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Morgan's Child
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. A new year…a new start…a new baby! The miracle Felicity could only dream about has finally happened - her husband, missing and presumed dead, is alive and well. He’s been released after being kidnapped in Africa. But much has happened in their four years apart, and Morgan seems like a dark, delicious stranger. His return stirs long-suppressed desires, but can things ever be as they once were?It’s not long before fresh passion consumes them – and with the dawning of a new year, Felicity discovers she is pregnant! Perhaps true miracles can happen…and new beginnings are possible after all?







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.


Morgan’s Child

Anne Mather






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Table of Contents

Cover (#u0065eae4-544c-57e0-b41c-a73f0ffff5e2)

About the Author (#ubbe09ed6-13b4-513b-9a09-e7af76a237ad)

Title Page (#ueaa2df10-38b5-5d61-9cf9-d36710ccbe63)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#u7329a598-970b-5be6-bed1-6507f808119d)

FLISS let herself into the cottage and dropped her tote bag onto the iron chest that stood just inside the door. The living room was deliciously warm after the chilly air outside, and after bending to pick up the mail she surveyed her small domain with a certain amount of relief. It had been a long day and she was tired, and it was so nice to think that she had the weekend ahead, two whole days without any demands being made on her.

Well, apart from Graham’s coffee morning, she acknowledged ruefully, but that wasn’t exactly an arduous affair. She’d promised to make some of her cheese scones, of course, but she could do them in the morning. Scones were always nicest fresh from the oven, and Graham was always so grateful for anything she did for his church.

Dear Graham. She smiled and, crossing the living room, she entered the tiny kitchen that adjoined it. A cup of tea first, she decided, dropping the letters on the counter and plugging in the kettle. Then she was going to take a long hot bath. Graham had his bible class this evening, so she wasn’t expecting to see him again until the next morning at the church hall. Which meant she had no one to please but herself.

Not that there was anything the least bit intimidating about seeing Graham, she mused, taking off her cashmere coat and Paisley scarf and hanging them in the understairs cupboard. Indeed, she had a lot to thank Graham for. She couldn’t forget all that he had done for her and their relationship had deepened over time. Without him, she might never have found the strength to drag herself out of the hole Morgan’s death had thrust her into, and it was in part thanks to him that she now had a home and a job in a place that was as far removed from the ravages of war-torn Nyanda as it was possible to be.

And it was only natural, she thought, that the gratitude she had initially felt towards him should have eventually deepened into a stronger emotion. Graham was that kind of man; all his parishioners loved him, and she was sure Morgan wouldn’t resent her finding a less frenetic kind of happiness with another man.

Or would he? As the kettle boiled, she admitted to herself that she didn’t really know how Morgan would feel. Their relationship had left little room for that kind of speculation, and there was no doubt that when they had been together no other man had stood a chance.

Her mouth quivered with remembered anguish, and she hurriedly reached for the tea caddy, determined not to let any maudlin thoughts of her dead husband destroy the very real happiness she had found with Graham. Graham wasn’t Morgan, and she wouldn’t have wanted him to be. Her love for Morgan had been too strong, too passionate, and the pain she had suffered when it had ended so violently had convinced her that perhaps it was better not to feel so deeply. If she’d cared for Morgan as she cared for Graham, she would have been distressed when she had received the news of his death but she wouldn’t have been devastated; she wouldn’t have felt that life no longer had any meaning; that her whole world had fallen apart...

The sound of the phone broke into her reverie, and she was grateful. From the beginning, the doctor had warned her not to brood about the past, and she was gradually coming to terms with it. Morgan was dead. They’d found the remains of his body in the burnt-out car. That period of her life was over, and she told herself that she had stopped looking back.

Squaring her shoulders, she picked up the phone. ‘Hello,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Whittersley 2492.’

‘Felicity?’

Fliss expelled a breath. Of all people, she thought ruefully, but her mother-in-law called her so infrequently these days that she wasn’t altogether sorry. ‘Yes. it’s me,’ she greeted the other woman warmly. ‘Hello, Celia. It must have been at New Year that I last spoke to you and James.’

‘Yes, well—’

There was a wealth of unspoken censure in those two small words, and Fliss prepared herself for another gentle tirade on what Celia and James Riker thought of their only daughter-in-law’s removal to this small Wiltshire village, which was so remote from the life they lived in Sussex. She dreaded to think how they would react when they learned that Graham had actually asked her to marry him.

In all honesty, she hadn’t wanted to mention it at New Year anyway, as those particular celebrations always brought back memories of Morgan. They’d always spent New Year together, and an image of them sharing a glass of champagne could still upset her even after all this time.

She sighed, nudging the solitaire diamond ring on her finger with some trepidation. She had to concentrate on Graham, and the life they expected to build together in the coming year. A year which would bring in a new millennium; a new husband. Was this a suitable moment to tell the Rikers the truth?

‘Um—’ Celia seemed to be finding difficulty in going on and, taking the initiative, Fliss swallowed any lingering doubts.

‘I was going to ring you anyway,’ she said, but before she could get any further Celia found her voice.

‘Oh, why?’ she asked. ‘Have—have they been in touch with you?’ The tremor in her voice caused a sympathetic shiver to slide down Fliss’s spine. ‘The Foreign Office, I mean?’

Fliss swallowed again. ‘The Foreign Office?’ she echoed, trying to sound casual and failing, abysmally. She sought the safety of the nearby sofa’s arm. ‘I—why, no.’ She moistened suddenly dry lips. ‘Have they been in touch with you?’

Her thoughts spiralled. What now? she wondered. She’d thought she was through with all the formalities consequent upon Morgan’s death. And it had to be about Morgan. There was no other reason for the Foreign Office to get in touch with her.

The silence at the other end of the line was ominous, and although she quite understood that anything to do with the death of their son was just as painful for her in-laws as it was for her she wished Celia had marshalled her facts before picking up the phone.

‘You haven’t had a letter, then?’ her mother-in-law queried at last, and Fliss knew an uncharacteristic urge to scream that that was what she’d just said. ‘About—about the coup in Nyanda,’ Celia added confusingly. ‘Oh, dear. James said you would have rung us if you had.’

‘The coup in Nyanda?’ Fliss couldn’t imagine why the recent coup in the country where Morgan had met his death should be of any interest to her. Indeed, she preferred not to think about Nyanda at all, and the news that her husband’s killers had overthrown the legal government was too painful to think about.

‘Yes, the coup,’ Celia repeated eagerly, and Fliss wondered if there was to be some kind of official acknowledgement of Morgan’s murder. Surely they were not hypocritical enough to suggest that there should be some lasting memorial? The last thing she wanted was to have all those unhappy memories raked up now.

She tamped down her indignation, and said, ‘Is there a problem?’ in what she hoped was a pleasant tone.

‘You could say that.’ Celia’s response was agitated. ‘Oh, Felicity, it’s such wonderful news!’

Fliss felt guilty suddenly. Here she was considering only her own feelings when it was obvious that Morgan’s mother was delighted by what she’d heard. The trouble was, since she and Graham bad started spending so much time together. she’d been neglecting her in-laws. How long had it been since she’d visited them at Tudor Cross?

‘Celia—’

She didn’t know exactly what she’d been intending to say, but her mother-in-law broke in before she could go on. ‘Morgan’s alive!’ Celia cried, and then collapsed into violent sobbing and Fliss heard Morgan’s father swear as he grabbed the phone from her.

The room swam dizzily around her. She was glad she was sitting down, but even so the feeling of imbalance made her feel slightly sick. Clutching the arm of the chair, she assured herself that Celia must be having some kind of seizure. Whatever communication she had had, it could not have said that Morgan was alive.

‘Felicity!’

She was dimly aware that James Riker was speaking to her now and his voice, so like his son’s, had a sobering effect. She knew he was going to tell her to discount what his wife had said, but Celia’s words—so pathetic in some ways, so cruel in others—were not so easily dismissed.

