Читать книгу The Lost Dreams - Fiona Hood-Stewart, Fiona Hood-Stewart - Страница 12

Brad’s temper rarely got the better of him, but Charlotte certainly had a knack for provoking it. She hadn’t done so for several years, he acknowledged as the car swerved up the rutted, narrow earth track that led to Rose Cottage. But as he approached the pretty, whitewashed dwelling, with its bright blue shutters and quaint thatched roof, he made a mental catalog of all the other times she’d tried his patience. Like when, at age seventeen, she’d posed nude for a London fashion photographer. Or her hasty, ill-considered decision to marry John Drummond. He recalled grimly how he’d watched her walk down the aisle. He’d been furious and heartbroken in equal measure.

He brought the car to an abrupt stop, noticing her muddy Land Rover drawn up on the far side of the riotous flower beds, satisfied there would be no escape for her. Slamming the door of the Aston Martin, he stalked up the garden path, then slowed, distracted by the cheerful array of roses, perennials, hyacinths and lilacs planted with little regard to order.

All at once, he wondered if there was a deeper reason for Charlotte’s sudden decision to seek a new home. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the sparkling, frog-shaped brass knocker perched arrogantly on the freshly painted blue door, and hesitated. Could he have misjudged the situation? At the sound of the wind chime he’d given her years ago tinkling merrily above the door, his lips twitched despite his irritation. He shook his head and knocked. By the time he’d reached up automatically to secure the birdhouse tottering perilously under the porch roof, a smile hovered. It was impossible to stay angry with Charlie for long, he reflected ruefully, dragging his fingers impatiently through his hair while he waited for the door to open. Strains of New Age music drifted through the open window and for a moment he was tempted to enter the cottage in a less orthodox fashion.

Even as he debated climbing in the window, the door opened. Charlotte, dressed in worn stonewashed jeans and her usual white T-shirt that displayed her slim midriff, a half-munched apple suspended in her right hand, stared at him through translucent violet eyes.

“What the hell did you think you were doing, moving out of the castle?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“Whoa!” Charlotte took a hasty step back, her flash of pleasure at seeing him dampened by the fact he was clearly in a flaming temper.

“Why, Charlie?”

As the bright blue eyes pinned hers, a slow flush flooded her cheeks. This was going to be more difficult than she’d anticipated, she realized, wishing her pulse would stop racing. But it was just Brad, after all, and she knew how to manage him. She had every right to move wherever she wanted and make a home of her own. Mustering a smile, she tossed her hair back and inspected the apple thoughtfully to buy time.

“I want an answer, Charlotte,” Brad muttered, eyes narrowed. “And I want it now.”

“Brad, don’t get all bossy on me, I don’t owe you any explanations. I can live wherever I want. And right now, that happens to be here.”

“Did I make myself clear?” His tone was measured.

“Perfectly,” she responded, standing her ground and trying to look a lot more composed than she felt. Then, seeing his eyes narrow dangerously, she gave in and dropped her arm, wishing her pulse would calm down. “Okay, okay, don’t get all uptight. I’ll tell you why I moved.”

“This had better be darn good. Why?”

“Because Strathaird’s yours now and I need my own place.” She tried to sound reasonable and casual as she looked beyond his shoulder with a nonchalance she was far from feeling.

“That’s bull,” he shot back, taking a step forward. “Strathaird’s your home. It always has been and will be for as long as you choose. I never intended for you to leave.”

“I’m well aware of that, but I decided to go anyway.” She gave him a bright, sassy smile and bit into the apple.

“Charlie, don’t push me.” There was an edge to his voice and his eyes remained dangerously alight. “I want you out of here and back home by tomorrow, is that clear?”

“No.” Her own temper flashed at his autocratic attitude. Did he think she was still an irresponsible child who could be told what to do? “Who the hell do you think you are, barging into my home and dictating how I lead my life? I’ll do what I like, when I like, and I’ll thank you to mind your own business.”

They measured one another in the tense silence, then he drew back, crammed his hands in his pockets and stared at her hard. “Okay, fine. Be that way. But I’ll tell you something, Charlotte, you’re darn selfish.”

“Me? Selfish?” she spluttered.

“Selfish,” he asserted, nodding slowly. “Did you stop for one moment to think of Genny when you decided to grab your stuff and come to this godforsaken hole? Or Aunt Penn? Or—”

“Oh, do shut up and stop being ridiculous, Brad,” she exclaimed, irritated. “Of course I thought of Genny.”

