Castles Of Sand
Castles Of Sand
Anne Mather
Mills & Boon are excited to present The Anne Mather Collection – the complete works by this classic author made available to download for the very first time! These books span six decades of a phenomenal writing career, and every story is available to read unedited and untouched from their original release. The governess’s secret…Ashely has not seen her son since he was taken away from her seven years ago – when she was blamed for her husband’s death by his family. Her only chance to be with little Hussein again is to become his governess on his Uncle Alain’s palatial home in the Middle East. Her son can’t know who she is to him – but she’ll take any chance to be near her boy. What she hadn’t expected was the fierce attraction that ignites between her and Alain, her sworn and mutual enemy…Ashely finally has a chance to be happy – but can she ever reveal her true identity? Dare she trust Alain enough to forgive her past?
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 (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
Castles of Sand
Anne Mather
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#ue527c015-7bd2-5d93-ac4c-e044ea7d1daf)
About the Author (#u0f1e35b7-1150-53ee-9c27-9c299d321869)
Title Page (#u0ffb10e2-39e3-5f91-8430-1eefeec43716)
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 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ue92955bb-7a4a-5392-be8a-0e904887c4aa)
THE room was quiet. Even though it was only a stone’s throw from the busy heart of London’s West End, the school buildings seldom allowed more than the steady hum of traffic to invade their thick walls, and Kingsley Square was a sequestered backwater, secure from the noise and confusion scarcely half a mile away. Sitting at her desk, with a pile of crisp new exercise books in front of her, Ashley could not have wished for more private surroundings to bear the shock she had just experienced, and yet it still left her shaking and incapable of coherent thought.
She looked at the register of names in front of her, and ran a trembling finger down the column. Devlin, Fredericks—perhaps she had been mistaken—but no, there it was again, Gauthier, Hussein Gauthier, there was no mistake. And it was not such a common name either. Surely, surely, there could not be two seven-year-old boys called Hussein Gauthier.
She did not often take a drink, but right now Ashley felt she could do with one. Her mouth felt dry, and her head was spinning, and although she knew there were other matters to be taken into consideration, all she could think of was that she was expected to have the boy in her form for a whole year!
It couldn’t be done. Her initial reactions were all negative. She would not—she could not—be expected to teach him; not in the present circumstances. It was too much to ask of anyone, any woman, at least. How could it have happened? What cruel twist of fate had brought the boy to this school, out of all the schools that could have been chosen? It was intolerable, it was unkind, it was inhuman!
Ashley got up jerkily from her desk, pushing back her chair so abruptly, it almost fell over, and rocked dangerously on its back legs. But it steadied itself, as Ashley tried to do, before stepping down from the small dais and walking determinedly towards the door.
Outside, the polished wooden blocks of the floor of the corridor stretched ahead of her, the walls lined with portraits of past headmasters of Brede School. Between the portraits, half glass doors opened into other classrooms and activity rooms, empty until tomorrow when the school re-opened after the summer recess. Ashley herself had only come in that morning to acclimatise herself to her surroundings again, and to run a casual eye over the new pupils she was to have charge of. She had been away, staying with some friends in Yorkshire, enjoying the unaccustomed freedom from books and learning, joining in the work of the farm, where she had spent the last two months. The Armstrongs had always been like her own family to her. She and Lucy Armstrong had met at university, and since then, apart from those disastrous months she had spent with Hassan, she had remained in regular contact with them. As she had no parents of her own, there had been many occasions when she had been grateful for their support, and at this very moment she would have welcomed Mr Armstrong’s practical common sense.
The corridor emerged on to a railed landing, overlooking the entrance hall below. The school had originally been formed in the eighteenth century by linking together two town houses, and although the buildings had been added to since that time, the atmosphere of a close community remained. There were lots of halls and curiously winding staircases, and low beams to catch the unwary, but as the boys it accommodated were only five to thirteen years of age, it seldom troubled them. It was a small school, only a hundred and fifty pupils, but its record was excellent, and its results ensured a permanent register of pupils waiting to receive a place.
As she hurried down the stairs, Ashley wondered how Hussein had been admitted. Had his name been entered since his birth, as many of the boys’ names had, or had someone in authority pulled some strings? She could hardly believe the former, and although the latter seemed more likely, what unknowing chance had prompted Alain to choose this school?
Malcolm Henley, the present headmaster of Brede School, had his study on the ground floor, in a room which had once been used as a reception parlour. It was not a large room, but the ceiling was high, and the bookshelves that lined the walls drew one’s eyes upwards rather than pointing to its limited proportions. It was a comfortable room, a masculine room, with rather austere furnishings and fittings, but Ashley had always felt at ease here, and during the five years she had been working in the school, she and Malcolm had become close friends.
Now, she knocked at the door, and having been bidden to enter, stepped on to the worn brown carpet. Malcolm had been seated at his desk, but at her entrance he rose politely to his feet, and with a warm smile came round the desk to greet her.
‘Well, Ashley,’ he said, as she closed the door behind her. ‘Have you satisfied yourself that everything is as you left it?’
Ashley forced a faint smile. ‘Yes. Yes, I’ve done that,’ she answered, withdrawing her hand from his enthusiastic hold. ‘And—and I checked over the new register of pupils.’
Malcolm nodded, pulling his pipe out of his pocket, and examining the bowl with a knowing eye. ‘You’ll see you’ve got fifteen boys this year,’ he remarked, searching his pockets for some matches. ‘I’ve agreed to take on an extra pupil, one who is slightly older than we usually take them, but an intelligent boy for all that, or so I believe.’
‘Hussein Gauthier,’ put in Ashley tightly, and Malcolm acknowledged this as he struck a match.
‘Gauthier, yes, that is the boy’s name,’ he agreed, smiling as he dropped the spent match into the already overflowing ashtray. Then a look of mild concern crossed his lined, yet still handsome, face. ‘Is something wrong, Ashley? You look—disturbed.’
Ashley indicated the chair at the opposite side of the desk. ‘Can I sit down?’
‘Of course.’ Malcolm walked to resume his seat. ‘Need you ask?’ He frowned. ‘You’re not ill, are you?’
‘Physically, you mean?’ suggested Ashley, a vaguely hysterical note lurking in her voice. ‘No. No, Malcolm, I’m not ill. At least, not in any way that you can see.’
Malcolm rested his elbows on the desk and regarded her thoughtfully across its littered width. ‘You are upset, aren’t you? What is it? Is there anything I can do?’
Ashley lay back in the worn leather armchair and wished desperately that there was. But she didn’t see what anyone could do—except herself. She and Malcolm had never discussed her past. Oh, he knew she had been married, and that her husband had died within a few days of that marriage, but that was all. She had never discussed his identity, or their relationship, and as she had reverted to her maiden name of Gilbert, the rest of the staff were no wiser.
‘Would you like a drink?’
Malcolm indicated the decanter on the filing cabinet by the window, but Ashley shook her head. ‘It’s only eleven o’clock,’ she protested, and Malcolm shrugged his shoulders.
‘Perhaps you need one,’ he suggested, and remembering her own thoughts of only a few minutes ago, Ashley acquiesced. Maybe it would be easier to say what she had to say with a little dutch courage inside her. She didn’t honestly know what she was going to say, but something had to be said, that was certain.
With a glass containing a measure of Scotch whisky in her hand, Ashley strove to find a way to explain herself. ‘I—I have to offer you my resignation,’ she said, clearing her throat as Malcolm stared at her aghast. ‘I—I’m sorry. I know it’s an awkward time for you, the beginning of term and everything, but—I—I’m sorry.’
She buried her nose in the glass as Malcolm digested what she had just told him. Characteristically, he did not immediately deny her claim, but sat there quietly smoking his pipe, watching her with the same assessing intentness, with which he appraised the boys.
‘I assume you do intend to tell me why you’ve come to this decision,’ he said at last, when Ashley had choked over the raw alcohol and set her eyes streaming. ‘You do realise that I care about you, and am concerned about you, and that whatever it is that’s troubling you is better shared?’
Ashley expelled her breath shakily. ‘You’re very kind, Malcolm, but—–’
‘I’m not kind!’ he retorted briefly. ‘I’m concerned. That’s a completely different thing.’
Ashley sighed. Malcom was kind, whatever he said. Kind, and understanding, and had she never known another kind of loving she might easily have succumbed to his affectionate attentions. But when she first came to Brede School to work, she had still been raw from her experiences with the Gauthiers, and she had made it plain that so far as men were concerned she preferred them to keep their distance. In consequence, the association which had developed over the years between her and Malcolm was compounded of a mutual liking and respect, and if, as a bachelor of almost forty years, Malcolm still hoped for a closer relationship, Ashley was not to blame. Nevertheless she did not want to hurt him, and she was loath to destroy what she had built up without due cause.
‘I have to leave,’ she said now, choosing her words with care. ‘Something—something’s happened. I—I can’t stay on.’
Malcolm tapped out his pipe in the ashtray, spilling smouldering shreds of tobacco over the scarred surface of his desk, so that he had to rescue several papers from ignition. Then, turning an unusually taut gaze on Ashley, he said:
‘Why? Why can’t you? You seemed perfectly all right when you arrived this morning. Why, we waved to one another across the quadrangle. For heaven’s sake, if you were thinking of leaving, why didn’t you warn me then?’
Ashley shook her head, looking down into her glass, and with sudden perception Malcolm brought his fist down hard upon the desk. ‘I have it!’ he exclaimed. ‘You weren’t thinking of leaving then, were you? It’s something else. Something that’s happened this morning. Something to do with this new form you’re taking—–’
‘No—–’ began Ashley, realising he was closing on the truth, but Malcolm wasn’t listening to her.
‘It must have to do with the boy,’ he finished at last. ‘What was his name? Gauthier—Hussein Gauthier! Of course,’ this as Ashley turned a stricken face towards him. ‘Why didn’t I realise it before? You identified him immediately, as soon as I mentioned a new boy. I should have connected the two things sooner, only I was more concerned about you.’
Ashley set down her scarcely-touched glass with a weary hand. What was the point of denying it any longer? she thought. Malcolm was no fool. He could demand a satisfactory explanation, he deserved a satisfactory explanation. So why pretend she could just leave here without arousing his suspicions?
‘Well?’ he was asking now. ‘I am right, aren’t I? It’s the boy Gauthier who’s upset you. Why? What’s he to you? Do you know him? Do you know his family? Ashley, I mean to find out, so you might as well be honest with me.’
Ashley inclined her head. ‘He’s my son,’ she said simply, folding her hands in her lap. ‘Hussein—Andrew—Gauthier is my son.’
Malcolm’s astonishment was not contrived. A look of stunned disbelief crossed his features and remained there. He was evidently shaken, and who could blame him? she thought bleakly. She had never, at any time, mentioned that she had had a child.
‘Don’t you think that statement deserves some explanation?’ he ventured at last, thrusting his pipe back into his pocket with somewhat unsteady haste. ‘You told me you’d been married, that your husband was dead. But—but not that—that there were children!’
‘There were no children,’ retorted Ashley wearily. ‘Only one child. And—and as I never saw him, I never felt as if he was mine.’
‘But you must have done!’ Malcolm stared at her. ‘Ashley, a woman always cares about her children.’
‘Not all women,’ corrected Ashley tautly, controlling her emotions with great difficulty. ‘But you’re right about me, as it happens. I did care. At least, in the beginning.’
Malcolm shook his head. ‘You mean to tell me you’ve never even seen this boy?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But how—why? How did it happen?’
Ashley sighed. ‘It’s a long story, Malcolm—–’
‘And don’t you think I deserve to hear it?’
Ashley pressed her lips together. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps you do—I don’t know. Oh, Malcolm, what am I going to do?’
Malcolm got up from his chair and came round to her, perching on the side of his desk and looking down at her with compassionate eyes. ‘I meant what I said, you know. A trouble shared can help one to see it in its right perspective. Perhaps if you talked to me—–’
‘I can’t teach my own son!’ declared Ashley emotively. ‘I can’t, Malcolm. I can’t!’
‘I see there’s a problem,’ said Malcolm levelly, but as she would have protested again, he held up one hand. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Hear me out. This is something we have to talk about.’
Ashley made a helpless gesture. ‘What is there to say? It’s an impossible situation.’
‘First of all, I want you to tell me why you haven’t seen—Hussein—all these years.’ He frowned. ‘And why you added the name Andrew. I don’t recall the boy having that name.’
‘He doesn’t.’ Ashley moved her shoulders wearily. ‘That was my name for him. I called him Andrew. I—I refused to have a son of mine with only an Arab name.’
Malcolm nodded. ‘All right, I understand that. But I had no idea your husband was an Arab. I imagined he was someone you’d met in England.’
‘I did meet him in England,’ said Ashley flatly. ‘I—I met his brother at—at the home of a girl I got to know at university. And—and through him, I got to know Hassan.’
‘I see.’ Malcolm digested this. ‘So you know his family?’
‘I—knew his brother,’ Ashley corrected tightly.
Malcolm sighed. ‘Yet you were married. You had a child!’
‘I lived in London,’ Ashley explained. ‘Hassan had been working here before we got married.’
‘Of course.’ Malcolm slapped his hand to his knee. ‘The Gauthiers are in oil and shipping, aren’t they?’ He gave her a strange look. ‘Ashley, did you realise what a wealthy family you were marrying into?’
Ashley’s long lashes veiled her expression. ‘Yes, I realised it,’ she replied dully. ‘You might say—that was why I married Hassan.’
‘Ashley!’
‘Well—–’ she tilted her gaze up to him, her green eyes dark and haunted, ‘I wouldn’t be the first girl to admit that. It’s true. I was pregnant, you see.’
‘Oh, my dear!’ Malcolm made a sound of sympathy. ‘And you were—how old?’
‘Eighteen,’ she answered blankly. ‘In my first year at the college.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘I was very naïve.’
Malcolm hesitated. ‘But he did marry you. Some men—well, you know what I mean.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Ashley assented, ‘I know what you mean. But Hassan—always got what he wanted, and he wanted me.’
She said it without conceit, and Malcolm watched her closely. ‘You’re still bitter.’
Ashley’s smile was self-derisive. ‘Yes.’
‘Your husband dying so soon after the wedding—that must have been a great shock to you.’
Ashley’s expression hardened. ‘Yes.’
‘They—his family—they wouldn’t let you keep the boy?’
Ashley bent her head. ‘I’d really rather not talk about it.’
‘Which means I’m right, doesn’t it?’
‘Malcolm, you don’t understand.’
‘What don’t I understand?’
Ashley sighed. ‘Hassan died the day after the wedding—–’
‘So?’
‘—–and his family blamed me!’
Malcolm stared at her. ‘Why?’
Ashley turned her head away. ‘Oh, Malcolm, don’t make me go into all the details. Let it be enough that they thought they had grounds for thinking that.’
‘But it wasn’t true?’
Ashley looked at him with tortured eyes. ‘No, it wasn’t true.’
‘And later, when they found out you were pregnant?’
Ashley hunched her shoulders. ‘We were estranged. I’d gone back to college. When—when—Hassan’s brother found out, he gave me a choice of alternatives.’ Her lips twisted. ‘Either I handed over the child when he was born, and allowed them to bring him up in the way he deserved, or he would wait until the child was older and then fight for him through the courts.’ She expelled her breath unsteadily. ‘I wanted to do that, to keep him, and care for him, but how could I? I had no money of my own, and I wanted nothing from the Gauthiers. And—and I knew Alain meant what he said. He would have taken Andrew from me, by one means or another.’ She bit hard on her lips to prevent them from trembling, then added tautly: ‘You read about these things every day. Babies, children—snatched from this country, and taken to live with their fathers in some foreign place. Alain could have done that, he would have done that, I know. And how much harder it would have been for me to lose him after I’d learned to love him …’
She avoided Malcolm’s eyes as she said this. There were other reasons why she had let the boy go, but she had no intention of revealing them. She had told him too much already, more that she had told anyone, except the Armstrongs, without whom she might never have recovered from that traumatic experience. But it had been over. There had even been days when she had not thought about him at all. And now to find she was not to be allowed to forget it was the cruellest blow of all.
‘Alain?’ said Malcolm now. ‘This, I assume, is Hassan’s brother.’
‘Yes.’
‘But their names are dissimilar. And Gauthier—that’s not an Arab name.
‘No.’ Ashley cleared her throat again. ‘There’s—there’s French ancestry somewhere in their history, and—and Alain’s mother was French, actually. She—she was his father’s second wife.’
Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. ‘You mean your husband and his brother had different mothers?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Hassan—your husband—his mother died?’
‘No.’ Ashley spoke tautly. ‘So far as I know, she’s still alive. Prince—Prince Ahmed is a Moslem.’
Malcolm was amazed. ‘I see.’
Ashley had had enough of this. Pushing back her chair, she got to her feet, moving away from Malcolm and stiffening her spine. ‘So you see,’ she said, endeavouring to speak calmly, ‘my remaining here is—is quite out of the question. I shall look—–’
‘Wait. Wait!’ Malcolm slid off the desk and stood facing her impotently, balling his hand into a fist, and pressing it into his palm. ‘Ashley, there must be something I can do, some way I can persuade you to change your mind.’ He paced restlessly across the floor. ‘If I were to transfer him to another class—transfer you to another class—–’
Ashley shook her head. ‘You couldn’t do that, Malcolm. He’s—seven. He should be with seven-year-olds.’
‘But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t take another form,’ Malcolm pointed out recklessly. ‘If I speak to Harry Rogers—–’
Ashley turned away. ‘He’d still be in the school.’
‘But—–’ Malcolm made a sound of frustration, ‘you wouldn’t know him. You need never see him. He would be just another boy—–’
‘You’re asking a lot,’ Ashley exclaimed, glancing at him over her shoulder. ‘Could you do it? Could you work here, knowing your son was in the school and didn’t know you?’