‘Felicity,’ James said again. And then, more gently, ‘Fliss.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘God. I’m so sorry, my dear. Celia promised me she’d just ask you if you’d had a letter. She wasn’t supposed to blurt out what it said.’

‘What it said?’ Fliss trembled, trying hard to remain calm in the face of enormous provocation. ‘I just don’t know why you thought I’d be interested in some coup they’ve had in Nyanda.’ She drew a breath. ‘Are they planning a memorial to all the innocent victims of the war, or what?’

‘Oh, Fliss.’

James sounded so distressed now that Fliss wished she could say something to reassure him. It seemed there had been a letter and somehow Celia had convinced herself that Morgan was still alive. How awful for her husband to have to deal with that, and handle his own grief as well.

‘It’s all right,’ she said, putting aside her own feelings. ‘It’s obvious Celia’s got the wrong end of the stick. If there’s anything I can do, please feel free to call me. Um—perhaps if there is to be a memorial service we could get together—’

‘Oh, Fliss!’

Her words didn’t seem to have reassured him at all, and she hoped he didn’t think she didn’t care. No one liked the suggestion that a relative might not be wholly rational, but if he’d had any doubts about Celia’s mental capacity he shouldn’t have let her make the call in the first place.

‘Felicity,’ he said again, and she registered the return to a more formal appellation with a relieved smile. ‘You did hear what Celia said, didn’t you?’

Fliss nodded. Then, realising he couldn’t see her, she answered, ‘Yes, of course.’

James groaned. ‘You heard, Fliss. But you weren’t listening,’ he interposed swiftly. ‘God, I knew we should have driven down to see you instead of expecting you to call us. But the weather’s been so abominable, and we’ve both had flu—’

‘Wait!’ Now Fliss broke in. Before he said another word, she had to know what he meant ‘Are—are you saying there’s some truth in what Celia was saying? Is there some doubt about—about Morgan’s death?’

‘Not doubt, no.’ As Fliss gripped the receiver with hands that were now ice-cold and trembling, her father-in-law gave what sounded like a muffled laugh. ‘Oh, my dear. There is no doubt. Morgan is alive. He’s apparently been a prisoner of the rebel forces for the past four years.’

Fliss couldn’t believe it. She had the awful feeling that this was some sort of practical joke. Morgan was dead. The Foreign Office had virtually said so. They’d found the burnt-out remains of the car he’d been travelling in on the airport road, and the chances of Morgan having survived the ambush were minimal.

‘You obviously haven’t watched the reports on television,’ her father-in-law continued, his voice a little unsteady. ‘The rebel leader, a man called Julius Mdola, gave an interview outside the parliament buildings in Kantanga, and he admitted he’d been forced to keep his whereabouts a secret because of the danger of attack.’ He made a choked sound. The authorities believe Morgan must have been with him, and, thank God, they’ve discovered he’s still alive.’

Fliss shook her head as if to clear it. She could hear James’s voice, but the things he was saying made no sense. Whatever lies he’d been told, she didn’t want to hear them. It was all a mistake, and she just wanted to be left alone.

‘Fliss! Fliss, are you still there?’ James sounded anxious now, but still she didn’t speak. ‘Did you hear what I said? They’re calling it the coup of the millennium. Mdola insisted it was the people’s coup. But as long as Morgan’s free I don’t particularly care.’

Fliss’s mind wouldn’t function. Whether she believed it or not, no one could drop a bombshell like that and still expect her to respond. She had to keep telling herself that the Rikers were mistaken. Whatever they said, Morgan wasn’t coming back.

‘Fliss, for God’s sake, answer me!’

James was getting angry now, and Fliss supposed that she couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t his fault that her mind had slipped out of gear. Well, it was his fault, but there were obviously mitigating circumstances. If Graham were here, he’d know how to deal with it. He always knew what to do in a crisis.

‘Fliss, I know you’re there,’ James declared at last, a trace of desperation in his voice, and she guessed he had detected her quickened breathing. ‘You should have had a letter,’ he added, somewhat flatly. ‘When I rang the Foreign Office earlier today, they confirmed that you’d been contacted, too.’

Fliss shook her head again, wondering if she was the only sane person amongst them. ‘James, it’s not true,’ she said firmly, trying not to get impatient. ‘Whatever you’ve heard, Morgan is dead.’ She licked her lips. ‘You saw the pictures of that car, just as I did. No one could have survived—’ She broke off. ‘And now, if you don’t mind, I don’t want to talk about it any more.’

‘Oh, hell!’ James swore. ‘Look, my dear, I know this has come as a shock to you, and I’m sorry you’ve had to hear the news so baldly. But it is true. Morgan’s alive. He’s presently in a hospital in Kantanga. Some kind of stomach infection, I believe.’

‘No—’

‘Yes.’ James sighed. ‘You will forgive Celia, won’t you? She was so excited, she couldn’t wait to talk to you.’

Fliss couldn’t breathe. ‘No,’ she said again, seemingly incapable of saying anything else, and Morgan’s father groaned.

‘Yes,’ he insisted. ‘Look, we’ll come down and see you. Not tonight, of course, but we’ll be with you first thing in the morning.’

Fliss didn’t answer him. There was a buzzing in her head, and although she knew the lamps in the room were lit she could sense a darkness at the comers of her eyes. She slid numbly off the arm of the sofa, bouncing briefly on the chintz-covered cushions before slipping almost nervelessly onto the floor. The phone dropped from her fingers, but she didn’t notice. As the blackness engulfed her, she heard Morgan’s father saying her name over and over again...

She recovered consciousness to the sound of someone hammering at the door.

For a moment, she didn’t know where she was, and even the realisation that she was lying on the rug in front of the stone hearth didn’t immediately supply an explanation. Had she tripped and fallen? Had she hit her head? She couldn’t remember ever having fainted, but it seemed obvious that she wouldn’t have just lain down in front of an unlit fire.

Her head was throbbing quite badly and whoever was attacking her door wasn’t improving it. If only they would stop banging quite so loudly, she might find the wherewithal to think.

‘Fliss!’ The letterbox rattled and someone shouted her name through the opening. ‘Fliss, can’t you answer me? Where are you? Are you all right?’

It was Graham, she realised as the pause in the knocking allowed her brain to function again. Graham was at her door, and she couldn’t understand why he sounded so worried. She distinctly remembered him telling her that he was giving a bible class this evening. He should have been at the vicarage, not hammering on her door.

She shook her head, and then wished she hadn’t when the room spun dizzily about her. Obviously, she had fainted, she thought incredulously. But how had Graham known that she needed his help?

She struggled up onto her elbows. She’d always believed she wasn’t the type to suffer sudden losses of consciousness. She’d thought she was made of stronger stuff and it was disconcerting to discover she’d been wrong. Why, even when she’d heard the news that Morgan had been murdered by the rebels—

Morgan!

The searing recollection of what she was doing on the floor hit her with lightning force. For a second, she was half afraid she was going to lose consciousness again, but Graham chose that moment to renew his assault on the door. Oh, God, Morgan, she thought sickly; Morgan’s alive. And, struggling groggily to her feet, she saw the phone receiver dangling from its cord.

‘Fliss!’ The letterbox rattled again. ‘Oh, Fliss, darling, can’t yon open the door? Can you hear me, Fliss? Oh, dear, I’m going to have to break a window. I’ve got to see that you’re all right.’

Graham!

Rubbing a dazed hand across her damp forehead, Fliss managed to regain her balance. I‘m—here. I’m all right,’ she called in a thin, wavery voice. Replacing the receiver and using the furniture for support, she started across the room. ‘Just give me a minute. I can’t seem to find the key.’

‘It’s on the floor,’ said Graham, bending to speak through the letterbox again. ‘Thank God you’re all right. I’ve been so worried. I managed to push your key out, but you’ve dropped the dead bolt so I couldn’t use my key.’