“No, you didn’t. As usual, you let your pride get the better of you.”

“As I already pointed out, what I do and where I live are none of your damn business. And anyway, living here will be good for Genny. The castle’s just a fantasy existence,” she said, annoyed she was justifying herself. Trust Brad to pinpoint her one real doubt about her decision. That was the trouble with people who’d known you all your life—they were impossible to fool.

“Coming from someone with your past lifestyle, that hardly flies,” he responded witheringly. “Charlotte, grow up, for Christ’s sake. Understand that you can’t drag that kid from pillar to post like a gypsy. Strathaird’s as much her home as yours.” He eyed her in the same superior way he used to when they were adolescents, leaving her temper sizzling once more.

“I’ll not have you dictating to me,” she snapped, the physical and emotional exhaustion of the move coming down on her like a pile of bricks. She stamped her foot angrily on the front step. Her amethyst eyes flashed and the apple core flew over his shoulder into the flower bed. “Go boss Sylvia around, maybe she likes the macho approach. I, for one, can do without you telling me what I should or shouldn’t be doing.”

“Charlie, you’re too old for a tantrum,” he retorted, taunting her further.

“I’m not having a tantrum,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’m trying to make you understand that I’m not seventeen anymore.”

“Well, you’ve an odd way of going about it.”

“Oh, stop being prissy, Brad. It doesn’t suit you. I may not be picture-perfect like you, but then, we can’t all be faultless examples of duty and devotion, can we?”

“You’re doing a pretty good job, from all I gather,” he remarked, watching her from under hooded lids as he leaned up against the cottage wall. “Still jumping to attention whenever your husband flickers an eyelid?”

“How dare you,” she hissed, torn between tears and fury. “What right have you to come here and insult me? It’s my life. If I want to be miserable, then it’s my problem, okay?”

“No. It’s not okay.” He took a quick step forward. “Damn it, Charlie.” He grabbed her shoulders and gave her a shake. Their eyes met and locked and she shivered involuntarily. “Why didn’t you have the balls to tell me you were leaving?”

A flush crept back into her cheeks and her temper slowly abated. She knew she should have called and warned him. She had lifted the phone countless times, then thought better of it, afraid of his reaction. And apparently she’d been right.

She looked down and bit her lip, eyes softening. “I suppose I should have told you. But it really isn’t a big deal,” she conceded. “You can’t expect everyone to comply with everything you want. Life just isn’t like that.” God, it was good to see him again, she realized as his arms slipped from her shoulders to around her waist. “Don’t be cross, Brad, please?” she said in a more gentle tone, looking up at him through thick dark lashes. Her hand slipped to his cheek. “Come in and have a drink, there’s no reason for all the fuss.” In a rush of affection, she flung her arms around his neck.

He stood, unyielding, then despite his misgivings held her close, temper disappearing when she nestled her head into the crook of his neck. “It’s so good to have you back,” she whispered.

“It’s good to be back,” he murmured, breathing the familiar, tantalizing scent of her freshly washed hair, a mix of sea and wildflowers. “But it’d be a darn sight better if you hadn’t taken this crazy step. Why do you always have to be so drastic, Charlie?” His fingers dipped unconsciously into her glorious hair, and automatically he began gently massaging the back of her neck.

“Do we have to keep on talking about me?” she asked, the feel of his hand making her want to sink against him, close her eyes and forget all her worries. Instead, she pulled back, hands looped around his neck, and squinted up at him. “Truce, please?” She dropped a friendly peck on his right cheek. “In time you’ll understand, Brad. Believe me, it’s for the best. Now let me show you the cottage.” She disengaged herself and grabbed his hand, leading him through the tiny hall and into the low-ceilinged living room.

“It’s pretty small,” he said grudgingly, noting the skillful trompe l’oeil on the living-room wall, the tasteful flower arrangements, the hodgepodge of prints and paintings, photographs, ceramics and silver. “Not exactly your usual style.”

“Small but nice, don’t you think?” She gestured to the walls. “I painted the place myself. I’m terribly proud of it, so don’t you dare be rude. And look—” she pointed to the mantelpiece “—I’ve even got you stuck up there. Now come on, let’s have a drink and celebrate.” She smiled mischievously. “I’ve got a bottle of your favorite Sancerre in the fridge.”