Malcolm had the grace to look disconcerted. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I don’t think you could,’ said Ashley steadily. ‘I don’t think anyone could.’
‘Well, you must give me time to think, to make arrangements,’ Malcolm exhorted desperately. ‘Tomorrow the boarders return, and the day after that school re-opens. You can’t abandon me without notice, Ashley.’
Ashley held up her head. ‘How much notice do you want?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. A month is usual. A term would be better.’
‘And in my case?’
Malcolm sighed. ‘Two weeks?’ he ventured tentatively.
‘Two weeks!’ Ashley sucked in her breath. ‘Malcolm—–’
‘I’ll transfer you. I’ll let Rogers take your form. Who knows, you may change your mind.’
‘I won’t.’ Ashley was very definite about that. But she managed to maintain a semblance of composure as she added: ‘I’ll submit my written resignation this afternoon. And I’ll transfer my things to Room 1A.’
Malcolm made a baffled gesture. ‘Won’t you at least think about this, Ashley? You’ve been here five years!’
‘I know.’ Ashley moved towards the door. ‘And they’ve been good years. But you must see, I have to do this.’
Eventually he let her go, but she knew he was not entirely satisfied that she was determined. He still held out hopes that she might change her mind, while Ashley knew that nothing he said or did could alter her decision. She would be sad to leave Brede School. She had been happy here, or at least, she had been content. Now she was lost and uncertain, with the unwelcome knowledge that it was not going to be easy to find another post. It was the wrong time of the year, and she could only hope that there was someone else, like her, who suddenly found her present position intolerable.
But even as these thoughts occurred to her, they were superseded by others. Andrew was going to be living in England, in London, and unless she took a post out of the capital, he would always be only a few miles away. Her small flat in Kilburn was only a bus ride from the school. She could make it there in less than half an hour. Could she bear to go on living within breathing distance of her son?
She hurried along the corridor from Malcolm’s study with a feeling of impending disaster weighing down on her. Why, oh, why had Alain chosen to send the boy back to England to be educated? She would never have expected it of him. The United States, perhaps, but not England. Not after everything that had happened.
And then again, she argued, why not? Both Alain and Hassan had been educated in England. Why should she have imagined anything less would be good enough for Andrew? He was a Gauthier. And unless Alain had married and produced a son, the only heir to his grandfather’s fortune.
Ashley’s stomach churned. Alain could have married, she acknowledged, but the thought still had the power to leave her weak. It was not fair, she thought, that one man should wield so much power over her, particularly when he regarded her as an inferior being, a nonentity, something to be trampled on. And it was ironic that history should have appeared to have reversed itself. Prince Ahmed had married Alain’s mother after his first wife, Princess Izmay, had produced a series of daughters. But, within a year of Alain being born, she had borne him a son, Hassan, thus ensuring the line of succession. Now Alain’s brother had succeeded in marrying before him, and the son Ashley had had was heir to Prince Ahmed.
In the entrance hall she paused, looking about her almost with a sense of bereavement. This school had come to mean a lot to her. She knew many of the boys, as they had passed through her form on their way to the middle school. She was popular with them, and being young herself could understand their problems better than some of the older masters. She and the biology mistress were the only female tutors on the staff, and she had begun to regard it less like a job and more like a vocation. She had never thought of marrying again, and these boys had become her family. Brought up by an elderly aunt, without either brothers or sisters of her own, she had welcomed their friendship and their confidences, and she dreaded the thought of beginning again with strangers.
The doorbell rang behind her, and she turned automatically, going to open it without hesitation. She guessed it might be the launderers or the caterers, or even the firm of contractors who had been redecorating the dormitories, and making minor repairs, and she flung the door wide, glad of the diversion. But the man and the boy who stood outside the door were not tradespeople at all, and Ashley’s jaw sagged in horror as she perceived their identity.
The man, too, looked taken aback at her appearance, but with the assurance that came from his position he recovered more quickly, hiding his real feelings behind a mask of courtesy. As she struggled to evade the encroaching wave of blackness that threatened to engulf her, he gathered his composure and assumed a polite expression, and she was left to gaze at the boy, as if she was afraid he might disappear in a cloud of smoke.
She couldn’t believe it. After all these years, she simply couldn’t believe it, and her knees shook abominably as she hung desperately on to the door handle. The amazing thing was, he even looked like her, although he had his father’s dark hair and skin. But the green eyes were hers, and so too was the straight nose, and the generous mouth was parted slightly, as if aware of some irregularity here.
‘Miss—Miss Gilbert, is it not?’ Just by the momentary hesitation did Alain betray his agitation, and Ashley dragged her gaze from the boy’s tall slim figure to the man’s tautly controlled features.
‘P-Prince Alain,’ she acknowledged, bowing her head. ‘Wh-what can I do for you?’
Alain glanced about him half impatiently, as if seeking deliverance. A tall lean man, with straight dark hair, and just the slightest crook in his nose, where it had once been broken in a boyish fight, he had changed little over the years, she thought. He was, she knew, in his early thirties now, and although the lines in his face were more deeply carved than they had been, he was still the most disturbing man she had ever encountered. In an immaculately-cut European suit, he looked cool and businesslike, but she also knew he looked equally well in a loose flowing burnous or the tunic-like djellaba he had worn about his apartment. The apartment! Her tongue clove to the dry roof of her mouth. Why did she have to think of that now?
Alain fixed her with a steely gaze, and then spoke, almost with reluctance. ‘I wish to speak with a Monsieur Henley,’ he declared, his deep voice harsher than she remembered. ‘He is the headmaster here, is he not? Will you please tell him I am here?’
Just like that, thought Ashley bitterly. Within the space of a few moments, he had accepted her presence in the school and dismissed it, and was already issuing his orders. He did not ask how she was; he did not ask what she was doing here; he did not care how she might be feeling, having just seen her son for the first, and possibly only, time in her life. Without sensitivity or emotion, he expected her to do his bidding, and ignore the deeper ravages of time and circumstance.
Her eyes moved to the boy again, searching his face eagerly, hungrily, seeking some recognition from him, even though she knew such a thing was impossible. The boy did not know her. He had probably not been told of her existence. And of a certainty, his uncle would never reveal her identity.
Yet, as if aware of the intentness of her gaze, Andrew responded, his mouth tilting at the corners to form a smile, a smile that entered his eyes and caused them to twinkle with evident humour. He smiled at her, shyly but warmly, and her heart palpitated wildly at this evidence of his amusement. Ashley could feel the tears pricking at the back of her eyes, she could sense the unspoken communication between them; and she knew an almost uncontrollable impulse to put her arms around him and hold him close …
‘Mr Henley, mademoiselle?’ Alain did not move, but the barrier his words erected was an almost physical thing. ‘He is here, is he not?’
‘What? Oh! Oh, yes. Yes, of course.’
Foolishly, Ashley stepped backward, her eyes still on the boy, still shaking with the emotions he had aroused in her. He was so handsome, she thought, so beautiful! And he was hers! Her son! Hers and—–
‘Will you give Mr Henley my message?’
Alain’s voice had hardened, and as she dragged her eyes to him once again she flinched beneath the withering contempt of his gaze. Of course, she thought bitterly, he must know how she was feeling, but what satisfaction was he getting from torturing her in this way?
Shaking her head, she tried to recover some perspective. He was here—they were here—to see Malcolm, and somehow she had to accept that this encounter was an accident, nothing more, a cruel accident, for which none of them was to blame. It was not a deliberate attempt to wound her, to crucify her with images of what might have been. Alain must be as shocked as she was, but she knew well his capacity to hide his true feelings.
‘I—er—I’ll get someone to take you to Mr Henley,’ she said huskily, knowing she could not do it herself. Not now. Not when Malcolm knew! It would be just too much for her to bear.
As they stepped into the hall she looked about her desperately, praying for a friendly face, and was rewarded when Mr Norris, the elderly caretaker, came trudging down the stairs.
‘Oh, Mr Norris,’ she exclaimed in relief. ‘Mr—er—this gentleman wishes to see Mr Henley. Do you think you could show him the way to Miss Langley’s office? She—she’ll see if Mr Henley is free.’
‘Very well, Miss Gilbert.’ Mr Norris smiled. He liked the young English mistress. She was quiet and unassuming, and she wasn’t always complaining when the lights fused or the radiators persistently remained cold. ‘If you’ll follow me, Mr—er—–?
‘Gauthier,’ inserted Alain without expression, shunning his title. ‘Thank you.’
His thanks encompassed both of them, but Ashley was scarcely paying attention. She was looking at Andrew again, imprinting his likeness in her mind, creating an image for all the empty years ahead of her, holding it there with a persistence born of desperation. If only, she thought, as he started obediently after Mr Norris, if only …
‘Do not even think of it,’ Alain’s harsh voice decreed, in a tone low enough for only her to hear. ‘He is not your son. He is Hassan’s. He will never be told that his mother caused his father to take his own life!’
CHAPTER TWO (#ue92955bb-7a4a-5392-be8a-0e904887c4aa)
ASHLEY arrived back at her flat in a state of extreme nervous exhaustion. She had a sense of unreality, too, as if what had happened was just some awful nightmare, from which she must soon awaken. But although she might wish otherwise, the feelings fermenting inside her were not imaginary, and nor was the raw vulnerability of her emotions. She felt exposed and defenceless, powerless in the face of such a potent adversary, and no amount of objective thinking or cold self-analysis could spare her the agony of losing her soil for the second time.
As she ground the beans and filled the coffee percolator, all without any conscious thought, she thought how incredible it was that she should have allowed the Gauthiers to take him without a fight. He was her son. She was his mother. She had the most elemental right in the world to look after him, and care for him, so why had she let him go so easily?
Clattering a cup into a saucer, she knew she did not have to think hard to find the answer. It was because of Alain she had let him go, because of Alain she had not put up a fight; and because of Alain she was now in this deplorable position.
Leaving the coffee to bubble, she went into the main room of the flat. This was a comfortably-sized living room, with an L-shaped alcove accommodating a round dining table and four chairs. It had taken her three years to graduate to this standard of living, from a room in a boarding house, via a bedsitter, to this two-bedroomed apartment, with kitchen and bath. With care, and careful saving, she had finally succeeded in furnishing it to her liking, and she looked round now at the green velvet chairs and yellow-patterned carpet, in a desperate search for reassurance. But all she could see was a boy’s smiling face, framed by straight dark hair, and a man’s grim, forbidding countenance.
In an effort to escape the futility of her thoughts, she hurried into her bedroom, unbuttoning the skirt and blouse she had worn to. go to school and donning instead a pair of yellow baggy pants and a brown and green striped smock. Then she loosened her hair from its confining knot so that it spilled like honey-coloured silk below her shoulders. As she brushed its silken length, she realised it was an unnecessary vanity. It would be far more sensible to have it cut, and keep it in one of the short modern styles, which were so flattering to the girls of her acquaintance. But somehow it was a link with the past, an unconscious one to be sure, and only now did she realise that Alain’s influence still reached out to her.
The percolator was bubbling merrily when she went back into the kitchen, and after pouring herself a cup of coffee she carried it into the living room. It was after two o’clock, she realised with a pang, but she wasn’t hungry, and she determinedly picked up the daily paper and tried to interest herself in the national news. But the events of the morning persisted in intruding, and eventually she gave it up to recapture those moments when Andrew had smiled at her. She allowed herself the pleasure of wondering what he would have done if she had taken him in her arms and told him who she was. How would he have reacted? Would he have been pleased or apprehensive, glad or sorry? Would he have believed her? Or would he have thought she was some crazy lady, claiming a relationship that was totally alien to him? He had been brought up by the Gauthiers. It was a predominantly Moslem household. How could he ever identify with her, particularly after all this time?
Her coffee cooled as the realities of the situation dispelled her momentary euphoria. They were from different cultures, different civilisations. From an early age he would have been taught to regard women as secondary beings, created for man’s enjoyment and little else, expected always to defer to their masters, and obedient to their wishes. He would know that his grandfather had two wives, and even if Alain’s beliefs had been in opposition to his father’s, who was to say what those beliefs were now, or whether he too had not adopted the sexual morals of the rest of his family …
Her temples began to throb as she remained there on the couch, her knees drawn up under her, her head resting wearily against the soft cushions. Who would have dreamed when she awakened that morning that by lunchtime she would have suffered such a dramatic upheaval? She had made her life here, such as it was. She had made friends, she had a good job. Yet in the space of a morning it had all been destroyed, and she was left without peace or tranquillity, or hope.
She thrust the still full coffee cup on to the low table beside her and stretched her legs. Somehow she had to forget what had happened, she told herself severely. She had lived seven years without seeing her son; she might have to live another fifty years without doing so. Of course, there was always the chance that when Andrew got older he might start asking questions his grandfather and his uncle would not be able to answer, and then he might come looking for her himself. But that was an unlikely expectation to say the least, when for all she knew, Alain might have told him she was dead.
She closed her eyes against such a final denigration, then opened them again when someone knocked at her door. It was a peremptory tattoo, unlike her neighbour’s usual tap, but she couldn’t think of anyone other than Mrs Forest who might call at this time of day.
‘Coming,’ she called, sliding off the couch, and padding barefoot to the door. ‘You startled me,’ she was adding, as she lifted the latch, and then fell back in dismay when she recognised her visitor. ‘You!’ she breathed, pressing a hand to her throat. ‘Wh-what do you want? Why have you come here?’
‘An unnecessary question,’ remarked Alain flatly, stepping past her without invitation. ‘Why else would I come here, except to see you? Can you honestly say you did not expect me?’
‘Yes!’ Ashley strove for breath. ‘Yes,’ she repeated. ‘I can honestly say that. Wh-why have you come here? Why should you want to see me?’
Alain turned in the centre of the floor, dark and forbidding in his charcoal grey attire. ‘Close the door, will you?’ he directed, flicking a careless hand, on the little finger of which a dragon’s eye ruby glinted balefully. ‘I do not propose to speak with you in sight and hearing of a crowd of inquisitive tenants.’
‘You flatter yourself,’ returned Ashley tensely, making no move to obey him. ‘And why should I allow you into my apartment? We—we have nothing to say to one another.’
‘I disagree,’ Alain argued smoothly, and with an arbitrary gesture he crossed the floor to her side, rescuing the handle of the door from her grasp and closing it firmly with a definite click.
‘You have no right to do this,’ Ashley protested, gazing up at him tremulously, but Alain did not acknowledge her indignation. As she struggled to compose herself, he returned to his position in the centre of the floor and suggested she take a seat.
‘This is my flat,’ Ashley declared, endeavouring to hide the tremor in her voice. ‘I’ll decide when or if I sit down, not you!’
‘As you wish.’ Alain’s mouth thinned. ‘You were always an argumentative creature. But what I have to say may make you change your mind, so be warned.’
Ashley took a deep breath. ‘You—you have a nerve, coming here, trying to tell me how to behave—–’
‘I do not propose to get involved in futile discussions of that sort,’ he interrupted her bleakly. ‘You and I have known one another too long to be in any doubt as to one another’s character, and—–’
‘We never knew one another!’ Ashley choked bitterly. ‘You didn’t know me, and it’s certain I never knew you!’
‘Please try not to be emotional,’ Alain advised her briefly, folding his arms across the waist-coated expanse of his chest. ‘I did not come here to argue the merits of our past relationships. Sufficient to say that you do not appear to have suffered by them. You are still as beautiful as ever—and no doubt duping some other poor fool, as you once did my brother!’
Ashley’s fingers stung across his cheek, almost before he had finished speaking, and she watched in horror as the marks she had made appeared on his dark skin. She waited in silent apprehension for him to retaliate in kind, as he had once done in the past, but apart from lifting a brown-fingered hand to finger his bruised cheek, he took no immediate retribution.
‘So,’ he said at last. ‘Now you have relieved yourself of such pent-up energy, perhaps we can now get to the point of my visit.’
‘What point?’ Ashley was sullen, as much from a sense of self-recrimination as from anything he had said. She had made a fool of herself, not him, by her childish display of temper, and it was up to her now to prove that she could be as controlled as he was.
‘Perhaps if you were to offer me a cup of coffee,’ he said, indicating her cup nearby. ‘Obviously I have interrupted you. If we were to behave more as—acquaintances than enemies—–’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Ashley’s nerve snapped again, and she turned away from him abruptly, feeling the hot tears stinging in her eyes. It was no use. She could not be unemotional about this, and she groped for a tissue to wipe away the evidence.
‘You are behaving foolishly,’ exclaimed Alain’s voice behind her, and in spite of her confusion at his sudden nearness, she thought she detected a trace of reluctant remorse in his tone. ‘I do not wish to resurrect old hatreds,’ he added roughly. ‘I only wish to speak with you, Ashley, to offer you my help.’
‘Your help?’ Ashley spun round to face him then, tilting back her head so that she could look into his eyes. He had always been taller than she was, even though she was not a small girl, but barefoot as she was his advantage was greater. She gazed into those enigmatic blue eyes, so startlingly unusual in such an alien countenance, and her lips parted in disbelief. ‘You want to help me?’ she whispered, moving her head from side to side, and his long silky lashes drooped to narrow the pupils.
‘Yes,’ he said curtly. ‘That was my only intention. But you do not make good intentions easy.’
‘You? With good intentions?’ Ashley’s lips quivered. ‘I don’t believe it.’
Alain’s jaw hardened. ‘Have a care, Ashley. You have tried my patience once this afternoon. Do not push your luck. I may not be so lenient the second time around.’
Ashley held up her head. ‘Then go! I didn’t ask you to come here. I—I want nothing from the Gauthiers. Nothing!’