Fliss allowed her tongue to moisten lips that were as dry as parchment and bent to gather up the key. Of course, she thought, making sense of what he was saying, as this cottage still belonged to the church, it was feasible that Graham should have a key. The fact that she had had dead bolts fitted along with the existing locks had been an added security precaution on her part. She was used to living in London, where excessive personal protection was the norm.

It took a few moments for her trembling fingers to fit the key into its hole and deal with the other locks, but at last she got the door open. And, as if his patience had been stretched to breaking point, the Reverend Graham Bland—her fiancé—burst into the room, grasping her by the shoulders and pulling her into his arms.

‘Fliss!’

His voice was thick with emotion, and she wondered why her phone being off the hook should have caused him such concern. How long had she been unconscious, for heaven’s sake? He was behaving as if he knew something was wrong.

‘Should—shouldn’t you be at bible class?’ she ventured at last, when he drew back far enough to stare into her pale face. His expression gave her an anxious feeling. Did she look as numb as she felt?

‘At bible class?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘My dear, I came as quickly as I could. When the Rikers phoned me, I was—shattered. Finishing the bible lesson was the least of my concerns.’

‘The Rikers phoned you?’ Fliss felt a momentary twinge of the dizziness that had overwhelmed her before. ‘So—so you know what they—what they were ringing me about?’

‘Well, yes.’ Graham cupped her face in his large hands now, and smoothed her cold cheeks with tender fingers. ‘Oh, my dear, I can imagine what a shock this has been for you. The Rikers were frantic when you went off the phone.’

Fliss nodded, but although she was trying hard to behave rationally she couldn’t seem to stop shaking. Hearing that the Rikers had told Graham the same thing they had told her made it more official somehow. Her fears—her doubts that maybe she had been hallucinating—were all swept away by Graham’s assertion. He wouldn’t have said it if it wasn’t so. By some miracle, Morgan was alive. In a few days—weeks?—he’d be coming home.


CHAPTER TWO (#u7329a598-970b-5be6-bed1-6507f808119d)

HOME...

Fliss shivered, staring up into Graham’s kind, familiar features with a growing sense of panic. This wasn’t Morgan’s home, she realised numbly. It never had been. The home she’d shared with Morgan had had to be sold when she couldn’t afford to go on paying the mortgage.

Besides, she remembered dully, she hadn’t wanted to go on living in the house she’d shared with her husband when he was alive. There’d been too many ghosts; too many memories. When Aunt Sophie had told her about the teaching job that was going at the village school, she’d practically jumped at the chance to get away from London. Whittersley was her home now. She had eventually succeeded in putting the past to rest.

Because of Graham...

She blinked. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said now, unable to deal with such disturbing details at the moment. ‘Why would the Rikers contact you? Why not Aunt Sophie? Or the police?’

Graham sighed, drawing her close again before urging her towards the sofa and ensuring that she sat down before he went on. ‘I imagine because you’d told them about us,’ he declared reasonably, lowering his bulk beside her. ‘And your aunt’s away, remember? Which is just as well. They wouldn’t have wanted to disturb her with such upsetting news at her age.’

Upsetting!

Fliss looked down at her hands enclosed within one of Graham’s hands in her lap and felt a different kind of guilt. She should have told the Rikers about her and Graham getting engaged when she’d had the chance, she acknowledged tensely. But she’d never dreamed that something like this might happen, hadn’t imagined there might be a time limit on telling them she’d fallen in love with someone else.

It would have been so much easier now if they had been forewarned of her intentions. Easier for Graham, too, she conceded, guessing he might suspect she had put off telling her in-laws about him because she still had doubts. She didn’t honestly know why she had avoided telling them about her engagement. She’d known it would never be easy. The Rikers could never replace their son, whereas she—she could marry again.

And Graham could never take Morgan’s place in her affections, she appended swiftly. He wouldn’t want to. That kind of love happened only once in a lifetime, and perhaps that was why she’d kept her news to herself. How could she explain what Graham meant to her? It was something she’d known they’d never understand.

She took a deep breath, once again avoiding a difficult situation. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘They were so certain it was Morgan’s remains they’d found. Or at least—’ she shuddered ‘—they believed it was the car Morgan was travelling in. Why did they tell us he was dead if there was any doubt?’

‘It was virtually a war zone, Fliss,’ Graham reminded her. ‘I don’t suppose it was possible to make any absolute identification at that time. There were human remains among the ashes, and didn’t you tell me they’d found your husband’s watch?’

‘What was left of it,’ murmured Fliss, feeling sick. ‘But they should have told us he might still be alive if they weren’t sure.’

‘But they didn’t,’ said Graham gently. ‘And be thankful that the news is good. Would you rather they were writing to tell you that they’d made a mistake and he was dead? How would that make you feel?’

Fliss blew out a breath. She honestly didn’t know how she felt. For so long she’d considered herself a widow. She’d just come to terms with that, and now she was expected to accept that it had all been a terrible mistake. And what had James meant, she wondered, when he’d said Morgan had been living with the rebels for the past four years? Surely there must have been some way he could have contacted her; let her know he was alive and not dead.

‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said now, wishing she didn’t feel so confused. She glanced about her somewhat dazedly. ‘What time is it? Have I been unconscious long?’

‘Not long,’ said Graham reassuringly, lifting his hand to touch a tender spot on the side of her head. ‘I think you must have knocked yourself out on the comer of the sofa. That was why I had such a hard time bringing you round.’

Fliss caught her breath. ‘I suppose I ought to ring Morgan’s mother and father; let them know I’m all right.’

‘No, I will,’ said Graham firmly, squeezing her hands for a moment before releasing her. ‘They felt they had to call me because your phone was off the hook.’

‘I see.’

Fliss moved her head in a cautious nod, and Graham got to his feet. ‘I must say,’ he added, ‘I’m surprised they sprang the news on you so recklessly. Had you had no warning? Haven’t the authorities been in touch with you?’

‘Well...’ Fliss turned her head towards the small pile of envelopes she could just see residing on the end of the kitchen counter. ‘There might be a letter,’ she confessed, ‘but I haven’t looked at the mail. All I usually get are bills, and I’m afraid I thought they could wait.’

‘Never mind.’ Graham bent to give her a swift hug before moving away. ‘So long as you’re all right, that’s all I care about. Now—I’m going to make you a cup of tea and then I’ll make that call.’

Fliss forced herself to relax against the cushions, giving herself up to the comforting protection Graham always offered. What would she do without him? She’d come to depend on him so much. He was so big and gentle—and capable. Yes, that was it; she’d always felt so safe in his arms.

But no longer.

With a start, the remembrance of what the Rikers’ phone call was going to mean caused her to stiffen. Oh, God, she thought, here they were discussing how she’d heard the news without really considering the consequences of it. Morgan was alive. Until that moment, she hadn’t really absorbed the concept of what that really meant in terms of the future. Her husband wasn’t dead. However unbelievable that sounded, it was true.

She remembered suddenly how angry she’d been when Morgan had first told her he was going to Nyanda.

‘You can’t,’ she’d declared hotly, when he’d told her about the call he’d had from Paul Giles. ‘For God’s sake, Morgan, there’s a war going on in Nyanda, and it’s not as if you work for the company any more.’

‘But I did,’ he’d reminded her mildly. ‘And I’m only going out there to dismantle a few old missiles. I shan’t be involved in the fighting. According to Paul, the rebels have all been confined to the northern half of the country.’

‘And what if they haven’t?’ Fliss had protested. ‘What if they attack Kantanga? What if there’s a coup?’

Morgan’s mouth had tilted in a lazy grin. ‘What a lot of “what ifs”, my darling,’ he’d teased her lightly. And then he’d said, gathering her closer, ‘Just think of the homecoming we’ll have when I get back.’

But he hadn’t come back. Not then...

‘What is it?’

Graham had come back and was looking at her with anxious eyes. Had he considered what this would do to their relationship? she wondered. He’d given her his love and so much more. She’d known a feeling of security with him she’d never known with Morgan. Whatever happened, she didn’t want to let him down.