“What are we celebrating?” he asked suspiciously, following her into the diminutive kitchen, pleasantly surprised by the aromatic scent of herbs, and the bright terra-cotta walls. Stopping in the doorway he cocked a curious eyebrow at the cooker. “Charlotte Drummond, don’t tell me you’re actually cooking food?”

“Absolutely. Stay for dinner and you’ll see what a fine cook I’ve turned into.” She twirled, sent him a roguish grin and dipped a long wooden spoon into a large copper casserole.

Brad eyed her thoughtfully, all five-foot-seven of her, slim and lovely, that heart-shaped face and huge violet eyes still as expressively haunting. Yet something indefinable had changed, something that left him feeling strangely disconcerted. It was as though she was desperately determined to master that wild tempestuous nature she’d displayed moments earlier, and rein in her natural instincts. He gave her another critical glance. If anything, she was more beautiful than he remembered, except for the deep sadness that hovered close to the surface in those huge violet pools. That she couldn’t hide from him, however hard she tried.

“Open the wine, will you?” She was blabbering now, inspecting pots, adding salt and keeping up a flow of inconsequential conversation.

“Where is it?” He moved inside the kitchen, filling it with his presence.

“Fridge, top shelf,” she mumbled, licking the wooden spoon. “Mmm. I hope you like it.” She dipped the spoon straight back in the casserole, and Brad winced, watching amused, as she carefully added a pinch of pepper, stirred, then tasted it once more. “Ah! That’s better.”

He stepped over to the old fridge covered with Save-the-Whales and Greenpeace stickers, removed the bottle of Sancerre from the fridge and cast it an approving glance. Noticing a corkscrew hanging strategically on the wall, he set to work.

“I’ll have a glass of wine with you,” he remarked, “but that won’t stop us from having a talk, Charlie.”

“Of course.” She smiled brightly across the newly set Mexican-tile floor that Rory had put in three days earlier, confident she was in control. “It’s about time we caught up. It’s been too long.” She concentrated once more on the casserole as though her life depended on it. The kitchen seemed strangely confined all at once, making it hard to breathe. “Hungry?” she threw over her shoulder.

“Sure smells good.” He handed her a glass, then leaned against the counter, enjoying the view, surprised to see how at home she was in the tiny kitchen, amid her herbs and her pots and pans. Not at all the way he’d imagined or seen her before.

“It’s cassoulet,” she stated proudly, turning down the heat. “A new recipe Armand gave me. He got it from a famous restaurant near Toulouse.”

“Armand cooks?” He raised his glass then took a slow sip.

“Of course, he’s French.”

“Right, I forgot. By the way, what’s he doing here?”

“Taking a break, having a holiday.” She stirred carefully. “Pass me the herbes de Provence, will you? No, not that jar, the other one.” She pointed to his left.

Brad handed her a stone jar and watched, fascinated, as she added a studied pinch. “That’s about right. Here, try it.” She thrust the wooden spoon at him to taste.

“Mmm. Good stuff.” He gave the spoon an extra lick.

“Don’t be disgusting.” She grabbed it back, laughing. “Stay for dinner, please?” She tilted her head and familiar dimples peeked out at him. “Genny’s at her friend Lucy’s again tonight, so we’ll be on our own. We can have a nice long chat.”

It was a deliciously tempting offer and impossible to refuse. “I’d better call Aunt Penn. I left in somewhat of a hurry.”

“You mean you stormed out.” Her eyes narrowed in amusement. Oh, how well they knew one another and how impossible it was to stay distant for long. “Don’t worry about Mum, she won’t mind.” Charlotte turned to the sink and began tossing the salad. “I’m planning to grow my own vegetables,” she remarked, picking up a gratin of mixed veggies and expertly popping it into the oven. Despite the confidence in her actions, Brad got the impression of a different Charlotte than the one he’d known, a Charlotte desperately seeking solace and security.

“I’m so glad you’re back, Brad,” she said quietly, taking out a loaf of bread and placing it on the cutting board.

“Then why the move?” he asked gently, eyes meeting hers over the breadboard.

“Nothing personal, it’s just time to move on.” Her face shuttered once more as she began slicing. “Your and Sylvia’s arrival merely moved it up a bit. Ouch!” she exclaimed angrily when the knife nicked her.

“Let me do that.” He put down his glass, took the knife from her and gently inspected her finger.