‘Nothing?’
‘Except perhaps—my son,’ she conceded almost inaudibly, and then winced when his hands closed on her shoulders, biting into the soft flesh, bruising the bone.
‘Do not say that again,’ he commanded harshly. ‘I told you this morning. Hussein is not your son. He has never been your son. He has been brought up to believe he is an orphan, that his mother died along with his father—–’
‘No,’ Ashley caught her breath, but Alain was merciless.
‘Yes,’ he declared grimly. ‘So far as Hussein is concerned, you do not exist. And you must not exist, is that understood?’
Ashley tried to pull away from him, but he would not let her go, and her fury erupted into passion. ‘Why are you doing this, Alain?’ she cried, balling her fists and attempting to strike him. ‘Why are you telling me these things? Haven’t I suffered enough, is that it? Don’t you have any pity, any compassion? How do you think I felt, seeing my own son, knowing he didn’t recognise me? What more do you want of me, you bastard!’
‘You have a viper’s tongue, Ashley,’ he drawled, but she could tell her insults had annoyed him. ‘However, I am prepared to believe that seeing the boy has temporarily unhinged your brain, and therefore I will not retaliate in kind.’
‘How good of you!’ Ashley threw back her head as the heavy weight of her hair fell across her forehead. ‘Well, let me tell you, I was never more sane in my life, and I don’t need your tolerance or your offer of help!’
Alain’s expression was grim. ‘Nevertheless, you will listen to me.’
‘Will I? Will I?’ Ashley deliberately taunted him, knowing she was nearing the end of her nervous reserves, desperate for him to go before she broke down completely. ‘And how will you make me? By—by fair means—or foul?’
Alain shook her, violently, so that her head rocked alarmingly back and forth, the swinging curtain of her hair seeming to make it almost too heavy for her slender neck to support. ‘I came to the school to withdraw Hussein’s name from the register,’ he grated savagely. ‘I do not know why I brought him with me, except perhaps that he wanted to come. I did not expect to see you. The school is not due to open for two days. How was I to know that one of its teachers—–’
Ashley’s head lolled back. ‘You mean—you knew!’
‘That you were employed there, yes. Since I brought Hussein to London, I found out.’
Ashley blinked. ‘And—and that was why you wanted to withdraw his name?’
‘Of course.’ Alain looked down at his fingers digging into the fine cotton of her smock, and allowed them to slacken slightly. ‘You do not suppose I would permit otherwise?’
Ashley tried to think, but coherent thought was difficult. ‘A-and?’
‘Your Mr Henley explained that you had resigned,’ he replied flatly. ‘For the same reason, one would suppose.’
‘One would suppose correctly,’ said Ashley tautly. ‘So?’
‘So—Hussein’s name remains on the register. At least, until this matter is settled.’
‘What matter?’
‘The matter of your employment,’ said Alain, releasing her abruptly to thrust his hands into the pockets of his dark trousers. And as she gazed at him nonplussed: ‘I have a proposition to put to you.’
Ashley’s tongue came to circle her lips. ‘A proposition?’ she echoed, even as her brain refused to take it in. She was still stunned by the knowledge that he had known of her involvement with Brede School before their encounter that morning, and she knew him too well to trust any proposal he might make.
‘Won’t you sit down now?’ he suggested briefly, indicating the couch behind him, but Ashley shook her head.
‘Thank you, I prefer to stand,’ she retorted coldly, and had the satisfaction of seeing that she had annoyed him once again.
‘Very well,’ he said at last, moving away from her, and she had a momentary premonition that he was not as controlled as he appeared. Just for a second, when he looked at her, she had glimpsed a curious expression in his eyes, but then the mask fell into place and he was once more his father’s eldest son.
‘There is a post,’ he said, standing before the screened fireplace with his back to her. ‘In Cairo. A friend of mine requires a governess for his two daughters. It will be a well-paid position, with every amenity available to someone of your—–’
‘No!’ The word burst from Ashley in incensed denial. ‘No, I don’t want your rotten post! My work is here, in England. If I choose to take a private position, it will be of my choosing, not yours!’
‘Do you not wish to work in Egypt, is that it? You would prefer some other place?’ Alain still did not turn. ‘Perhaps I could make other arrangements—–’
‘No!’ Ashley’s response was the same, and now he did turn, slowly, to face her.
‘You will not change your mind?’ he enquired, his face grim, and she shook her head. ‘Very well, then. I will withdraw Hussein from the school.’
‘Why? Ashley took an involuntary step towards him, her bewilderment plain. ‘Why? I’ve resigned—Malcolm told you that. What more do you want?’
‘Malcolm?’ Alain’s dark brows arched interrogatively. ‘Who is—Malcolm?’
‘Malcolm Henley,’ exclaimed Ashley impatiently. ‘Mr Henley, the headmaster.’
Alain’s mouth tightened. ‘It would appear you know him better than I thought,’ he said accusingly. ‘He is your—friend, perhaps. Your—lover?’
Ashley’s face flamed. ‘No! That is—Malcolm is a friend, yes.’ And then, realising she was stammering like a schoolgirl, she added fiercely: ‘It’s no business of yours what our relationship is.’
Alain stiffened. ‘Then he is your lover. And this is why you do not wish to leave London.’
‘No!’ Ashley didn’t know why she felt the need to defend herself, but she did. ‘I simply don’t want to leave my home, this apartment; and—and all my friends.’
Alain breathed deeply. ‘Then I have no choice.’
‘Why not?’ Ashley linked her fingers together as an idea occurred to her. ‘Are you afraid I’ll try to see—to see him? To identify myself to him?’
Alain bent his head. ‘The situation is hypothetical. I will not leave him here.’
‘Don’t you trust me, Alain?’ she exclaimed, and he lifted his head to look at her.
‘Is there any reason why I should?’ he retorted bleakly, and a small gasp of pain escaped her.
‘Yes,’ she retorted fiercely. ‘Yes. I—I’ve never lied to you—–’
‘We will not go into that,’ he interrupted her harshly. ‘Lies, deceptions, call it what you will, I have no time to concern myself with such things. They are over, in the past, and the past is dead.’
‘No. No, it’s not.’ Ashley was indignant. ‘You can’t say these things to me and expect no retaliation. And why shouldn’t I see my son? Even divorced women have such rights.’
‘Not in my country,’ retorted Alain shortly, raising one hand to massage the back of his neck, as if he was tense too. ‘Ashley, why can you not be reasonable? You need another post. I am offering you one. According to your—friend Henley, you will not find it easy to take up another appointment at this time.’
Ashley faltered. ‘What did you say to him? What did you tell him?’
Alain shrugged. ‘Only that I was withdrawing Hussein from the school.’
‘Nothing else?’
His expression grew remote. ‘You think I would discuss my private affairs with a stranger?’
Ashley shook her head. ‘Then how did you find out I was leaving?’
Alain frowned. ‘It was Henley. He made the point that perhaps I was unhappy that Hussein’s form tutor was to be a woman, and went on to explain that you had handed in your resignation. Naturally, I agreed to give the matter further consideration.’
‘I see.’ Ashley nodded, but now Alain looked wary.
‘Why?’ he pressed her. Then, with a darkening anger: ‘Does Henley know of this matter? You cannot have told him that Hussein is your son!’
He was incensed, and she felt a bitter sense of satisfaction. ‘Why not?’ she taunted. ‘I told you, Malcolm is a friend, as well as my superior.’
‘Diable!’ Alain crossed the floor towards her in two savage strides. ‘You are telling me this man is familiar with our private affairs? That you have confided our most personal relationships to him?’
Ashley quivered. ‘He only knows that—that Andrew is my son—–’
‘Only!’ Alain swore angrily. ‘Nom de Dieu! The situation gets worse. You had no right to betray such information.’
‘Betray?’ Ashley gazed up at him, noticing almost inconsequently the erratic flutter of the pulse that marked his jawline. ‘Alain, you can’t deny me the right to acknowledge my son. Besides,’ she moistened her lips, ‘how else could I have resigned at the beginning of term? What excuse could I give? Malcolm would have suspected—–’
‘Malcolm! Malcolm! I begin to grow tired of this man’s name,’ declared Alain violently, his blue eyes searching her face with angry intensity. ‘So—it is over. It is finished. I will take Hussein back to Khadesh!’
‘No—–’
Ashley’s involuntary plea was accompanied by her hand on his arm, gripping the taut muscle she could feel through the expensive cloth of his sleeve. It was more than seven years since she had touched Alain, more than seven years since he had arrived at the hospital in Paddington and taken away the only tangible proof of her brief, but brutal, association with the Gauthier family. But she was appealing to him now, raising herself on her toes to bring her face nearer to his, unconsciously by her actions drawing his attention to the agitated swell of her breasts, outlined against the thin material of her smock.
‘Ashley!’ he grated, and when he spoke, his voice was deepened by some savage emotion he was trying hard to contain. ‘In the name of all the saints, Ashley, get away from me, before I am compelled to deliver the punishment I should have administered years ago!’
‘What punishment?’ Ashley’s lips parted, but she did not move away from him. It was a curious anomaly, but suddenly she sensed that for all his anger and his threats of violence, he was not as indifferent to her as he would like her to believe. Was it possible? she asked herself incredulously. After all these years, was it conceivable that he had some regrets for the pain and misunderstandings of the past? But no! That was not like Alain. He had always been so controlled, so positive, so remote from the weaknesses of the flesh. Except when he had been in her arms, a small voice reminded her wickedly, and an insane desire to find out if she was right gripped her. With a fast-beating heart she allowed her other hand to rest against his chest, in the hollow of the vee where the fastening of his waistcoat began, and deliberately spread her fingers against the fine silk of his shirt.
‘Ashley!’ His free hand caught her tormenting fingers, crushing them within the strength of his as he impaled her with an impassioned glare. ‘Do not try your feminine wiles on me! That was over long ago, and you would do well to remember that you are my brother’s widow!’
‘I haven’t forgotten it,’ she protested huskily, aware of the convulsive shudder that had passed through him before he captured her fingers in his. ‘Perhaps—perhaps it is yourself you have to convince!’
‘No!’ His jaws were clamped together, and he spoke through his teeth, but Ashley had aroused him, and she was not prepared to lose her advantage.
‘He’s my son, Alain,’ she breathed, moving closer to him, so that the pointed tips of her breasts actually brushed against the hand imprisoning hers. ‘Don’t take him away again—please! I promise I won’t tell him who I am. I only want to see him again, to look at him, maybe speak with him—–’
‘It is not possible!’
The words were torn from him, and looking up into his dark face, Ashley knew a moment’s fear for what she was provoking. She had loved this man, she remembered painfully, she had cared for him with every fibre of her being. Even after all that had happened, could she be sure she could control her feelings, and use them to defeat him?
Her breath fanned his chin, warm and sweet, mingling with the scent of her body. Her agitation had brought a film of perspiration over her skin, and its odour was musky and sensual. The smock was loose and revealing, something casual, to be worn around the flat, and the baggy pants hinted at the swell of her hips and the long slender length of her legs. She knew Alain was looking at her, absorbing her body’s freedom, and after the enveloping garments worn by the women in his own country she must seem the epitome of liberated womanhood.
‘This has got to stop!’ he ordered vehemently, but his intention to push her away from him was foiled by Ashley slipping her arms around his neck. It brought her close against him, her forehead on a level with his lips, and she looked up at him through her lashes, her green eyes soft and appealing.
‘Alain,’ she breathed, and his control snapped. His hands at her waist were hard and ungentle, jerking her against him with urgent compulsion. His mouth too was hot and aggressive, searing her lips with a brutal tempestuous possession that had nothing of love in it.
‘Is this what you want, Ashley?’ he demanded, against her mouth, almost suffocating her with the burning heat of his breath. ‘Do you want to be treated the way my father’s ancestors treated their women? Without honour or respect?’ Yet, in spite of his anger, she sensed the desperation in his voice and the hungry passion beneath his cruel strength.
‘Is that what you want, Alain?’ she asked, turning his words back on him, as his teeth fastened on the tender lobe of her ear, and he bit it viciously. She winced, but she did not draw away, as she added unevenly: ‘Do you enjoy inflicting pain?’
‘Yes,’ he told her, in a raw anguished tone, and then again: ‘No! Damn you, no!’ as her hands turned his face to hers, and she put her mouth next to his. His lips parted almost involuntarily, and her mouth opened to accommodate his. She welcomed his intimate invasion, the sensuous brush of passion, that was so much more devastating than brute force. With a little moan of pleasure, that was by no means contrived, she moulded herself against him, and his hands probed beneath the smock to find the smooth skin of her back.
It was strange how time rolled back under the hungry pressure of his lips. Without her being aware of it, her response changed from the controlled reaction to a planned set of circumstances, to an eager and willing consummation of his possession. She pressed herself against him, uncaring when her fingernails raked the hair at the nape of his neck.
‘Ashley!’ Alain’s strangled voice came to her as if from a distance, and at first she didn’t want to pay any attention to it. But when he dragged his mouth from hers and lifted his head, she was forced to acknowledge that the situation was rapidly slipping from her grasp. With a little shiver she lowered her toes to the floor, and forced herself to look up at him questioningly as he strove for his own sanity. ‘Ashley—for God’s sake—–’
‘You wanted to touch me,’ she said simply, and his hands dropped abruptly to his sides.
‘You are a madness—and a temptation,’ he retorted, in a shaken tone. ‘Are you wearing anything under—under that outfit?’
‘Not much,’ she conceded huskily, realising she had little time left to make any headway. ‘Do you want to see?’
‘No!’ Alain turned aside from her, combing somewhat unsteady fingers through his thick dark hair. ‘I have to go. There—are things I have to do.’
‘Will I see you again?’ she enquired softly, and he gave her a brooding stare.
‘It is unlikely. I intend to return to Khadesh at the end of the week.’ He paused. ‘I shall be taking Hussein with me.’
It was a bitter blow, but not unexpected. Nevertheless, she still had one more card to play, a card which had only just occurred to her.
‘And—his education?’ she asked. ‘What about that?’
‘I will make other arrangements,’ declared Alain curtly, rapidly recovering his composure. ‘That need not concern you—–’
‘Oh, but it does,’ she contradicted him softly. ‘You see, I think he might benefit from private tuition.’
‘Private tuition?’ Alain frowned. ‘Well—perhaps.’
‘And I can supply it,’ inserted Ashley quietly.
‘What!’ Alain was incredulous at first, and then he gave a harsh laugh. ‘You are not serious!’
‘Oh, but I am.’ Ashley held up her head. ‘And unless you want me to create a great deal of unpleasantness, you should agree with me.’
Alain stared at her. ‘Are you threatening me, Ashley?’
Ashley’s skin prickled at the sudden malevolence of his gaze. Only rarely did Alain assume the arrogant hawklike countenance of his father’s forebears, those wild and lawless Arab tribesmen who for centuries had lived like lords in their desert kingdom. But right now he possessed all their savage ruthlessness and hauteur, and she faltered for a moment on the brink of submission.
But then the realisation of what she was fighting for strengthened her will, and facing him bravely she said: ‘And if I am?’
Alain speared her with his scorching glare. ‘And how do you propose to create this unpleasantness?’
Ashley’s lips parted. ‘I—I—–’ she faltered again, and then, as his lips curled contemptuously, she burst out: ‘The—the authorities. I could go to the authorities. I could tell them how you intimidated me, how you made me hand my baby over to you—–’
‘You would not do such a thing!’ Alain menaced her, but she held her ground.
‘I would. Yes, I would.’ She fought free of his mesmerising stare. ‘And they’d listen to me, too—you know they would. You could face court proceedings, particularly if I said you threatened me—–’
‘Be silent!’ Alain was furious. ‘You must be crazy if you imagine I’ll let you blackmail me!’
Ashley backed away from him. ‘Not crazy, just desperate,’ she spat at him resentfully. ‘And don’t think that’s all. There are other ways.’
‘I am sure there are.’ Alain’s eyes were dark and brooding now, their blueness overlaid by a film of frustration. ‘Nevertheless, you are insane if you think I will permit you to teach the boy. If that were so, what point would there be in my taking him away from the school?’
‘Private tutoring is different,’ Ashley declared, touching her bruised lips with a nervous finger. ‘And—and you would be there to—to watch your—investment.’
Alain shook his head. ‘And for this—privilege, you will promise—what?’
‘Not to tell him who I am.’
‘And why should I believe you?’
‘Because I don’t tell lies,’ retorted Ashley forcefully. ‘I don’t. I never have—–’
‘Enough of that!’ Alain paced the floor in evident impatience. ‘And how can I be sure that once you have achieved this objective, you will not demand others?’
‘What others?’
‘Do not be naïve,’ he snapped. ‘You think to insinuate your way into his life by one means or another.’
Ashley licked her lips. ‘And are you going to let me?’
‘My father would never permit you to enter the palace.’
‘Your father need not know who I am. He’s never seen me.’ She paused. ‘Only you—and—and Hassan ever—–’
‘Enough!’ rasped Alain again, stopping his pacing to stare at her once more. ‘And if I still refuse?’
Ashley shrugged. ‘I—I’ll get to Andrew, somehow. And I’ll tell him everything. Everything!’
‘Knowing he would never forgive you for it?’ mocked Alain coldly.
‘What have I to lose?’ she retorted. Then: ‘Well? Will you do it?’
Alain’s mouth was a thin line. ‘I will have to think about it.’
‘For how long?’
‘I don’t know.’ He turned away abruptly. ‘Give me—time. I need time. Twenty-four hours at least.’
‘Very well.’ Ashley pulled open the door behind her. ‘You know where to find me.’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said bleakly, ‘I do indeed.’
And without another word he walked out the door.
