His Wedding-Night Heir. Sara Craven

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      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

       Endpage

      CHAPTER ONE

      SHE was running. Forcing herself onwards down a long straight road, where flanking trees threw grotesque shadows in front of her. Shadows that she did not want to enter. Her breath tore at her lungs, and her legs ached, but she could not stop. And dared not look behind.

      Must keep going. Need to move on. The words beat a rhythm in her brain. Have to run. Have to…

      Cally Maitland sat up, gasping, her body damp with perspiration, as the sudden shrill of the alarm clock invaded her subconscious and brought her with shocking suddenness to the reality of a new day. She reached out a shaking hand and silenced the noise, then sank back against her pillow, trying to clear her head.

      My God, she thought. What was all that about?

      But of course she already knew. Because she’d had that dream before. Several times.

      The sun was pouring into the room through a gap in the shabby curtains, and it was clearly a beautiful May day. But Cally felt a chill in the air, and wrapped her arms round her body with a faint shiver.

      She said softly, half under her breath, ‘It is—definitely—time to go.’

      She pushed back the thin quilt and got out of bed, running her fingers through her tousled light brown hair, smoothing it into its usual shoulder-length bob. That was one thing she had refused to economise on—her monthly trip to the best hairdresser in town.

      There were shadows under her long-lashed hazel eyes, she realised, giving herself a swift, critical glance in the mirror, and the flowered cotton pyjamas she’d bought from a market stall covered her slim body without grace.

      She felt, she recognised with bewilderment, like a stranger in her own skin. A being totally alien to the cherished, pampered girl she’d been eighteen months ago. That girl had vanished for ever.

      Her mouth tightened with sudden bleakness. But there was no time to linger feeling sorry for herself, she thought, squaring her shoulders. Kit had phoned the previous evening to call an emergency breakfast meeting at the Children’s Centre, and she couldn’t be late.

      She collected clean underwear, and one of the plain grey skirts and cream blouses that formed her working gear, and headed for the small dank shower room which had been created in a corner of the attic room she inhabited.

      The landlord had thrown up cheap plywood partitions to divide the living space from the sleeping area, and pushed together a rudimentary kitchen with a sink and a gas stove in an alcove. He felt that entitled him to christen the whole thing a flat, but it was still nothing more than a draughty bedsit.

      To call it adequate would pay it an undeserved compliment, Cally thought, grimacing over the fact that her towel was still damp from the day before.

      It was not the kind of accommodation she had ever envisaged for herself. But it was just affordable, and it was also the last place on earth where anyone would think to look for her, and that was its major—its sole—attraction for her as far as she was concerned.