventful, and since arriving in Rio to stay with Ruth and her parents she had found the hectic pace of their lives rather terrifying.

  Now, she turned and began to thread her way through the assembled groups of guests, avoiding a carelessly-held drink here or a rather too amorous gaze there, wondering all the while how she could have been so stupid as to get separated from her friends. Obviously, her absorbed contemplation of her surroundings had made her deaf to their instructions and now she felt hopelessly alone.

  She reached one of the ornately carved arches that led through to the buffet supper room and breathed slightly more freely out of that encroaching mass of humanity. She looked about her desperately, longing to see a familiar face, but suddenly without warning she came up against an immovable force, and strong arms grasped her forearms preventing her from stumbling backwards as she most certainly would have done.

  “Oh, I beg your pardon –” she began, apologetically, attempting to free herself with all speed, and looked up into a dark, arresting face, the eyes of which regarded her with faint amusement. Abruptly, the man let her go and stepped back out of her path, and Morgana hastened on, aware that her arms still tingled from that unexpected encounter.

  Just as she was beginning to wonder whatever she was going to do a hand grabbed her arm, and Ruth's familiar and slightly impatient voice said: “Morgana! What are you doing? I've been looking everywhere for you!”

  Morgana turned, a relieved smile spreading over her flushed face. “Oh, Ruth!” she exclaimed. “Thank goodness, it's you! I was beginning to think I'd never find you again. What happened. Where did you go?”

  “Where did we go?” Ruth gave a toss of her head. “I should be asking you that question. Heavens, Mummy and Daddy had to go and be introduced to the Ambassador, and I was with them. We thought you were with us, too, but then – you weren't!”

  Morgana bit her lip. “Oh, I'm sorry, Ruth. I guess I was just so excited looking about and everything. I didn't hear what you must have said.”

  Ruth sighed, her rather plain features not enhanced by this display of bad humour. “Very well, then, come along. Mummy and Daddy are waiting for us over there.” She waved a careless hand in the direction of the ballroom.

  Morgana gave her a slightly placatory smile and Ruth seemed to relent, for she tucked her arm into Morgana's and said: “Aren't there some simply ghastly gowns being worn? Have you seen that enormous woman in a kind of chiffon bell-tent in that awful shade of cyclamen?”

  Morgana squeezed Ruth's arm. “That's rather unkind,” she said teasingly. “No doubt the dress is at least worth a dozen times the price of this.” She glanced down at her own gown, a simple affair of dark blue crěpe, with a long straight skirt below a swathed bodice, which nevertheless was the ideal foil for her pale hair.

  Ruth eyed her rather enviously. “You must know the cheapest clothes look elegant on you,” she retorted, which Morgana thought was a kind of back-handed compliment, but refrained from saying so. Ruth had always said exactly what she thought and if what she said sometimes hurt her listener it was usually unintentional.

  Ruth's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Dennison, were engaged in conversation with an elderly man and another woman who was apparently his wife, and Ruth said in an undertone to Morgana that he was one of the secretaries at the Embassy. “These affairs are always terribly formal,” she complained, glancing round at the guests. “Everyone seems to spend their time discussing politics or business of one kind or another, and I'm sure these receptions are used as an excuse to get all the men together.” She sighed resignedly.

  “It is very exciting though, isn't it?” said Morgana, now recovered from her fright of finding herself abandoned. “I mean – do you attend a lot of functions like
this?”

  Ruth gave her a bored look. “Oh, lord, yes,” she exclaimed. “There's always some kind of social gathering going on in diplomatic circles. You've only been here three days, Morgana, but you'll soon get used to it.”

  Morgana smiled. “I imagine by the time I get used to this I shall be leaving Brazil,” she remarked. “After all, I promised my father I'd join him in two weeks.”

  Ruth lifted her shoulders. “Yes, that's a pity. Still, I'm only glad you could come at all. After all, had your father not been invited on this lecture tour of California, I doubt whether he would have allowed you to come so far alone.”

  Morgana nodded. “That's true. Since my mother died he's felt rather a strong responsibility where I am concerned. That's really how I came to attend Brackenbury. I doubt very much whether, in the normal course of events, my parents would have been able to afford a boarding school for me.”