CHAPTER THREE (#ue92955bb-7a4a-5392-be8a-0e904887c4aa)
ASHLEY’S elation lasted only so long as it took for Alain to get in the car that was waiting for him, and drive away. As the long black limousine bearing the coat of arms of Prince Ahmed of Khadesh disappeared round a bend in the road, she realised she had no idea where Alain was staying. He had gone, albeit promising to contact her again in twenty-four hours, but if he did not, if he chose to ignore her demands and leave the country, she had no way of stopping him.
Frustration engulfed her, and she sank down on to the couch with a little sound of helplessness. She had been a fool, a stupid fool, and even now Alain was probably exulting over the simple way he had thwarted her. But she had been so excited at the prospect of seeing her son again, of getting to know him, and of having him get to know her, she had not considered the inevitable flaws in her reasoning. She should have known she could not succeed so easily. She should have suspected something was wrong when Alain did not waste time arguing with her.
Getting up from the couch again, she walked restlessly across the room. What should she do? What could she do? And if Alain chose to walk out on her, how was she ever to see Andrew again? Apart from anything else, she was still employed by the governors of the school, and it would be foolish to resign her position there if she had no other employment.
She pushed her fingers into her hair, holding them there as she acknowledged the hopelessness of her position. If only she had not gone into school that morning, she thought despairingly. If Alain had withdrawn Andrew’s name, she might never have known anything about it, and her life would not now be suffering the turmoil she was presently experiencing.
A tap at her door brought her round with a start, and almost tripping over herself she rushed to open it. A small, dumpy little woman, wrapped in a dressing gown and wearing carpet slippers, her hair coiled around a series of rollers, stood on the threshold, and Ashley expelled her breath unsteadily as her neighbour began to speak.
‘Did you want me, love?’ the little woman asked anxiously. ‘I was in the bath, but I thought I heard you shouting, and I came round as quickly as I could.’
‘Oh, Mrs Forrest.’ Ashley caught her lower lip between her teeth, feeling ashamed that she had disturbed her. ‘Er—no. No, I wasn’t trying to attract your attention. I—I had a visitor. What you heard was—was probably him going.’ She crossed her fingers.
‘Ah!’ Mrs Forrest nodded. ‘That would be it, I suppose.’ She smiled, patting her rollered head. ‘I must look quite a state.’ She chuckled. ‘And there was me thinking you’d been attacked!’
Ashley coloured. ‘I’m very grateful,’ she said, almost glad of the diversion. ‘Thank you.’
Mrs Forrest had turned away, but she glanced back now over her shoulder. ‘For what, dear?’
Ashley shrugged, a little awkwardly. ‘Well—for being there.’ She hunched her shoulders, pushing her hands into the pockets of her pants. ‘Thanks, anyway.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Mrs Forrest disappeared back into her flat with a wave of her hand, and with a sigh Ashley closed her door again, leaning back against it with a feeling of intense disillusionment. It had all gone wrong, hopelessly wrong, and her only consolation was the realisation that she had provoked Alain. He had not been able to deny his desire for her body, and although this was small comfort when he had been capable of walking away from her, given the same circumstances, she might be able to repeat her success. She squashed the uneasy recollection that she had been as. aroused by his lovemaking as he was. It was a sexual response, nothing more. Any woman, kissed by a man as virile and attractive as Alain Gauthier, would find it extremely difficult to keep a cool head in such circumstances, and in her case, the memories of the past kept intruding. Once she had succeeded in exorcising those painful images she would be able to control her own destiny again. She had loved him in those days. She did not love him now. But she would use him, in any way she could, if it meant she could be near her son.
Shaking her head, she moved away from the door. Was she really so determined about this? she asked herself with sudden uncertainty. Why, after all these years, was she even considering such a course of action? The answer was simple. It was as she had always known it would be. So long as her son was unknown to her, so long as she had no image of him in her mind, she could pretend he didn’t exist. But now she had seen him, he had smiled at her; and she would move heaven and earth to be near him again.
She was still trying to formulate some plan of action when the telephone rang. Picking up the receiver, she wondered if Alain was ringing to taunt her with her helplessness, but it was Malcolm Henley at the other end of the line.
‘Ashley? My dear, I just thought I’d tell you, your resignation will not be necessary.’
Ashley moistened her lips. ‘It won’t?’
‘No.’ Malcolm sounded pleased. ‘I’ve just had a telephone call from Gauthier—you know, your brother-in-law?’
‘Yes?’ Ashley’s hand trembled.
‘Yes.’ Malcolm paused, as if timing his announcement. ‘He’s asked me to withdraw Hussein’s name from the register. He’s changed his mind, apparently. He’s going to have the boy educated in Murad.’
Ashley drew an unsteady breath. ‘I see.’
‘Isn’t that good news?’ Malcolm was obviously disappointed at her response. ‘You don’t know this, but he actually came to see me this morning, bringing the boy with him. He’d read your name on the—–’
‘I know.’ Ashley was too disturbed to allow him to go through the whole rigmarole of telling her something she already knew.
‘You know?’ Malcolm sounded bewildered. ‘But how?’
‘Alain’s been here, too,’ she replied unwillingly. ‘He—well, I encountered them in school this morning, and he came here to offer me a private position, with some family in Egypt.’
‘I see.’ Malcolm was perturbed. ‘So you met the boy. How unfortun—–’ He broke off abruptly, then added crisply: ‘You told Gauthier you couldn’t take the job, didn’t you?’
Ashley opened her mouth to say yes, then closed it again. She had no intention of discussing her plans with Malcolm, and it might actually be simpler if he thought she was considering a post with some unknown Egyptian family. It would give her a breathing space.
‘I—I haven’t made up my mind yet,’ she said now, and heard Malcolm’s impatient intake of breath.
‘But if Gauthier is withdrawing—well, there’s no need for you to consider another job,’ he exclaimed. ‘I don’t know why he’s changed his mind, but he has. I did tell him that you’d resigned, and I thought he seemed satisfied, but now—this!’ He hesitated. ‘You—well, you didn’t say anything which might have influenced him, did you?’
Ashley was indignant. ‘Malcolm!’
‘It was only a thought. I’m sorry.’ He was apologetic. ‘But you must admit, it’s strange that he should back out—now.’
Ashley moved her shoulders. ‘Perhaps he’s decided to—employ a private tutor,’ she ventured, hardly daring to hope, but Malcolm’s diagnosis was not encouraging.
‘I think he’s decided there are too many temptations for a young boy growing up in this country,’ he remarked sourly. ‘You should know how strictly they cling to the old traditions. I’m more inclined to believe he’ll be sent to one of those military establishments when he’s older, where the discipline is more severe.’
Ashley could not prevent the involuntary cry of protest that escaped her then, and as if just realising he was speaking to the boy’s mother, Malcolm cursed his reckless tongue. ‘Of course, I don’t mean that the boy will suffer in any way from it,’ he declared hastily. ‘I may be entirely wrong.’ He sighed. ‘In any event, I’m sure his uncle will keep a careful eye upon him.’
‘I’m sure he will.’ Ashley’s tone was taut with suppressed emotion.
‘So—I’ll see you tomorrow, shall I?’ Malcolm suggested uncomfortably. ‘Nine o’clock, as usual.’
‘I don’t know.’ Ashley was confused, and Malcolm made a sound of impatience.
‘Oh, come along, Ashley! It’s not the end of the world, you know. I realise seeing the boy must have been a traumatic experience for you, but it’s over now. He’s going back to Murad, and there’s no earthly reason why you shouldn’t continue in your position here.’
Ashley could feel the tears pricking at her eyes again, and sniffed them back. ‘I—I don’t know what I shall do, Malcolm,’ she said, which was the truth. ‘Right now, I—I’m not feeling very well. I—I may take tomorrow off. It’s not necessary for me to be there, is it? School doesn’t really begin until the next day.’
‘No. No, but you know how hectic everything is at the start of the new year. Boys arriving from all over the place, beds to make and allocate, timetables to be explained—–’
‘It’s not really my job, is it, Malcolm?’ Ashley reminded him tautly, feeling mean, but needing the time to think. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
‘I’m sure you will, my dear.’
Malcolm’s words were intended to be conciliatory, but Ashley couldn’t forget the insensitivity he had just displayed. He had said he cared about her, but all he really cared about was the school, and the significance of her meeting with Andrew was lost on him. He thought she should dismiss the fact that she had just met her son for the first time, and carry on as if nothing untoward had happened. He expected her to go into the school tomorrow and help organise the domestic staff while he concerned himself with names and addresses. Addresses!
Her hand shook so much she could hardly grip the receiver, but she managed to hold on. ‘By the way,’ she said, as he was about to ring off, ‘did you have an address for—for the Gauthiers?’
There was silence for a moment, then Malcolm said rather doubtfully: ‘Yes. Why?’
Ashley took a deep breath. ‘Alain—he forgot to give me the address to write to, about—about this job I mentioned. Whether I decide to take it or not, I’ve got to let him know, but—–’
‘Oh, I see.’ Malcolm sounded relieved, and she heard him riffling through the papers on his desk. ‘Yes. Yes, here it is. I thought you’d have known it. It’s the Askar Palace in Khadesh.’
Ashley’s momentary excitement dispersed. ‘No,’ she exclaimed, ‘I—I meant in England. Wh-where is he staying?’
Malcolm checked again. ‘That’s the only address I have. Besides, as he’s flying back to Murad tomorrow, I hardly see—–’
‘Tomorrow!’ Ashley’s hand flew over the mouthpiece of the telephone to prevent Malcolm from overhearing her horrified exclamation. Then: ‘Yes. Yes, you’re right. I—I’ll contact him there.’
‘That’s the best idea,’ Malcolm approved. ‘And—Ashley?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t do anything you might afterwards—regret.’
He rang off before she could ask him what he meant, but it made her see he was not indifferent to her state of mind. He knew she was distraite, and he was trying to tell her not to do anything foolish.
Pacing the flat later, she wondered whether he was not right, after all. She was considering action which, by any standards, could be regarded as reckless. She could conceivably hurt herself more than she was likely to hurt Alain, with Andrew the innocent pawn in the middle. But then she remembered her son’s smiling face, and knew that whatever happened she had to make the attempt.
But how? How? If Alain was planning to leave the following day, he could have no intention of agreeing to her suggestion. He had only agreed to think it over to placate her. His determination to remove the boy from temptation had not faltered.
Straddling a chair by the window, she draped her arm along its back and rested her chin on her wrist. Where was he likely to be staying in London? Not the apartment. She shivered. He had given that up after—well, when she married Hassan. And if the Gauthier organisation had any other property, she was not aware of its whereabouts. Which only left hotels …
Getting up, she rescued the commercial edition of the telephone directory, and turned to the relevant section. There were dozens of hotels in and around the London area, but she knew Alain would choose somewhere exclusive, and quiet. Running her finger down the list, she jotted the numbers of half a dozen of the more elegant establishments on to a pad, then picked up the telephone receiver.
Half an hour later she was no further forward. Even when she claimed kinship with the family, none of the receptionists would admit that Prince Alain was staying at their hotel, and while she suspected they might not tell her even if he was, the suspicion was growing that he was staying elsewhere. But where? With relatives? With friends? Or in some other apartment, high above Regent’s Park, with a magnificent view over the city?
Sighing, she got up from the couch again and trudged into her bedroom. Her passport was in the drawer of the cabinet beside her bed, and pulling it out, she assured herself of its validity. The last entry in it had been stamped when she went to Paris in the spring, one of the staff accompanying a school party of a dozen older boys. It had been a successful trip and the boys had enjoyed it. And if she had felt a pang at the French capital’s association with Alain, and subsequently with her son, she had succeeded in keeping it at bay …
Closing the passport again, she tapped it on her palm. She knew, without looking, that she needed no special inoculations before visiting Murad. Like Egypt, it only demanded smallpox and cholera certificates and an injection against yellow fever, if she was coming from an infected area, and unlike Egypt, a visa was not necessary. If she could get on the flight, she could leave for Murad tomorrow, too, with only currency providing any difficulties. It might even be the same flight that Alain and Andrew were taking …
With a nervous gesture she dropped the passport back into the drawer and closed it quickly. What was she thinking of? She was still obliged to honour her contract with Brede. How could she consider flying off to the Middle East, without positive proof that Alain would even acknowledge her, let alone employ her?
Nibbling at her thumb, she went back into the living room, unable to remain in one place for any length of time. What time was it? she asked herself unsteadily, and discovering it was after five o’clock, she determinedly marched into the kitchen to prepare herself some food.
But even a plate of soup defeated her, and after swallowing several mouthfuls, she was on her feet again. If only she could get in touch with Alain, she thought bitterly. If only she had asked him where he was staying before all this blew up.
By bedtime, she had forced herself to the realisation that unless Alain contacted her, there was nothing she could do. Once again the Gauthiers had had the last word, and the tears she had been stifling all day soaked her pillow. Oh, Alain, she breathed, at the last, how could you do this to me? And she had no satisfactory explanation for the pain that tore her apart.
In the morning, things looked marginally better. With an autumn sun streaming through her kitchen windows, Ashley felt almost resigned as she prepared her toast and coffee, and carrying the morning newspaper to the dining room table she propped it against the marmalade pot as she buttered her toast.
There were the usual headlines—another strike in the Midlands, an escape from custody of a wanted criminal, more unpopular governmental decisions—and after skipping through these, Ashley turned to the gossip columns. It was a relief to read about someone else’s problems, she thought, sympathising with the fight an actress was having in establishing her rights as a famous actor’s common-law wife. Without the security of a wedding ring, a woman had few privileges, she acknowledged flatly, and even with one, a man always had the ascendancy.
Her lips tightened. It wasn’t fair, she fretted, her eyes registering a mute protest. Andrew was her son! Was he to grow to manhood without even speaking a word to the woman who had borne him in her body for nine whole months?
The telephone bell interrupted her melancholy abstraction, and it rang several times before she stirred herself to go and answer it. She didn’t feel like talking to anybody right now, and she lifted the receiver with dour reluctance.
‘Yes?’
‘Ashley?’
Her knees gave out on her, and she sank down weakly on to the couch. ‘Al-Alain?’
‘You did not expect me to ring?’
‘No—yes. I mean—–’ Ashley struggled to shake off her apathy. ‘Why are you calling? To let me know you’re leaving today? I know that already—Malcolm told me. He said you’d definitely withdrawn Andrew’s name from the register, and as you conveniently forgot to give me your address, I suppose you’re ringing to flaunt your advantage—–’
‘Do you want to hear what I have to say, or do you not?’ Alain interposed curtly, cutting into her babbling tirade. ‘I told you I would consider your proposition, and I have. Where I am staying in London does not seem of great relevance.’
Ashley’s jaw shook. ‘Well, all right. What have you decided? That I won’t do? That I’m not suitable? That you couldn’t possibly employ a woman to teach the boy, and that in any case your father would never agree to it?’
‘Will you stop trying to pre-empt me?’ Alain’s voice betrayed his irritation now. ‘In the name of Allah, you seem to be doing your best to persuade me that you are not suitable!’
Ashley faltered, ‘What do you mean?’
‘What do you think I mean?’
Ashley’s palms were moist. ‘You can’t mean—you don’t mean—–’ Her voice shook. ‘Oh, Alain! You wouldn’t tease me, would you?’
‘No,’ he said flatly, ‘I would not tease you. And you have yet to decide whether what I have to say is acceptable to you.’
Ashley swallowed convulsively. ‘Go on.’
Alain hesitated, then he said briefly: ‘Your initial contract will be made for a probationary period of a month. If, at the end of that time, the arrangement has proved—unsatisfactory—to either party, it can be terminated forthwith.’
Ashley breathed out quickly: ‘All right.’
‘This is to be a business arrangement only,’ Alain continued. ‘With certain—clauses inserted, relevant to the situation.’
Ashley quivered. ‘What clauses?’
Alain paused. ‘A sworn undertaking from you that you will not, at any time, and to anybody, divulge your relationship to Hussein.’
Ashley’s stomach churned. ‘Is that all?’
‘No. In addition, I shall want your written agreement that you handed over Hussein independently, and of your own free will, and that you have no intention of asserting your rights as his mother in the future.’
‘No!’ Ashley’s voice broke on the word. ‘Alain, you’re unreasonable. You can’t make me sign something like that.’
‘Then you must do what you can to gain your own ends,’ he declared roughly. ‘There is nothing more to be said.’
‘Wait!’ Ashley could not let him go like that. ‘Alain, give me a few moments, at least. Let me think!’
‘I do not have much time, Ashley. We leave for the airport in less than half an hour.’
‘You’re leaving?’ she gasped, in consternation.
‘You said you knew,’ he reminded her.
‘Well, yes, but—–’ Ashley sought for words. ‘I thought—now—–’
‘If you decide to accept the position, you will follow us, after you have completed your term of notice,’ he replied smoothly. ‘It is better this way. It will enable me to prepare the ground, as you might say. And give you time to resign yourself to the situation.’
Ashley shook her head. ‘You—you’re inhuman!’
‘Merely practical,’ he amended dryly. ‘Well? Have you reached a decision?’
Ashley tipped back her head, as if her neck ached. It was too much. How could she sign away her child’s birthright? But if she did not, she might never see him again. Was the one any worse than the other?
‘And—and who will be his guardian?’ she asked huskily. ‘Who—who has custody of him?’