‘I—just can’t believe this has really happened,’ she said, not altogether untruthfully. But how could she tell him of the fears she had now? She looked up at him wistfully, remembering how happy she had been when he’d put his ring on her finger. ‘I feel as if it’s some weird dream; that any minute I’m going to wake up.’

‘But you know it’s not a dream,’ said Graham gently, taking the hand she held out to him. ‘My darling, this is going to take some getting used to for—for all of us.’ He bent and kissed her knuckles. ‘Morgan’s your husband. However much I love you, I mustn’t forget that. I have to accept that he has the—prior claim to your affections now.’

‘No!’ Fliss gazed up at him with troubled eyes. Whatever happened, she thought, she didn’t want to lose Graham’s love. ‘I love you,’ she said fiercely. ‘I can barely remember Morgan.’ She caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘You have to believe me. I couldn’t bear it if you deserted me now.’

‘Fliss—’

‘It’s true.’ She was adamant, getting up from the sofa to gaze searchingly into his face. ‘We’d only been married for a few months when Morgan—when he was reported missing. We hadn’t known one another as long as I’ve known you.’

Graham heaved a sigh. ‘Oh, Fliss.’ He ran a finger round the inside of his dog collar as if it suddenly felt too tight. ‘That’s not the point, my dear. You know how much I want us to be together. But we can’t ignore the facts, no matter how great the temptation may be.’

Fliss stared at him, pulling the braid in which she always wore her hair for school over one shoulder and combing her fingers through its tuft. ‘Oh, Graham,’ she said in an anguished voice, ‘what am I going to do?’

‘You’re going to have that cup of tea,’ declared Graham practically, marching back into the kitchen. ‘And then I’ll speak to your in-laws.’ he called over his shoulder. ‘It’s time we told them that you’re all right.’

Fliss could hear the kettle boiling now, and presently she heard the rattle of the teapot lid as Graham poured the water into the pot. His large hands moved so clumsily among the china cups and saucers, and she walked to the doorway to watch him setting two of each on the tray.

Fliss’s eyes filled with affection. Although he hadn’t spent a lot of time at the cottage, he was quite familiar with domestic tasks. He had a housekeeper at the vicarage, but Mrs Arnold was quite elderly, and he was not averse to helping out on occasions.

But there was no denying that he dwarfed his surroundings. Everything about Graham was large, from his size ten shoes to his six feet something in height. He was too heavy, of course, and Fliss had declared that after they were married he would have to go on a diet. But until then Mrs Arnold’s fare of suet pastry and steamed puddings would continue to do his health no good.

‘There.’

He picked up the tray and followed her into the living room again, but before he could pour the tea someone knocked at the door. Fliss tensed, but it was only Mrs Arnold, who’d come to find the vicar. Old Mr Crabtree was very poorly, she said, and his son had called to ask if Reverend Bland could come at once.

‘Damn!’ Graham seldom swore, but he was obviously frustrated at that moment. ‘Will you be all right, Fliss?’ he asked anxiously, after sending Mrs Arnold on her way. ‘I’ll try to get back later, but I’m afraid it may be too late to make that call.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Fliss assured him firmly, accompanying him to the door and helping him on with his coat. ‘It’s probably better if I make it anyway. I don’t want them thinking I’m in a state of collapse.’

‘Even if you are,’ remarked Graham drily, buttoning his overcoat. ‘Now, are you sure you’ll be all right on your own? I can always ask Mrs Arnold to come back and keep you company.’

’I’m fine,’ she insisted, ushering him out of the door and then closing it again with rather more urgency than tact. But the last thing she needed was Mrs Arnold gossiping about what had happened. And, despite what she’d said, she doubted she’d ever feel all right again.

The Rikers arrived the next morning.

Fliss was drinking her umpteenth cup of coffee when she heard the car outside, and she wondered if it was the caffeine that was responsible for the rawness of her nerves. She should be thinking about Morgan, dammit, stuck in some hospital in Kantanga, without anyone he cared about around him. Instead of which, she was feeling sorry for herself. What kind of a wife had she turned out to be?

Graham had rung at half-past seven that morning. He’d apologised for not getting back to her the night before and hoped she’d managed to get some sleep. Fliss assured him she had, though in actual fact she hadn’t. She’d gone to bed, but she’d stared at the ceiling for most of the night.

And it had turned out that he was ringing not just to enquire about her health but also to assure her that he didn’t expect her to attend the church’s coffee morning. It went without saying, he said, that on this occasion they would have to do without her famous scones. It was only as he spoke that Fliss realised how remote from ordinary events the whole situation was. Until then, that element of unreality had prevailed.

The trouble was, deep down, she still harboured some bitterness towards her husband. She didn’t resent the fact that be was alive, of course—although even now she still found that hard to accept. What she was bitter about was the fact that Morgan had chosen to put his life in such danger. When she’d believed he was dead, she’d been forced to forgive him. Discovering he was alive reminded her of how reckless he had been.

It wasn’t as if he’d had to go to Nyanda. He had been a writer, for God’s sake, and he didn’t owe his old firm any favours. He’d left the Giles Corporation eighteen months before when he’d sold the manuscript of his first novel. It was based on his experiences in Bosnia, and his agent had been sure it would be an immediate success.

He’d joined the army after leaving university, but when he’d met Fliss he’d wanted to stay in one place. As an electronics expert, his job with one of the largest missile specialists in the country had seemed ideal for the purpose, until he’d seen the after-effects of a missile attack on a Bosnian village and had second thoughts.

The idea to try and put his experiences down on paper had been his salvation, and only the fact that the job in Nyanda entailed decommissioning missiles that General Ungave’s men had captured from the rebels had persuaded him to accept Paul Giles’s request. The money was good, he’d told Fliss, and the experience wouldn’t be wasted. At least there would be fewer missiles for the rebels to use.

So he’d gone, and look what had happened. Despite all his promises, he’d disappeared and they’d been told he was dead. And now be was back—well, almost—and she was supposed to welcome him with open arms. Where had he been? What had he been doing? Why hadn’t he let them know he was still alive?

But thoughts like these were far too upsetting, and she had to maintain an optimistic front for the Rikers’ sake. Besides, she was glad he was alive; she was just confused, that was all, she told herself. It was bound to take some time to sink in.

‘Oh, Fliss!’

As expected, Celia burst into tears as soon as her daughter-in-law opened the door. Fliss barely had time to invite them in before Morgan’s mother had gathered her into her arms, and she found her own face was wet when she let her go.

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said, glad to escape her father-in-law’s searching gaze. Last night she’d found it hard to offer anything positive, and it was obvious that Morgan’s parents expected her to share their joy.

Celia followed her into the kitchen, and stood pressing her hands down onto the cool surface of the counter. A small woman, with greying blonde hair and blue eyes, she was obviously in a state of barely suppressed agitation, and Fliss hoped she wasn’t going to let them down.

‘It’s such wonderful news!’ Celia exclaimed, not for the first time, and Fliss managed a matching smile. ‘To think, just a couple of days ago James and I were discussing the fact that it was almost four years since—since Morgan disappeared.’ She caught her breath. ‘Oh, Felicity, I can’t believe he’s coming home!’

‘When—when is he coming home?’

Fliss knew her words lacked the same enthusiasm, but Morgan’s mother didn’t seem to notice. ‘Welt—according to the letter—you did read the letter, didn’t you? You said last night you’d found it among your other mail.’ Fliss nodded, and she continued, ‘They say he’s suffering from some kind of stomach infection. Is that a polite way of saying he’s had dysentery, do you think?’

‘I—I don’t know—’

Fliss hadn’t thought of that, and she was grateful when Morgan’s father intervened. ‘It could be something minor,’ he said, ‘or it could be some tropical infection. Let’s not go jumping to conclusions before. we know.’

‘Anyway,’ went on Celia, ‘James spoke to the Foreign Office again this morning. He wanted to find out if we could fly out to Nyanda ourselves.’ She grimaced. ‘But with all the inoculations we’d need, and the fact that there are still patches of resistance in the country, we’ve been advised to wait until he can come home.’

