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  She didn’t have to pretend to be frightened. She was. She turned and ran, ran faster than she ever had, ran as though the hounds of hell were at her heels.

  As, in fact, they were.

  Twenty-Three

  Claire had fallen in love at first sight with the elegant lines of the old stone house she and Mark shared. Today, as she was driven up the long driveway, child-locked into the back seat of a rented car, the place looked sinister.

  No one had spoken a word since the man called Bill had finally caught up with her, after she’d stumbled on some roots on the rustic trail. The car stopped under the arch, the lock snapped and her door was opened by the dark-haired man.

  ‘You’re quite the runner, Mrs Saunders.’

  Claire said nothing, nor did she look at Mark, who was opening the front door. He gave a small nod to the other man who, without a word, got into the car and drove slowly back down the driveway. Claire fought the urge to run after the car, preferring the risk of being with the stranger to what she knew awaited her when she walked into the house with her husband.

  ‘You must be cold. Let’s go inside.’

  Claire finally forced herself to look at him. So handsome, she thought; genteel, well-mannered, and so very, very dangerous. She walked past him through the hall and into the gallery. There was no mistaking the sound of the click as the front door was locked behind them.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink? You must be thirsty after your run.’

  When Claire didn’t respond, he strolled over to the drinks bar, pulled a Perrier from the fridge and offered it to her. She made no move to take it. He opened the bottle and drank deeply, moving in close to her. ‘I’ve been worried about you, Claire. What were you thinking of, running off like that?’

  She did not respond.

  ‘Did you really think I wouldn’t find you? A convent? Really? If you hid in the Vatican I would find you.’

  Still Claire said nothing.

  Mark’s expression never changed as he hit her hard across the face with the back of his hand. ‘It’s very rude not to speak when spoken to, Claire.’

  A trickle of blood from her nose ran down her face and dropped onto the carpet. Claire looked at the stain as it spread, then back at Mark, still silent.

  ‘You and I need to come to an understanding, Claire. I can’t have you risking everything I have worked my whole life to build, have you running around Westport spreading lies about me.’ He struck out blindly, knocking Claire to the floor.

  She looked at him for a long moment, then finally spoke. Her tone was calm but intense. ‘What lies, Mark? My friends know you hurt me. Is that a lie?’

  She tore off her running shirt, exposing the scars and bruises. ‘Is this a lie? And this?’

  ‘It’s your fault, not mine, Claire. You drive me to it! You drive me mad with your lies!’

  ‘I don’t lie to you, only for you. So that no one knows what kind of a monster you really are.’

  ‘Oh yes, St Claire of Westport. Everyone in this town – hell, the whole world – thinks you’re the perfect wife; the loyal, supportive companion to the great man. They don’t know how you sneak around, seeing him, telling him about me, about Deborah. She’s my daughter, not his.’

  Mark was becoming crazy, kicking out in his anger, causing a lamp to crash onto the floor, just missing Claire’s head.

  ‘What are you talking about? Seeing who?’

  ‘Do you really think I’m blind? Or stupid? I know all about the two of you.’

  Claire tried to crawl to her feet. ‘I’m not seeing anyone, Mark. I never have.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me! I read the letter, his letter. I know I’m just the poor sucker you tricked into raising your daughter, giving you a perfect life. While you waited for your true love to come back for you.’ He spat out the words as if they were a curse.

  Claire was on her feet, fearless as she faced him down in his frenzy. ‘Have you lost your mind? What letter? Who are you talking about?’

  ‘Dearest Claire.’

  Mark was quoting something he’d obviously read over and over again. ‘I hope you will read this letter through to the end. I don’t expect you to forgive me for what I did, for not meeting you that July day but, now that it is safe, I want you to know the reason for it.’

  ‘Walker.’ The intensity in Claire’s voice was such that this time Mark took a step away from her. ‘Walker wrote a letter to me and you didn’t give it to me?’

  Mark reached back and grabbed a poker from the stand in front of the fireplace. ‘You’re not going back to him. You’re not leaving me.’

  ‘That’s it!! Cut! Cut!!! I think we have what we need.’

  Both Claire and Mark whirled around at the sound of Sasha’s voice. She stood on the landing holding a video camera. Julia was on Mark in a flash, pulling the poker from his hand, as Paulina put an arm around a numb Claire and led her over to the bar. She searched the little fridge for ice to stop the bleeding from Claire’s nose.

  ‘Mark, I think you should know that we caught this entire scene on videotape.’ Sasha could barely hide the loathing in her voice.

  Mark, for once, was speechless.

