Carole Mortimer - A Marriage To Remember

“I’m your husband!” “I’m your husband!” “You were never that.” “We were married for two years—” “I was married for two years,” she corrected him vehemently. “You were still Adam Carmichael, stud extraordinaire!” His hand gripped her wrist. “Don’t start believing all the drivel you’ve read about me—” “I didn’t need to read about it, Adam, I lived it!” About the Author CAROLE MORTIMER says: “I was born in England, the youngest of three children—I have two older brothers. I started writing in 1978, and have now written over ninety books for Harlequin Presents. ”I have four sons—Matthew, Joshua, Timothy and Peter—and a bearded collie dog called Merlyn. I’m in a very happy relationship with Peter senior. We’re best friends as well as lovers, which is probably the best recipe for a successful relationship. We live on the Isle of Man.” Books by Carole Mortimer Books by Carole Mortimer HARLEQUIN PRESENTS 1793—THE ONE AND ONLY 1823—TWO’S COMPANY 1863—ONE-MAN WOMAN 1894—WILDEST DREAMS Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the following address for information on our newest releases. Harlequin Reader Service U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269 Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Ene, Ont. L2A 5X3 Title Page A Marriage to Remember Carole Mortimer www.millsandboon.co.uk Dedication For Peter CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER ONE HE STOOD at the back of the dimly lit, smoke-filled room, unnoticed by the crowd, especially the noisy people clamouring for attention at the bar beside him. But that was all right—they were completely unnoticed by him too. Because he knew that as soon as the woman standing on the slightly raised dais across at the other side of the room began to sing again the crowd would forget their need for a drink, would fall into a hushed silence once more as they forgot everything but listening to the music. She had been on stage for almost half an hour now, and it was the same each time she began to sing a new song; a pin could have been heard dropping amongst the appreciative audience. It was easy to understand why. She was good. Very good. As good as she ever had been, the haunting sensuality of her voice reaching out and touching a chord in the heart of each person in the room. She sang of love. Betrayed love. And yet there was also hope in her words. Hope of survival. And there was a joy in life itself. In the mere gift of life. Where had she found such joy? How? Who with? It was this last agonising question that ripped into him like the sharpness of a knife, that held him mesmerised as he stood silently watching the haunting beauty of her face. Then the room fell silent around him once more as she began to lightly strum her guitar; it was an expectant silence, as if everyone in the room had suddenly held their breath at the same time. He knew why. He too recognised those opening chords. And the words as she began to sing. It was a song he hadn’t heard for a long time. A long, long time. Their song... CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER TWO HE WAS in the room. She couldn’t see him. Had no idea where he was. She only knew she could feel him here. Somewhere. She had felt his presence almost from the moment she had walked out in front of the audience, at first berating herself for her imaginings; it was ridiculous, after all this time, to feel that way. There was no logical reason to believe such a thing. But the feeling had persisted, to such an extent that she was now convinced he was definitely in the room. Listening to her. It was incredible that she should feel like this. It was the first time she had sung in public for over three years; why would he be here? But he was. She knew he was, had become more and more convinced of it as she continued to sing. She had looked searchingly through the crowd to see if she could recognise him, but it was difficult to see into the gloom beyond her spotlight. There were just silhouettes of people, with no distinguishing features at all. She didn’t want to recognise him anyway. What was the point? It was all so long ago now. She was different He was different. Their lives were different. But he was here...! Her heart pounded in her chest—loudly, it seemed to her, as she began to play her final song for the evening, strumming the introduction on her guitar before she began to pick out the more recognisable chorus. She wished the song weren’t in the programme now, wished she had chosen to end with any other song but this one. But it was the song she was known for, the song people remembered her for. And she hadn’t sung it in public for a long, long time. Their song... CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE Copyright

“I’m your husband!”

“You were never that.”

“We were married for two years—”

“I was married for two years,” she corrected him vehemently. “You were still Adam Carmichael, stud extraordinaire!”

His hand gripped her wrist. “Don’t start believing all the drivel you’ve read about me—”

“I didn’t need to read about it, Adam, I lived it!”

CAROLE MORTIMER says: “I was born in England, the youngest of three children—I have two older brothers. I started writing in 1978, and have now written over ninety books for Harlequin Presents.

”I have four sons—Matthew, Joshua, Timothy and Peter—and a bearded collie dog called Merlyn. I’m in a very happy relationship with Peter senior. We’re best friends as well as lovers, which is probably the best recipe for a successful relationship. We live on the Isle of Man.”

Books by Carole Mortimer

HARLEQUIN PRESENTS

1793—THE ONE AND ONLY

1823—TWO’S COMPANY

1863—ONE-MAN WOMAN

1894—WILDEST DREAMS

Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the following address for information on our newest releases.

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Ene, Ont. L2A 5X3

A Marriage to Remember

Carole Mortimer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Peter

CHAPTER ONE

HE STOOD at the back of the dimly lit, smoke-filled room, unnoticed by the crowd, especially the noisy people clamouring for attention at the bar beside him. But that was all right—they were completely unnoticed by him too.

Because he knew that as soon as the woman standing on the slightly raised dais across at the other side of the room began to sing again the crowd would forget their need for a drink, would fall into a hushed silence once more as they forgot everything but listening to the music.

She had been on stage for almost half an hour now, and it was the same each time she began to sing a new song; a pin could have been heard dropping amongst the appreciative audience. It was easy to understand why. She was good. Very good. As good as she ever had been, the haunting sensuality of her voice reaching out and touching a chord in the heart of each person in the room. She sang of love. Betrayed love. And yet there was also hope in her words. Hope of survival. And there was a joy in life itself. In the mere gift of life.

Where had she found such joy?

How?

Who with?

It was this last agonising question that ripped into him like the sharpness of a knife, that held him mesmerised as he stood silently watching the haunting beauty of her face.

Then the room fell silent around him once more as she began to lightly strum her guitar; it was an expectant silence, as if everyone in the room had suddenly held their breath at the same time.