  Ruth raised her eyebrows. “And then we never should have met, which would have been a pity,” she commented sardonically. “Anyway, never mind, you're here now, and you can't imagine how wonderful it is having someone to talk to. There aren't many people of my age in our diplomatic circles, and sometimes I get positively depressed thinking how long Daddy will be here on his mission. You don't know how I envy you your life in England, near London and so on. This is practically uncivilised by comparison.”

  Morgana raised her dark eyebrows, and helped herself to two cocktails from a tray held by a passing waiter. Handing one to Ruth, she said: “I don't suppose the Brazilians would care to hear your description of their cultural capital, Ruth. Besides, I think Rio is a marvellous place. You'd certainly miss the sun and the beaches if you came back to England. And, you don't really want to do that. As for preferring my life – well – we don't lead a particularly exciting existence. Oh, now and then we go up to town to a concert or to the theatre, and occasionally there's a local gathering my father wants to attend. But we don't spend our time going from one social function to another as you and your parents seem to do. Nor do I find London very inspiring. I prefer Friars Warren every time.”

  Ruth nodded, sipping her cocktail reminiscently. “I remember Friars Warren quite well,” she smiled. “I did enjoy my visits there, Morgana. Your father was so kind to me. I remember on speech days and prizegivings, when my parents couldn't attend, he always made me feel part of your family. I thought he was marvellous. He's so young.”

  Morgana chuckled. “He would like to hear you say so,” she remarked dryly. “He's forty-two, you know.”

  “It was a pity your mother died as she did,” said Ruth, sighing. “Peritonitis always seems so unnecessary somehow. I mean, if the appendix is such a useless organ, why are we given one?”

  Morgana shrugged. “Who knows? Anyway, that was all a long time ago now and we were talking about you, not me. Surely you have some friends here.”

  Ruth finished her cocktail. “Not many. As I said before there aren't many young people in diplomatic circles here and the older ones don't seem to have offspring of my age!”

  Morgana glanced around. “But there are heaps of young people here tonight.”

  Ruth raised her eyes in an expressive gesture. “Oh, yes, there are young people. But Daddy doesn't encourage me to get involved with South Americans!”

  Morgana frowned. “Heavens, why?”

  “He says they're a very volatile race of people, highly emotional and probably unstable, and quite frankly, darling, I can't see myself succumbing to Latin charms!”

  Morgana regarded her friend with amazement. “So all your friends have to be British, is that it?”

  “Not exactly. Europeans aren't so bad and North Americans are perfectly acceptable.”

  Morgana shook her head. “Well, I think you're wasting a fabulous opportunity,” she exclaimed. “And quite honestly, my father wouldn't dream of trying to influence me when it came to choosing my friends.”

  Ruth grimaced. “Oh, well, you know Daddy's awfully socially conscious. He can't help it, and Mother flaps so if I make a scene.”

  Morgana turned away, her feet unconsciously moving in time to the rhythmic music that was issuing from the orchestra's dais. She could understand Ruth's problems, having met Mrs. Dennison, but she thought Mr. Dennison's reasoning was narrow and old-fashioned. Personally, she found the dark-skinned Brazilians a particularly attractive combination of their arrogant Portuguese ancestry and modern chivalry. But it was no business of hers and presently Ruth's parents concluded their conversation with the embassy official and rejoined their daughter and Morgana.

  “Well, Morgana,” said Mr. Dennison jovially. ‘Are you enjoying yourself? We lost you as we came in, didn't we?”

  Morgana smiled politely. “I'm afraid so,” she admitted. “It was all so unusual and exciting I didn't hear what you said. But I am enjoying myself. I didn't realise it would be such an impressive affair.”

  Mr. Dennison nodded. “Oh, these affairs are usually well-attended. And particularly here, at the Monteraverdian Embassy. Right now there's trouble brewing in Monteraverde and quite honestly I think this reception is a deliberate attempt to show where the power lies.”

  Morgana listened with real interest. The violent politics of these South American states never failed to fascinate her. “Do you mean there is likely to be a revolution?” she asked, excitement making her eyes sparkle.