“So stupid,” she exclaimed, but he heard the wobble in her voice, and his eyes flew from her bleeding finger to the tears hovering on her lower lashes.

“Oh, baby.” He drew her into his arms and soothed her, brushed a thumb over her cheek, his lips touching her temple in a gesture as tender as it was natural. Just as naturally, she reached up and their lips met softly. For an instant his blood roared, his head whirled, and he all but plundered her mouth. Then, with a supreme effort he drew back, sought her eyes and read the bewilderment there.

“Better get this taken care of,” he mumbled, taking a deep breath. “Got some alcohol?”

“Of course.” She turned hastily, opened a nearby cupboard and produced a bottle and some cotton swabs.

“It may sting.”

“That’s okay. I’ll survive.” Her tone was back to normal, as though the air hadn’t been charged with tension and desire just moments before.

“When’s Sylvia arriving?” Charlotte asked brightly, wincing as the alcohol stung.

“In a couple of weeks,” he replied, feeling doubly ashamed of his inexplicable behavior. Where was his head at? He was engaged, for Christ’s sake—and he’d better make damn sure he remembered it. With grim determination he slipped a bandage over the cut. “There. That should do it.”

“Thanks.” Charlotte turned back to the cooker and Brad began slicing the bread. “Do you think she’ll like it here?”

“Who?”

“Sylvia.”

“Sure. Why not? It’s a great place. It would have been greater still if you’d stayed at Strathaird. You could have helped her find her feet.”

Charlotte shrugged. “I don’t think that would work. Sylvia will want to make her own mark on the place and will need her own space.”

“I fail to see what that has to do with you leaving the castle. I’ll say it again, Strathaird’s your home. Syl and I will probably only spend a few weeks a year there. You could easily have stayed.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” She smiled but shook her head. “It wouldn’t work. Perhaps once you’ve been here a while you’ll understand.” She sent him a veiled look as though about to say more, then thinking better of it, kept her thoughts to herself.

He eyed her a moment. “I was counting on your help on the estate,” he remarked. Moving next to her, he picked up her glass, and topped it up.

“I’m not much good at the estate.”

“Why do you always belittle yourself?” he asked, handing her back her glass. “You’re good at a lot of things. You just don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Charlotte shrugged and took a long sip. She didn’t want to get into a deeper conversation that would involve exposing her feelings on a number of subjects. Years ago, over the phone, those conversations had seemed much easier. Now, face-to-face, she felt vulnerable. “I don’t get involved with the everyday working of the estate. Plus, I’ve got loads of work now. Did you know I have a gallery in the village?”

“So I heard and I think that’s great, but don’t change the subject. We were discussing Strathaird.”

She spun round and poked at the casserole with her back to him. “Look, Brad, I don’t want to get involved. Perhaps I can show you a couple of things, but Mummy’ll do a much better job of getting you acquainted with everybody and everything.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “And Sylvia might not want me poking my nose where I don’t belong.”

“Why should she care?” He threw back his head and let out a rich laugh, hiding the discomfort her words had caused. “I’m sure she’d love to have you teach her how things are run.”

“Yeah, right. Typical.” Charlotte shook her head and gave the lamb a jab. “Only a man would say something as silly as that.”

“I don’t see what’s silly about it,” he replied.

“I don’t suppose it occurred to you that Sylvia might want some independence?” She sent him an irritated glance.

“But we’ll only be here a few weeks. Why would she care? We could work out something satisfactory for all of us.”

“Wishful thinking, I’m afraid.” She turned down the gas, left the casserole simmering and faced him. “Get one thing straight, Brad—no amount of arguing is going to get me back to the castle. It’s yours and will soon be Sylvia’s, too. There’s no room for me there any longer and I’ve my own life to lead. All I’d do is make your life hell. And you’ve known me long enough and well enough to realize that’s probably true.” She jabbed his chest, looked at him through her dark lashes once more. “Deep down, you know I’m right. You just won’t admit it.”

“I don’t agree. There’s no reason for anything to change. Everything’ll go on exactly as it always has.”

“No, it won’t and it’s naive of you to believe it. Remember when you took over Harcourts? Didn’t you want to implant your own management system? I remember all the ideas you had and how you were determined to see them carried out.”

“Those were corporate decisions.”

