Yesterday's Scars

Yesterday’s Scars

Carole Mortimer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘IT’S all very mysterious, isn’t it?’ exclaimed Linda. ‘Rather exciting in a way.’

Hazel slammed her suitcase shut with a bang, disrupting all the clothes she had placed in there only minutes earlier after folding them neatly. ‘There’s nothing mysterious or exciting about it!’ she declared crossly. ‘I’ve been ordered home, that’s all.’

‘Yes, but what a home! I remember the photographs you showed us when you first came over here—it’s a fantastic place. How you could ever move over here and live in this tiny apartment,’ Linda indicated the two rooms that had been Hazel’s home for the past three years, ‘after living in that beautiful mansion, I just can’t imagine. I know I wouldn’t do it.’

‘You might if Rafe happened to own the mansion,’ Hazel said with a grimace, checking that she had all her luggage ready to leave for the airport.

Linda’s eyes became even dreamier. ‘Rafe Savage!’ she sighed. ‘There’s romance just in the name. How lucky you are to have such a romantic figure for a guardian!’

‘He isn’t my guardian! I’m nearly twenty-one, Linda, not two years old. Rafe just happens to have looked after me since I was ten. But he’s nothing but a bully,’ Hazel said fiercely. ‘He has no right to order me home as if I’m a schoolgirl!’

‘You don’t have to go, honey,’ Linda pointed out.

Hazel looked sceptical. Linda obviously didn’t know her cousin Rafe or she wouldn’t have made such a statement. When Rafe issued an order everyone jumped to obey, including Hazel—up to a point. ‘I have to go. He only allowed me to come to the States at all on condition that I returned after three years, just until my twenty-first birthday.’

Linda looked amazed. ‘Don’t you want to return home? It must be great living in a house like that. I bet this cousin of yours is something like the local lord of the manor, isn’t he?’

Hazel thought of Rafe’s arrogant bearing and the respect and loyalty with which the local people in his Cornwall home treated him. ‘Yes,’ she agreed slowly, ‘I suppose you could say that.’

‘You’ve never talked much about your family, Hazel, but we always knew you were a set apart from us. Besides your obviously being English that is.’ She leant back in the chair. ‘What made you come to the States?’

Hazel shrugged. ‘I wanted to leave Savage House and anywhere in England didn’t seem far enough away from the Savage influence. I’ve had a lovely time over here, Jonathan’s been perfect to work for. And everyone has been so friendly. I’ve really loved it here, and I don’t want to go home,’ she finished miserably.

Linda laughed. ‘I don’t think Jonathan being perfect to work for and everyone being friendly are the reasons you don’t want to leave. I think Jonathan’s son Josh may have something to do with that.’

‘Well …’ Hazel blushed prettily. ‘We were just starting to get to know each other. It isn’t long since Jonathan introduced us.’

Linda frowned. ‘Maybe it’s as well you’re leaving. He doesn’t improve on better acquaintance. I’ve never liked him. I’m sorry, Hazel, I know how charming he can be, but I’ve never gotten over the callous way he let Sandra down. They were engaged, you know.’

‘Yes, he told me.’

‘I bet he did—his side of it.’ Linda looked at her wrist-watch. ‘We’d better get you to the airport, it’s getting late.’

‘You really don’t like Josh, do you?’ Hazel frowned.

Linda shrugged. ‘As Jonathan’s nurse I’ve had longer than you to observe Josh. I’ve seen him in action plenty of times. Believe me, if he hadn’t been in Europe the last couple of years you’d have got to know a lot more about him too. That pleasant companion at your farewell dinner party isn’t his normal image. Oh, I don’t want to talk about him any more. You take away your pleasant memories of him and forget what I just said.’

Their goodbyes at the airport were hurried; Hazel’s thoughts were now firmly turned towards home. Three years was such a long time to be away from home; people changed—she herself had changed tremendously. At least, she hoped she had, or this time away had been a complete waste of time.

