Relative Sins. Anne MatherЧитать онлайн книгу.
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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 [email protected] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
Relative Sins
Anne Mather
Table of Contents
‘I AM the resurrection, and the life, said the Lord…’
The minister’s voice went on, the strangely familiar words of the funeral service arousing disbelief as well as numbing grief. The November day was icy, and the crowd gathered about the grave huddled deeper into their dark coats and warm gloves. Sara was fairly sure that they were wishing it were over, not just because of the unhappy circumstances, but because it reminded them of how truly mortal man was.
For herself, she had the feeling that she’d never be warm again. The chill she was experiencing came from inside as well as out. Her feet were freezing and her hands were cold, but she was hardly aware of physical discomfort. It was her emotions that felt as if they were encased in ice.
Thankfully, the ritual was almost over. In a little while she could escape so many sympathetic eyes and grieve in peace. One or two of those in attendance had raised handkerchiefs to their faces, quietly dabbing at their eyes or blowing noses to disguise an errant tear.
Harry’s mother was one of them, and Sara wished that she could feel closer to her mother-in-law. But Elizabeth Reed had never shown any affection for her daughter-in-law while Harry had been alive, and Sara suspected that she blamed her now for Harry’s untimely death.
The little boy standing beside Sara tugged at her sleeve, and she turned at once at the distraction. ‘Stand still, darling,’ she whispered softly. ‘We’ll be leaving soon.’ And then she immediately felt a pang of disloyalty for saying the words. All the same, if it hadn’t been for Elizabeth Reed Ben would not have attended his father’s funeral, and Sara was still of the opinion that her son was far too young to share their grief.
‘But I’m cold,’ Ben persisted, and scuffed his toe at a clod of earth.
‘I suppose we all are,’ Sara replied comfortingly. ‘But, I’ve told you, it won’t be long now. At least it isn’t raining.’ That would have been the final straw.
Ben’s dark head turned to look at the row of cars parked outside the churchyard. Watching him, Sara realised that her four-year-old son hadn’t comprehended the seriousness of the occasion. She’d told him that his father had gone to heaven, that he wouldn’t be coming back again. But she was sure he imagined heaven was some distant corner of his universe, and that in a while they’d all go home.
But where was home? she wondered unhappily, aware that Elizabeth Reed was watching them, and no doubt deploring Ben’s lack of discretion. Certainly not in Brazil, where Harry had died, and definitely not at Perry Edmunds, where her in-laws had always lived.
Tears came, unbidden, to Sara’s eyes and she tried to blink them away. She’d tried not show her grief too openly for Ben’s sake, but now and then the realisation overwhelmed her.
How could the urban guerillas whom Harry had so often negotiated with and trusted have mistaken him for a political opponent? The ambush, on a remote and mountainous section of the highway, had put Harry in the wrong place at the