“This isn’t very different. It’s only right and proper things should change. But I don’t want to be a part of it.” Her eyes went misty and she bit her lip. “I’ve had enough ups and downs as it is. I’d resent the changes and only be a hindrance, Brad, and we’d all suffer.” She swept a stray strand of hair behind an ear and turned quickly back to the cooker. “This needs a few more minutes.”

As he watched her, Brad reluctantly began to understand. Her whole adult life had been a crazy insecure roller coaster. John had manipulated and undermined her constantly. Now she was slowly regaining territory, desperately cleaving to tufts of earth and rock jutting out from the crevasse into which she’d sunk, climbing out bit by bit. He wished things could remain exactly as they were, that he could keep her safe in Strathaird Castle, the one place that had always remained untouched, where she knew no harm could befall her.

“I’m sorry, Charlie.” He squeezed her shoulder gently, understanding the emotional consequences of what it must feel like to have your home usurped by another. His heart clenched and his anger at fate resurfaced. Taking her face gently in his hands, he wiped another tear that had escaped onto her cheek. “God, I’d give the world to change the inheritance, Charlie, and leave Strathaird all to you,” he muttered. “God knows I tried.”

“Don’t.” She pulled away and sniffed loudly. “I know you’ve done all you could. It’s not your fault, Brad, it’s just the way the cookie crumbles.” She smiled, let her hand rest on his a moment, then drew it quickly away. “It’s taken me long enough to start getting my life in order, and the sooner I face these changes and get on with it, the better it’ll be for all of us. Let’s take the wine and sit outside until dinner and you can tell me all about the twins.”

He followed her out the French door, into the little back garden where a small bistro table covered with a checkered blue and white tablecloth stood under an open umbrella. Charlotte flopped onto one of the foldable chairs and he followed suit, listening to the soothing murmur of the sea, the relentless rise and fall of waves bathing the rocks below the bluff, the subtle scent of heather and roses wafting in on the evening breeze. Twilight still hovered, loath to surrender to the couple of stars that already shone timidly. Hermione crossed the tiny patch of lawn and curled up at Charlotte’s feet, purring softly, occasionally raising a paw to the handful of bees buzzing hopefully among the bluebells and perennials. In the half-light, he could still distinguish the windswept grass beyond the picket fence and the gentle hue of heather etched on the moors soft as a Monet.

For a while they remained in congenial silence, transported back to adolescence, those long evenings spent confiding secrets, sharing dreams and cracking jokes. It felt strange to have him sitting only a few feet away after so long, Charlotte reflected, casting a quick glance at his profile. She’d gotten used to him at a distance, a phone confidant whom she trusted implicitly but with the advantage of being heard and not seen. Now Brad was very much here, his presence overwhelming. It came as a shock and she half wished for the old long-distance relationship that was far less daunting. Ridiculous, she chided herself. With Brad, there was no need for words, though God knows they could talk for hours when they wanted. She let out a long sigh, closed her eyes and tried to relax. She should be savoring the moment instead of wishing him a million miles away, particularly as this would probably be one of the last times they would share alone together. Whether Brad realized it or not, Sylvia’s arrival would inevitably alter things, however determined he seemed to believe the contrary.

“Tell me about the jewelry,” he remarked, breaking the spell. “What inspired you to get into designing?”

“I don’t really know. It was when things were really iffy with John…” Her voice trailed off and he waited. “I saw a program about jewelry design on telly one day and it seemed a good idea. So I took a course and loved it. It really helped.”

“You mean it helped you see things in a clearer light?” he murmured perceptively.

“I suppose you might say that. At the time, it seemed that way. But then John had the accident and I wondered if—oh hell, I don’t know and it doesn’t matter anymore,” she said in a rush, gulping down the wine. The last thing she wanted was to get into a conversation that would surely end in Brad telling her she should leave her husband and get on with her life. Nobody, least of all him, could understand her reasons not to.

“I think it’s great you’re taking it so seriously,” he responded in a neutral voice and she sighed, relieved.

“Yes. I enjoy designing and lately visitors seem to be quite taken with some of the pieces. Moira’s my goldsmith, you know. She went to the Royal Academy and has been in this business for years now. Real luck, that, wasn’t it?” she added, grinning. “I wasn’t sure that expensive jewelry would work here on the island, but you’d be surprised at the number of tourists who’ve bought pieces.”

“I hear you’re planning something with Armand. He seems to think you’re very talented.”

“It’s just an idea. I haven’t really given it a lot of thought,” she lied, taking another gulp of wine and reaching down to pet Hermione.

