Читать книгу The Lost Dreams - Fiona Hood-Stewart, Fiona Hood-Stewart - Страница 9

Did he feel anything? Charlotte Drummond wondered, gazing at the thin, waxlike body lying perfectly still under pressed white sheets. Was it possible that, despite medical evidence to the contrary, the seemingly lifeless man before her somehow sensed her presence?

She shuddered, took a deep breath, and quickly shifted her gaze to the sterile hospital wall, then reached out blindly to pull the gray plastic chair back from the side of the metal bed and sat down wearily. The trip to Glasgow and the hospital was both physically and mentally wearing. Now, as she prepared to wait out the self-imposed hourly visit she undertook once every two weeks, as she had for the past year, she forced herself to get a grip on her emotions. She gazed at him once again in a more detached manner, studying the vestiges of those strong, handsome features that once had set the world on fire. Although the devastating smile that had flashed across movie screens and into the hearts of millions around the globe was gone now, obscured by the respirator tubes that kept him alive, his good looks were still evident.

Then another image flashed. Not so pleasant, but just as memorable. Instinctively she tensed and her fingers moved to her cheek, where more than once she’d felt the impact of his hand, sending her reeling. She trembled involuntarily, knuckles gripping the metal bed rail, hoping he would never wake, afraid that he would.

She rose nervously, moved quickly away, toward the long, paned window, and stared at the midday traffic trundling slowly under a thin summer drizzle in the street below, wishing she could somehow outrun the obsessive thoughts that always haunted her visits here. Memories she’d never escape, she realized, passing a hand over her eyes. She would never forget the sleepless nights and the obsessive fear that over the years had brought her to her knees. It was only when she’d finally hit rock bottom that she realized anything, even death, would be better than the life she was living, that to survive, she must climb out of the abyss by whatever means, and at whatever cost. It had taken several months, but finally she’d built up enough courage to make the break. Then came that last, harrowing quarrel, her rage and humiliation when he’d laughed at her threat to end the marriage once and for all. A vision of his face, white with fury, as he’d slammed the door, and her surge of satisfaction that at last she’d stood up to him. Then the call, several hours later, that had shattered her newfound confidence; she’d rushed through the streets of London to the emergency room at St. Thomas’ hospital, praying, begging for the news not to be true.

The rest of that awful day was a blur of images: the bleak, desperate faces of the director and the producer, the doctor’s blunt explanation of just how the fall from the high-rise building, a stunt he normally would never have attempted, had left him in a coma. For how long? she’d asked, recalling the suffocating desperation. But nobody knew.

Worse had been the remorse. Shame for the unexpected rush of freedom, the relief of knowing that he couldn’t hurt her mentally or physically ever again, accompanied by the deep-rooted fear that she was the one to blame.

Charlotte’s head drooped. She closed her eyes and thrust trembling fingers into her long titian hair. Oh God. Was it her fault he’d left the house in such a towering rage that day? Was this his way of punishing her? For punish her he had, holding her prisoner, silently forcing her on this fortnightly pilgrimage of penance, keeping himself and her guilt alive for as long as he remained tied to the machines that linked him to life.

Perhaps, even in his comatose state, he sensed the guilty secret that she harbored, the unvoiced wish that they’d simply pull the plug.

No. That was impossible. Even considering such a thing was wicked. While there was still an ounce of hope, she had no right. Just as she couldn’t possibly divorce him now, however much Mummy and Moira insisted she should. After all, whatever he’d done in the past, he was still her husband and she must stand by him. It was the only decent thing to do.

But what if he did suddenly wake up? It had been known to happen. She doubled over again, willing the wave of nausea to pass, schooling her mind, driving out demons, replacing them with problems of the moment, ones she could do something concrete about.

Raising her aching head, she fixed her gaze carefully beyond the body and the bed to the wall behind, and forced herself to think of something else.

Anything else.

Bradley Ward. She considered his impending visit and felt better. Wonderful, decent Brad, her dear friend and cousin. Well, she reflected ruefully, only a distant cousin, but still, family all the same. But he was also the man who was forcing her to leave Strathaird, that rugged dauntless fortress she adored, the place she called home. In winter, the untamed North Sea plundered the craggy rocks below its grim facade, in summer, laughing frothy crests lapped gently. It was home. Her beloved ancestral home. The one place that had never let her down. Within the sanctuary of its massive stone walls that for centuries had withstood enemy onslaughts, raiding Vikings and plundering rival clans, within the cozy embrasure of the worn chintz window seat of her bedroom or curled under the old mohair rug in the deep leather armchair next to the library fire, watching the rain slash the sturdy diamond-shaped windowpanes, she felt safe from the world.

