Wild Enchantress

  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.

  Wild Enchantress

  Anne Mather

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  ALL he could hear was the rushing, roaring thunder of the water as it splintered on the reef behind him. Ahead lay the beach, creamy white and shimmering in the bleaching rays of the sun, and between, deep green water, alive with the swell that made Flintlock one of the finest surfing beaches on the whole island. Behind him, the crest was rising, foam-flecked and majestic, and his speed increased as he began to coast down the face of the wave. Then it caught him, and his feeling of exhilaration quickened in pace with the surfboard as he rose to his feet and rode diagonally into shore. It was a trial of strength and muscle, keeping erect on that shifting oblong of fibre-glass, controlling its headlong passage with an expertise born of long experience. Before the surf died, he dived off the board into the surging water, and allowed the tow to sweep him on to the warm sand. The surfboard was swept up beside him, shifted restlessly for a few moments, and then was still as he was.

  He rolled over on to his back, shading his eyes against the glare of heat which had since childhood given him that deep all-over tan, and felt the familiar feeling of well-being which always followed a successful session. He felt pleasantly relaxed and slightly lethargic, loath to allow the problems of the day to intrude upon these moments of complete self-indulgence.

  ‘Mr Royal! Mr Royal, sir!'

  As if to mock his mood of lazy contemplation, Sylvester's throaty voice came harshly on the breeze that stirred the clump of wind-torn cypresses that clung bravely to the coral limestone cliffs that sheltered the cove. Levering himself up on one elbow, Jared Royal looked around and saw the elderly black manservant, incongruous in his chauffeur's livery, beckoning to him from the head of the rocky stairway which gave access to the beach.

  With an expression of resigned tolerance on his lean dark features, he got to his feet, and after the briefest use of a towel, he pulled on the shabby denim shorts which were his only clothing. Then, tucking the surfboard under his arm, he trudged up the sand to where a low, bungalow-type dwelling was set on wooden stilts. Sylvester had disappeared, but he would no doubt be sitting in the car ensuring himself of his master's compliance before moving off.

  However, Jared was not unduly concerned, mounting the steps to the building with unhurried deliberation. A slat-roofed verandah, overgrown with creeper, gave into the single apartment, a typical beach-house room, with equal space for cooking and sleeping facilities. It was the kind of accommodation used for picnics or weekends, where one could ignore the sand on one's feet and disregard the salt stains on the worn furniture. In one respect it differed from thousands of others like it; the walls were stacked with canvases, one leaning against the other, and easels and painting equipment of all kinds littered what floor space was left. But for all that, Jared liked it, it suited his purpose very well on occasion, and provided an ideal bolthole when his stepmother filled the house with people. He could work here, and he always kept plenty of tinned food on the premises so that he need not be disturbed. If the sleeping facilities were not what he was used to, they at least were adequate.

  Now, he dumped the surfboard beside several others in one corner of the room, and crossed to take a can of lager from a gas-cooled refrigerator near the sink. All cooking and lighting appliances were fed by a gas cylinder, but he had had water laid on when the beach house was first built ten years ago.

  Standing by the window, looking out on the stretch of sand which tapered away towards the water's edge, he drank deeply from the can, savouring the ice-cold liquid. As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he reflected without enthusiasm on the responsibility ahead of him. Having charge of a young woman already out of her teens seemed an unnecessary encumbrance, and while he appreciated the compliment Jack Fulton had paid him by putting his daughter into his care, he could have wished it were otherwise.

  The one occasion he had previously encountered Catherine Fulton had not endeared her to him. At fourteen, she had been a spoilt and precocious adolescent, already aware of her potential, and not above trying her wiles on a man twice her age. Jared had taken an inordinate amount of pleasure in setting her down, and he doubted she had ever forgiven him for that. But her father had been a close friend, and no doubt, without that recurring heart trouble, would never have considered making these emergency arrangements which had come into operation when he died. As it was, Catherine could not touch a penny of the not inconsiderable sum her father had left her until she was twenty-one, which was still some six months away, and Jared had had little choice but to suggest that she came out to Barbados and stayed with him until she gained her inheritance.

  He might not have done this—indeed, his inclinations were to allow her to go her own way, except for the letter which Jack had left for him. In it, her father had expressed his own anxieties about the company his daughter was keeping, and his fears that she might marry someone only after her money.

  The idea of coming to Barbados had not met with a great deal of approval, he had gathered from her solicitors, via his own. Miss Fulton wa
s apparently enjoying a full and satisfying life in London, and had little desire to spend six months vegetating on an island, Caribbean or otherwise. Besides, she had also let it be known, there was someone, some young man, she preferred not to leave at this time. Royal couldn't help but speculate whether this was the doubtful company her father had been so concerned about.