Until he came home...

Fliss’s hand shook as she made the tea, but no one seemed to think there was anything unusual in that. They’d all had a shock. Dear God, that hardly covered the way she felt. She was shaking in her shoes at what it meant.

‘Thank goodness that dreadful General Ungave has been overthrown,’ Morgan’s mother remarked now, and Fliss had to bite her tongue at the memory of her in-laws practically rebuking her for not wanting Morgan to go. Morgan’s father had been in the military too, before he’d retired to Sussex, and it was because of him that Morgan had joined the army himself. ‘I believe the new president, General Mdola, went to school in England. He’s quite an educated man, I believe.’

Fliss nodded, concentrating on pouring milk into the jug to add to the tray, and Morgan’s father took up the strain. ‘I wonder if the fact that we’re just a few months from the millennium is significant?’ he said. ‘I know they’re calling it the Millennium Coup, but the rebels had been fighting for quite a long time.’

Fliss looked up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well...’ James Riker looked thoughtful. ‘It’s possible they’ve had some help from the West. The oil reserves in Nyanda are quite considerable, you know. And Ungave was beginning to get a little greedy, I think.’

Fliss stared at him. ‘You mean—this could have happened sooner? The West could have helped the rebels all along?’

‘Well, perhaps.’ He looked a little uncomfortable now. ‘But so long as Ungave didn’t—didn‘t—’

‘Make any waves!’ Fliss caught her breath disbelievingly. ‘The Millennium Coup! What a joke!’

‘Felicity—’

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’ Fliss picked up the tray now, and carried it into the other room. She schooled her features. ‘Come and have some tea. I believe I’ve got some biscuits in the cupboard.’

‘Felicity.’ Obviously Morgan’s father wasn’t happy with her reaction, and she stood silently while he commanded his thoughts. ‘No one knew that Morgan was alive, or—or of course the government would have made representations to get him out. We must view what has happened as—as a bonus. Now, sit down, my dear. You still look very shaken to me.’

‘We all are,’ said his wife, using a tissue to blow her nose, and then, sitting down on the sofa, she patted the seat beside her. ‘Come and sit down, Felicity. We’ve got wonderful plans to make. You must both have a proper holiday when Morgan gets back.’

A holiday!

Fliss hung back, hoping Morgan’s father would take the seat beside his wife, but he didn’t and she was obliged to do so. The trouble was, she didn’t seem able to share their excitement, and she thought what a selfish cow she was. It should have been the happiest day of her life, but it had been too long in coming.

‘Anyway, thank goodness we were able to reach Reverend Bland last evening,’ said James into the vacuum, seating himself in the armchair opposite. He smiled at Fliss. ‘I remembered you’d mentioned his name, saying what a good friend he was. I felt sure he was the ideal person to help you. With your aunt being away I assumed you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Oh—no.’

Fliss swallowed, realising there was no way she could reveal how close a friend Graham had become. She glanced down at her hands, wondering if they had noticed she wasn’t wearing her wedding ring on the right finger. Would she ever wear Graham’s engagement ring again?

Thankfully, the Rikers kept the conversation going while they drank the tea and ate several of the chocolate biscuits Fliss had found. Celia confessed she’d not been able to eat any breakfast, though she wouldn’t let Fliss make her anything else, and they chattered on about what they were going to do when their son came home.

It was so easy for them, thought Fliss half enviously. But did they really expect her and Morgan to take up where they’d left off almost four years ago? If she’d known he was alive, she could have looked forward to this day. As it was, she felt as if Morgan was part of her past.

‘So—’ Celia patted Fliss’s hand. ‘What was it you were going to ring us about? With all the excitement, it went completely out of my head.’

Fliss blanked. ‘I beg your—?’

‘Last night,’ her mother-in-law prompted. ‘When you first answered the phone, you said you’d been going to ring us. I just wondered what it was you were going to ring us about. Did you give any thought to spending Easter at Tudor Cross?’

‘Oh—’ Fliss’s mouth dried. She’d forgotten all about the invitation Celia had issued at New Year. It was just after Graham had popped the question, and Fliss had been too anxious about their reaction to give an answer then. ‘I—’ A lie seemed the only alternative now. ‘I can’t remember, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, well, never mind.’ Celia had too much else on her mind to worry about what her daughter-in-law had been ringing about. ‘And in the circumstances no doubt we’ll be having a celebration when Morgan comes home. You must come and stay with us when he gets back.’

‘Well—’

Once again, Fliss was nonplussed. She felt as if events were moving far too fast for her to handle. They hadn’t even heard from Morgan yet, and already Celia was wanting to organise their lives. How could she make any plans? She didn’t know how she’d feel when she saw him again.

‘Give them time, Cee.’ To her relief, Morgan’s father chose to intervene. ‘We’ve all had a shock, and I think Felicity needs some breathing space. I know you mean well, but you’re rushing things. We don’t even know how fit Morgan’s going to be when he gets home.’


CHAPTER THREE (#u7329a598-970b-5be6-bed1-6507f808119d)

MORGAN stood at the window of the quarters that had been provided for him at RAF Craythorpe, watching the rain streaming down the panes. It didn’t seem to have stopped raining since he’d stepped off the plane from Lagos the day before, and although he’d dreamed about the kind of gentle rain they got in England the reality was no longer so appealing.

How long were they going to keep him here?

Suppressing his panic, he acknowledged that he was only fooling himself by pretending the weather was responsible for the way he was feeling. He was just using it as an excuse to bolster his confidence. Blaming the rain for the fears and apprehensions that wouldn’t go away.

Lifting one balled fist, he pressed it hard against the glass, trying not to give in to the urge to smash his fist right through the pane. He would have liked that, he thought; liked to have shattered the glass and felt the sharp pain of the broken shards digging into his fresh. God knew, he badly wanted to smash something, and only the certain knowledge that his doctors—keepers—would put it down to his uncertain mental state kept him from creating an ugly scene.

But, dammit, they couldn’t keep him here indefinitely. All right, he’d been suffering from malnutrition when they released him. but there was nothing wrong with his mind, no matter what they thought He needed familiar things; familiar people. He just wished he didn’t have the feeling that they didn’t exist any more.

He took a steadying breath.

The trouble was that although he knew he was free he didn’t feel free. In fact, what he really felt was a shattering sense of disorientation. He’d anticipated that his wife and family would have assumed he was dead, but he hadn’t realised how that might affect him now. For so long he’d been forced to blank his mind of any thoughts of loved ones or face the purest kind of mental torture there was.

He sighed. It was hard to remember how he’d felt that morning when his car had been ambushed on the way to the airport. Then, he’d been planning what he was going to do when he got home; looking forward to seeing his wife. He’d missed her so much, and since their marriage they’d spent so little time together. He couldn’t wait to get back and tell her how he felt.

The men who’d shot out the tyres of the car and then shot its driver had seemed totally ruthless. It was only later that he’d discovered that because the man had worked for Ungave he was considered expendable. Besides, Mdola didn’t take any prisoners. He had no pity for any of Ungave’s men who were of no use to him.

Morgan supposed his strongest emotion at that time had been terror, but the fact that he’d survived the attack had sustained him throughout the long trek through the jungle that had followed. It wasn’t until they’d reached the rebels’ stronghold, in the mountains that bisected the northern half of the country, that he’d had to quell a sense of panic. He might be alive, but he was helpless. So long as General Ungave was in power, they’d never let him go.

The ironic thing was, Mdola had wanted him for much the same reasons as Ungave. He needed Morgan’s knowledge of sophisticated tactical weapons to enable him to use the armaments he had. God knew who’d supplied them, but Mdola’s men had been equipped with every kind of gun imaginable; mortars; ground-to-air missiles; the list was endless. An arsenal they barely understood.

But the most remarkable thing of all had been that he had recognised Julius Mdola. They’d been at Oxford together, and although they hadn’t been close friends at that time they had shared an interest in martial arts. Morgan had been staggered to learn that the man General Ungave had overthrown had been Mdola’s uncle, and despite the desperation he was feeling it had been some relief to be able to speak to the man in charge.