And now Strathaird would be hers no longer.

Not that Brad had wanted the property—he’d done everything possible to get the estate’s entail voided in favor of her mother and herself, but the rule of law apparently trumped a generation of occupancy and dedication to the land.

And broke her heart.

Charlotte swallowed the lump in her throat. Even though she was grateful the estate would be in Brad’s capable hands, she didn’t think she could bear to witness the changes his tenure would inevitably bring.

And now he’d be coming with a bride.

His engagement had been a complete surprise, one she was still trying to fathom and accept. She should have known that one day it would happen. Not that she objected, of course—far from it; she planned to pull his leg royally at the wedding, then be the first to toast his good fortune. It just felt odd to think of her Brad tied permanently to another woman, when he’d always been there for her. Now, she supposed reluctantly, she’d have to learn to share his strength with someone else.

All at once, Brad’s image materialized before her. Not as he was now, but as he’d been that night in Chester Square all those years ago, when he’d taken her in his arms and she’d felt his lips on hers. It had been years since she’d given it any thought, ages since she’d remembered. So why now? she wondered, eyes still carefully pinned above the bed, tracing shadows on the wall, trying to make some sense of these irrational thoughts. It was so silly. For over a decade, they’d had nothing more than a close friendly relationship. Still, she sighed involuntarily. The fact remained that after Brad married Sylvia, things would never be quite the same again.

The loud beeping of a monitor brought her crashing back to earth. She blinked uneasily at the panel of lights to the right of the bed, knowing the nurses would be in soon to check the apparatus. She flexed her fingers nervously and got up, feeling frustrated and cramped, and paced the room, agitated as a caged cheetah. If only there was some way to tear herself away, reach beyond this restless, dark-edged world that hovered constantly. But that was wishful thinking. Like it or not, she was stuck in a deadly impasse, unable to relinquish the past and powerless to claim the future.

She tried desperately to breathe, to regain composure, and realized with shock that she was trembling. Every instinct rebelled. She refused to regress. But as she cast a final fleeting glance at the motionless figure in the hospital bed, she felt the familiar ache rising in her throat; fear gripped her and panic hit.

The chair toppled as she fled from her husband’s side. Scrambling on the linoleum floor, she grabed her purse with a new sense of urgency, flung open the door and hurtled into the corridor, unable to stand it a moment longer.

A peacock blue sea sparkled, gulls soared and a warm west wind, herding clouds like woolly sheep, announced rain. But that would only come later, Penelope MacLeod realized, peering out the window of her daughter’s new home. The brine-filled breeze caressed her hair as she shook the duster vigorously and watched, mind adrift, as specks of dust sank into the rose bed. That, too, needed a good weeding, she thought, straightening her back, stiff from hours of sweeping, scrubbing and polishing. Her lips curved and she looked about her, amused. If she’d realized just how much elbow grease it was going to take to get Rose Cottage into some semblance of livability, she might not have offered her services to Charlotte quite so readily. Yet, as she gazed across the fields stretching out toward Strathaird Castle and the familiar knot caught once more in her throat, she knew that Charlotte had done the right thing by moving out. It was time to move on, and easier to deal with the logistics of the transfer before Brad arrived.

She sighed, gazed at the stark walls and turrets of what had always been their home, and thought about past and future. So much had happened in the past few years, so many revelations, so many unexpected twists and turns of fate that had changed life forever. Who would have imagined that Charlotte would move from that fast-paced life she’d led within the ambit of the movie business and the house in Notting Hill, back to Skye and now to the tiny thatch cottage left her by Granny Flora? More amazing was that her daughter seemed perfectly content to live away from the hubbub that not long ago had been her lifeline, with her young daughter Genny.

How one’s children change, Penelope reflected, thinking back to the restless, long-legged filly Charlotte used to remind her of. Then, turning her back to the window, she tucked a stray strand of soft blond hair behind her ear and took a good look at her handiwork. The cottage sparkled and she felt pride in the job. Charlotte would come home tonight to a tidy new home, where Penelope hoped very much that she’d be happy. Perhaps this was another sign her daughter was finally beginning to move on from the guilt and self-doubt she’d lived with these last many years.