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Anne Mather
Mills & Boon are excited to present The Anne Mather Collection – the complete works by this classic author made available to download for the very first time! These books span six decades of a phenomenal writing career, and every story is available to read unedited and untouched from their original release. The governess’s secret…Ashely has not seen her son since he was taken away from her seven years ago – when she was blamed for her husband’s death by his family. Her only chance to be with little Hussein again is to become his governess on his Uncle Alain’s palatial home in the Middle East. Her son can’t know who she is to him – but she’ll take any chance to be near her boy. What she hadn’t expected was the fierce attraction that ignites between her and Alain, her sworn and mutual enemy…Ashely finally has a chance to be happy – but can she ever reveal her true identity? Dare she trust Alain enough to forgive her past?
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 (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
Castles of Sand
Anne Mather
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#ue527c015-7bd2-5d93-ac4c-e044ea7d1daf)
About the Author (#u0f1e35b7-1150-53ee-9c27-9c299d321869)
Title Page (#u0ffb10e2-39e3-5f91-8430-1eefeec43716)
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 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ue92955bb-7a4a-5392-be8a-0e904887c4aa)
THE room was quiet. Even though it was only a stone’s throw from the busy heart of London’s West End, the school buildings seldom allowed more than the steady hum of traffic to invade their thick walls, and Kingsley Square was a sequestered backwater, secure from the noise and confusion scarcely half a mile away. Sitting at her desk, with a pile of crisp new exercise books in front of her, Ashley could not have wished for more private surroundings to bear the shock she had just experienced, and yet it still left her shaking and incapable of coherent thought.
She looked at the register of names in front of her, and ran a trembling finger down the column. Devlin, Fredericks—perhaps she had been mistaken—but no, there it was again, Gauthier, Hussein Gauthier, there was no mistake. And it was not such a common name either. Surely, surely, there could not be two seven-year-old boys called Hussein Gauthier.
She did not often take a drink, but right now Ashley felt she could do with one. Her mouth felt dry, and her head was spinning, and although she knew there were other matters to be taken into consideration, all she could think of was that she was expected to have the boy in her form for a whole year!
It couldn’t be done. Her initial reactions were all negative. She would not—she could not—be expected to teach him; not in the present circumstances. It was too much to ask of anyone, any woman, at least. How could it have happened? What cruel twist of fate had brought the boy to this school, out of all the schools that could have been chosen? It was intolerable, it was unkind, it was inhuman!
Ashley got up jerkily from her desk, pushing back her chair so abruptly, it almost fell over, and rocked dangerously on its back legs. But it steadied itself, as Ashley tried to do, before stepping down from the small dais and walking determinedly towards the door.
Outside, the polished wooden blocks of the floor of the corridor stretched ahead of her, the walls lined with portraits of past headmasters of Brede School. Between the portraits, half glass doors opened into other classrooms and activity rooms, empty until tomorrow when the school re-opened after the summer recess. Ashley herself had only come in that morning to acclimatise herself to her surroundings again, and to run a casual eye over the new pupils she was to have charge of. She had been away, staying with some friends in Yorkshire, enjoying the unaccustomed freedom from books and learning, joining in the work of the farm, where she had spent the last two months. The Armstrongs had always been like her own family to her. She and Lucy Armstrong had met at university, and since then, apart from those disastrous months she had spent with Hassan, she had remained in regular contact with them. As she had no parents of her own, there had been many occasions when she had been grateful for their support, and at this very moment she would have welcomed Mr Armstrong’s practical common sense.
The corridor emerged on to a railed landing, overlooking the entrance hall below. The school had originally been formed in the eighteenth century by linking together two town houses, and although the buildings had been added to since that time, the atmosphere of a close community remained. There were lots of halls and curiously winding staircases, and low beams to catch the unwary, but as the boys it accommodated were only five to thirteen years of age, it seldom troubled them. It was a small school, only a hundred and fifty pupils, but its record was excellent, and its results ensured a permanent register of pupils waiting to receive a place.
As she hurried down the stairs, Ashley wondered how Hussein had been admitted. Had his name been entered since his birth, as many of the boys’ names had, or had someone in authority pulled some strings? She could hardly believe the former, and although the latter seemed more likely, what unknowing chance had prompted Alain to choose this school?
Malcolm Henley, the present headmaster of Brede School, had his study on the ground floor, in a room which had once been used as a reception parlour. It was not a large room, but the ceiling was high, and the bookshelves that lined the walls drew one’s eyes upwards rather than pointing to its limited proportions. It was a comfortable room, a masculine room, with rather austere furnishings and fittings, but Ashley had always felt at ease here, and during the five years she had been working in the school, she and Malcolm had become close friends.
Now, she knocked at the door, and having been bidden to enter, stepped on to the worn brown carpet. Malcolm had been seated at his desk, but at her entrance he rose politely to his feet, and with a warm smile came round the desk to greet her.
‘Well, Ashley,’ he said, as she closed the door behind her. ‘Have you satisfied yourself that everything is as you left it?’
Ashley forced a faint smile. ‘Yes. Yes, I’ve done that,’ she answered, withdrawing her hand from his enthusiastic hold. ‘And—and I checked over the new register of pupils.’
Malcolm nodded, pulling his pipe out of his pocket, and examining the bowl with a knowing eye. ‘You’ll see you’ve got fifteen boys this year,’ he remarked, searching his pockets for some matches. ‘I’ve agreed to take on an extra pupil, one who is slightly older than we usually take them, but an intelligent boy for all that, or so I believe.’
‘Hussein Gauthier,’ put in Ashley tightly, and Malcolm acknowledged this as he struck a match.
‘Gauthier, yes, that is the boy’s name,’ he agreed, smiling as he dropped the spent match into the already overflowing ashtray. Then a look of mild concern crossed his lined, yet still handsome, face. ‘Is something wrong, Ashley? You look—disturbed.’
Ashley indicated the chair at the opposite side of the desk. ‘Can I sit down?’
‘Of course.’ Malcolm walked to resume his seat. ‘Need you ask?’ He frowned. ‘You’re not ill, are you?’
‘Physically, you mean?’ suggested Ashley, a vaguely hysterical note lurking in her voice. ‘No. No, Malcolm, I’m not ill. At least, not in any way that you can see.’
Malcolm rested his elbows on the desk and regarded her thoughtfully across its littered width. ‘You are upset, aren’t you? What is it? Is there anything I can do?’
Ashley lay back in the worn leather armchair and wished desperately that there was. But she didn’t see what anyone could do—except herself. She and Malcolm had never discussed her past. Oh, he knew she had been married, and that her husband had died within a few days of that marriage, but that was all. She had never discussed his identity, or their relationship, and as she had reverted to her maiden name of Gilbert, the rest of the staff were no wiser.
‘Would you like a drink?’
Malcolm indicated the decanter on the filing cabinet by the window, but Ashley shook her head. ‘It’s only eleven o’clock,’ she protested, and Malcolm shrugged his shoulders.
‘Perhaps you need one,’ he suggested, and remembering her own thoughts of only a few minutes ago, Ashley acquiesced. Maybe it would be easier to say what she had to say with a little dutch courage inside her. She didn’t honestly know what she was going to say, but something had to be said, that was certain.
With a glass containing a measure of Scotch whisky in her hand, Ashley strove to find a way to explain herself. ‘I—I have to offer you my resignation,’ she said, clearing her throat as Malcolm stared at her aghast. ‘I—I’m sorry. I know it’s an awkward time for you, the beginning of term and everything, but—I—I’m sorry.’
She buried her nose in the glass as Malcolm digested what she had just told him. Characteristically, he did not immediately deny her claim, but sat there quietly smoking his pipe, watching her with the same assessing intentness, with which he appraised the boys.
‘I assume you do intend to tell me why you’ve come to this decision,’ he said at last, when Ashley had choked over the raw alcohol and set her eyes streaming. ‘You do realise that I care about you, and am concerned about you, and that whatever it is that’s troubling you is better shared?’
Ashley expelled her breath shakily. ‘You’re very kind, Malcolm, but—–’
‘I’m not kind!’ he retorted briefly. ‘I’m concerned. That’s a completely different thing.’
Ashley sighed. Malcom was kind, whatever he said. Kind, and understanding, and had she never known another kind of loving she might easily have succumbed to his affectionate attentions. But when she first came to Brede School to work, she had still been raw from her experiences with the Gauthiers, and she had made it plain that so far as men were concerned she preferred them to keep their distance. In consequence, the association which had developed over the years between her and Malcolm was compounded of a mutual liking and respect, and if, as a bachelor of almost forty years, Malcolm still hoped for a closer relationship, Ashley was not to blame. Nevertheless she did not want to hurt him, and she was loath to destroy what she had built up without due cause.
‘I have to leave,’ she said now, choosing her words with care. ‘Something—something’s happened. I—I can’t stay on.’
Malcolm tapped out his pipe in the ashtray, spilling smouldering shreds of tobacco over the scarred surface of his desk, so that he had to rescue several papers from ignition. Then, turning an unusually taut gaze on Ashley, he said:
‘Why? Why can’t you? You seemed perfectly all right when you arrived this morning. Why, we waved to one another across the quadrangle. For heaven’s sake, if you were thinking of leaving, why didn’t you warn me then?’
Ashley shook her head, looking down into her glass, and with sudden perception Malcolm brought his fist down hard upon the desk. ‘I have it!’ he exclaimed. ‘You weren’t thinking of leaving then, were you? It’s something else. Something that’s happened this morning. Something to do with this new form you’re taking—–’
‘No—–’ began Ashley, realising he was closing on the truth, but Malcolm wasn’t listening to her.
‘It must have to do with the boy,’ he finished at last. ‘What was his name? Gauthier—Hussein Gauthier! Of course,’ this as Ashley turned a stricken face towards him. ‘Why didn’t I realise it before? You identified him immediately, as soon as I mentioned a new boy. I should have connected the two things sooner, only I was more concerned about you.’
Ashley set down her scarcely-touched glass with a weary hand. What was the point of denying it any longer? she thought. Malcolm was no fool. He could demand a satisfactory explanation, he deserved a satisfactory explanation. So why pretend she could just leave here without arousing his suspicions?
‘Well?’ he was asking now. ‘I am right, aren’t I? It’s the boy Gauthier who’s upset you. Why? What’s he to you? Do you know him? Do you know his family? Ashley, I mean to find out, so you might as well be honest with me.’
Ashley inclined her head. ‘He’s my son,’ she said simply, folding her hands in her lap. ‘Hussein—Andrew—Gauthier is my son.’
Malcolm’s astonishment was not contrived. A look of stunned disbelief crossed his features and remained there. He was evidently shaken, and who could blame him? she thought bleakly. She had never, at any time, mentioned that she had had a child.
‘Don’t you think that statement deserves some explanation?’ he ventured at last, thrusting his pipe back into his pocket with somewhat unsteady haste. ‘You told me you’d been married, that your husband was dead. But—but not that—that there were children!’
‘There were no children,’ retorted Ashley wearily. ‘Only one child. And—and as I never saw him, I never felt as if he was mine.’
‘But you must have done!’ Malcolm stared at her. ‘Ashley, a woman always cares about her children.’
‘Not all women,’ corrected Ashley tautly, controlling her emotions with great difficulty. ‘But you’re right about me, as it happens. I did care. At least, in the beginning.’
Malcolm shook his head. ‘You mean to tell me you’ve never even seen this boy?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But how—why? How did it happen?’
Ashley sighed. ‘It’s a long story, Malcolm—–’
‘And don’t you think I deserve to hear it?’
Ashley pressed her lips together. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps you do—I don’t know. Oh, Malcolm, what am I going to do?’
Malcolm got up from his chair and came round to her, perching on the side of his desk and looking down at her with compassionate eyes. ‘I meant what I said, you know. A trouble shared can help one to see it in its right perspective. Perhaps if you talked to me—–’
‘I can’t teach my own son!’ declared Ashley emotively. ‘I can’t, Malcolm. I can’t!’
‘I see there’s a problem,’ said Malcolm levelly, but as she would have protested again, he held up one hand. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Hear me out. This is something we have to talk about.’
Ashley made a helpless gesture. ‘What is there to say? It’s an impossible situation.’
‘First of all, I want you to tell me why you haven’t seen—Hussein—all these years.’ He frowned. ‘And why you added the name Andrew. I don’t recall the boy having that name.’
‘He doesn’t.’ Ashley moved her shoulders wearily. ‘That was my name for him. I called him Andrew. I—I refused to have a son of mine with only an Arab name.’
Malcolm nodded. ‘All right, I understand that. But I had no idea your husband was an Arab. I imagined he was someone you’d met in England.’
‘I did meet him in England,’ said Ashley flatly. ‘I—I met his brother at—at the home of a girl I got to know at university. And—and through him, I got to know Hassan.’
‘I see.’ Malcolm digested this. ‘So you know his family?’
‘I—knew his brother,’ Ashley corrected tightly.
Malcolm sighed. ‘Yet you were married. You had a child!’
‘I lived in London,’ Ashley explained. ‘Hassan had been working here before we got married.’
‘Of course.’ Malcolm slapped his hand to his knee. ‘The Gauthiers are in oil and shipping, aren’t they?’ He gave her a strange look. ‘Ashley, did you realise what a wealthy family you were marrying into?’
Ashley’s long lashes veiled her expression. ‘Yes, I realised it,’ she replied dully. ‘You might say—that was why I married Hassan.’
‘Ashley!’
‘Well—–’ she tilted her gaze up to him, her green eyes dark and haunted, ‘I wouldn’t be the first girl to admit that. It’s true. I was pregnant, you see.’
‘Oh, my dear!’ Malcolm made a sound of sympathy. ‘And you were—how old?’
‘Eighteen,’ she answered blankly. ‘In my first year at the college.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘I was very naïve.’
Malcolm hesitated. ‘But he did marry you. Some men—well, you know what I mean.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Ashley assented, ‘I know what you mean. But Hassan—always got what he wanted, and he wanted me.’
She said it without conceit, and Malcolm watched her closely. ‘You’re still bitter.’
Ashley’s smile was self-derisive. ‘Yes.’
‘Your husband dying so soon after the wedding—that must have been a great shock to you.’
Ashley’s expression hardened. ‘Yes.’
‘They—his family—they wouldn’t let you keep the boy?’
Ashley bent her head. ‘I’d really rather not talk about it.’
‘Which means I’m right, doesn’t it?’
‘Malcolm, you don’t understand.’
‘What don’t I understand?’
Ashley sighed. ‘Hassan died the day after the wedding—–’
‘So?’
‘—–and his family blamed me!’
Malcolm stared at her. ‘Why?’
Ashley turned her head away. ‘Oh, Malcolm, don’t make me go into all the details. Let it be enough that they thought they had grounds for thinking that.’
‘But it wasn’t true?’
Ashley looked at him with tortured eyes. ‘No, it wasn’t true.’
‘And later, when they found out you were pregnant?’
Ashley hunched her shoulders. ‘We were estranged. I’d gone back to college. When—when—Hassan’s brother found out, he gave me a choice of alternatives.’ Her lips twisted. ‘Either I handed over the child when he was born, and allowed them to bring him up in the way he deserved, or he would wait until the child was older and then fight for him through the courts.’ She expelled her breath unsteadily. ‘I wanted to do that, to keep him, and care for him, but how could I? I had no money of my own, and I wanted nothing from the Gauthiers. And—and I knew Alain meant what he said. He would have taken Andrew from me, by one means or another.’ She bit hard on her lips to prevent them from trembling, then added tautly: ‘You read about these things every day. Babies, children—snatched from this country, and taken to live with their fathers in some foreign place. Alain could have done that, he would have done that, I know. And how much harder it would have been for me to lose him after I’d learned to love him …’
She avoided Malcolm’s eyes as she said this. There were other reasons why she had let the boy go, but she had no intention of revealing them. She had told him too much already, more that she had told anyone, except the Armstrongs, without whom she might never have recovered from that traumatic experience. But it had been over. There had even been days when she had not thought about him at all. And now to find she was not to be allowed to forget it was the cruellest blow of all.
‘Alain?’ said Malcolm now. ‘This, I assume, is Hassan’s brother.’
‘Yes.’
‘But their names are dissimilar. And Gauthier—that’s not an Arab name.
‘No.’ Ashley cleared her throat again. ‘There’s—there’s French ancestry somewhere in their history, and—and Alain’s mother was French, actually. She—she was his father’s second wife.’
Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. ‘You mean your husband and his brother had different mothers?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Hassan—your husband—his mother died?’
‘No.’ Ashley spoke tautly. ‘So far as I know, she’s still alive. Prince—Prince Ahmed is a Moslem.’
Malcolm was amazed. ‘I see.’
Ashley had had enough of this. Pushing back her chair, she got to her feet, moving away from Malcolm and stiffening her spine. ‘So you see,’ she said, endeavouring to speak calmly, ‘my remaining here is—is quite out of the question. I shall look—–’
‘Wait. Wait!’ Malcolm slid off the desk and stood facing her impotently, balling his hand into a fist, and pressing it into his palm. ‘Ashley, there must be something I can do, some way I can persuade you to change your mind.’ He paced restlessly across the floor. ‘If I were to transfer him to another class—transfer you to another class—–’
Ashley shook her head. ‘You couldn’t do that, Malcolm. He’s—seven. He should be with seven-year-olds.’
‘But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t take another form,’ Malcolm pointed out recklessly. ‘If I speak to Harry Rogers—–’
Ashley turned away. ‘He’d still be in the school.’
‘But—–’ Malcolm made a sound of frustration, ‘you wouldn’t know him. You need never see him. He would be just another boy—–’
‘You’re asking a lot,’ Ashley exclaimed, glancing at him over her shoulder. ‘Could you do it? Could you work here, knowing your son was in the school and didn’t know you?’
Malcolm had the grace to look disconcerted. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I don’t think you could,’ said Ashley steadily. ‘I don’t think anyone could.’
‘Well, you must give me time to think, to make arrangements,’ Malcolm exhorted desperately. ‘Tomorrow the boarders return, and the day after that school re-opens. You can’t abandon me without notice, Ashley.’