His lips twisted. Not that, in the long run, it had done him a lot of good. Despite the fact that Mdola was educated in the West, and could sympathise with Morgan’s position, the demands of the situation meant that Morgan had to be treated like any other prisoner. He wasn’t imprisoned, of course, in the truest sense of the word, but he wasn’t supposed to leave the compound. The only time he had, he’d regretted it. And if it hadn’t been for Julius Mdola he knew he’d have been shot.

But would he have survived his captivity if he hadn’t become Mdola’s friend? he wondered. It was a question he’d had plenty of time to ponder in the years that followed. Would he have kept his sanity if Mdola hadn’t allowed him to use the old typewriter they’d kept to chum out their propaganda? Would it have been better if he hadn’t survived at all?

He scowled.

He couldn’t answer any of these questions. His release had not been the cause for celebration he’d imagined it would be. Would he ever be able to absorb his changing circumstances? Would he ever come to terms with the fact that life had moved on?

But it wasn’t just his changing circumstances that was giving him such a sense of anticlimax now. It was more than that; he had the uneasy suspicion that no one wanted him here. Was he a welcome face or just an embarrassment? Would it have been easier for everyone—his wife particularly—if he had been as dead as they’d believed?

Dead!

For the past four years, everyone had thought he’d died in the inferno they’d made of his car. They’d mourned him; they’d even held a memorial service for him, according to his mother, and a stone had been erected in the churchyard at Tudor Cross.

His scowl deepened. Had she thought he’d be pleased to hear that? he wondered. Had she no conception of how it made him feel? He wasn’t dead; he was alive; he didn’t want to hear about his funeral service. But most of all he didn’t want to feel like an outsider, especially with his wife.

His wife!

His lips twisted. He wasn’t sure he knew his wife any more. The alien confrontation they’d had the previous afternoon had left him feeling more confused than ever. He’d expected their meeting to be strained, yes, but not that she’d act like a stranger. And a stranger, moreover, who didn’t like him very much either.

He swore, finding a certain satisfaction in hearing the oath leave his tongue. God, he’d never thought it would be easy, but he’d had no conception of just how hard it had proved to be.

Of course, his parents had been present at the time, and it was possible she’d been inhibited by their demands. His mother, particularly, had asked a lot of questions, and Fliss had behaved as if only the older woman had had that right.

His appearance couldn’t have helped, he acknowledged. His shaved head—to remove any infestation of lice—and several days’ growth of beard on his chin must have looked strange. He looked like a savage, and even though he’d shaved his beard since it wasn’t much of an improvement. His hand had been shaking so much when he used the razor that his chin was now covered in cuts.

He supposed he was thinner, too, though that was less of a problem. He’d soon put on weight once he started eating normally again. And his muscles were hard from the physical regime he’d set himself. Apart from its obvious advantages, keeping fit had been another way of keeping sane.

But, dammit, he hadn’t been prepared for civilisation. Four years of living with a rebel army had taken their toll. Someone should have warned his wife that he wasn’t the man he used to be. He’d seen too many horrific sights, too much killing, to ever view his own life in quite the same way again.

He hunched his shoulders. They’d warned him, of course. Mdola, at first, and afterwards the British authorities in Lagos: they’d all tried to tell him that returning home after so long an absence was bound to cause problems he couldn’t foresee. It was going to take time to adapt, for him and for his family. That was why they’d brought him here to the air base at Craythorpe, for expert counselling. They wanted to assess his state of mind; make sure he was fit to live with normal people again.

He snorted. Mdola wouldn’t like that, he reflected. So far as he was concerned, it was the West who had been crazy for supporting Ungave’s regime. President Mdola now, Morgan thought, still finding the concept incredible. But he was happy for his friend, and proud of the victory he’d achieved.

Even if it bad screwed up his own life, he conceded. But then, he hadn’t known what was facing him when he’d left England. A normal life, he mused. What the hell was normal? If Fliss’s reaction was anything to go by, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

And it was the knowledge that there had been no real communication between him and his wife that was causing him so much soul-searching now. The truth was, he supposed, that Fliss’s attitude had struck at the core of his manhood. Her apathy had made him doubt whether he was still a man.

As if he didn’t have enough doubts of his own.

It was stupid, he knew, to allow her behaviour to affect him. Fliss was still in a state of shock; he’d seen that right away. It was ironic, really, because he’d had doubts about his own feelings. He’d even convinced himself at times that he didn’t have feelings any more.

Now, all he could think of was, what had she been doing while she’d thought he was dead? It occurred to him that she might even have got married again. God, was that why she’d been so reticent the day before? Because she didn’t know how to tell him the truth?

He realised now that secretly he’d always believed she’d be there waiting for him. That he’d harboured the thought that what they’d had had been so special, she’d never seek consolation in the arms of another man. But the woman he’d met the previous afternoon had behaved as if they were merely distant acquaintances. Had she been wearing his ring? He couldn’t even remember if she had.

A group of servicemen crossed the parade ground outside at that moment, and Morgan drew back into the shadows of the room, loath to be observed gazing out. The men glanced his way and he guessed his arrival had caused quite an upheaval. The base wasn’t large and it wasn’t every day they entertained a psycho like him.

He raked unsteady hands over his scalp, feeling the strange prickle of stubble beneath his palms. Once his hair grew back, he’d look less like a gorilla. He might even feel less like one, too, he thought, expelling a weary breath.

Apparently, there was a band of cameramen and media people camped outside the gates of the air base. He wondered if his mother had told him that to compensate for what she’d said about his memorial stone. In any event, all it had done was make him feel even more of a misfit He didn’t like the thought that they were waiting, like jackals, to attack.

He turned back into the room, surveying its bright interior without enthusiasm. The room was comfortable and warm, but impersonal. It was part of the medical facility here at the base and although it was furnished as a sitting room it was just another hospital room.

There was only one familiar item in the room and that was the picture his mother had brought of his and Fliss’s wedding. It showed himself and his wife and his parents, a group photograph taken outside the small church at Tudor Cross. He and Fliss had been married from his parents’ home because Fliss’s parents couldn’t be present. Her father had been killed when she was still at college, and her mother had married again soon afterwards and gone to live in the United States.

They’d been so happy on that day, he thought painfully. They’d been living together for over a year, but they’d both wanted to make that commitment, and they’d been sure their marriage would last. Of course, she hadn’t wanted him to go away, but that had been their only real quarrel. He’d had every intention of making it up to her when he got back.

When he got back...

The thought stuck unpleasantly in his throat, and, putting it aside, he concentrated on his parents’ images instead. They had aged in the last four years, he conceded. His father was quite grey now, yet when this photograph was taken his hair had been a lighter shade of ash than his son’s.

Though God knew what colour his hair would be when it grew back, Morgan reflected impatiently. The way he was feeling now, it should be white. Only Fliss didn’t look any different from what he remembered. She’d let her hair grow, of course, but apart from that she didn’t seem to have changed.

She was so beautiful; so God-damned beautiful, and he knew an uncharacteristic desire to tear the photograph in half. In God’s name, he thought bitterly, what was going to become of them? Had she really only been tense, or was she actually living with another man?

His mouth tightened. Dammit, he had to stop torturing himself like this. He had to concentrate on getting well. The dysentery he’d been suffering from had gone, but the doctors here had warned him it would take time before he could cope with the ordinary demands of living. Even being in crowds disturbed him, and the occasional spells of panic that had punctuated his period of confinement were not likely to disappear overnight.

He flung himself onto the worn hide sofa and reached for the remote-control pad. Surfing through the television’s channels, he felt his thoughts drifting away again. He had found it almost impossible to concentrate on anything since he got back, the pages of the journal that had been his lifeline still lying untouched in his bag.

They’d given him a watch and he glanced at it now, wondering how long it had been since lunch. He’d been told to rest before his next session with the therapist, but despite the pills they’d given him he found it hard to sleep.