The first sign of progress had been Charlotte’s sudden determination to open a gallery in the village to exhibit the jewelry designs she created. It had come as a welcome surprise, a signal that she was learning to trust in herself again. Penelope sighed and looked about her again. At least the cottage was a world away from London and all the craziness that had been her daughter’s life before her husband’s accident. A far leap from the castle half a mile down the dirt road, too, she realized with a sigh and a smile.

But right now, the cottage was where Charlotte wanted and needed to be.

She picked up the duster, eyes flitting over the sienna-colored walls Charlotte had painted with loving care, a warm backdrop to the many picture frames, lamps and two voluminous sofas discovered on a rainy afternoon binge in the attic at Strathaird. The sofas had cleaned up rather nicely, she reckoned, tilting her head and casting a critical eye over them. Covered with Charlotte’s extravagant throws and cushions, they looked comfy and welcoming.

The raid on the attic had yielded a number of other treasures. An ancient Indian chest with brass fittings and ivory inlays, a relic of the Raj that must have belonged to Great-Uncle Dougal MacLeod, who’d married the daughter of a local maharajah, now served as a coffee table, decked with heavy beeswax candles, a splattering of art books and a couple of artsy ashtrays. Penelope shook her head in admiration, amazed at her daughter’s ability to create an atmosphere straight out of House & Garden with old attic remnants and personal flair. Where had her child inherited her vivid imagination? she wondered. Neither David, her late husband, nor she were particularly artistic. Yet Charlotte oozed originality and creative talent.

Penelope glanced doubtfully at the tiger skin—probably another of Great-Uncle Dougal’s trophies—staring up at her from the grate with wide questioning eyes. She frowned, wondering whether Genny would be upset by its presence in the house. It pained her to see how sensitive her granddaughter was, how small things touched her in unanticipated ways. She hesitated. Perhaps if they gave the animal a name they could all become friends, and Genny wouldn’t mind. Rudyard Kipling came to mind. That was it! They’d name the tiger Arun, and her possible distaste would be allayed.

Smiling, she moved to the mantelpiece and carefully straightened great-great-grandfather Hamish MacLeod’s freesia-filled silver christening mug, making sure it was dead in the center of the Chippendale mirror frame above. She glanced at the photos Charlotte had placed on either side. Her gaze hardened as it fell upon John Drummond’s handsome, devil-may-care face staring up with confident arrogance, the photo shot days before the stunt that had caused his accident. Why couldn’t he have just died? she asked herself bitterly, not for the first time. The thought was wrong, of course, but she didn’t give a damn. The man had nearly ruined her daughter’s life. Could she be blamed for wishing him dead and Charlotte free? Even now, as he lay passive in his hospital bed, he continued to wield power. Charlotte was neither a wife nor a widow. God knows she’d tried to persuade her to carry on with the divorce proceedings she’d finally had the courage to face up to on that fatal day of the accident. But it was useless. Despite all the abuse she’d suffered from him—or perhaps partly because of it—Charlotte refused to be swayed.

Penelope sighed and shifted her gaze quickly to a picture of Genny and Charlotte, arms entwined aboard a yacht in Ibiza, then paused at the photo placed to the far right, featuring Brad, her husband, David, and her beloved son, Colin. Tears welled and she swallowed. Would she ever come to terms with her son’s sudden disappearance in the avalanche, or David’s heart attack so soon afterwards? In the space of a year she’d been deprived of the two men she most loved. And now Brad was the new Lord MacLeod and would be here in a couple of days to take Strathaird’s reins, and life as they knew it would change forever. Still, she was thankful it was him and not a stranger, as might well have been the case.

Penelope turned firmly away from the mantelpiece, determined not to let herself plunge once more into depression. Life went on. David and Colin would always be dearest to her heart, but now she must face the future alone. And there was her nephew to help. Brad would need all her assistance as he assumed his new role. It was not an easy position to be landed with at any time, much less so when you weren’t born and bred to it and were a foreigner, to boot.

The thought of him cringing at his new title cheered her up considerably and she laughed out loud. Poor boy. He was so cosmopolitan, yet at times he could be so wonderfully American too, the mere thought of an aristocratic title not at all in keeping with his views!

Well, he’d just have to get used to it. But she couldn’t help wondering if he was truly prepared to shoulder this new set of responsibilities when his grandfather had already saddled him with so much.

The problem, she realized, a tiny smile hovering at the edge of her full mouth, was that Brad was too nice. Anyone else would have been thrilled to inherit Strathaird Castle for all the wrong reasons. Considered it their right.

But not Brad.

Instead, he’d gone to great lengths to try to have the entail on the estate reverted to Charlotte and herself.