Ashley held up her head. ‘How much notice do you want?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. A month is usual. A term would be better.’
‘And in my case?’
Malcolm sighed. ‘Two weeks?’ he ventured tentatively.
‘Two weeks!’ Ashley sucked in her breath. ‘Malcolm—–’
‘I’ll transfer you. I’ll let Rogers take your form. Who knows, you may change your mind.’
‘I won’t.’ Ashley was very definite about that. But she managed to maintain a semblance of composure as she added: ‘I’ll submit my written resignation this afternoon. And I’ll transfer my things to Room 1A.’
Malcolm made a baffled gesture. ‘Won’t you at least think about this, Ashley? You’ve been here five years!’
‘I know.’ Ashley moved towards the door. ‘And they’ve been good years. But you must see, I have to do this.’
Eventually he let her go, but she knew he was not entirely satisfied that she was determined. He still held out hopes that she might change her mind, while Ashley knew that nothing he said or did could alter her decision. She would be sad to leave Brede School. She had been happy here, or at least, she had been content. Now she was lost and uncertain, with the unwelcome knowledge that it was not going to be easy to find another post. It was the wrong time of the year, and she could only hope that there was someone else, like her, who suddenly found her present position intolerable.
But even as these thoughts occurred to her, they were superseded by others. Andrew was going to be living in England, in London, and unless she took a post out of the capital, he would always be only a few miles away. Her small flat in Kilburn was only a bus ride from the school. She could make it there in less than half an hour. Could she bear to go on living within breathing distance of her son?
She hurried along the corridor from Malcolm’s study with a feeling of impending disaster weighing down on her. Why, oh, why had Alain chosen to send the boy back to England to be educated? She would never have expected it of him. The United States, perhaps, but not England. Not after everything that had happened.
And then again, she argued, why not? Both Alain and Hassan had been educated in England. Why should she have imagined anything less would be good enough for Andrew? He was a Gauthier. And unless Alain had married and produced a son, the only heir to his grandfather’s fortune.
Ashley’s stomach churned. Alain could have married, she acknowledged, but the thought still had the power to leave her weak. It was not fair, she thought, that one man should wield so much power over her, particularly when he regarded her as an inferior being, a nonentity, something to be trampled on. And it was ironic that history should have appeared to have reversed itself. Prince Ahmed had married Alain’s mother after his first wife, Princess Izmay, had produced a series of daughters. But, within a year of Alain being born, she had borne him a son, Hassan, thus ensuring the line of succession. Now Alain’s brother had succeeded in marrying before him, and the son Ashley had had was heir to Prince Ahmed.
In the entrance hall she paused, looking about her almost with a sense of bereavement. This school had come to mean a lot to her. She knew many of the boys, as they had passed through her form on their way to the middle school. She was popular with them, and being young herself could understand their problems better than some of the older masters. She and the biology mistress were the only female tutors on the staff, and she had begun to regard it less like a job and more like a vocation. She had never thought of marrying again, and these boys had become her family. Brought up by an elderly aunt, without either brothers or sisters of her own, she had welcomed their friendship and their confidences, and she dreaded the thought of beginning again with strangers.
The doorbell rang behind her, and she turned automatically, going to open it without hesitation. She guessed it might be the launderers or the caterers, or even the firm of contractors who had been redecorating the dormitories, and making minor repairs, and she flung the door wide, glad of the diversion. But the man and the boy who stood outside the door were not tradespeople at all, and Ashley’s jaw sagged in horror as she perceived their identity.
The man, too, looked taken aback at her appearance, but with the assurance that came from his position he recovered more quickly, hiding his real feelings behind a mask of courtesy. As she struggled to evade the encroaching wave of blackness that threatened to engulf her, he gathered his composure and assumed a polite expression, and she was left to gaze at the boy, as if she was afraid he might disappear in a cloud of smoke.
She couldn’t believe it. After all these years, she simply couldn’t believe it, and her knees shook abominably as she hung desperately on to the door handle. The amazing thing was, he even looked like her, although he had his father’s dark hair and skin. But the green eyes were hers, and so too was the straight nose, and the generous mouth was parted slightly, as if aware of some irregularity here.
‘Miss—Miss Gilbert, is it not?’ Just by the momentary hesitation did Alain betray his agitation, and Ashley dragged her gaze from the boy’s tall slim figure to the man’s tautly controlled features.
‘P-Prince Alain,’ she acknowledged, bowing her head. ‘Wh-what can I do for you?’
Alain glanced about him half impatiently, as if seeking deliverance. A tall lean man, with straight dark hair, and just the slightest crook in his nose, where it had once been broken in a boyish fight, he had changed little over the years, she thought. He was, she knew, in his early thirties now, and although the lines in his face were more deeply carved than they had been, he was still the most disturbing man she had ever encountered. In an immaculately-cut European suit, he looked cool and businesslike, but she also knew he looked equally well in a loose flowing burnous or the tunic-like djellaba he had worn about his apartment. The apartment! Her tongue clove to the dry roof of her mouth. Why did she have to think of that now?
Alain fixed her with a steely gaze, and then spoke, almost with reluctance. ‘I wish to speak with a Monsieur Henley,’ he declared, his deep voice harsher than she remembered. ‘He is the headmaster here, is he not? Will you please tell him I am here?’
Just like that, thought Ashley bitterly. Within the space of a few moments, he had accepted her presence in the school and dismissed it, and was already issuing his orders. He did not ask how she was; he did not ask what she was doing here; he did not care how she might be feeling, having just seen her son for the first, and possibly only, time in her life. Without sensitivity or emotion, he expected her to do his bidding, and ignore the deeper ravages of time and circumstance.
Her eyes moved to the boy again, searching his face eagerly, hungrily, seeking some recognition from him, even though she knew such a thing was impossible. The boy did not know her. He had probably not been told of her existence. And of a certainty, his uncle would never reveal her identity.
Yet, as if aware of the intentness of her gaze, Andrew responded, his mouth tilting at the corners to form a smile, a smile that entered his eyes and caused them to twinkle with evident humour. He smiled at her, shyly but warmly, and her heart palpitated wildly at this evidence of his amusement. Ashley could feel the tears pricking at the back of her eyes, she could sense the unspoken communication between them; and she knew an almost uncontrollable impulse to put her arms around him and hold him close …
‘Mr Henley, mademoiselle?’ Alain did not move, but the barrier his words erected was an almost physical thing. ‘He is here, is he not?’
‘What? Oh! Oh, yes. Yes, of course.’
Foolishly, Ashley stepped backward, her eyes still on the boy, still shaking with the emotions he had aroused in her. He was so handsome, she thought, so beautiful! And he was hers! Her son! Hers and—–
‘Will you give Mr Henley my message?’
Alain’s voice had hardened, and as she dragged her eyes to him once again she flinched beneath the withering contempt of his gaze. Of course, she thought bitterly, he must know how she was feeling, but what satisfaction was he getting from torturing her in this way?
Shaking her head, she tried to recover some perspective. He was here—they were here—to see Malcolm, and somehow she had to accept that this encounter was an accident, nothing more, a cruel accident, for which none of them was to blame. It was not a deliberate attempt to wound her, to crucify her with images of what might have been. Alain must be as shocked as she was, but she knew well his capacity to hide his true feelings.
‘I—er—I’ll get someone to take you to Mr Henley,’ she said huskily, knowing she could not do it herself. Not now. Not when Malcolm knew! It would be just too much for her to bear.
As they stepped into the hall she looked about her desperately, praying for a friendly face, and was rewarded when Mr Norris, the elderly caretaker, came trudging down the stairs.
‘Oh, Mr Norris,’ she exclaimed in relief. ‘Mr—er—this gentleman wishes to see Mr Henley. Do you think you could show him the way to Miss Langley’s office? She—she’ll see if Mr Henley is free.’
‘Very well, Miss Gilbert.’ Mr Norris smiled. He liked the young English mistress. She was quiet and unassuming, and she wasn’t always complaining when the lights fused or the radiators persistently remained cold. ‘If you’ll follow me, Mr—er—–?
‘Gauthier,’ inserted Alain without expression, shunning his title. ‘Thank you.’
His thanks encompassed both of them, but Ashley was scarcely paying attention. She was looking at Andrew again, imprinting his likeness in her mind, creating an image for all the empty years ahead of her, holding it there with a persistence born of desperation. If only, she thought, as he started obediently after Mr Norris, if only …
‘Do not even think of it,’ Alain’s harsh voice decreed, in a tone low enough for only her to hear. ‘He is not your son. He is Hassan’s. He will never be told that his mother caused his father to take his own life!’
CHAPTER TWO (#ue92955bb-7a4a-5392-be8a-0e904887c4aa)
ASHLEY arrived back at her flat in a state of extreme nervous exhaustion. She had a sense of unreality, too, as if what had happened was just some awful nightmare, from which she must soon awaken. But although she might wish otherwise, the feelings fermenting inside her were not imaginary, and nor was the raw vulnerability of her emotions. She felt exposed and defenceless, powerless in the face of such a potent adversary, and no amount of objective thinking or cold self-analysis could spare her the agony of losing her soil for the second time.
As she ground the beans and filled the coffee percolator, all without any conscious thought, she thought how incredible it was that she should have allowed the Gauthiers to take him without a fight. He was her son. She was his mother. She had the most elemental right in the world to look after him, and care for him, so why had she let him go so easily?
Clattering a cup into a saucer, she knew she did not have to think hard to find the answer. It was because of Alain she had let him go, because of Alain she had not put up a fight; and because of Alain she was now in this deplorable position.
Leaving the coffee to bubble, she went into the main room of the flat. This was a comfortably-sized living room, with an L-shaped alcove accommodating a round dining table and four chairs. It had taken her three years to graduate to this standard of living, from a room in a boarding house, via a bedsitter, to this two-bedroomed apartment, with kitchen and bath. With care, and careful saving, she had finally succeeded in furnishing it to her liking, and she looked round now at the green velvet chairs and yellow-patterned carpet, in a desperate search for reassurance. But all she could see was a boy’s smiling face, framed by straight dark hair, and a man’s grim, forbidding countenance.
In an effort to escape the futility of her thoughts, she hurried into her bedroom, unbuttoning the skirt and blouse she had worn to. go to school and donning instead a pair of yellow baggy pants and a brown and green striped smock. Then she loosened her hair from its confining knot so that it spilled like honey-coloured silk below her shoulders. As she brushed its silken length, she realised it was an unnecessary vanity. It would be far more sensible to have it cut, and keep it in one of the short modern styles, which were so flattering to the girls of her acquaintance. But somehow it was a link with the past, an unconscious one to be sure, and only now did she realise that Alain’s influence still reached out to her.
The percolator was bubbling merrily when she went back into the kitchen, and after pouring herself a cup of coffee she carried it into the living room. It was after two o’clock, she realised with a pang, but she wasn’t hungry, and she determinedly picked up the daily paper and tried to interest herself in the national news. But the events of the morning persisted in intruding, and eventually she gave it up to recapture those moments when Andrew had smiled at her. She allowed herself the pleasure of wondering what he would have done if she had taken him in her arms and told him who she was. How would he have reacted? Would he have been pleased or apprehensive, glad or sorry? Would he have believed her? Or would he have thought she was some crazy lady, claiming a relationship that was totally alien to him? He had been brought up by the Gauthiers. It was a predominantly Moslem household. How could he ever identify with her, particularly after all this time?
Her coffee cooled as the realities of the situation dispelled her momentary euphoria. They were from different cultures, different civilisations. From an early age he would have been taught to regard women as secondary beings, created for man’s enjoyment and little else, expected always to defer to their masters, and obedient to their wishes. He would know that his grandfather had two wives, and even if Alain’s beliefs had been in opposition to his father’s, who was to say what those beliefs were now, or whether he too had not adopted the sexual morals of the rest of his family …
Her temples began to throb as she remained there on the couch, her knees drawn up under her, her head resting wearily against the soft cushions. Who would have dreamed when she awakened that morning that by lunchtime she would have suffered such a dramatic upheaval? She had made her life here, such as it was. She had made friends, she had a good job. Yet in the space of a morning it had all been destroyed, and she was left without peace or tranquillity, or hope.
She thrust the still full coffee cup on to the low table beside her and stretched her legs. Somehow she had to forget what had happened, she told herself severely. She had lived seven years without seeing her son; she might have to live another fifty years without doing so. Of course, there was always the chance that when Andrew got older he might start asking questions his grandfather and his uncle would not be able to answer, and then he might come looking for her himself. But that was an unlikely expectation to say the least, when for all she knew, Alain might have told him she was dead.
She closed her eyes against such a final denigration, then opened them again when someone knocked at her door. It was a peremptory tattoo, unlike her neighbour’s usual tap, but she couldn’t think of anyone other than Mrs Forest who might call at this time of day.
‘Coming,’ she called, sliding off the couch, and padding barefoot to the door. ‘You startled me,’ she was adding, as she lifted the latch, and then fell back in dismay when she recognised her visitor. ‘You!’ she breathed, pressing a hand to her throat. ‘Wh-what do you want? Why have you come here?’
‘An unnecessary question,’ remarked Alain flatly, stepping past her without invitation. ‘Why else would I come here, except to see you? Can you honestly say you did not expect me?’
‘Yes!’ Ashley strove for breath. ‘Yes,’ she repeated. ‘I can honestly say that. Wh-why have you come here? Why should you want to see me?’
Alain turned in the centre of the floor, dark and forbidding in his charcoal grey attire. ‘Close the door, will you?’ he directed, flicking a careless hand, on the little finger of which a dragon’s eye ruby glinted balefully. ‘I do not propose to speak with you in sight and hearing of a crowd of inquisitive tenants.’
‘You flatter yourself,’ returned Ashley tensely, making no move to obey him. ‘And why should I allow you into my apartment? We—we have nothing to say to one another.’
‘I disagree,’ Alain argued smoothly, and with an arbitrary gesture he crossed the floor to her side, rescuing the handle of the door from her grasp and closing it firmly with a definite click.
‘You have no right to do this,’ Ashley protested, gazing up at him tremulously, but Alain did not acknowledge her indignation. As she struggled to compose herself, he returned to his position in the centre of the floor and suggested she take a seat.
‘This is my flat,’ Ashley declared, endeavouring to hide the tremor in her voice. ‘I’ll decide when or if I sit down, not you!’
‘As you wish.’ Alain’s mouth thinned. ‘You were always an argumentative creature. But what I have to say may make you change your mind, so be warned.’
Ashley took a deep breath. ‘You—you have a nerve, coming here, trying to tell me how to behave—–’
‘I do not propose to get involved in futile discussions of that sort,’ he interrupted her bleakly. ‘You and I have known one another too long to be in any doubt as to one another’s character, and—–’
‘We never knew one another!’ Ashley choked bitterly. ‘You didn’t know me, and it’s certain I never knew you!’
‘Please try not to be emotional,’ Alain advised her briefly, folding his arms across the waist-coated expanse of his chest. ‘I did not come here to argue the merits of our past relationships. Sufficient to say that you do not appear to have suffered by them. You are still as beautiful as ever—and no doubt duping some other poor fool, as you once did my brother!’
Ashley’s fingers stung across his cheek, almost before he had finished speaking, and she watched in horror as the marks she had made appeared on his dark skin. She waited in silent apprehension for him to retaliate in kind, as he had once done in the past, but apart from lifting a brown-fingered hand to finger his bruised cheek, he took no immediate retribution.
‘So,’ he said at last. ‘Now you have relieved yourself of such pent-up energy, perhaps we can now get to the point of my visit.’
‘What point?’ Ashley was sullen, as much from a sense of self-recrimination as from anything he had said. She had made a fool of herself, not him, by her childish display of temper, and it was up to her now to prove that she could be as controlled as he was.
‘Perhaps if you were to offer me a cup of coffee,’ he said, indicating her cup nearby. ‘Obviously I have interrupted you. If we were to behave more as—acquaintances than enemies—–’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Ashley’s nerve snapped again, and she turned away from him abruptly, feeling the hot tears stinging in her eyes. It was no use. She could not be unemotional about this, and she groped for a tissue to wipe away the evidence.
‘You are behaving foolishly,’ exclaimed Alain’s voice behind her, and in spite of her confusion at his sudden nearness, she thought she detected a trace of reluctant remorse in his tone. ‘I do not wish to resurrect old hatreds,’ he added roughly. ‘I only wish to speak with you, Ashley, to offer you my help.’
‘Your help?’ Ashley spun round to face him then, tilting back her head so that she could look into his eyes. He had always been taller than she was, even though she was not a small girl, but barefoot as she was his advantage was greater. She gazed into those enigmatic blue eyes, so startlingly unusual in such an alien countenance, and her lips parted in disbelief. ‘You want to help me?’ she whispered, moving her head from side to side, and his long silky lashes drooped to narrow the pupils.
‘Yes,’ he said curtly. ‘That was my only intention. But you do not make good intentions easy.’
‘You? With good intentions?’ Ashley’s lips quivered. ‘I don’t believe it.’
Alain’s jaw hardened. ‘Have a care, Ashley. You have tried my patience once this afternoon. Do not push your luck. I may not be so lenient the second time around.’
Ashley held up her head. ‘Then go! I didn’t ask you to come here. I—I want nothing from the Gauthiers. Nothing!’
‘Nothing?’
‘Except perhaps—my son,’ she conceded almost inaudibly, and then winced when his hands closed on her shoulders, biting into the soft flesh, bruising the bone.
‘Do not say that again,’ he commanded harshly. ‘I told you this morning. Hussein is not your son. He has never been your son. He has been brought up to believe he is an orphan, that his mother died along with his father—–’
‘No,’ Ashley caught her breath, but Alain was merciless.