  Claire, ignoring the blood that still ran down her face, crossed the room to face this man who had terrorised her for the past five years. ‘So, here is what’s going to happen, Mark. You are to walk out of that door and never come back. You will never speak to me or even approach me. You will give me a divorce. You will stay away from Deborah. Should you break these terms, or if any sudden accident should befall me, a copy of this tape will automatically be sent to every news organisation around the world.’

  Claire’s friends moved in and the four of them stood shoulder to shoulder, presenting a united front. They were also keeping each other from crumbling as Mark Saunders, one of the most powerful men in the world, stared at them with utter hatred.

  Without a word he turned and headed for the door.

  They had won. Claire had won. She was free.

  ‘Wait,’ Claire said sharply. Her voice stopped Mark, whose hand was already on the door handle. ‘My letter? Where is my letter?’

  ‘There’s a locked drawer in my study.’

  ‘Key?’

  He fished in his pocket and took a small key off a ring and handed it to her. ‘I love you, Claire. I love Deborah as if she were my own daughter. Can’t you see that? I couldn’t stand the thought of losing either one of you.’

  The great man suddenly found himself fighting tears. ‘I think I’m not well. I think the pressure …’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘Deborah is your daughter, Mark. Still. We will work something out in time. If you get help.’

  She looked into the eyes of this man she knew so well but clearly didn’t know at all. ‘Goodbye.’

  And she turned away. But she did not take a step until she heard the sound of Mark’s car heading down the driveway. And out of her life.

  Twenty-Four

  It was late June. Claire, dressed in khaki slacks and a simple white blouse, entered the tiny room high up in the convent and lay down on the bed, tired but happy after her day’s work.

  A few items of clothing hung from the pegs on the wall, a photograph of Deborah was on the bedside table and the pink shawl lay folded neatly at the end of the bed. Otherwise the room was as it was that night in early spring when it had been her refuge.

  There was a soft knock on the door, and Sister Mary Theresa came in, carrying two peaches on a plate, and a knife. ‘The last two from the freezer. The new ones should by ready early next month.’

  She sat on the room’s only chair and expertly peeled and sliced the juicy fruit, handing pieces to Claire. ‘How was Mrs McCormick today?’

  ‘Peaceful,’ Claire said. ‘I have been reading Little Women to her. Her daughter told me it was her favourite novel and I think somewhere, down deep, she remembers the story. She doesn’t speak, of course, but she has those wonderful eyes.’

  ‘Ye
s, I know what you mean. I believe she will be on her way soon.’

  ‘I see it, too.’ In her time volunteering here in the hospice run by the sisters, Claire had learned to recognise the signs of a patient who was about to leave this earth. Death no longer frightened her, but instead seemed to be a natural part of the order of things.

  ‘And what about you, Claire? When will you be on your way?’

  Claire did not answer.

  ‘Much as we have loved having you here with us, you must not use this as a hiding place from life,’ the nun said softly.

  ‘I know that. The counselling you arranged for me was valuable.’ She wiped the peach juice from her hands with a paper napkin and smiled. ‘I’m about ready, I think.’

  ‘And the letter from Walker? Are you ready for that too?’

  Claire thought about this for a moment. ‘I just didn’t want to read it until I was stronger. I don’t know what is in it, but I do know it was powerful enough to help unhinge Mark.’

  ‘You can’t blame the letter or yourself for that. But Mark’s now getting help, and must find his own way without you.’

  Claire got up and looked out of the little window, to where the sun was glinting off the water. ‘I promised Deborah I would come to London for my birthday. She has an end-of-term concert and she’s been working on something special to play for me.’

  Claire kept looking at the sea, drawn to the ease with which the water ebbed and flowed; not resisting, just letting nature take its course.

  ‘I will read the letter on the plane,’ she said.

  Twenty-Five

  Claire was snug in her Virgin Atlantic upper-class suite, heading for London, and the rest of her life. Despite the food served by the airline, Claire had feasted on the picnic that Julia insisted on packing for her.

  Her friends. The posse, as Deborah called them. She smiled just thinking about Sasha and Paulina and Julia. What would her life be without them? The letter sat on the little table in the suite, read and re-read by her and, she knew, by Mark. It must have hurt him to see those words, to feel the love, the passion that practically set fire to the pages. She did not excuse his violence. However, knowing he had seen this, helped her to understand the forces that had pushed this complex man over the edge. He had been obsessed with a fear of losing both her and Deborah.

  Threats on Walker’s life and hers by mobsters his father was prosecuting. Witness protection. Name changes. Years of separation, because if she had been with him, she would have been in danger.

  It was difficult to take in all at once. But, little by little, it was beginning to make sense to her.