She picked up an empty mug from the bookshelf and stared again at the photograph. What a handsome, fine, strong man he’d grown up to be. And how thrilled she was that he’d finally met someone with whom to share his life.

Not that Sylvia would have struck her as Brad’s type. But then, what did she know about it? She remembered the smart, desperately chic woman she’d met briefly at a luncheon at the Savoy Grill several months earlier and hoped Sylvia would take to the people on the estate and enjoy them as much as she did.

A sudden vision of the sophisticated New Yorker had her gazing blindly at the bowl, hands falling dejectedly to her sides. How could poor Sylvia possibly be expected to learn in a few weeks what came handed down over generations? Again she sighed and shrugged. There was little use worrying. But how would old Mrs. McKinnon fare without her weekly cup of tea, where she brought Penelope up to date with all her latest aches and pains? And how would Tom, the crofter, get to his doctor’s appointment on Tuesday afternoons now that his granddaughter was at university in Glasgow?

These and many other seemingly insignificant thoughts preoccupied her, followed by an unexpected memory of Brad and Charlotte years ago, playing tennis at La Renardière, the family home in Limoges. They’d been as thick as thieves then, hardly needing anyone else in their entourage, having so much fun together. But that easy familiarity and bantering had all changed when Charlotte became pregnant and married John Drummond fourteen years ago.

She’d wondered back then if Brad’s feelings for her daughter had reached deeper than he’d cared to admit. There had been a look in his eyes, not to mention his unswerving determination to protect Charlotte. She was almost certain, she reflected, giving the nearest cushion on the sofa a pat, that Brad had loved Charlotte at one time. But for years now, nothing but old friendship had reigned. Like all mothers, she desperately wished that her child could have found happiness, instead of all the misery she’d encountered, and was still enduring.

Leaving the mug and duster in the kitchen, Penelope left the shepherd’s pie she’d prepared, ready for Charlotte to pop in the oven, and picked up her old Barbour jacket. It was a long drive back from Glasgow and the hospital, and Charlotte would get back late. If only she’d do some much-needed shopping instead of sitting for hours in that dreadful sterile atmosphere, a morgue filled with live corpses. But there was little use trying to persuade Charlotte; once she set her mind to something, neither man nor mountain could move her.

She glanced at her watch. Armand would be back for tea soon. Her late husband’s French cousin, a Parisian fashion designer, was not the easiest of guests. Still, she should be thankful he was taking such an interest in Charlotte’s jewelry designs, she realized, dashing off a quick note that she placed in front of the pie. He seemed genuinely delighted with the gallery and its creations, and Charlotte had blossomed under his praise. Life was full of surprises, she reflected ruefully. Sometimes help came from the most unexpected sources.

Heading for the door, she picked up the basket she’d left on the front step. Looping it on her arm, she took a doubtful look at the somber sky before venturing briskly down the hill toward Strathaird, hoping it wouldn’t rain before she reached home, as she’d forgotten her brolly.

Sylvia Hansen glanced speculatively at Brad, leaning back in the plush leather desk chair, hands entwined behind his neck, eyes glued on the enormous corner-office window. It was well into the evening, and already the lights of Manhattan vividly dotted the night sky. She stifled a yawn but reminded herself once again how damn lucky she was to have him. Bradley Harcourt Ward was gorgeous, successful and ambitious—all the things she considered herself to be.

She smiled briefly. Together they made one hell of a team. She had no doubt at all that soon they would be one of the city’s premier power couples. Despite the travails of the past that were hers alone, she was finally about to achieve what would have seemed impossible not so long ago. Yes, she reflected, her expression softening as she watched him, Brad was well worth the wait, even though she’d almost taken the initiative and proposed to him herself in the end. Now she sported an impressive diamond that had once belonged to his great-grandmother on her finger, and a fabulous winter wedding was scheduled at the St. Regis. Not bad for a girl who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks in Little Rock.

She shuddered inwardly. The past and the shadows sometimes lingered, but she cast them aside and concentrated on what Brad was saying, swallowing a weary sigh when she realized he was back on the subject of Strathaird. During the past weeks, she’d heard more about that wretched Scottish castle he’d inherited by some stroke of ill-fated chance than she cared to recall, and was sorely tempted to leave him sitting here in the office and get their driver to take her home. Surely he must realize it wasn’t that important? Couldn’t he simply hire people to take care of the place? Scotland and his new inheritance could hardly require the kind of involvement he seemed determined to give it. She smoothed her skirt over her knees and crossed her legs, aware of a new inflection in his tone. Wondering if she’d missed something, she frowned. “What exactly are you getting at?” she asked, eyebrows knit.