‘Yes,’ he declared grimly. ‘So far as Hussein is concerned, you do not exist. And you must not exist, is that understood?’
Ashley tried to pull away from him, but he would not let her go, and her fury erupted into passion. ‘Why are you doing this, Alain?’ she cried, balling her fists and attempting to strike him. ‘Why are you telling me these things? Haven’t I suffered enough, is that it? Don’t you have any pity, any compassion? How do you think I felt, seeing my own son, knowing he didn’t recognise me? What more do you want of me, you bastard!’
‘You have a viper’s tongue, Ashley,’ he drawled, but she could tell her insults had annoyed him. ‘However, I am prepared to believe that seeing the boy has temporarily unhinged your brain, and therefore I will not retaliate in kind.’
‘How good of you!’ Ashley threw back her head as the heavy weight of her hair fell across her forehead. ‘Well, let me tell you, I was never more sane in my life, and I don’t need your tolerance or your offer of help!’
Alain’s expression was grim. ‘Nevertheless, you will listen to me.’
‘Will I? Will I?’ Ashley deliberately taunted him, knowing she was nearing the end of her nervous reserves, desperate for him to go before she broke down completely. ‘And how will you make me? By—by fair means—or foul?’
Alain shook her, violently, so that her head rocked alarmingly back and forth, the swinging curtain of her hair seeming to make it almost too heavy for her slender neck to support. ‘I came to the school to withdraw Hussein’s name from the register,’ he grated savagely. ‘I do not know why I brought him with me, except perhaps that he wanted to come. I did not expect to see you. The school is not due to open for two days. How was I to know that one of its teachers—–’
Ashley’s head lolled back. ‘You mean—you knew!’
‘That you were employed there, yes. Since I brought Hussein to London, I found out.’
Ashley blinked. ‘And—and that was why you wanted to withdraw his name?’
‘Of course.’ Alain looked down at his fingers digging into the fine cotton of her smock, and allowed them to slacken slightly. ‘You do not suppose I would permit otherwise?’
Ashley tried to think, but coherent thought was difficult. ‘A-and?’
‘Your Mr Henley explained that you had resigned,’ he replied flatly. ‘For the same reason, one would suppose.’
‘One would suppose correctly,’ said Ashley tautly. ‘So?’
‘So—Hussein’s name remains on the register. At least, until this matter is settled.’
‘What matter?’
‘The matter of your employment,’ said Alain, releasing her abruptly to thrust his hands into the pockets of his dark trousers. And as she gazed at him nonplussed: ‘I have a proposition to put to you.’
Ashley’s tongue came to circle her lips. ‘A proposition?’ she echoed, even as her brain refused to take it in. She was still stunned by the knowledge that he had known of her involvement with Brede School before their encounter that morning, and she knew him too well to trust any proposal he might make.
‘Won’t you sit down now?’ he suggested briefly, indicating the couch behind him, but Ashley shook her head.
‘Thank you, I prefer to stand,’ she retorted coldly, and had the satisfaction of seeing that she had annoyed him once again.
‘Very well,’ he said at last, moving away from her, and she had a momentary premonition that he was not as controlled as he appeared. Just for a second, when he looked at her, she had glimpsed a curious expression in his eyes, but then the mask fell into place and he was once more his father’s eldest son.
‘There is a post,’ he said, standing before the screened fireplace with his back to her. ‘In Cairo. A friend of mine requires a governess for his two daughters. It will be a well-paid position, with every amenity available to someone of your—–’
‘No!’ The word burst from Ashley in incensed denial. ‘No, I don’t want your rotten post! My work is here, in England. If I choose to take a private position, it will be of my choosing, not yours!’
‘Do you not wish to work in Egypt, is that it? You would prefer some other place?’ Alain still did not turn. ‘Perhaps I could make other arrangements—–’
‘No!’ Ashley’s response was the same, and now he did turn, slowly, to face her.
‘You will not change your mind?’ he enquired, his face grim, and she shook her head. ‘Very well, then. I will withdraw Hussein from the school.’
‘Why? Ashley took an involuntary step towards him, her bewilderment plain. ‘Why? I’ve resigned—Malcolm told you that. What more do you want?’
‘Malcolm?’ Alain’s dark brows arched interrogatively. ‘Who is—Malcolm?’
‘Malcolm Henley,’ exclaimed Ashley impatiently. ‘Mr Henley, the headmaster.’
Alain’s mouth tightened. ‘It would appear you know him better than I thought,’ he said accusingly. ‘He is your—friend, perhaps. Your—lover?’
Ashley’s face flamed. ‘No! That is—Malcolm is a friend, yes.’ And then, realising she was stammering like a schoolgirl, she added fiercely: ‘It’s no business of yours what our relationship is.’
Alain stiffened. ‘Then he is your lover. And this is why you do not wish to leave London.’
‘No!’ Ashley didn’t know why she felt the need to defend herself, but she did. ‘I simply don’t want to leave my home, this apartment; and—and all my friends.’
Alain breathed deeply. ‘Then I have no choice.’
‘Why not?’ Ashley linked her fingers together as an idea occurred to her. ‘Are you afraid I’ll try to see—to see him? To identify myself to him?’
Alain bent his head. ‘The situation is hypothetical. I will not leave him here.’
‘Don’t you trust me, Alain?’ she exclaimed, and he lifted his head to look at her.
‘Is there any reason why I should?’ he retorted bleakly, and a small gasp of pain escaped her.
‘Yes,’ she retorted fiercely. ‘Yes. I—I’ve never lied to you—–’
‘We will not go into that,’ he interrupted her harshly. ‘Lies, deceptions, call it what you will, I have no time to concern myself with such things. They are over, in the past, and the past is dead.’
‘No. No, it’s not.’ Ashley was indignant. ‘You can’t say these things to me and expect no retaliation. And why shouldn’t I see my son? Even divorced women have such rights.’
‘Not in my country,’ retorted Alain shortly, raising one hand to massage the back of his neck, as if he was tense too. ‘Ashley, why can you not be reasonable? You need another post. I am offering you one. According to your—friend Henley, you will not find it easy to take up another appointment at this time.’
Ashley faltered. ‘What did you say to him? What did you tell him?’
Alain shrugged. ‘Only that I was withdrawing Hussein from the school.’
‘Nothing else?’
His expression grew remote. ‘You think I would discuss my private affairs with a stranger?’
Ashley shook her head. ‘Then how did you find out I was leaving?’
Alain frowned. ‘It was Henley. He made the point that perhaps I was unhappy that Hussein’s form tutor was to be a woman, and went on to explain that you had handed in your resignation. Naturally, I agreed to give the matter further consideration.’
‘I see.’ Ashley nodded, but now Alain looked wary.
‘Why?’ he pressed her. Then, with a darkening anger: ‘Does Henley know of this matter? You cannot have told him that Hussein is your son!’
He was incensed, and she felt a bitter sense of satisfaction. ‘Why not?’ she taunted. ‘I told you, Malcolm is a friend, as well as my superior.’
‘Diable!’ Alain crossed the floor towards her in two savage strides. ‘You are telling me this man is familiar with our private affairs? That you have confided our most personal relationships to him?’
Ashley quivered. ‘He only knows that—that Andrew is my son—–’
‘Only!’ Alain swore angrily. ‘Nom de Dieu! The situation gets worse. You had no right to betray such information.’
‘Betray?’ Ashley gazed up at him, noticing almost inconsequently the erratic flutter of the pulse that marked his jawline. ‘Alain, you can’t deny me the right to acknowledge my son. Besides,’ she moistened her lips, ‘how else could I have resigned at the beginning of term? What excuse could I give? Malcolm would have suspected—–’
‘Malcolm! Malcolm! I begin to grow tired of this man’s name,’ declared Alain violently, his blue eyes searching her face with angry intensity. ‘So—it is over. It is finished. I will take Hussein back to Khadesh!’
‘No—–’
Ashley’s involuntary plea was accompanied by her hand on his arm, gripping the taut muscle she could feel through the expensive cloth of his sleeve. It was more than seven years since she had touched Alain, more than seven years since he had arrived at the hospital in Paddington and taken away the only tangible proof of her brief, but brutal, association with the Gauthier family. But she was appealing to him now, raising herself on her toes to bring her face nearer to his, unconsciously by her actions drawing his attention to the agitated swell of her breasts, outlined against the thin material of her smock.
‘Ashley!’ he grated, and when he spoke, his voice was deepened by some savage emotion he was trying hard to contain. ‘In the name of all the saints, Ashley, get away from me, before I am compelled to deliver the punishment I should have administered years ago!’
‘What punishment?’ Ashley’s lips parted, but she did not move away from him. It was a curious anomaly, but suddenly she sensed that for all his anger and his threats of violence, he was not as indifferent to her as he would like her to believe. Was it possible? she asked herself incredulously. After all these years, was it conceivable that he had some regrets for the pain and misunderstandings of the past? But no! That was not like Alain. He had always been so controlled, so positive, so remote from the weaknesses of the flesh. Except when he had been in her arms, a small voice reminded her wickedly, and an insane desire to find out if she was right gripped her. With a fast-beating heart she allowed her other hand to rest against his chest, in the hollow of the vee where the fastening of his waistcoat began, and deliberately spread her fingers against the fine silk of his shirt.
‘Ashley!’ His free hand caught her tormenting fingers, crushing them within the strength of his as he impaled her with an impassioned glare. ‘Do not try your feminine wiles on me! That was over long ago, and you would do well to remember that you are my brother’s widow!’
‘I haven’t forgotten it,’ she protested huskily, aware of the convulsive shudder that had passed through him before he captured her fingers in his. ‘Perhaps—perhaps it is yourself you have to convince!’
‘No!’ His jaws were clamped together, and he spoke through his teeth, but Ashley had aroused him, and she was not prepared to lose her advantage.
‘He’s my son, Alain,’ she breathed, moving closer to him, so that the pointed tips of her breasts actually brushed against the hand imprisoning hers. ‘Don’t take him away again—please! I promise I won’t tell him who I am. I only want to see him again, to look at him, maybe speak with him—–’
‘It is not possible!’
The words were torn from him, and looking up into his dark face, Ashley knew a moment’s fear for what she was provoking. She had loved this man, she remembered painfully, she had cared for him with every fibre of her being. Even after all that had happened, could she be sure she could control her feelings, and use them to defeat him?
Her breath fanned his chin, warm and sweet, mingling with the scent of her body. Her agitation had brought a film of perspiration over her skin, and its odour was musky and sensual. The smock was loose and revealing, something casual, to be worn around the flat, and the baggy pants hinted at the swell of her hips and the long slender length of her legs. She knew Alain was looking at her, absorbing her body’s freedom, and after the enveloping garments worn by the women in his own country she must seem the epitome of liberated womanhood.
‘This has got to stop!’ he ordered vehemently, but his intention to push her away from him was foiled by Ashley slipping her arms around his neck. It brought her close against him, her forehead on a level with his lips, and she looked up at him through her lashes, her green eyes soft and appealing.
‘Alain,’ she breathed, and his control snapped. His hands at her waist were hard and ungentle, jerking her against him with urgent compulsion. His mouth too was hot and aggressive, searing her lips with a brutal tempestuous possession that had nothing of love in it.
‘Is this what you want, Ashley?’ he demanded, against her mouth, almost suffocating her with the burning heat of his breath. ‘Do you want to be treated the way my father’s ancestors treated their women? Without honour or respect?’ Yet, in spite of his anger, she sensed the desperation in his voice and the hungry passion beneath his cruel strength.
‘Is that what you want, Alain?’ she asked, turning his words back on him, as his teeth fastened on the tender lobe of her ear, and he bit it viciously. She winced, but she did not draw away, as she added unevenly: ‘Do you enjoy inflicting pain?’
‘Yes,’ he told her, in a raw anguished tone, and then again: ‘No! Damn you, no!’ as her hands turned his face to hers, and she put her mouth next to his. His lips parted almost involuntarily, and her mouth opened to accommodate his. She welcomed his intimate invasion, the sensuous brush of passion, that was so much more devastating than brute force. With a little moan of pleasure, that was by no means contrived, she moulded herself against him, and his hands probed beneath the smock to find the smooth skin of her back.
It was strange how time rolled back under the hungry pressure of his lips. Without her being aware of it, her response changed from the controlled reaction to a planned set of circumstances, to an eager and willing consummation of his possession. She pressed herself against him, uncaring when her fingernails raked the hair at the nape of his neck.
‘Ashley!’ Alain’s strangled voice came to her as if from a distance, and at first she didn’t want to pay any attention to it. But when he dragged his mouth from hers and lifted his head, she was forced to acknowledge that the situation was rapidly slipping from her grasp. With a little shiver she lowered her toes to the floor, and forced herself to look up at him questioningly as he strove for his own sanity. ‘Ashley—for God’s sake—–’
‘You wanted to touch me,’ she said simply, and his hands dropped abruptly to his sides.
‘You are a madness—and a temptation,’ he retorted, in a shaken tone. ‘Are you wearing anything under—under that outfit?’
‘Not much,’ she conceded huskily, realising she had little time left to make any headway. ‘Do you want to see?’
‘No!’ Alain turned aside from her, combing somewhat unsteady fingers through his thick dark hair. ‘I have to go. There—are things I have to do.’
‘Will I see you again?’ she enquired softly, and he gave her a brooding stare.
‘It is unlikely. I intend to return to Khadesh at the end of the week.’ He paused. ‘I shall be taking Hussein with me.’
It was a bitter blow, but not unexpected. Nevertheless, she still had one more card to play, a card which had only just occurred to her.
‘And—his education?’ she asked. ‘What about that?’
‘I will make other arrangements,’ declared Alain curtly, rapidly recovering his composure. ‘That need not concern you—–’
‘Oh, but it does,’ she contradicted him softly. ‘You see, I think he might benefit from private tuition.’
‘Private tuition?’ Alain frowned. ‘Well—perhaps.’
‘And I can supply it,’ inserted Ashley quietly.
‘What!’ Alain was incredulous at first, and then he gave a harsh laugh. ‘You are not serious!’
‘Oh, but I am.’ Ashley held up her head. ‘And unless you want me to create a great deal of unpleasantness, you should agree with me.’
Alain stared at her. ‘Are you threatening me, Ashley?’
Ashley’s skin prickled at the sudden malevolence of his gaze. Only rarely did Alain assume the arrogant hawklike countenance of his father’s forebears, those wild and lawless Arab tribesmen who for centuries had lived like lords in their desert kingdom. But right now he possessed all their savage ruthlessness and hauteur, and she faltered for a moment on the brink of submission.
But then the realisation of what she was fighting for strengthened her will, and facing him bravely she said: ‘And if I am?’
Alain speared her with his scorching glare. ‘And how do you propose to create this unpleasantness?’
Ashley’s lips parted. ‘I—I—–’ she faltered again, and then, as his lips curled contemptuously, she burst out: ‘The—the authorities. I could go to the authorities. I could tell them how you intimidated me, how you made me hand my baby over to you—–’
‘You would not do such a thing!’ Alain menaced her, but she held her ground.
‘I would. Yes, I would.’ She fought free of his mesmerising stare. ‘And they’d listen to me, too—you know they would. You could face court proceedings, particularly if I said you threatened me—–’
‘Be silent!’ Alain was furious. ‘You must be crazy if you imagine I’ll let you blackmail me!’
Ashley backed away from him. ‘Not crazy, just desperate,’ she spat at him resentfully. ‘And don’t think that’s all. There are other ways.’
‘I am sure there are.’ Alain’s eyes were dark and brooding now, their blueness overlaid by a film of frustration. ‘Nevertheless, you are insane if you think I will permit you to teach the boy. If that were so, what point would there be in my taking him away from the school?’
‘Private tutoring is different,’ Ashley declared, touching her bruised lips with a nervous finger. ‘And—and you would be there to—to watch your—investment.’
Alain shook his head. ‘And for this—privilege, you will promise—what?’
‘Not to tell him who I am.’
‘And why should I believe you?’
‘Because I don’t tell lies,’ retorted Ashley forcefully. ‘I don’t. I never have—–’
‘Enough of that!’ Alain paced the floor in evident impatience. ‘And how can I be sure that once you have achieved this objective, you will not demand others?’
‘What others?’
‘Do not be naïve,’ he snapped. ‘You think to insinuate your way into his life by one means or another.’
Ashley licked her lips. ‘And are you going to let me?’
‘My father would never permit you to enter the palace.’
‘Your father need not know who I am. He’s never seen me.’ She paused. ‘Only you—and—and Hassan ever—–’
‘Enough!’ rasped Alain again, stopping his pacing to stare at her once more. ‘And if I still refuse?’
Ashley shrugged. ‘I—I’ll get to Andrew, somehow. And I’ll tell him everything. Everything!’
‘Knowing he would never forgive you for it?’ mocked Alain coldly.
‘What have I to lose?’ she retorted. Then: ‘Well? Will you do it?’
Alain’s mouth was a thin line. ‘I will have to think about it.’
‘For how long?’
‘I don’t know.’ He turned away abruptly. ‘Give me—time. I need time. Twenty-four hours at least.’
‘Very well.’ Ashley pulled open the door behind her. ‘You know where to find me.’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said bleakly, ‘I do indeed.’
And without another word he walked out the door.
CHAPTER THREE (#ue92955bb-7a4a-5392-be8a-0e904887c4aa)
ASHLEY’S elation lasted only so long as it took for Alain to get in the car that was waiting for him, and drive away. As the long black limousine bearing the coat of arms of Prince Ahmed of Khadesh disappeared round a bend in the road, she realised she had no idea where Alain was staying. He had gone, albeit promising to contact her again in twenty-four hours, but if he did not, if he chose to ignore her demands and leave the country, she had no way of stopping him.