  In the event, he determined that he would not advance her funds to remain in England. He could not possibly maintain any kind of control over her affairs there. So she had had to make the necessary arrangements to leave. That she was due at Seawell this afternoon was a matter of some aversion to him. Remembering the objectionable child she had been, he was not looking forward to his unaccustomed duties as unwilling guardian.

  Finishing his lager, he dropped the can into the waste bin and let himself out of the beach house. He didn't lock the door. This beach was private, and besides, apart from the canvases, there was nothing of any value to steal.

  He mounted the steps to the cliff top and found Sylvester dozing behind the wheel of a sleek cream Mercedes convertible. But some sixth sense seemed to warn the old man-servant of his approach, and he straightened up as Royal neared the car.

  ‘You can go now, Sylvester,’ his employer told him dryly. ‘I'll follow on.'

  ‘Miz Elizabeth sent me to tell you that it's after eleven, Mr Royal. She says that young lady is arriving at two.'

  ‘Two-thirty, actually,’ responded Jared, lightly touching the bonnet of the vehicle and feeling the red-hot heat of the metal send shafts of fire through his fingers. He thrust his hand into the pocket of his shorts and drew out a small case of cheroots. ‘Do you have a light?'

  Sylvester handed him the automatic lighter from the dash, with unconcealed impatience. ‘You don't have time to stand here smoking cigars, Mr Royal,' he exclaimed reprovingly. ‘Miz Elizabeth sent me to find you thirty minutes ago!'

  His employer ignored him, turning to regard the ocean from the clifftop. It was a magnificent sight and one of which Jared never grew tired. Beyond the reef, the Atlantic surged in all its restless splendour, the creaming line of surf like a bracelet of pearls edging infinity. There was a greeny-blue haze on the horizon and no one could clearly distinguish where the ocean ended and the sky began.

  ‘Well, I'm going now, Mr Royal.'

  Sylvester started the Mercedes’ engine, and the other man swung round to regard him with a wry smile. ‘You do trust me to follow on, then?'

  Sylvester sighed. He was not unused to coming down here looking for his employer. He had been doing so for years, since long before old Mr Royal died and his son became the master of the household. It had been a great disappointment to the old man when his only offspring had shown no interest in the business he had built up throughout his lifetime, and preferred painting to any other pursuit. The fact that his son had become extremely successful in his own field had softened the blow a little, but now that the old man was dead, his widow ran the stables quite efficiently with the help of a manager, deferring to her stepson only in the matter of finance.

  ‘I think you should use a car, Mr Royal,’ Sylvester said now, shaking his head at the motor-cycle thrown carelessly into the shade of the palms that grew in varying heights beside the track. ‘Those things—they're for roughnecks, not for a Royal of Amaryllis!'

  His employer hid his amusement, as putting the cheroot between his teeth, he went to haul up the motor-cycle and straddle it comfortably. ‘What could be more enjoyable on a day like today than riding through the countryside with the wind cooling your body?'

  ‘You get plenty of wind blowing at you in this here vehicle!’ retorted Sylvester. ‘What for there's those three limousines up at the house never get used? You wouldn't go to meet that young lady this afternoon on that bicycle, would you?'

  Jared Royal grinned, putting up a hand to tug at the thick black hair which was overly long, and which, together with his lack of attire, gave him a piratical appearance. ‘Now that's quite an idea, Sylvester—'

  ‘You wouldn't!’ Sylvester was horrified, and Royal hastened to reassure him.

  ‘No. I guess she might have some objections to her cases hanging over the side,’ he mocked, and Sylvester released the Mercedes’ brake.

  ‘Your father would turn in his grave if he knew the way you carried on!’ he said as his final expression of indignation, and Jared was still smiling as he started the motor-cycle and followed him.

  The distance between Flintlock beach and the Royal house was some five miles by road, but on the motor-cycle he could halve that distance by cutting across the paddocks. The horses were used to the noise the motor-bike made, and only the older servants found their master's behaviour a subject for disapproval. But they forgave him, because young and old alike adored the man who since he was a boy had made no distinction between himself and his employees.

  He arrived back at the house fully five minutes before Sylvester, and dumping the motor-cycle near the garages, he walked through the patio area at the back of the house, and in through french windows.

  His bare feet made little sound against the tiled floor of the morning room, and he emerged into the hall without encountering anyone. But as he mounted the wide marble staircase to the first floor footsteps sounded in the hall below, and a woman's voice called:

  ‘Jared! Jared, whatever have you been doing? Are you aware it's after twelve o'clock?'