  She remembered the guards around Walker’s father that day on the court-house steps. She vaguely recalled the conviction of the so-called ‘boss of bosses’ at the hands of the brave Mr Kennedy. And, later, the attempt to kill him.

  These long-ago events had completely changed the course of their lives. Both of their hearts had been broken. Walker didn’t know he had a daughter. And Deborah didn’t know about the man who gave her life.

  Stop it! Claire told herself. She had promised herself before she opened the letter that she would not waste a precious moment of her new life regretting the past. She planned to hang onto what Sister Mary Theresa said when she had left the convent. ‘Yesterday is not ours to recover, but tomorrow is ours to win or lose.’

  She looked through the dog-eared pages to find her favourite passage.

  On our day, the day we were to meet and get married, I was in the tiny village in Ireland where my mother was born. I had a new name, my mother’s, and a new companion: a bodyguard who never left my side. I could only imagine how it was for you that day when I didn’t come. I know what it was like for me, and I hope never to be any closer to hell than that.

  But you were safe and would not have been if I had refused to go away. So I comforted myself with that.

  At what would have been noon in America, I went hiking with my bodyguard, Mr O’Callaghan. I found a tiny stone chapel set into the side of a hill overlooking the River Suir and I went inside. I got down on my knees in front of the altar and I married you, Claire. I said the vows: love, honour, cherish, until death us do part. And I want you to know I have kept those vows. I have never married nor will I, because in my heart I am already married to you.

  When it was safe I went back to New York looking for you. When I learned you had married and that you and your husband had a daughter, I could not bring myself to disrupt your life. I left the States for good. But I will watch you from afar and, if I ever see a chance to help you or your child, I will do it. I love her already because she is yours.

  The captain announced the final approach into Heathrow. Claire wiped away a tear and carefully folded the letter into the pocket of her sweater. It felt good to have it close to her.

  Once she had collected her luggage and gone through customs, the first thing Claire saw was her daughter’s wild sandy curls as she leaped into the air. The hug that followed nearly toppled them both onto the floor, and there was laughter and questions and stories half told, then left aside for better ones. Yes, Deborah was still Deborah.

  They were heading for the exit when Deborah pulled her aside, away from the crowd, eyes sparkling.

  ‘Mom! I’ve learned the piece, the one I told you about. It was a nightmare but I did it for you. I’m playing it in my concert tomorrow.’

  ‘Rhapsody for Claire. Sounds exotic.’

  ‘It is, Mom. And sexy, I might add, just like Maestro Connelly, the composer I told you about. I don’t expect to play it like he did, but maybe someday. He’s an absolute genius.’

  Claire hugged her daughter tightly. ‘I’m sure he is.’

  ‘He asked to come to my concert. I got him a ticket right next to you. Hope that’s okay?’

  ‘Of course it is. I’m sure we’ll find plenty to talk about.’

  ‘He’s taken an interest in my playing. God knows why. Did I tell you he was the one who sent me those tickets for my birthday?’

  ‘You didn’t, but I thought it might be him.’

  They went on towards the exit, arm in arm. ‘Deborah dear,’ Claire said casually, ‘you haven’t told me what the Maestro’s first name is.’

  ‘Oh, I forgot. At the Academy we have to call everyone by their proper title. It’s Walker. Walker Connelly.’

  ‘Walker Connelly. Yes, I rather thought that’s what it would be.’

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  About the Author

  Barbara Taylor Bradford has writt
en twenty-nine novels. Her debut novel, A Woman of Substance, was an international bestseller. Barbara’s books have sold more than eighty-five million copies in more than ninety countries and forty languages. Ten mini-series and television films have been made of her books. In 2007, Barbara was awarded an OBE by the Queen for her services to literature.

  Also by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Series

  THE EMMA HARTE SAGA

  A Woman of Substance

  Hold the Dream

  To Be the Best

  Emma’s Secret

  Unexpected Blessings

  Just Rewards

  Breaking the Rules

  Series

  THE RAVENSCAR TRILOGY

  The Ravenscar Dynasty

  Heirs of Ravenscar

  Being Elizabeth

  Others

  Voice of the Heart

  Act of Will

  The Women in His Life

  Remember

  Angel

  Everything to Gain

  Dangerous to Know

  Love in Another Town

  Her Own Rules

  A Secret Affair

  Power of a Woman

  A Sudden Change of Heart

  Where You Belong

  The Triumph of Katie Byrne

  Three Weeks in Paris

  Playing the Game

  Letter from a Stranger

  Secrets from the Past

  Cavendon Hall

  Copyright

  Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  77–85 Fulham Palace Road

  Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by Harper 2014

  Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 2014

  Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com