ANNE WEALE - The Bartered Bride

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I thought this was a merchant bank... not a marriage bureau.” “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I thought this was a merchant bank... not a marriage bureau.” “It is a bank, and I am its chairman,” Reid said calmly. “You wouldn’t be for much longer if your shareholders heard what you’re suggesting. They’d think you were out of your mind. You can’t buy a wife.” “It isn’t the usual method of acquiring one,” he agreed, going back to his chair. “But these are unusual circumstances. I have neither the time nor inclination to follow the traditional course. You are in urgent need of someone to straighten out the financial shambles you find yourself in. If you agree to marry me, your mother won’t have to move and you won’t have to worry about her future. I’ll take care of that. Think it over, Francesca. When you’ve had time to assess it, I think you’ll agree it’s an eminently sensible plan.” Letter to Reader Dear Reader, For twenty years, with my husband, usually in late spring and early fall, I’ve been crossing the range of mountains that separates France from Spain. There are many different ways to cross the Pyrenees, from the sweeping curves of the autopista at the Mediterranean end to the narrower, more twisting minor roads in the central and eastern sections. We’ve tried most of them, including the route through the tiny principality of Andorra. In between times, flying to London to meet my editor, often I’ve had an eagle’s view of inaccessible valleys so high up that the snow never melts. It never ceases to amaze me that the long, uncomfortable, perilous journey of earlier centuries can now be accomplished in two hours by air. Even by car, it takes only a few days. We like to do it slowly, picnic-lunching in woods or by the banks of streams, spending the night at quiet country hotels. On a recent journey, it struck me that it was time to write a book about these magical mountains that, if not as remote as they once were, still retain a feeling of tranquillity long lost in more populous areas. A short time later I happened to catch a brief glimpse of a tall, striking man and a beautiful girl, both wearing shorts and walking boots. I shall never know who they were...and they will never know they were part of the inspiration for the story you’re about to start reading. I hope you enjoy it. Title Page The Bartered Bride Anne Weale www.millsandboon.co.uk CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I thought this was a merchant bank... not a marriage bureau.”

“It is a bank, and I am its chairman,” Reid said calmly.

“You wouldn’t be for much longer if your shareholders heard what you’re suggesting. They’d think you were out of your mind. You can’t buy a wife.”

“It isn’t the usual method of acquiring one,” he agreed, going back to his chair. “But these are unusual circumstances. I have neither the time nor inclination to follow the traditional course. You are in urgent need of someone to straighten out the financial shambles you find yourself in. If you agree to marry me, your mother won’t have to move and you won’t have to worry about her future. I’ll take care of that. Think it over, Francesca. When you’ve had time to assess it, I think you’ll agree it’s an eminently sensible plan.”

Dear Reader,

For twenty years, with my husband, usually in late spring and early fall, I’ve been crossing the range of mountains that separates France from Spain.

There are many different ways to cross the Pyrenees, from the sweeping curves of the autopista at the Mediterranean end to the narrower, more twisting minor roads in the central and eastern sections. We’ve tried most of them, including the route through the tiny principality of Andorra.

In between times, flying to London to meet my editor, often I’ve had an eagle’s view of inaccessible valleys so high up that the snow never melts. It never ceases to amaze me that the long, uncomfortable, perilous journey of earlier centuries can now be accomplished in two hours by air. Even by car, it takes only a few days. We like to do it slowly, picnic-lunching in woods or by the banks of streams, spending the night at quiet country hotels.

On a recent journey, it struck me that it was time to write a book about these magical mountains that, if not as remote as they once were, still retain a feeling of tranquillity long lost in more populous areas.

A short time later I happened to catch a brief glimpse of a tall, striking man and a beautiful girl, both wearing shorts and walking boots. I shall never know who they were...and they will never know they were part of the inspiration for the story you’re about to start reading.

I hope you enjoy it.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

EXPECTING him to be a middle-aged toad, Francesca was surprised when the man who rose from behind the large orderly desk was a tall dark thirtysomething, not precisely handsome but undeniably personable.

‘Ms Turner...please sit down.’ He gestured to the chair on the outer side of the desk and waited until she was seated before resuming his own seat.

She knew nothing about him, except that his name was Reid Kennard and he occupied a large office on the highest floor of a prestigious office block in the City.

This area of London was one of the world’s great money markets. Judging by his discreetly luxurious surroundings, this man was one of the market’s moguls.

To Fran, until very recently, money had been something she spent with careless extravagance on clothes for herself, presents for others and anything else she wanted. Now the supply had dried up. That was why she was here in the formidable presence of this well-built six-footer whose physique didn’t match her mental image of a top-level financier.

All she knew about him was that Mr Preston, her late father’s lawyer, had said that Reid Kennard wished to see her and might be able to help her and her mother out of their predicament.

Predicament being the understatement of the year, Fran thought wryly, leaning back in the comfortable leather chair and automatically crossing her legs, remembering a moment too late that this was a no-no in the books of advice on how to impress interviewers.

The movement caused Mr Kennard to shift the focus of his cold grey gaze from her face to her shapely knees and then to her slender ankles.

Fran was accustomed to men admiring her legs furtively or openly according to temperament. Reid Kennard belonged to the latter group, but whether his frank appraisal was appreciative, critical or indifferent it was impossible to tell. He had the most deadpan expression she had ever come across. It made her nervous. She wasn’t used to being nervous. She didn’t like it.

The appraisal didn’t last long, perhaps not more than three seconds. Leaning forward, his forearms resting on the edge of the desk and his long-fingered hands loosely clasped, he returned his gaze to her face.

‘You’re in trouble, I hear.’

Lacking any regional or social accent, his voice gave no clue to his background. Self-assured and brisk, it was a voice she could imagine giving decisive orders people would jump to obey.

Had she met him in surroundings not indicative of his occupation, and been asked to guess it, she would have surmised that he held a senior rank in one of the special units of crack fighting men called to the world’s trouble spots when drastic action was the only solution. He had an air of contained physical power. A man of action rather than a desk-bound number-cruncher.