“You’re taking this to heart, aren’t you, Charlie?”

“I suppose so.” She shrugged. “Keeps me busy.”

“I’m glad. You needed something to fill your life.”

“God, Brad! Don’t be patronizing,” she snapped crossly.

“Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.” He leaned back, laughing.

“Then how did you mean it?” Her eyes flashed and she plunked her glass down with a bang. “Charlotte has something to keep her busy while Genny’s at school?” she mimicked. “You make me sound like one of those silly women—” She cut off, bit her lip and turned away, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Brad, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I always get the impression you all think I’m a flake who can’t take care of herself.”

He reached across the table and placed a hand over her long, nervous fingers. “Nothing’s wrong with you that can’t be set right. You’ve been trapped in limbo in your marriage and since the accident it’s been worse, because you feel so darn guilty you can’t see the forest for the trees.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“We’re going to have to talk about it, Charlie. It might as well be now as later,” he said, determined to bring the subject out in the open. Her fingers clenched under his and he squeezed them tight before she could escape. “How is John?”

“Just the same. No change.”

Brad hesitated, stroking her hand gently. “Have you thought about taking measures to end it?” he asked quietly. It was time someone made her face the fact that it might be better to let John die a natural death, rather than keep him alive, hooked up to a machine.

“No!” she burst out, snatching her hand away. “I can’t and won’t do it. They don’t know if he’ll get better or not, but while there’s the remotest chance, I don’t feel I have that right. And I wish you’d all stop going on at me. He’s my husband, after all, and Genny’s father. I have some sense of loyalty left, even if you lot don’t,” she spat.

“Yeah, well, maybe we were all so impressed by the loyalty he showed you over the years that it’s hard to feel the same sympathy for him that you apparently do,” he threw back dryly.

“It’s nobody’s business but mine,” she muttered. “Sometimes I think his eyes flicker, but the nurse claims it’s just his nerves reacting.” She sighed, lifted her glass and sent him a brittle smile. “Cheers. Tell me, how are the twins?”

“They’re great. Looking forward to seeing Genny.” He watched as she retired once more behind that shield of self-protection. There was no point pursuing the subject, but he was glad he’d brought it up and cleared the air, for although John brought back memories best forgotten, he loomed too large to be ignored.

“She’s terribly excited, too.” Charlotte smiled at the thought of her daughter and the twins, who she adored. “I haven’t seen them since last summer. Gosh, time flies, doesn’t it? Are they huge?”

“Rick’s shooting up like a beanstalk and Todd’s not far behind. I’m worried about his schoolwork, though. His attention deficit disorder’s a real problem and tough on his self-esteem. But we’ll get there.”

“Perhaps he should be in a special school.”

“Yeah. We’re looking into it for the fall. Sylvia thinks she may have found just the right place.”

Charlotte winced at the “we.” It sounded so final. A unit. One she was not part of. She was definitely right to have moved out, she realized with a twinge of determined satisfaction. Crossing her legs under her on the chair, she glanced at him. “I’m glad you’ve found someone to share your life with, Brad. I hope you’ll be very happy. Do you think Sylvia will like being mistress of Strathaird? It’s quite a job, as I’m sure Mummy will tell you. I hope she’ll be up to it.”

“Syl?” he gave a rich laugh and grinned. “She’ll take on anything. She’s so organized it’s unreal. I don’t know where we’d be without her at Harcourts. You should see her Filofax, and her BlackBerry pager.” He laughed, shook his head and took another sip of wine. “I don’t expect it’ll be easy for her, but I know she’ll give it her best try. And Syl’s best tries are usually very successful.”

“Well, that’s great then, isn’t it?” Charlotte jumped up, feeling suddenly antsy. “It’s a bit chilly to eat out, lets go in.”

“Sure. Can I help?” He followed her back inside, not certain what had prompted the sudden change in her but aware that something he’d said appeared to have displeased her. He shrugged, caught the fresh scent of her as she passed, and smiled inwardly. Charlie was mercurial as a weather vane and he was used to her ups and downs.

“You can set the table,” she remarked, returning to the stove and lifting the lid off the casserole to take a sniff. “The mats and cutlery are in the drawer to the right of the sink.”

Brad opened the creaking drawer, picked out two mats and frowned. “Didn’t you pick these out in Sarlat one summer? I seem to remember them. It was the year you turned fifteen.”