Frustration engulfed her, and she sank down on to the couch with a little sound of helplessness. She had been a fool, a stupid fool, and even now Alain was probably exulting over the simple way he had thwarted her. But she had been so excited at the prospect of seeing her son again, of getting to know him, and of having him get to know her, she had not considered the inevitable flaws in her reasoning. She should have known she could not succeed so easily. She should have suspected something was wrong when Alain did not waste time arguing with her.
Getting up from the couch again, she walked restlessly across the room. What should she do? What could she do? And if Alain chose to walk out on her, how was she ever to see Andrew again? Apart from anything else, she was still employed by the governors of the school, and it would be foolish to resign her position there if she had no other employment.
She pushed her fingers into her hair, holding them there as she acknowledged the hopelessness of her position. If only she had not gone into school that morning, she thought despairingly. If Alain had withdrawn Andrew’s name, she might never have known anything about it, and her life would not now be suffering the turmoil she was presently experiencing.
A tap at her door brought her round with a start, and almost tripping over herself she rushed to open it. A small, dumpy little woman, wrapped in a dressing gown and wearing carpet slippers, her hair coiled around a series of rollers, stood on the threshold, and Ashley expelled her breath unsteadily as her neighbour began to speak.
‘Did you want me, love?’ the little woman asked anxiously. ‘I was in the bath, but I thought I heard you shouting, and I came round as quickly as I could.’
‘Oh, Mrs Forrest.’ Ashley caught her lower lip between her teeth, feeling ashamed that she had disturbed her. ‘Er—no. No, I wasn’t trying to attract your attention. I—I had a visitor. What you heard was—was probably him going.’ She crossed her fingers.
‘Ah!’ Mrs Forrest nodded. ‘That would be it, I suppose.’ She smiled, patting her rollered head. ‘I must look quite a state.’ She chuckled. ‘And there was me thinking you’d been attacked!’
Ashley coloured. ‘I’m very grateful,’ she said, almost glad of the diversion. ‘Thank you.’
Mrs Forrest had turned away, but she glanced back now over her shoulder. ‘For what, dear?’
Ashley shrugged, a little awkwardly. ‘Well—for being there.’ She hunched her shoulders, pushing her hands into the pockets of her pants. ‘Thanks, anyway.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Mrs Forrest disappeared back into her flat with a wave of her hand, and with a sigh Ashley closed her door again, leaning back against it with a feeling of intense disillusionment. It had all gone wrong, hopelessly wrong, and her only consolation was the realisation that she had provoked Alain. He had not been able to deny his desire for her body, and although this was small comfort when he had been capable of walking away from her, given the same circumstances, she might be able to repeat her success. She squashed the uneasy recollection that she had been as. aroused by his lovemaking as he was. It was a sexual response, nothing more. Any woman, kissed by a man as virile and attractive as Alain Gauthier, would find it extremely difficult to keep a cool head in such circumstances, and in her case, the memories of the past kept intruding. Once she had succeeded in exorcising those painful images she would be able to control her own destiny again. She had loved him in those days. She did not love him now. But she would use him, in any way she could, if it meant she could be near her son.
Shaking her head, she moved away from the door. Was she really so determined about this? she asked herself with sudden uncertainty. Why, after all these years, was she even considering such a course of action? The answer was simple. It was as she had always known it would be. So long as her son was unknown to her, so long as she had no image of him in her mind, she could pretend he didn’t exist. But now she had seen him, he had smiled at her; and she would move heaven and earth to be near him again.
She was still trying to formulate some plan of action when the telephone rang. Picking up the receiver, she wondered if Alain was ringing to taunt her with her helplessness, but it was Malcolm Henley at the other end of the line.
‘Ashley? My dear, I just thought I’d tell you, your resignation will not be necessary.’
Ashley moistened her lips. ‘It won’t?’
‘No.’ Malcolm sounded pleased. ‘I’ve just had a telephone call from Gauthier—you know, your brother-in-law?’
‘Yes?’ Ashley’s hand trembled.
‘Yes.’ Malcolm paused, as if timing his announcement. ‘He’s asked me to withdraw Hussein’s name from the register. He’s changed his mind, apparently. He’s going to have the boy educated in Murad.’
Ashley drew an unsteady breath. ‘I see.’
‘Isn’t that good news?’ Malcolm was obviously disappointed at her response. ‘You don’t know this, but he actually came to see me this morning, bringing the boy with him. He’d read your name on the—–’
‘I know.’ Ashley was too disturbed to allow him to go through the whole rigmarole of telling her something she already knew.
‘You know?’ Malcolm sounded bewildered. ‘But how?’
‘Alain’s been here, too,’ she replied unwillingly. ‘He—well, I encountered them in school this morning, and he came here to offer me a private position, with some family in Egypt.’
‘I see.’ Malcolm was perturbed. ‘So you met the boy. How unfortun—–’ He broke off abruptly, then added crisply: ‘You told Gauthier you couldn’t take the job, didn’t you?’
Ashley opened her mouth to say yes, then closed it again. She had no intention of discussing her plans with Malcolm, and it might actually be simpler if he thought she was considering a post with some unknown Egyptian family. It would give her a breathing space.
‘I—I haven’t made up my mind yet,’ she said now, and heard Malcolm’s impatient intake of breath.
‘But if Gauthier is withdrawing—well, there’s no need for you to consider another job,’ he exclaimed. ‘I don’t know why he’s changed his mind, but he has. I did tell him that you’d resigned, and I thought he seemed satisfied, but now—this!’ He hesitated. ‘You—well, you didn’t say anything which might have influenced him, did you?’
Ashley was indignant. ‘Malcolm!’
‘It was only a thought. I’m sorry.’ He was apologetic. ‘But you must admit, it’s strange that he should back out—now.’
Ashley moved her shoulders. ‘Perhaps he’s decided to—employ a private tutor,’ she ventured, hardly daring to hope, but Malcolm’s diagnosis was not encouraging.
‘I think he’s decided there are too many temptations for a young boy growing up in this country,’ he remarked sourly. ‘You should know how strictly they cling to the old traditions. I’m more inclined to believe he’ll be sent to one of those military establishments when he’s older, where the discipline is more severe.’
Ashley could not prevent the involuntary cry of protest that escaped her then, and as if just realising he was speaking to the boy’s mother, Malcolm cursed his reckless tongue. ‘Of course, I don’t mean that the boy will suffer in any way from it,’ he declared hastily. ‘I may be entirely wrong.’ He sighed. ‘In any event, I’m sure his uncle will keep a careful eye upon him.’
‘I’m sure he will.’ Ashley’s tone was taut with suppressed emotion.
‘So—I’ll see you tomorrow, shall I?’ Malcolm suggested uncomfortably. ‘Nine o’clock, as usual.’
‘I don’t know.’ Ashley was confused, and Malcolm made a sound of impatience.
‘Oh, come along, Ashley! It’s not the end of the world, you know. I realise seeing the boy must have been a traumatic experience for you, but it’s over now. He’s going back to Murad, and there’s no earthly reason why you shouldn’t continue in your position here.’
Ashley could feel the tears pricking at her eyes again, and sniffed them back. ‘I—I don’t know what I shall do, Malcolm,’ she said, which was the truth. ‘Right now, I—I’m not feeling very well. I—I may take tomorrow off. It’s not necessary for me to be there, is it? School doesn’t really begin until the next day.’
‘No. No, but you know how hectic everything is at the start of the new year. Boys arriving from all over the place, beds to make and allocate, timetables to be explained—–’
‘It’s not really my job, is it, Malcolm?’ Ashley reminded him tautly, feeling mean, but needing the time to think. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
‘I’m sure you will, my dear.’
Malcolm’s words were intended to be conciliatory, but Ashley couldn’t forget the insensitivity he had just displayed. He had said he cared about her, but all he really cared about was the school, and the significance of her meeting with Andrew was lost on him. He thought she should dismiss the fact that she had just met her son for the first time, and carry on as if nothing untoward had happened. He expected her to go into the school tomorrow and help organise the domestic staff while he concerned himself with names and addresses. Addresses!
Her hand shook so much she could hardly grip the receiver, but she managed to hold on. ‘By the way,’ she said, as he was about to ring off, ‘did you have an address for—for the Gauthiers?’
There was silence for a moment, then Malcolm said rather doubtfully: ‘Yes. Why?’
Ashley took a deep breath. ‘Alain—he forgot to give me the address to write to, about—about this job I mentioned. Whether I decide to take it or not, I’ve got to let him know, but—–’
‘Oh, I see.’ Malcolm sounded relieved, and she heard him riffling through the papers on his desk. ‘Yes. Yes, here it is. I thought you’d have known it. It’s the Askar Palace in Khadesh.’
Ashley’s momentary excitement dispersed. ‘No,’ she exclaimed, ‘I—I meant in England. Wh-where is he staying?’
Malcolm checked again. ‘That’s the only address I have. Besides, as he’s flying back to Murad tomorrow, I hardly see—–’
‘Tomorrow!’ Ashley’s hand flew over the mouthpiece of the telephone to prevent Malcolm from overhearing her horrified exclamation. Then: ‘Yes. Yes, you’re right. I—I’ll contact him there.’
‘That’s the best idea,’ Malcolm approved. ‘And—Ashley?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t do anything you might afterwards—regret.’
He rang off before she could ask him what he meant, but it made her see he was not indifferent to her state of mind. He knew she was distraite, and he was trying to tell her not to do anything foolish.
Pacing the flat later, she wondered whether he was not right, after all. She was considering action which, by any standards, could be regarded as reckless. She could conceivably hurt herself more than she was likely to hurt Alain, with Andrew the innocent pawn in the middle. But then she remembered her son’s smiling face, and knew that whatever happened she had to make the attempt.
But how? How? If Alain was planning to leave the following day, he could have no intention of agreeing to her suggestion. He had only agreed to think it over to placate her. His determination to remove the boy from temptation had not faltered.
Straddling a chair by the window, she draped her arm along its back and rested her chin on her wrist. Where was he likely to be staying in London? Not the apartment. She shivered. He had given that up after—well, when she married Hassan. And if the Gauthier organisation had any other property, she was not aware of its whereabouts. Which only left hotels …
Getting up, she rescued the commercial edition of the telephone directory, and turned to the relevant section. There were dozens of hotels in and around the London area, but she knew Alain would choose somewhere exclusive, and quiet. Running her finger down the list, she jotted the numbers of half a dozen of the more elegant establishments on to a pad, then picked up the telephone receiver.
Half an hour later she was no further forward. Even when she claimed kinship with the family, none of the receptionists would admit that Prince Alain was staying at their hotel, and while she suspected they might not tell her even if he was, the suspicion was growing that he was staying elsewhere. But where? With relatives? With friends? Or in some other apartment, high above Regent’s Park, with a magnificent view over the city?
Sighing, she got up from the couch again and trudged into her bedroom. Her passport was in the drawer of the cabinet beside her bed, and pulling it out, she assured herself of its validity. The last entry in it had been stamped when she went to Paris in the spring, one of the staff accompanying a school party of a dozen older boys. It had been a successful trip and the boys had enjoyed it. And if she had felt a pang at the French capital’s association with Alain, and subsequently with her son, she had succeeded in keeping it at bay …
Closing the passport again, she tapped it on her palm. She knew, without looking, that she needed no special inoculations before visiting Murad. Like Egypt, it only demanded smallpox and cholera certificates and an injection against yellow fever, if she was coming from an infected area, and unlike Egypt, a visa was not necessary. If she could get on the flight, she could leave for Murad tomorrow, too, with only currency providing any difficulties. It might even be the same flight that Alain and Andrew were taking …
With a nervous gesture she dropped the passport back into the drawer and closed it quickly. What was she thinking of? She was still obliged to honour her contract with Brede. How could she consider flying off to the Middle East, without positive proof that Alain would even acknowledge her, let alone employ her?
Nibbling at her thumb, she went back into the living room, unable to remain in one place for any length of time. What time was it? she asked herself unsteadily, and discovering it was after five o’clock, she determinedly marched into the kitchen to prepare herself some food.
But even a plate of soup defeated her, and after swallowing several mouthfuls, she was on her feet again. If only she could get in touch with Alain, she thought bitterly. If only she had asked him where he was staying before all this blew up.
By bedtime, she had forced herself to the realisation that unless Alain contacted her, there was nothing she could do. Once again the Gauthiers had had the last word, and the tears she had been stifling all day soaked her pillow. Oh, Alain, she breathed, at the last, how could you do this to me? And she had no satisfactory explanation for the pain that tore her apart.
In the morning, things looked marginally better. With an autumn sun streaming through her kitchen windows, Ashley felt almost resigned as she prepared her toast and coffee, and carrying the morning newspaper to the dining room table she propped it against the marmalade pot as she buttered her toast.
There were the usual headlines—another strike in the Midlands, an escape from custody of a wanted criminal, more unpopular governmental decisions—and after skipping through these, Ashley turned to the gossip columns. It was a relief to read about someone else’s problems, she thought, sympathising with the fight an actress was having in establishing her rights as a famous actor’s common-law wife. Without the security of a wedding ring, a woman had few privileges, she acknowledged flatly, and even with one, a man always had the ascendancy.
Her lips tightened. It wasn’t fair, she fretted, her eyes registering a mute protest. Andrew was her son! Was he to grow to manhood without even speaking a word to the woman who had borne him in her body for nine whole months?
The telephone bell interrupted her melancholy abstraction, and it rang several times before she stirred herself to go and answer it. She didn’t feel like talking to anybody right now, and she lifted the receiver with dour reluctance.
‘Yes?’
‘Ashley?’
Her knees gave out on her, and she sank down weakly on to the couch. ‘Al-Alain?’
‘You did not expect me to ring?’
‘No—yes. I mean—–’ Ashley struggled to shake off her apathy. ‘Why are you calling? To let me know you’re leaving today? I know that already—Malcolm told me. He said you’d definitely withdrawn Andrew’s name from the register, and as you conveniently forgot to give me your address, I suppose you’re ringing to flaunt your advantage—–’
‘Do you want to hear what I have to say, or do you not?’ Alain interposed curtly, cutting into her babbling tirade. ‘I told you I would consider your proposition, and I have. Where I am staying in London does not seem of great relevance.’
Ashley’s jaw shook. ‘Well, all right. What have you decided? That I won’t do? That I’m not suitable? That you couldn’t possibly employ a woman to teach the boy, and that in any case your father would never agree to it?’
‘Will you stop trying to pre-empt me?’ Alain’s voice betrayed his irritation now. ‘In the name of Allah, you seem to be doing your best to persuade me that you are not suitable!’
Ashley faltered, ‘What do you mean?’
‘What do you think I mean?’
Ashley’s palms were moist. ‘You can’t mean—you don’t mean—–’ Her voice shook. ‘Oh, Alain! You wouldn’t tease me, would you?’
‘No,’ he said flatly, ‘I would not tease you. And you have yet to decide whether what I have to say is acceptable to you.’
Ashley swallowed convulsively. ‘Go on.’
Alain hesitated, then he said briefly: ‘Your initial contract will be made for a probationary period of a month. If, at the end of that time, the arrangement has proved—unsatisfactory—to either party, it can be terminated forthwith.’
Ashley breathed out quickly: ‘All right.’
‘This is to be a business arrangement only,’ Alain continued. ‘With certain—clauses inserted, relevant to the situation.’
Ashley quivered. ‘What clauses?’
Alain paused. ‘A sworn undertaking from you that you will not, at any time, and to anybody, divulge your relationship to Hussein.’
Ashley’s stomach churned. ‘Is that all?’
‘No. In addition, I shall want your written agreement that you handed over Hussein independently, and of your own free will, and that you have no intention of asserting your rights as his mother in the future.’
‘No!’ Ashley’s voice broke on the word. ‘Alain, you’re unreasonable. You can’t make me sign something like that.’
‘Then you must do what you can to gain your own ends,’ he declared roughly. ‘There is nothing more to be said.’
‘Wait!’ Ashley could not let him go like that. ‘Alain, give me a few moments, at least. Let me think!’
‘I do not have much time, Ashley. We leave for the airport in less than half an hour.’
‘You’re leaving?’ she gasped, in consternation.
‘You said you knew,’ he reminded her.
‘Well, yes, but—–’ Ashley sought for words. ‘I thought—now—–’
‘If you decide to accept the position, you will follow us, after you have completed your term of notice,’ he replied smoothly. ‘It is better this way. It will enable me to prepare the ground, as you might say. And give you time to resign yourself to the situation.’
Ashley shook her head. ‘You—you’re inhuman!’
‘Merely practical,’ he amended dryly. ‘Well? Have you reached a decision?’
Ashley tipped back her head, as if her neck ached. It was too much. How could she sign away her child’s birthright? But if she did not, she might never see him again. Was the one any worse than the other?
‘And—and who will be his guardian?’ she asked huskily. ‘Who—who has custody of him?’
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Anne Mather
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Mills & Boon are excited to present The Anne Mather Collection – the complete works by this classic author made available to download for the very first time! These books span six decades of a phenomenal writing career, and every story is available to read unedited and untouched from their original release. The governess’s secret…Ashely has not seen her son since he was taken away from her seven years ago – when she was blamed for her husband’s death by his family. Her only chance to be with little Hussein again is to become his governess on his Uncle Alain’s palatial home in the Middle East. Her son can’t know who she is to him – but she’ll take any chance to be near her boy. What she hadn’t expected was the fierce attraction that ignites between her and Alain, her sworn and mutual enemy…Ashely finally has a chance to be happy – but can she ever reveal her true identity? Dare she trust Alain enough to forgive her past?