His Wedding-Night Heir

HIS WEDDING-NIGHT HEIR

By Sara Craven

Virginal beauty Cally Maitland has become accustomed to life

on the run since fleeing her marriage to aristocrat Sir Nicholas

Tempest. But Nicholas isn't prepared to let Cally go. Indeed,

he has a harsh ultimatum to deliver: give him their long-

overdue wedding-night - and provide him with an heir!

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 perspi-

ration, as the sudden shrill of the alarm clock invaded her sub-

conscious 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 s he inhabited.

The landlord had thrown up cheap plywood partitions to di-

vide the living space from the sleeping area, and pushed to-

gether a rudimentary kitchen with a sink and a gas stove in an

alcove. He felt that entitled him to christen t he 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 thin k to look for her, and

that was its major—it’s sole—attraction for her as far as she

was concerned.

Still she would bid it goodbye without a moment's regret.

Although she couldn't say the same for Wellingford itself,

oddly enough.

She'd chosen it for the same reasons she'd picked the flat. It

was a small, nondescript market town besid e an unexciting

river. A neutral background that she could disappear into.

Somewhere to provide her with breathing space to think and

consider her long-term future.

She had not expected to like it, of course, Cally thought.

living to coax hot water out of the reluctant shower. She had

certainly not anticipated being happy here yet somehow,

against all the odds, she'd achieved a measure of both. There

were times when she'd almost managed to forget her reasons

for being there. Almost, but not quit

And now it was time to leave, she told herself. She'd already

stayed more than a month over her allotted time, and she sim-

ply couldn't risk remaining any longer. Otherwise she might

start to feel at home, and that was dangerous. She needed to

keep moving. To cover her tracks.

Although there was no actual proof that this was necessary,

she reminded herself. No evidence of any at tempt to trace

her, as she'd feared. She could well be panicking unduly. Yet

some gut instinct— some sense of self-preservation—seemed

to be warning her again. Otherwise, why the dreams?

In any case, there were valid, practical reasons for her to leave

Wellingford.

For one thing, the job she'd enjoyed so much no longer

existed, and at the end of the week she would ic ceive her

final wage packet from the Hartley family. Who would

begrudge her every penny of it.

She sighed as she cleaned her teeth. She could still hardly

believe that Genevieve Hartley was dead. She'd seemed

indomitable—eternal. Even now, six weeks later, Cally half

expected to see the large car draw up at the end of Gunners

Wharf and Mrs Hartley's small, silver-haired figure alight.

Riding to our rescue, Cally thought grimacing. Except it was

far too late for that.

I hope the dead can't see the living, she told herself with

sudden fierceness. I hope Mrs Hartley doesn't know what her

ghastly sons and their expensive wives did to her dream for

Gunners Wharf even before she was cold in her grave. All

those hopes and plans and hard work just swept away. All

those people suddenly discovering they needed somewhere

else to live.

It shouldn't have happened, of course. Mrs Hartley's intentions

had been very different. She'd meant the Gunners Wharf

project to survive and thrive even when she was no longer

there to supervise it. She'd been to see her lawyers, to draw up

the necessary adjustments to her will, only to succumb to a

sudden devastating heart attack before the all-important

document could be signed.

Even so, the residents had all hoped that her wishes would be

respected. She'd made them clear enough even to her resentful

children.

So they'd collected for a wreath, and attended the funeral to

demonstrate their affection and respect for the woman who'd

encouraged their visions, only to find themselves totally ig-

nored by the family, their presence unnecessary and

embarrassing.

A bad omen, Cally had thought at the time, unease twisting

inside her.

And her premonition had been quite correct.

Within two weeks all the tenants had received notice to quit,

and Gunners Wharf had been sold for redevdopment. They'd

protested, naturally, but legally, they'd been told, they didn't

have a leg to stand on. Their leases had been privately agreed

with Mrs Hartley, and the rents kept deliberately,

unrealistically low.

But there'd been nothing in writing, and her sudden death had

prevented her from regularising their position in law.

Besides, it had been added, in a final blow to their hopes,

most of the houses were still waiting to be renovated, and

could well be deemed unfit for human habitation.

As she put on her clothes Cally tasted the acid of tears in her

throat, and swallowed them back. She'd be come genuinely

fond of Genevieve Hartley, and her death had been a personal

blow, quite apart from all I he other ramifications.

On the other hand, the abandonment of the Gunners Wharf

housing project would give Cally a personal release.

I always knew my lime here was limited, she reminded her-

self, applying moisturiser to her pale skin. But I thought I'd be

the first to leave.

Once again someone she loved had been suddenly and

tragically taken away from her. And once again she was left

floundering in a kind of limbo.

Genevieve Hartley had been almost the first person Cally had

met when she'd arrived in Wellingford.

She'd been sitting in the bus station buffet, drinking coffee

while she looked through the small ads in the local weekly

paper, scanning them for job opportunities and room rentals,

when she'd spoiled the last entry in the 'Situations Vacant'

column.

'Administrative assistant required for housing project with

Children's Centre,' she'd read. 'Enthusiaslic and computer

literate. Able to work on own initiative.' Followed by a

telephone number.

Less than an hour later she'd been in Mrs Hartley's elegant

drawing room, being interviewed.

She'd been unfazed to find that her future employer was a chic

elderly woman with steely blue eyes and an autocratic

manner. She was used to ageing despots. In fact, she'd spent

most of her life with one, she thought ruefully. So Mrs

Hartley's brisk, searching interrogation had come as no real

shock.

Cally had sat composedly, answering the older woman's

questions with quiet candour.

Yes, she had references, but mainly for waitressing and shop

work. She'd been taking a kind of gap year, she'd added, men-

tally crossing her fingers, travelling around and working at

whatever jobs offered themselves.

'But you have worked with computers?' Genevieve Hartley

poured China tea into thin porcelain cups." I need someone

who can do word processing, keep records and oversee the

ongoing renovation scheme. Also act as liaison between the

builders, the tenants and the Town Hall." She pa used with a

faint smile. 'My tenants at Gunners Wharf have not had easy

starts in life, and this has made them wary, so sometimes the

situation can become— shall we say volatile? I'm looking for

someone who can sort out any snags before they become real

difficult’

Cally hesitated. 'I took computer studies during my last year al

school.' Which school was that?'

Cally told her, and her plucked brows rose. 'Indeed?' said

Genevieve Hartley. 'Then I suggest a fortnight's trial on both

sides. After all,' she added drily, 'you might find some of the

tenants rather too much of a problem.'

I'd find not eating a much greater one, Cally thought wryly.

Thought it but did not say it.

'In addition to the administrative work you'll be asked to take

your turn at the Children's Centre, particularly helping out in