The strap of the watch felt unfamiliar on his wrist, but he didn’t take it off. His mother had said they’d found the remains of the Cartier watch they’d given him for his thirtieth birthday in the burnt-out shell of the automobile. It was that as much as anything that had persuaded Ungave’s men that he was dead.

He shuddered, and the taste of the chicken soup they’d served him at lunch suddenly burned the back of his throat. Nausea, like a chilling wave, swept over him, leaving his skin clammy and his forehead moist with sweat. It was images like that that the doctors were trying to get him to talk about. He’d been suppressing the memories for so long, but they were still as sharp as ever.

He was thrusting himself up from the sofa again in an effort to dispel the sickness he was feeling when the door opened behind him. Swiping a hand across his damp forehead, he turned reluctantly to see who it was. Templar, he guessed; Sean Templar. He might have the same initials as the Leslie Charteris character, but Sean Templar was no saint.

But it wasn’t Sean Templar. To his amazement—and apprehension, he admitted tensely—it was his wife who stood uncertainly in the open doorway. Dammit, he thought, he’d assumed she’d gone home. The impression the psychologist had given him was that both his wife and his parents had left the base.

‘Hi,’ she said, hanging onto the handle of the door as if she was afraid that if she let go of it he’d jump on her. Morgan’s lips twisted. If she only knew. Far from being horny, he was very much afraid he might be impotent. ‘How—how are you?’

The words were clipped and unfamiliar to him. Oh, God, he thought, when would he get used to these polite exchanges again? For the past four years nobody had cared how he was feeling. He’d been expected to obey orders however friendly Mdola might have been.

Fliss hesitated a moment and then, as if realising she couldn’t hover in the doorway indefinitely, stepped cautiously into the room. ‘Did you sleep well?’ she asked, starting as the automatic hinge closed the door behind her, and Morgan had to stifle the desire to ask her why she was here.

‘I slept,’ he said instead, not prepared to go into the reasons why his sleeping habits were not a subject for discussion. The concept of relaxing when the next breath he took might be his last was so alien to him that he’d forgotten how to sleep soundly any more.

‘Good.’

She seemed to accept his answer at face value, her eyes skittering over his guarded face before darting about the room. She was nervous; that was obvious; but he should be grateful that she’d come. After the day before he hadn’t thought she would.

‘Did you?’ he countered, and there was a trace of anxiety in the gaze that sought his face. ‘Sleep well,’ he prompted drily, wishing he knew what she was thinking. If she was concerned about him, why was she looking so blank now?

‘Oh—’ Comprehension dawned and with it a tight smile that thinned her lips. ‘Well, yes. Your parents and I were accommodated in the visitors’ quarters. It was easier not to leave the base because of the—well, because of the press outside. We’re going home later today.’

Alone?

The thought refused to be dislodged, but Morgan determinedly put it to the back of his mind. ‘all,’ he said, trying not to feel aggrieved that he’d been kept in ignorance of their presence. He blew out a breath. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

He indicated the sofa where he’d been sitting but Fliss chose one of the straight-backed chairs nearer the door. ‘This is fine,’ she said, crossing her legs, and his nerves tightened unfamiliarly at the sight of her slim calves.

The idea that she wanted to stay as far away from him as possible reared its ugly head, but he firmly squashed it down again. If he started thinking like that he’d soon be paranoid. The polite kiss she’d offered him the day before should have warned him that they might have problems taking up where they left off. It wouldn’t do to upset her. He just wanted to get out of here as soon as he possibly could.

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, and Morgan found himself watching her almost hungrily. Not because she was his wife, he assured himself, but simply because she was a woman. There were a few females he’d come into contact with during his captivity but sex for sex’s sake did not attract him.

His mouth felt dry. Even now, it was hard to believe she wasn’t just a figment of his imagination. For so long, he’d been forced to banish his memories of her to his dreams. But she was here now; she was real; and the knowledge was like a surge of pure adrenaline in his veins.

She looked so good. The long black skirt covered her knees, unfortunately, but the neat little vest she wore with it accentuated the narrowness of her waist and the fullness of her breasts. A scarlet shirt and black slouch boots completed her ensemble, the collar of her shirt a perfect foil for her dark hair...

Aware that he’d been staring and that Fliss was waiting rather apprehensively for him to say something else, Morgan pulled the chair nearest to her away from the wall and straddled it. He noticed she moved her foot aside to avoid brushing his trouser leg, but although he didn’t like it he pretended not to notice and, folding his arms over the back of the chair, he regarded her without hostility.

‘Alone, at last,’ he said, not without some irony, and then wished he hadn’t when she immediately drew back. But he had to go on, and, fixing a smile on his lips, he regarded her encouragingly. ‘I was beginning to think you were afraid to be alone with me.’

‘No—’ She seemed to make the denial involuntarily, and then hurriedly tried to repair the damage. ‘That is—your parents thought it would be easier—for you—’ she made the insertion hastily ‘—that way.’

‘Did they?’ Morgan’s mouth twisted. ‘I assume you mean my mother. She seemed to do most of the talking, as I recall.’

‘She was—excited,’ said Fliss awkwardly. ‘It’s not every day a son returns from the dead.’

‘Or a husband,’ murmured Morgan wryly, and she offered a rueful smile.

‘You’ve shaved,’ she said, as if she’d just noticed, and Morgan wondered what was going on behind that smooth pale mask. Was she pleased to see him? How was he supposed to know? As yet, she hadn’t said anything to give him a clue.

Rubbing a hand over his jawline. he decided to take the initiative, and instead of answering her he said softly, ‘It wasn’t my fault.’ She looked startled then, and he continued, ‘The ambush, I mean. There was no way I could let you know I was alive.’

Her eyes sought his then, and as if his words had offended her now she gave him a disbelieving stare. ‘No way?’ she said, through tight lips. ‘Yes, the authorities told your father that. They also said you’d known President Mdola. That you’d been working with him for the past four years.’

Morgan sighed. ‘Not with. for.’

‘Is there a difference?’

‘I think so.’ He drew a breath. ‘And it wasn’t quite as cosy as it sounds. He needed the knowledge I had of tactical weapons, just as Ungave did, only in a different way—’

‘Yes, you helped him to murder innocent women and children,’ cried Fliss fiercely. ‘And after all you’d said about saving lives!’

Morgan blew out a breath. ‘I was a prisoner, Fliss. Whatever you may have heard, whatever lies you may have been told, I was a prisoner, just like anyone else. Maybe knowing Julius saved my life. I suppose I’ll never know. But once I’d seen where their headquarters was, once I’d examined their weapons, there was no way they could let me go.’

Fliss quivered. ‘If you say so.’

‘I do say so.’

‘And you couldn’t even use the phone?’

‘The phone?’ Morgan snorted. ‘What phone? There aren’t any phones in the jungle. And they had more sense than to let me near their radio transmitter. Get real, Fliss. I’m sorry, but there was nothing I could do.’

Fliss smoothed her hands over her knees. ‘Well, anyway, you’re back now.’

‘Yes.’ Morgan noticed she didn’t say ‘home’.

‘I expect it all seems very strange.’ She chewed on her lower lip. ‘Four years is a long time.’

‘Yeah.’

Morgan could feel the tension building inside him, and he tried to tamp down his irritation. She was behaving as if he’d been on some kind of pleasure trip. Hadn’t she any idea of how desperate he had felt?

‘Look,’ he said, after the silence had stretched into an ominous chasm between them, ‘I know it hasn’t been easy for you—’ Or for me either, he wanted to add, but he bit back the words. ‘And I don’t want you to be afraid that I might—well, come on too strong.’ He doubted if he could anyway. ‘I realise it’s going to take a while for us to—adjust to what’s happened. But, if we take it slow and easy—’ he forced a smile ‘—who knows? I suppose time alone will tell.’