  He turned and surveyed his stepmother standing below him. Elizabeth Royal was only two years older than her stepson, and her slender figure and youthful way of styling her hair made her appear younger. In slim coral pants and an emerald green blouse, her curly auburn hair highlighted by the sun glinting through the panes of the window above the main doors to the building, she looked very attractive, and Jared Royal appreciated the fact. With a wry smile, he came down the stairs again, a head taller than she was even with her high heels.

  ‘You know perfectly well where I've been,’ he told her, amusement glinting in his curiously tawny coloured eyes. ‘Or did you think I'd been to the Legislature?'

  Elizabeth's tongue appeared as she moistened her lips which matched the colour of her pants. ‘Darling, you know that girl's arriving in a couple of hours. Don't you think that today at least you could have forgone the disappearing act?'

  ‘No.’ Jared thrust his thumbs into the low waistband of his shorts. ‘Look, Liz, I don't want you to put yourself out for Catherine Fulton. I wouldn't have had her here at all if it hadn't been for her father's letter. Hell, she's twenty years old! Old enough to make her own mistakes.'

  Elizabeth nodded as he was speaking, her fingers linked loosely together, watching him the whole time. Diminutive in stature, she was nevertheless a shrewd businesswoman, and only with Jared did she sometimes adopt an air of helpless femininity.

  ‘You're right, of course, darling,’ she murmured. ‘But naturally, as mistress of this establishment until you and Laura decide to get married, I don't want to let you down.'

  At the mention of his fiancée's name, Jared felt that familiar feeling of impatience. His engagement to Laura Prentiss had in no way been a voluntary one on his behalf, and there were times when he felt as if he was being manoeuvred into a situation from which it would be impossible for him to withdraw. But after his father's death, and the subsequent gossip which had evolved about him and Elizabeth continuing to live at Amaryllis alone together, he had allowed himself to be swayed into announcing a relationship between himself and Laura which until his father's death had been no more than a casual association. Now, almost two years after the event, he was beginning to feel the bands perceptibly tightening. Laura, he knew, wanted to get married, and Elizabeth seemed equally enthusiastic.

  With a silent oath, he turned back to the stairs. ‘Just leave it all to me, Liz,’ he directed, mounting the staircase with easy strides.

  When he came downstairs again, Elizabeth was waiting for him in the library, a high-ceilinged room, with book-lined walls and slatted blinds to f
ilter the brilliant sunlight. In cream denim pants, that moulded the contours of his thighs and flared only slightly down the long powerful legs, a cream silk shirt unbuttoned almost to his waist, and drops of water from the shower he had taken still glinting in the darkness of his hair, he looked lean and attractive, and unmistakably male. She came towards him smilingly, holding out a glass of his favourite mixture of rum and Coke, liberally chilled with ice, and he inclined his head in acknowledgement.

  ‘Lunch will be ready in five minutes,’ she said, cradling her glass of Martini between her fingers. ‘That should give you plenty of time to drive to the airport. What time did you say the flight was due in?'

  Jared lowered his glass. ‘Two-thirty. Barring accidents.'

  ‘Oh, Jared! You shouldn't say things like that.'

  ‘Why not?’ He shrugged. ‘All right—God willing, then.'

  Elizabeth's lips twitched. ‘What God would that be, darling?'

  Jared made no reply and moved to stand with his back to the room, staring moodily through the slats in the blind. He was in no mood for idle chatter, and was already bored by the prospect of the wasted afternoon ahead of him.

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn't like me to arrange a dinner party for this evening, Jared?’ Elizabeth was speaking again. ‘Don't you think it would—well, ease things a little? Laura and her parents would be pleased to come, I know, and Judge Ferris—'

  ‘No!’ Jared's harsh denial brought a flush of colour to her cheeks. ‘I've told you. There are to be no special parties laid on for Catherine Fulton's benefit.'

  ‘But, Jared, does that mean we've to stop entertaining for the duration of her stay?'

  ‘Of course not.’ Jared swung round and swallowed the remainder of the liquid in his glass. ‘Just don't overdo it, that's all.’ He moved to the drinks trolley and dropped his glass carelessly on to the tray. ‘Now—shall we go in to lunch?'

  Later that afternoon, driving down the tree-lined road towards the airport, Jared pondered the antagonism he felt towards his dear friend's daughter. Perhaps it was the remembrance that even at fourteen she had had all the instincts of a feline animal, and that now, six years later, she was still attempting to thwart his will with her own. Her choice of the word ‘vegetating’ to describe the life here in Barbados irritated him immensely, particularly as although he had visited England several times, he had never found London especially appealing. It was too noisy, too dirty, the air was too polluted with petrol and diesel fumes. Obviously, it was the company there she preferred, and Jack expected him to play the heavy father now.