Her arrival in the States had been nothing like her departure of just now. Then Rafe had accompanied her, seen her safely settled before returning to his estate in Cornwall, the acres of land he owned and lorded it over. The head of the family, Rafe managed and dominated every member of his household with a firmness that only Hazel had ever seemed to resent to the point of argument. That had been a lot of the trouble between them, the way she had always fired his temper.

She doubted it would be any different now. Their arguments had been almost unbearable before she had left, in fact that had been part of the reason she had wanted to go to America. And surprisingly Rafe had offered no resistance. In fact, it had been he who made all the enquiries for her job, and on finally being accepted he had accompanied her on the flight and stayed a few days to make sure she was going to be happy there.

And she hadn’t see him for three years, three long peaceful years. Would he have changed? She remembered him as being tall, very tall, and dark, with the dark skin colouring and thick black hair of his ancestors. The Savajes had originated from Spain, moving to England hundreds of years ago, their name soon refined to the more acceptable Savage.

Rafe wasn’t even really her cousin, her father having married Rafe’s true cousin when Hazel was only two years old. Her first memory of this tall arrogant man had been at the age of five, when he was already a grown man of twenty-three, and she had fallen and cut herself, sobbing bitterly for her father. Rafe had laughed at her tears, saying she was a big girl now and big girls didn’t cry over silly little things like cuts. From that moment on she had begun to hate him.

And now her time in America was over and she was returning to Savage House, a large house overlooking the sea that pounded on the rocky beach far below them. She felt nervous about meeting Rafe again, so nervous that by the time the plane landed she was pale and apprehensive. And her journey wasn’t over yet.

She had cabled a couple of days ahead to say when she would be arriving, but having received no reply she had no idea if she was going to be met. She certainly hoped so; she didn’t relish the idea of getting to Savage House on her own. The grounds surrounding the house were private, with a man on the gate to stop any intruders, and no one was allowed in without Rafe’s explicit permission. How humiliating to arrive there and not be allowed in! It would be the sort of humiliation Rafe would enjoy witnessing.

She knew her fears to be groundless when she saw James waiting for her in the airport lounge. Dear kind James, the chauffeur who had been with the Savage family every since she could remember, his wife Sara being the cook and housekeeper.

Hazel hugged him, huge tears of emotion welling up and threatening to overspill. ‘Oh, James, it’s lovely to see you!’

He held her away from him. ‘Why, Miss Hazel, I wouldn’t have recognised you, you’re so grown up.’

She laughed. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, James, thank you.’ She licked her lips nervously. ‘Rafe hasn’t come with you, then?’

The middle-aged man frowned. ‘He would have come himself normally, you know that. But since he was hurt he doesn’t go out much.’ His face brightened. ‘But it should be different now you’re home again. Mr Savage has certainly missed you.’

Hazel doubted that very much, but didn’t argue with him. Something else he had said held her attention much more. ‘You say Rafe has been hurt?’ she asked sharply. ‘What do you mean by hurt?’

James stashed her suitcase in the boot of the Mercedes, just one of the cars kept for the use of the members of the Savage family. She supposed she could be considered part of the family, although she had never considered herself as such. Rafe had a much more sturdy Range Rover for transporting himself about the estate.

James looked at her sharply now, his surprise unhidden. ‘Why, he was hurt in the accident, Miss Hazel. Hurt quite badly too. Of course he won’t admit to the pain he has, but you can see it in his eyes. You’ll probably notice it more than we do, having been away so long.’

Hazel frowned her puzzlement. ‘I don’t understand all this, James. Are you telling me that Rafe has been involved in an accident?’

James halted in the process of opening the car door for her. ‘You mean you don’t know? Didn’t Miss Celia write and tell you?’

She shook her head. ‘What should she have told me, James? Tell me what’s happened to Rafe!’

He shook his head. ‘I would have thought someone would have told you,’ he muttered to himself.

