Witching Hour
Mills & Boon proudly presents THE SARA CRAVEN COLLECTION. Sara’s powerful and passionate romances have captivated and thrilled readers all over the world for five decades making her an international bestseller.Morgana couldn't wish him awayLyall Pentreath van Guisen was a new and unwanted factor in her life. As the only male heir in the ancient but divided Pentreath family, he had inherited their Cornish home.Not only was he from the other branch of the family–he was also ruthless, cunning and used to getting his own way.His taking over their home was bad enough. But Lyall had made it quite clear that he'd like to take her over, as well. Morgana was afraid, but somehow secretly excited….
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Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE October afternoon was fading fast, and the drawing room at Polzion House was filled with shadows, but in spite of the encroaching dimness, none of the lamps had been lit, and the log fire on the wide hearth had been allowed to burn away almost to ash.
In her grey dress with its long sleeves and high collar, Morgana seemed part of the shadows as she stood at the window, staring out at the wind-tossed garden. She was motionless, only her hands balled into fists at her sides giving any indication of the inner tension which threatened to consume her.
Outside the wind was rising. She could hear it wailing among the tall chimneys and along the eaves. Living on an exposed stretch of Cornish coastline, she had always taken autumn gales for granted, but today—the desolate sound of it made her shiver. On other, happier October afternoons, she would have drawn the curtains and turned to make up the fire, dismissing with a shrug whatever dark angel stood at her shoulder, but not now—perhaps not ever again. Not in this room—this house.
Something inside her cringed away from the thought, but it had to be faced. Her life at Polzion House, the only life she had ever known, would soon be at an end, and she had no idea, not even the slightest, what she could put in its place. It wasn’t as if she was really trained for anything. Since leaving school with perfectly respectable examination results, she’d been here, helping her father and mother run the hotel. Family help had always been essential, as she’d always known, because Polzion House had never been successful or profitable enough to justify employing outside staff, with the exception of Elsa, who cooked like an angel when the fates decreed, and had been part of their lives for so long that she seemed like one of the family.
It had always been a struggle, but Morgana was young and strong, and she had always been optimistic about the future, until now. Or until the day nearly a month ago when her whole world had fallen apart.
She swallowed with the pain of remembering thick in her throat. Her father hadn’t been well for about a week, complaining almost apologetically of indigestion, and it was true Elsa’s cooking had been more erratic than usual. So Morgana had not worried particularly. Her father was young for his age. He swam regularly, and played golf and squash. He was as fit as anyone could be, or so they had always thought, so his collapse when it came was doubly shocking.
She and her mother had lived in hope for about a week, visiting the hospital where he was in intensive care, telling each other that these days heart attacks were not serious—almost fashionable, in fact—and that all sorts of things could be done. But in Martin Pentreath’s case, there was very little to be done. Years of strain and financial worry had taken their toll, and very quietly, they took him.
The funeral had been anguish. Everyone in the neighbourhood had been there to pay their last respects. Martin Pentreath had not been much of a hotelier, and even less of a business man, but everyone had liked him. Morgana had listened to their condolences, and told herself if she could get through this without breaking down, then everything would be all right. Only it had not been all right.
For Elizabeth Pentreath and her daughter there were shocks and more anguish when it came to the reading of the will, with Mr Trevick’s solemn face even more portentous than usual. And Morgana, listening dazedly to words like ‘entail’ and ‘surviving male heir’, realised for the first time that with her father’s death the life she had known and the future she expected had died too.
The door behind her opened suddenly, flooding the room with light from the hall beyond, and her mother came in on a little flurry of words. ‘Too dreadful, darling. I’ve just been on the phone to Marricks to order some more coke—the boiler isn’t nearly as hot as it should be, and Miss Meakins was complaining about the bathwater again this morning—and some thoroughly unpleasant person told me that unless something was paid on account, there wouldn’t be any more deliveries. What do you think of that?’
Morgana shrugged. ‘It’s not entirely unexpected. We were never a good credit risk, and now that we’ve even lost the house …’