  Mr. Dennison chuckled. “I shouldn't think so,” he answered, dampeningly. “The presidente, Queras, is not a man to risk being overthrown.” He lowered his voice. “Even now, there are rumours of reprisals being taken against a handful of guerillas who were captured some weeks ago. At present they're in prison in Queranova, awaiting trial and sentence.”

  “Queranova?” echoed Morgana, with interest. “That's a similar name to the president's, isn't it?”

  Mrs. Dennison gave an impatient click of her tongue. “Of course. These revolutionaries always attempt immortalisation by naming highways and towns after themselves, and then the next government comes along and renames them all in their own image. It's juvenile!”

  Morgana shrugged her slim shoulders. “I suppose it's life,” she remarked. “And such vagaries are not the sole prerogative of the South Americans. Isn't Kennedy Airport named after the late president of the United States?”

  Mrs. Dennison bestowed a slightly impatient glance upon her. “That's quite different, Morgana,” she averred, and turned her attention to other matters. “Laurence, isn't that Colonel Matthews over there?”

  Mr. Dennison drew his eyes away from the attractive picture Morgana made in her dark blue gown, her hair a silvery curtain about her shoulders, and looked in the direction his wife indicated. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “And that's his wife, Sheralyn. Do you want to meet her?”

  Mrs. Dennison's face grew harsher. “No, thank you. Imagine a man of his age marrying a slip of a girl like her!” There was censure in her voice. “He must be almost forty.”

  “You would have had me marry him, Mummy,” Ruth remarked dryly. “And I'm only twenty-two. Sheralyn is around my age, surely.”

  Mrs. Dennison grimaced. “That's altogether different. You're – well – mature, for your age.”

  Ruth cast a mocking glance in Morgana's direction. “You ought to be grateful you have no designing matron on your heels,” she murmured, in an undertone, and Morgana hid a smile.

  Presently, two attachés and their wives joined their group, and as the men had already danced with their wives, the women did not object when their husbands invited Morgana and Ruth to dance. Morgana was glad of the opportunity to escape from Mrs. Dennison's rather boring chatter for a while and Michael Lawson, her partner, entertained her by telling her who some of the guests were. Among this glittering throng of people there were television personalities, film stars, ambassadors and consuls, and the usual accompaniment of officials, all of whom had been welcomed by a huge man who stood by the bar at the end of the room, talking to some of his guests.

 
“That's Juan Montoya,” said Michael, as they passed the group. “Weren't you introduced to him on your arrival?”

  “I'm afraid I got lost,” explained Morgana, with a smile, momentarily remembering the man who had collided with her so briefly.

  “I see.” Michael nodded. “And I imagine Mrs. Dennison made a beeline for His Excellency!”

  Morgana caught the twinkle in his eye. “Probably,” she agreed.

  Later in the evening, they sat in the buffet lounge watching the guests dancing and enjoying some of the delicious food that was available. Morgana had some shell fish, and tasted the em padinhas de camarao, or shrimp pasties, light pastries spiced with olives and peppers, one of the local delicacies. There was plenty of meat, cooked in a variety of ways, and fruit and cheese for those who wanted it. The wines they drank were light and palatable, but Morgana preferred the fruit cordials which were freshly squeezed and slightly bitter.

  The Lawsons, and the other man, David Grover and his wife, had stayed with their party, and they had also been joined by a young American army officer called Hugh Bernard. They were all sitting together, talking companionably, in the lounge, when Morgana saw again the man that she had accidentally bumped into. But now he was not alone, two other men and a girl were with him. Curious, in spite of herself, Morgana turned to Michael Lawson who was sitting to one side of her, and said: “Who are they? Do you know?”

  Ruth who was on her other side, leant forward to listen, and Michael followed her gaze with interest. “Oh, you mean the Salvador brothers, Luis and Ricardo,” he replied. “That oldish man with them is Vittorio Salvador, their uncle. I don't know the girl. Why?”

  Morgana coloured and shrugged her slim shoulders. “I was curious, that's all,” she answered swiftly, taking a sip of the wine from the glass that was on the table in front of her.

  Michael studied her expression. “They're certainly a striking pair,” he commented dryly. “But like many handsome animals, they are also dangerous!”