‘Tell me, James!’ she pleaded.

He sighed. ‘Mr Savage was on the launch. No one realised, least of all him, that there was a leak in the petrol tank. One lit match and the whole thing went up. You know how Mr Savage likes to smoke those cheroots of his, it was inevitable it would happen as soon as he went on board. Luckily he was thrown clear, but the left side of his face was badly burnt and he had a crushed bone in his left hip that’s left him with rather a nasty limp at times.’

Hazel paled at this information. Rafe maimed and scarred! Oh, it didn’t bear thinking about. She and Rafe might have argued constantly, but she had never been able to deny that he was a fine specimen of manhood—at least, he had been! ‘Oh God!’ she groaned. She felt physically sick. ‘When—when did it happen, James?’

‘About a year ago now. Mr Savage——’

‘A year ago?’ she burst out. ‘But I—I——No one told me!’

James closed her car door behind her and climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘That’s very odd, Miss Hazel, because I’m sure that when he was so ill Mr Savage asked for you. Miss Celia promised him she’d write to you.’ He began to look uncomfortable, as if realising he had said too much. ‘I suppose she must have decided it was better not to worry you.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed hollowly.

Celia! A viper in paradise was a good description of Rafe’s sister. Celia of the laughing, teasing, spiteful blue eyes, long black lustrous hair, and a perfect petite figure; she managed the Savage household with the arrogance of all the Savage women before her. And she deliberately hadn’t told Hazel of Rafe’s accident, Hazel felt sure of that.

There had never been any love lost between them and on the death of Rafe’s mother Hazel had known she couldn’t stay at Savage House any longer. Celia had married at twenty but was widowed two years later when her husband was killed in a car accident, and so she had moved back with her mother and brother. Four years ago Mrs Savage had died, Hazel’s only ally as far as she was concerned, and Celia had taken over.

But she had never believed Celia would go to the extreme of keeping something of such importance concerning Rafe away from her, she had never believed she would go that far.

At twenty-seven, twelve years Rafe’s junior, Celia was one of the most beautiful women Hazel had ever seen, and she was surprised that she had never remarried. But why should she feel it necessary when she had the privileged position of running the Savage household? As Celia was only six years Hazel’s senior the two girls were of an age where it should have been possible for them to have been friends. But there had always only ever been antipathy between them.

Celia had always resented the fact that Rafe had taken over Hazel’s care on the death of her parents, declaring vehemently to anyone who cared to listen that Hazel wasn’t a true Savage, that she didn’t belong at Savage House. And Hazel supposed she was right, but where else could a ten-year-old child go?

‘I suppose you’re right,’ she agreed more strongly with James. ‘But I’ll be glad to get home.’ And strangely enough she meant it. Ever since the chauffeur had told her of the accident she could think only of Rafe, of what seeing him again would mean to her. He had always been so masculinely handsome, so male, and now that maleness had been marred.

She couldn’t wait to reach the house, leaving James to bring in her luggage from the car as she ran inside to see Rafe. Celia strolled casually out of the small salon at her entrance, looking coolly beautiful as usual.

‘Is Rafe home?’ Hazel asked breathlessly.

Celia gave a mocking smile. ‘Thank you, Hazel, I’m very well,’ she said dryly.

‘Oh—oh, yes.’ Hazel blushed. ‘Is Rafe home?’

Celia ran her tongue thoughtfully over her heavily painted lips. ‘Well, he hasn’t made a point of staying home to greet you, if that’s what you mean. This isn’t a case of the return of the prodigal, you know. Rafe is out on the estate like he is any other day.’

‘Oh.’ Hazel couldn’t hide her disappointment from this woman, much as she would have liked to. Nothing had changed at Savage House, it seemed, still the same hate from Celia and indifference from Rafe. She had never known which was the worse to bear.

Celia looked bored. ‘Your usual room has been prepared for your stay. Have James take your things upstairs. I’ll be out for the rest of the afternoon, so please yourself what you do. Just don’t go bothering Rafe when he comes in.’