“Good memory. I chose them for Mummy. We had fun that day, remember?”

“Very well.” He placed the knives and forks and napkins on the table while Charlotte tended to the casserole, recalling amusing anecdotes that took them back many years, then placed the piping-hot gratin on the table. It felt homey, cozy and right being in her kitchen. Too cozy for his own good, he reflected grimly, Sylvia’s image flashing as he picked up the cruet and placed it on the table. “We must do this when Syl arrives,” he said out loud, confirming it to himself. The sooner the three of them became good pals, the better.

Charlotte swallowed a childish jab of resentment and carefully studied the table, knowing it was unfair to be jealous of his fiancée. Perhaps after a while she’d get used to having Sylvia around and even like her, who knew? But she and Brad had always been self-sufficient, never needing or wanting anyone but each other when they were together. Even Colin, her beloved brother, had sometimes been de trop. And even though years often went by without seeing one another, as soon as they were back together again the same natural intimacy and easy camaraderie established itself, just as it had now.

Charlotte lifted the casserole with the oven gloves and brought it to the table.

“Smells wonderful,” Brad remarked, sniffing appreciatively. “I’m still trying to grasp the fact you can cook.” He sat opposite her at the pine table and poured more wine.

“I recently became interested. It’s creative if you don’t follow recipes too closely. I let my imagination flow. The only trouble is, I never remember exactly what I did the time before, so the dish never comes out quite the same. That can be good or bad, depending,” she added wrinkling her nose and spooning a large helping onto his plate.

He laughed, relaxed, and tasted.

“Like it?” Charlotte waited anxiously for his verdict, annoyed that it should mean so much.

“This is haute cuisine, man. You should open a restaurant.”

She flushed with pleasure, barely eating, the sight of his obvious enjoyment nourishment in itself. “Last time I made you a meal you refused to eat it.”

“Yeah, well, you can hardly blame me. An outdated can of baked beans and three-day-old toast.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“No, it was worse. The beans were cold.”

“Yuck! That’s disgusting, Brad, and a complete lie.” She giggled, realizing she hadn’t spent such a happy, relaxed evening in ages. “Do you remember the summer we got stuck up in the chimney at the factory in Limoges, trying to find remnants of the radio that Dex operated during the war?”

“Do I remember?” he said with feeling. “That’s one of the few times he belted me, good and proper. And it was all your fault for climbing up too high.”

“Dex beat you?” she asked, amused yet surprised. He’d never told her about the punishment.

“He was waiting for me when I walked in the door. I could hardly sit down for a week.”

“You never said anything.”

“Nope. I took it like a man.” He winked at her and grinned. “You don’t really think that at twelve I would have admitted to you that I got the living shit beaten out of me, do you?”

“I guess not. It’s rather sweet.” She grinned, struck with insight. “You didn’t tell me ’cause you didn’t want me to feel bad.”

“Nah, I was just being tough.”

“I know you, Brad. You were always such a gentleman. You probably thought that I’d get in trouble too if you didn’t take all the blame.”

“Something like that,” he admitted with a shrug and a smile. “What a meal, Charlie. I’ll be over here every day and putting on weight if I’m not careful.”

“Well, you’ll be able to take it off working out on that fancy equipment sitting in the hall at Strathaird,” she replied tartly. “Are you planning to transform the old conservatory into a gym?” she asked sweetly, hiding the edge in her voice.

“I guess that might not be a bad idea.” He’d forgotten the offending gym equipment.

“Three large crates. Addressed to Hansen.”

“I suppose Syl must have had it shipped.” He gave an embarrassed laugh.

“Seems a big investment if you’re only planning to spend a few weeks here a year.”

“Syl’s really into health and exercise. She works out for a couple of hours a day, weights and all that. It’s an important part of her lifestyle. She takes great care of her diet, too.”

“I see.” Charlotte nodded sagely. “Then I’ll have to be careful what I cook if she comes over for dinner, won’t I?” she said, getting up and clearing the plates with a sassy smile that far from portrayed her mood. “Pudding? Or should I say dessert?” She corrected herself with an American twang.

“What’ve you got?” he asked, eyeing her with a suspicious grin as he carried the rest of the dishes to the sink. Their hands touched when he handed her the remains of the lamb, sending shivers up her spine.