She nodded, and the chunky braid fell forward over her shoulder. The ebony strands caught the light, exposing glimpses of red and gold, like a fire in the darkness. He remembered when he’d first got to know her he’d thought she was like her hair. soft and silky on the outside, but with an inner heat that exploded his senses and fired his blood.

He closed his eyes abruptly, disturbed by the unexpectedly carnal nature of his thoughts. It was so long since he’d touched a woman, and he couldn’t deny he wanted to touch her now. He’d thought his sexual feelings were dormant, but he had only to be alone with her for all the fantasies he’d had about her to come flooding back into his mind. He didn’t know what that said about his mental condition, but it made a mockery of his determination to take it slow.

‘Are you all right?’

Fliss had noticed the effort he’d had to make to control his emotions, and once again he resented her cool response. Didn’t she have any idea of how he was feeling? Didn’t she comprehend that he needed understanding, not confrontation?

What if Mdola hadn’t overthrown Ungave...?

But that way lay danger. The doctors here had warned him not to dwell on what might have been. He was free; he was back in England; and he had to stop thinking about the past. The fact that his life had hung by a thread for so long had little bearing on his future.

‘I’m fine,’ he lied now, feeling the pain as his nails dug into the wood. He thrust back his anger, and tried to concentrate on positive images, but her detachment was bloody hard to take.

‘Good.’

She was pleating her skirt now, revealing an unexpected nervousness in the way she folded the cloth. But although it should have reassured him it didn’t Why the hell didn’t she open up to him?

‘Did you miss me?’

He hadn’t meant to say that, but it was out now, and Fliss gave him a guarded look. ‘Of course,’ she said, but somehow he couldn’t believe she meant it. If she had, wouldn’t she look at him with something more than suspicion in her eyes?

She shouldn’t have come back, he thought bitterly. She should have waited until they’d both had time to come to terms with the situation. He had the feeling she thought she was the only one who had suffered during his absence. For pity’s sake, it hadn’t been an easy ride for him.

She pulled her lower lip between her teeth now, and once again a host of erotic images filled his head. But it was obvious she had no such weaknesses, and when she spoke he had to think hard before his mind was able to shift into another gear.

‘I couldn’t believe it, you know.’

Morgan concentrated on his breathing. ‘No?’

‘No.’ She seemed to have found a topic she could discuss, and there was even some animation in her face as she went on, ‘The letter they sent—well, it didn’t seem real somehow. Even after I’d read it, I still couldn’t believe you were coming back.’

Morgan could feel his nerves stretching, expanding, unravelling like a ball of string that was strung so thinly he was half afraid it might break. ‘I understood my mother told you,’ he said tersely. ‘Are you saying you had a letter after all?’

‘Well, of course I got a letter!’ she exclaimed, and he wondered if she realised how stressed he was.

‘But you didn’t read it?’ he asked harshly, feeling his temper rising. ‘For God’s sake, Fliss, don’t you bother to read your mail?’

‘Of course I do.’ She was defensive now. ‘But—but that particular night I was tired, so I put it down in the kitchen and forgot about it’

Morgan couldn’t hide his anger. ‘You forgot about a letter from the Foreign Office!’ He uttered an oath. ‘My God, what could be more important than that?’

Fliss caught her breath. ‘I didn’t know there was a letter from the Foreign Office,’ she protested. ‘As I say, I was tired. And all I usually get are bills, anyway.’

Morgan breathed deeply. ‘All right. So when you eventually read the letter you didn’t believe it.’

‘I didn’t believe you could be alive,’ she amended breathily. ‘For heaven’s sake, Morgan, we’d been told you were dead. You must appreciate how it was for me.’

‘No.’ Morgan refused to make it easy for her. ‘Tell me,’ he invited grimly. ‘I’m getting the feeling you weren’t best pleased to get the news.’

‘That’s not true!’

‘Then what is true?’ he demanded. ‘Go on: enlighten me. Tell me how ecstatic it made you feel.’

‘It wasn’t like that—’

‘No sweat.’

‘It wasn’t.’ She swallowed, her hand seeking the gold chain she wore about her throat. ‘We—I—was stunned. Your mother told you, we’d even held a memorial service for you—’

‘I know that.’ He scowled.

‘Then you should understand how—how distressing it was to hear the news.’

Distressing!

Morgan wanted to beat his head against the wall. For God’s sake, was she deliberately trying to destroy him? She was using words to describe his return that might more accurately be used to describe his death.

“I think you’d better go,’ he said, keeping his tone flat. If he allowed his real feelings to show, she’d run from here to next week. Pressing his hands down on the back of the chair, he pushed himself to his feet. ‘Templar—the psycho—will be coming soon, and he doesn’t like an audience.’

‘Oh, but—’ Suddenly, she was reluctant to leave. The doctor said you might like to—to talk.’

‘We’ve talked,’ said Morgan tightly, swinging his leg across the chair, but he misjudged its height and the heavy article went over. It cracked like a bullet as it landed on the floor.

Fliss jumped to her feet then and, almost simultaneously, the door opened and Sean Templar burst into the room. It made Morgan wonder if the psychologist had been standing with his ear glued to the panels all the time they were talking, ready to intervene if anything untoward occurred.

For a moment, they were all frozen in a ridiculous tableau, and then Templar bent to pick up the chair. ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked pleasantly, and Morgan heard Fliss muffle a sob.

‘What could be wrong?’ he demanded harshly. ‘My wife was just leaving. that’s all.’

And Fliss pressed a hand to her mouth as if he’d struck her, before rushing tearfully out of the room.


CHAPTER FOUR (#u7329a598-970b-5be6-bed1-6507f808119d)

‘SO ARE you going to tell me what happened?’

Graham was trying to be patient, but it was obviously difficult for him. In the week since Fliss had returned from Craythorpe, they had had no chance to discuss the repercussions of what had happened, and she suspected he was only here now because she’d practically begged him to come.

Graham was so conscious of his position as the vicar of St Margaret’s, and he had no desire to set tongues wagging any more than they already were. But Fliss needed his support; she needed his guidance; and if she didn’t talk about what had happened soon she thought she’d go mad.

‘It’s not easy,’ she said now, and Graham gave her a troubled look. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do,’ she added softly. ‘What do people do in circumstances like this?’

‘If you don’t want to talk about it, then I shan’t press you,’ Graham ventured quietly, but she wasn’t sure whether that was for her benefit or his. It was apparent that he considered this conversation premature. He’d said as much when she’d told him she’d like to keep his ring.

‘I want to tell you,’ she said now, fidgeting with the glass beside her plate. She’d invited Graham for supper, although neither of them had done much justice to the meal, and she wondered if it would be easier if she was making coffee as she spoke.

Graham seemed to consider for a moment, and then he leaned across the table and took her hand. ‘I can see you’re upset,’ he said gently. ‘And if there’s anything I can do you only have to tell me. But, Fliss, my dear, I have to be seen to be objective. However much I love you, we can’t continue as before.’

‘I know that.’ Fliss sniffed. ‘But you do still love me, don’t you?’

Graham stared at her. ‘How could you doubt it?’

‘Well, I’ve hardly seen you since—since I got the news about Morgan.’ She bit her lip. ‘If only Aunt Sophie were here, I wouldn’t feel so horribly isolated. As it is, I feel as if I’m living in some kind of vacuum.’

‘Oh, Fliss!’

‘I do love you, Graham.’ She paused. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

‘Well, I hoped so,’ he admitted rather ruefully. Then he heaved a heavy sigh. ‘Oh, Fliss, it’s been hard for me, too. I’ve been trying to do my job when all the time I’ve been wondering how you were.’

‘I’ve been better.’ Fliss expelled a breath. ‘He—Morgan, that is—he was so aggressive. We were like strangers with one another, Graham. I knew it would be hard seeing him again, but I had no idea how difficult it was going to be.’

Graham squeezed her fingers. ‘I shouldn’t say it, I know, but I am relieved.’ He grimaced. ‘I was sure you were going to tell me that you’d realised how much you loved your husband, after all. That was why I was so reluctant to come here. I was putting off what I saw as the evil day.’




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