“Well—” Brad twiddled his Mont Blanc pen thoughtfully “—as I’ve already mentioned, Strathaird is going to require my personal attention. At the beginning, at least. Which is why I was considering hopping over to Skye by myself first.” He glanced briefly at her, across the vast expanse of desk. “You know, there’s going to be a heck of a lot to do—or learn, rather. The truth is, Syl, I know as much about running a Scottish estate as training the New York Mets.” He raised a hand and grinned. “I take that back. At least I know the rules of baseball and have scored a couple of home runs in my time, but to me this is estate management 101. Arriving there on my own would give me half a chance to start sorting things out before you arrive.” He smiled, his riveting eyes seeking hers, as though her agreement was important.

Sylvia came awake with a jolt. “You want to go there alone?”

“Why not? It’d only be a few days—a week at most. It’d give me an opportunity to wet my feet, meet the tenants, become familiar with a number of issues, and let you finish whatever you have to do here, instead of sitting around the castle alone with me busy all day.”

Sylvia nodded doubtfully. The prospect of sitting about in a musty old castle on the Scottish moors was not especially compelling, particularly if Brad was going to spend his days elsewhere. Normally, she’d have used the downtime to get more work done, but he’d already laughingly assured her there wasn’t a cell tower within a hundred miles of Strathaird. The thought of surviving without her BlackBerry pager gave her a serious pause. “All right,” she mused, “you have a point. I’m still working through those Australian contracts and need to wrap them up in the next two weeks.” She glanced up at him, shirt-sleeves rolled up, tie still in place, the tan from their trip to St. Barthes still glowing despite a full week’s work, and smiled into his piercing blue eyes. “Okay. You go and I’ll stay. After all, one of us had better stay on board the ship.”

“Good girl.” He grinned, leaned across the desk, past memos and the array of telephones, and took her hand in his. “You’re a great gal, Syl. I know I can always count on you.”

“Thanks.” She mustered a sassy grin, knowing he meant it as a compliment, and wondered why his words made her feel like a well-worn trench coat.

“Right.” He brought his hand down firmly on the desk. “Well, now that we’ve settled that satisfactorily, we should consider food. Do you want to go out for dinner or shall we order in?” He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“We had a reservation at Town, but I canceled about an hour ago. Tell me, when exactly are you planning to leave?” she asked, frowning.

“At the end of the week or so.” Brad began tidying his papers. “That is, if all goes well with Seattle and Chicago. I’m glad you see the sense of me heading over there alone,” he continued, getting up. “It’ll give me time to catch up with the family, too,” he remarked, stretching. Moving toward the large panoramic window, he stared broodingly out the window at the streaming traffic fifty-two stories below. “You know, I haven’t had a real heart-to-heart talk with Charlotte in a couple of years. Time goes by so fast. We barely even get the chance to talk on the phone anymore.” He turned and picked up his jacket.

Sylvia followed suit, slipping the large black Prada purse that contained her life over her shoulder, and frowned. “I met Charlotte in London that time we went to the Chelsea Flower Show,” she murmured, glancing at him. “I didn’t realize you were close. You and Charlotte call each other regularly?”

“Not lately. But we used to spend hours on the phone. Of course, that was a while back. I tried to help her through some of her problems. She had a bad marriage. So, which is it going to be?” he asked, changing the subject and slipping an arm around her. “Thai, or will you whip us up one of your superb omelettes? If I have any say in the matter, I’ll opt for the omelette.”

“Sounds good to me. I’m too tired to go out,” she replied, leaning into him.

“Then omelettes it is. I’ll even give you a back massage, how’s that?” He gave her a brief hug as they moved toward the door.

“What’d I do to deserve that?” She tilted her head up at him as they traversed the quiet hall.

“You’re the best,” he teased, reaching for the button of the elevator.

“Yeah, right!”

“I swear. You understand everything, you never bitch. What more could a man ask for?” He grinned down at her and pinched her cheek. “Remind me to send an e-mail to Aunt Penn, will you? I just remembered it’s Charlie’s birthday on Friday. Maybe I could arrive as a surprise,” he added as the wide metallic doors slid open on the marble and mirrored elevator.

“But we’re going to the Walsh dinner party on Saturday night,” Sylvia exclaimed, taken aback. Jake Walsh was one of the Street’s legendary arbitrageurs, and she’d spent the last year carefully cultivating a friendship with his young wife, Karen, who was on most of the city’s most prominent charity boards. Anyway, the ones she was interested in joining.