Hazel held herself stiffly. ‘I had no intention of doing so, Celia.’ She halted the other woman as she made a move to leave. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Rafe’s accident?’

‘Tell you what, Hazel? That he’s maimed and no longer the man of your girlhood dreams, but a scarred embittered man who doesn’t want to be bothered by your stupid adoration? Rafe saw no reason to ask for your return,’ Celia added cruelly. ‘He didn’t want you fussing around him in an effort to show him how devoted you are. You aren’t wanted here, Hazel.’

Hazel tried not to flinch at the harshness of Celia’s words. In her three years’ absence she had forgotten just how barbed Celia’s words could be, but she was being reminded very forcefully. ‘I’m going to my room,’ she said stiffly.

Celia wrenched open the door. ‘The guest-room,’ she corrected.

Hazel swallowed hard. ‘The guest-room,’ she agreed dully.

She went slowly up to her room. Celia’s resentment seemed to have grown in her absence, not lessened. The room she referred to as the guest-room had been Hazel’s room for the past eleven years. But what hurt Hazel the most was Rafe’s callousness in not even being here to greet her.

The view from the window was magnificent, the sea pounding against the shoreline, and to the far left a forest of tall green trees. It was among these trees that Hazel, at the great age of fourteen, had built herself a low rambling one-story shack. Rafe had helped, of course, but it had always been her own private place. She had spent a lot of time there during the summer months. Trathen, the name of the village, had only fifty families, excluding the Savages. Each household maintained its own portion of land, but the Savages dominated the area, Savage House standing high up on the cliffs, dominating the whole of the landscape.

Hazel loved the summers here. With her blonde hair she could be expected to burn easily, but she didn’t have the fair skin that would have been normal with her hair colouring. Her skin was olive brown, during the summer months tanning to a deep walnut brown. She was a strange mixture altogether, blonde hair, olive skin, and deep brown eyes, and no one had yet worked out where the latter two derived from.

The blonde hair she had acquired from the mother she had never seen, her life being the price she had paid for her long-awaited child. But as both her parents had blue eyes and fair skins Hazel’s own strange combination could only be put down to one of her ancestors. She could almost have looked like a Savage if it weren’t for this fair hair of hers, both the surviving Savages having raven-black hair.

She smiled at James as he brought in her luggage, standing up to hug his wife Sara as she came into the room with him. ‘Why, Sara,’ she stood back, grinning widely, ‘I do believe you’re more rounded than ever!’

The cook-housekeeper smiled back at her, a good advertisement for her own cooking. ‘And I do believe you’re skinnier than ever!’ The two of them grinned at each other affectionately, their difference in weight having always been a standing joke between them.

Sara was the fat jolly cook of storybooks and Hazel was so slender she appeared wraithlike. And it was true, she was slimmer. Her pay as a doctor’s secretary had been quite high, but then so had the cost of living. Rafe had insisted on paying her a monthly allowance, but she had been determined never to use any of it. She wanted to be like any other working girl, and if that included being broke most of the time then that was what she would be.

And she had been most of the time, not even having enough money to feed herself properly. But this way she had felt like part of the crowd, had forgotten her guardian-cousin was a very rich man, rich enough to buy her anything she had ever wanted. But over the years she had wanted little, not wanting to feed Celia’s unwarranted jealousy any more than was absolutely necessary.

It seemed strange that Rafe wasn’t here to meet her. He must have known of her arrival time, otherwise he couldn’t have sent James to meet her at the airport. So where was he? Out on the estate, Celia had said. But surely he could have spared five minutes just to say hello. There would have been hell to pay if she had acted in the same casual way where he was concerned. And in truth she didn’t like to admit how much his reticence hurt her.