“I have trifle,” she said in a rush. What on earth was the matter with her? It was ridiculous to feel tingly just because Brad had touched her hand. Surely she wasn’t so desperate for a man that now even her oldest pal turned her on? She quickly scraped the dish, then left it in the sink before extracting the bowl of trifle from the fridge.

Neither noticed the time as they chatted and reminisced over dessert, followed by coffee and brandy. Old, long-forgotten stories, fond memories and shared secrets made them laugh or seek unspoken understanding in each other’s eyes, and it was past midnight by the time Brad regretfully glanced at his watch.

“Geez, it’s late. I hope Aunt Penn left the door open.”

“If not, the key’s under the mat.”

“Isn’t that rather obvious?”

“So much so that nobody would ever think of looking. Plus, we’ve never had a break-in at the castle—or in the area, for that matter,” she added proudly. “That’s one positive aspect about living in a remote area like this, you can’t beat the security.”

Brad rose reluctantly, loath to exchange the convivial warmth of Charlotte’s kitchen for his solitary bed in the master chamber, which Penelope had insisted he take now that he was the laird. He watched her, flushed and relaxed, eyes bright from wine, cooking and conversation. If anything, time had rendered her lovelier and the sudden urge to feel her close made him clamp down his self-control. But his eyes lingered on her high cheekbones and that incredibly silky white skin. Suddenly the years fell away, and he saw her lying pliant and wanting in his arms, stretched on the couch in Dex’s flat as he lowered his lips to hers.

Blowing out a breath, he fiddled in his pocket for his car keys and took a step back. “I guess I won’t need to lock the car here either,” he remarked, dangling the keys thoughtfully and laughing to cover his embarrassment. “Good night, Charlie. Thanks for a great evening.”

She opened the front door and leaned against the door-jamb watching him. “Good night, Brad.”

For a moment they stood in awkward silence, then he took her into his arms and gave her a friendly hug. “You take care, kiddo. I wish you hadn’t left the castle, but so be it.”

She mumbled something incomprehensible into his shirtfront, then reached up and touched his cheek. “Good luck as the new laird, Brad.”

“I’m still counting on your help, you know.” His eyes reached deep into hers.

She hesitated, then nodded and smiled, swallowing her warring emotions. “You can count on me for whatever you need.”

“I knew you wouldn’t let me down.” He touched her cheek lightly, then dropped a quick kiss on her forehead before walking quickly toward the car.

Charlotte stood a while, gazing at the fading taillights swerving back and forth as he avoided the ruts.

Brad was back.

And perhaps for longer than he realized. She let out a sigh. He still had no idea how much Strathaird would demand of him. Would he be prepared to give what it took? she wondered, turning back inside and switching off the porch light, trying to make sense of her mixed emotions. Perhaps she’d been too alone of late, not bothering to see friends or socialize, and this was the result. Shaking her head, she went to her bedroom. Perhaps she just needed some male company to remind her that she was young and human.

But Brad did more than just remind her of that. He made her feel alive, something she hadn’t felt in ages. Worse, he made her feel like a woman.

Entering her bedroom she undressed, then glanced at herself in the old cheval mirror. Was she still attractive? What lay hidden under Colin’s old shirts and shapeless sweaters? Slowly she pulled off the T-shirt, removed her bra and stared at the woman before her. John had spent years telling her how old she was becoming, how her breasts sagged after Genny’s birth, how her thighs weren’t as taut as they used to be. He’d even suggested plastic surgery in a tone that left no doubt that he found her repulsive. When he’d made love to her, he’d made her feel diminished and ugly, until she’d prayed he wouldn’t come near her. She shuddered, trying to see her true self and not the pitiful image he’d created. Then quickly she grabbed her nightshirt and flung it on crossly. All that part of her life was behind her now. There was no room in her new life for physical attraction. It was absurd, utterly stupid to be feeling like this, merely because she’d had a pleasant evening with an old friend, one who was very much engaged to be married.

She scrubbed her teeth and brushed her hair, then jumped into bed and cuddled under the plump goose-down duvet with her three well-worn stuffed animals. She had no business feeling anything for Brad except friendship. And you’d better not forget it, she ordered, reaching up to turn off the light, then fling herself against the pillow. There was no room for anything between them but what already existed. The fact that she suddenly wanted more just showed how much her life needed readjusting.

It was a good thing Sylvia was arriving soon, Charlotte reflected, eyelids drooping. For her own sanity, and for Brad’s good, she hoped it would be soon.