“We are?” Brad grimaced. “It’s not that important, is it? Can’t we reschedule?”

They reached the lobby of the Harcourts building and walked toward the car waiting at the curb. Sylvia swallowed her frustration. “Well,” she muttered grudgingly, “it’s not essential, but I’d hate to miss the chance to check out their penthouse. I hear it’s phenomenal.”

“Then you go, honey, you’ll enjoy it,” he answered, smiling absently as they slid into the back of the vehicle, and Ramon, the driver, glided smoothly into the Manhattan evening traffic.

“That’s not the poi—” She bit back the words, afraid she’d sound petty and childish. For some reason, this sudden eagerness to get to Scotland had upset her, and the fact that he wanted to go alone left her strangely empty and anxious. She shrugged, leaned over and poured them each a scotch, knowing it was ridiculous to be so uptight. Brad was straight as an arrow; he traveled all the time by himself and she never gave it a thought. Still, something about this particular trip left her uneasy. It just wasn’t her world.

Taking a long sip, she stared out the car window at late stragglers hurrying toward the subway, noticing a dog walker clutching the leashes of six hounds under a streetlight. What kind of person wanted a job as a dog walker? she wondered absently. Then, leaning back in the soft cream leather, she slipped her hand in his, determined to relax the rest of the drive home.

It was dark by the time Charlotte finally reached Rose Cottage and walked through the tiny hall into the kitchen. Pungent summer scents, dried flowers, and herbs hanging from low, waxed beams welcomed her as she tossed her bag on the counter. To her surprise, the house was spic and span. Then she caught sight of the shepherd’s pie and lifted the note with a tired smile. How sweet of Mummy to have taken all this trouble when she had so much to cope with before Brad’s arrival. And, despite her sadness at leaving Strathaird, she recognized how good it felt to be in a place entirely her own once more. Living at the castle with Mummy and Genny had been fine, but there was something to be said about opening your own front door and knowing you were home.

The phone rang and she picked up.

“Hello, darling.” Charlotte’s mouth curved as her daughter’s voice poured down the line in an excited, thirteen-year-old rush.

“Yes, of course you can sleep over, darling. But don’t be a nuisance to Mrs. Morison. Give them my love.”

Charlotte hung up, glad Genny had new friends. She’d been so alone and shy when they’d first returned to the island after John’s accident. Making the change from London hadn’t been easy. The other children had not willingly accepted her, and of course her limp hadn’t helped.

She switched on the kettle, absently inserted the pie in the oven, and shoved the recurring guilt over the night when she’d fallen asleep at the wheel. Genny had paid the price, her leg crushed in the twisted metal. The accident had left her with a serious limp that Charlotte prayed would diminish with time. She quickly shifted her thoughts back to the present before remorse engulfed her and reflected on all that had happened in the past few months. Change, it seemed, was the order of the day.

Of course, it was unrealistic to believe that life would go on forever as it always had. Brad and his soon-to-be wife, Sylvia, could hardly be expected to put up with the inconveniences that were a part of Strathaird, she acknowledged, taking a chipped Winnie the Pooh mug off the hook above the sink and opening the tea tin. It was ironic, she reflected, that she, who so desperately longed for change in her personal life, could not bear the thought of seeing Strathaird transformed even a little. Which was why she’d left. She was only half a mile up the road, she realized, but mentally she was gone. Strathaird, with its draughts, the lift that always got stuck and the broken step leading down to the lawn that for some reason never got repaired, was a part of her past. But for all her life, it had represented home.

She dangled the mug carelessly, engulfed by sudden nostalgia, then stopped short, remembering the mammoth-size crates filled with gym equipment that had been delivered three days ago, now looming ominously in the Great Hall. Moving out was definitely the right thing to do, she realized with a shudder, picturing Sylvia, sleek and blond, mounted on the treadmill.

Selecting a ginger snap from the dented biscuit tin, she set it beside the tea mug. The image of Brad’s smooth, sexy, sophisticated fiancée flashed vividly in her mind’s eye. A smart, highly organized, modern woman, she reflected, remembering the one time they’d briefly met, two years ago, long before there was any talk of marriage. Pouring boiling water into the mug, she bit dismally into the cookie, feeling suddenly dowdy and drab. The woman probably had a color-coded closet. Her bags full of designer outfits were probably already carefully packed for her stay on Skye—or would Prada and Calvin Klein remain stashed in her pristine Manhattan apartment?