She showered and changed into one of the thin cotton dresses she had bought for her return home. None of the clothes she had had for the summer in Cornwall three years previously seemed to fit her anywhere, for where she had lost weight in most places, her figure seemed to have filled out in others. Some of her colourful tee-shirts looked positively indecent, they were so tight.

She chose to wear a pure white dress, her olive skin and fair hair showing to advantage against its stark colour, leaving her legs bare and donning white rope sandals.

Her hair she brushed until it shone, brushing it up high and securing it with a white ribbon high on the top of her head, leaving her smooth swan-like neck bare and free to the gentle caress of the breeze. America could be extremely hot, but she knew that Cornwall, during the summer months, could sometimes be almost as hot and humid.

The front doors stood open when she came down the stairs and as there didn’t seem to be anyone about to tell of her departure she left the house and went out into the blazing sunshine. She would go down to the cabin, and hope that the memories there wouldn’t be too painful.

The track down to the sea was steep and often dangerous, its rocky steps cracked and crumbling in places. Her movements down the pathway were hurried and shifty; she had been warned time and time again by Rafe not to go this way but take the longer safer path around the back of the house. But Rafe wasn’t here to see her right now and it was quicker this way.

She had forgotten how much she loved this place, loved the sea, the sand, and the sunshine. She took off her sandals, digging her feet into the warm sand and loving its soft caressing feel. She paddled at the water’s edge, alone and yet not alone. It was impossible to feel that way in this paradise; the beauty surrounding her was the only company she needed.

She wished now that she had thought to bring her bikini down to the beach with her. It was no good being able to admire the beauty here and not be able to participate. She had bathed alone here from time to time, this also against Rafe’s instructions, the tides here being dangerous to the lone swimmer. She had mainly done this when Rafe was away on business, but she daren’t do it today, not when he could turn up at any time.

The cabin was getting old now and in a way she dreaded going inside. While the summers could be very hot here the winters could be equally cold, and the damp and rain could have destroyed her tiny haven during her absence. Also she didn’t know what memories awaited her there.

She turned the handle of the door tentatively, the door never locked as there was nothing here to steal. It was only a one-room cabin, containing a bed, some rush matting, and primitive cooking arrangements. Rafe had occasionally let her stay in the cabin for a couple of days and during that time she had fended for herself.

She opened her eyes to what she felt sure must be destruction and found the cabin exactly as she remembered it. Nothing had changed, and nothing had been destroyed. She walked around the room, picking up tiny mementoes of her childhood, amazed at the good condition of everything. Perhaps the cabin had been protected, situated among the trees as it was. She could think of no other explanation.

The picture of Rafe and herself stood on the rickety table beside the bed, a picture of happier times together. She sat down on the mattress, the photograph in her hand. She had just beaten Rafe at a game of tennis, her first victory over him, and they had persuaded a friend to take a photograph of her elation.

She looked at the photograph now, dog-eared from much perusal. Rafe had his arm thrown casually about her shoulders and she was laughing up happily into his smiling features. She had been fourteen at the time and the harmony between them hadn’t lasted for much longer after that.

Sighing, she replaced the photograph on the table, anxious to escape now. She hadn’t reacted quite as violently to this place as she had imagined, but nevertheless she had had enough of the past and its memories for her. No doubt the cabin would eventually become her refuge once again, but for the moment she just wanted to get out of here.

School should just about be finished and Trisha, the girl who taught half the sixty pupils registered there from the village and the surrounding area, had been quite a good friend of Hazel’s before leaving for college two years before Hazel herself had left the district.

Having lived here all her life, Trisha had returned a few months ago when the vacancy had come up, preferring to teach the children of her friends and so be able to move back in with her own family. The day should be over now as far as school was concerned and Trisha would probably be preparing the schoolroom for tomorrow’s classes.

The school was a low rambling building situated about a mile away from Savage House; the children’s ages ranged from five to nine. After this they would be sent to the bigger school in the town ten miles away, but more often than not they would be sent away to boarding-school, a lot of them never returning to the isolation to be found here.