Not that she cared.

Charlotte straightened her drooping shoulders and sipped her tea cautiously. Sylvia could look as good as she liked, and she wished Brad very happy. After all, the woman was obviously the perfect choice for him: neat, orderly, efficient, the ideal companion for a man with all his responsibilities.

The acrid scent of burning food made her swivel toward the oven, the shepherd’s pie that she’d forgotten a sharp reminder of just how absentminded and unorganized she could be. Sylvia, she reflected somberly, probably never did silly things like leave the oven on. Then, hoisting a slender hip up onto the counter, she grinned as she imagined Sylvia’s apartment; probably somewhere in the upper east sixties, the perfect address, très slick, Italian furniture—modern, of course—a very clean, minimalist look, all ecru and beige with touches of chrome. Not a thing out of place.

A crack of laughter broke the silence as she slipped on a pair of charred oven gloves, opened the oven door and pictured Brad and the twins in this hypothetical home. She grimaced at the burned crust, glanced despondently at the oven’s too-high setting and pulled herself up guiltily. She had no business criticizing Sylvia, who from all accounts was delightful and who adored Rick and Todd, Brad’s half brothers whom he’d taken in eight years ago when their parents died tragically in a plane crash. What right had she to judge someone who, according to general opinion, was the perfect wife for him?

Charlotte gazed down at the pie, burned to a crisp, whose destination was the rubbish bin. She decided to give her mother a thank-you call before she went to bed, although she wouldn’t mention the burning bit. Mummy was a brick. It was so decent of her to have finished the cleanup, which she’d been dreading returning to.

Dumping the pie temporarily in the sink, she took her tea to the old wooden table and sat down on one of the rickety wooden chairs with a thud, the day’s emotions and the long drive finally catching up with her. She jiggled the stool warily. Perhaps Mummy was right and she should invest in some new furniture on the next trip into Glasgow. But she hated crowds and shops and people and decisions—even minor ones such as choosing chairs or curtains seemed insurmountable right now. And that went for clothes too, an issue her mother brought up constantly. Why she should care what she looked like here on Skye was beyond her. After all, there were only the sheep and now Armand de la Vallière to see her—and Armand, though very fashion-conscious, was gay, so he didn’t really count.

Her mind wandered back to Brad wondering how he truly felt about inheriting Strathaird. She swung her foot absently, remembering their talks of old. It had been a while since they’d sat down for a long cozy chat. God knows, in the dark bleak days when she and John leaped from one argument into another, knowing he was a phone call away had been a lifesaver. But since the accident, their conversations had somehow fizzled out. She had felt guilty talking to him for so long and so often without a specific reason. Before John’s injury, there had always been a motive. She’d poured out some of her pain. And although she’d rarely taken his advice, it had helped. But since the accident, any talk had been businesslike and to the point. Oh well, Charlotte sighed, it was probably best. They each had their lives to live.

She rose briskly and brushed her hair away from her face, considering whether Brad fully realized all that inheriting Strathaird implied—the people, the everyday worries, the plans and intricacies? Or did he think he could run it like he ran Harcourts, the multimillion-dollar porcelain and upscale decorating enterprise he’d inherited from his grandfather? She refilled her cup, sipped absently. “Hell’s bells,” she swore crossly when she burned her tongue and the tea spilled, dirtying her T-shirt. This was definitely not her day, she reflected grimly, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. And why was she so concerned about Brad, when she had more than enough on her own plate? Ridiculous! Brad was a big boy. He knew the place well, had been coming here since he was a child and could very well take care of himself. There was no reason for her to worry. Or was there? It was one thing to pop over for short visits to see his grandparents, flying in on a chopper, then wafting out again. But this was a different kettle of fish altogether, and she doubted whether even the eternally well-prepared Brad had the slightest inkling of all that would be expected of him as laird.

A meow from the windowsill brought her out of her reverie. Hermione sat curled on the outside ledge, preening her whiskers and cleaning her soft tabby fur. Charlotte rose, opened the window and allowed the cat to pad daintily over the sink toward her basket by the stove. As she reached to close the window, a sudden movement caught her eye. She frowned, wondering if a sheep had wandered in from the fields. All at once she shivered, then pulled herself together, deciding she was even more tired than she’d realized. This was Skye, and there was no danger here. She turned and thoughtfully eyed the cat.

“Where have you been?” she inquired, picking her up and stroking gently. “I’m glad to see you know your new way home. How do you like it?” She was reassured by a satisfied purr. “Good,” she murmured, letting the animal slip from her arms. “At least one of us is happy.”

She was about to leave the kitchen when the sound of a muted cough made her stand stock-still. There was definitely someone out there.

Warily Charlotte slipped into the hall, opened the antique chest on the floor and picked out a cricket bat. Just as stealthily, she opened the front door. As she emerged, a shadow flitted near the gate.

“Stop,” she called, rushing forward, wielding the bat wildly. A figure stumbled through the gate and she hurled herself toward it.

“Dinna’ hit me, Miss Charlotte, dinna’, please.”

The pleading voice of Bobby Hewitt made her drop her arms in sudden relief.

“Bobby! What on earth are you doing here?” she exclaimed, limp with irritation and relief. “You gave me the most awful fright.”

“I wasna’ doing anything wrong.”

“But what are you doing out here? It’s past ten o’clock.” She glanced at the bowed figure. Poor Bobby was a simple, harmless soul in his mid-forties who’d been trailing her adoringly since she was a child. But he had never snooped around at night. Of course, she realized with a frown, she’d always been ensconced in the castle. Now, on her own at Rose Cottage, things were different.

“Come here,” she said, taking him by the arm of his worn jacket and making him stand under the porch light. “Bobby, you can’t wander around at night spying on people.”

“I wasna’,” he remarked, his mouth taking on a stubborn twist. “I was making sure everything was all right. There’s strangers about.”

“They’re called tourists, Bobby.” Her face broke into a smile and she shook her head. “So you thought to guard the cottage? Don’t worry about me, Bobby, everything’s fine. There are no marauders around here. You know that.”

“Ye canna’ be too careful.”

“No, of course not. Still, you mustn’t come scaring me like that. I almost went after you with Colin’s cricket bat.” She swung it over her shoulder. “Now get back to your mother’s cottage and no more roaming around here after dark, promise?”

“Aye.” He nodded penitently, seeking forgiveness.

Charlotte smiled at him. “If you wait two seconds, I’ll get you some of Mrs. McTavish’s toffees. You like those, don’t you?”

He nodded in eager response, like a small child.

Charlotte sighed, propped the bat against the hall wall and went back to the kitchen where she found a bag of toffees. Perhaps something should be done to help Bobby, although he seemed perfectly content.

“Here you are. Now off you go, straight home, and don’t let this happen again.”

“Aye. Thanks, Miss Charlotte. I’m sorry I scared ye. I didna’ mean any harm.”

“I know. Now run along.”

She watched as he hurried off, his shoulders slightly stooped, long hair trailing thinly on his shoulders. Poor Bobby. She should have realized he might get up to something like this, but frankly, Bobby Hewitt was the last person on her mind right now.

She locked up and glanced at the heavy gold watch on her wrist. Gosh, it was late. Better give her mother a buzz, then get to bed.

The library fire dwindled, embers stuttered, coals shifted and Armand de la Vallière sighed. It was his favorite room in the castle.

He sat in solitary contemplation, surrounded by leather-bound books, heavy mahogany furniture and the ancient French-damask curtains installed so many years ago by Tante Hortense, a balm to his strained nerves. He peered through the mullioned windows into the inky summer evening, vaguely aware of Penelope’s voice echoing through the Great Hall. Concentrating, he leaned forward, staring once more at the packed shelves of books, eyes narrowing. It would be a difficult search, one that would require all his ability. The sheer physical impediment of having to climb up to the highest shelves made it almost impossible to take a good look at the books without attracting suspicion. He stared into the dying flames, obliterating the haunting images that lurked in his memory since childhood, replacing them instead with shining scenes of glitz, glamour and glory. It was a technique he’d perfected over the years, and infallibly it worked.

Now, as fleeting shadows played on the spines of the ancient book covers and the darkened walls, he replaced the packed shelves with visions of splendid jewels. They shimmered in his imagination, and he sighed. The method acted as effectively as any hallucinogen. Slowly his tense muscles relaxed and he breathed easier, entranced, visualizing the catwalk, the agitated buzz, models preparing to strut the runway, hairdressers, makeup artists and seamstresses, all waiting for his final orders. His fingers unclenched as he pictured himself directing operations, adding the finishing touches with a master’s skill. Finally he would place each of Charlotte’s exquisite pieces at precisely the right angle before sending the model forth, waiting with bated breath for the murmured hush of the crowd.

A frisson of satisfaction left him sighing. Nothing less than perfection would do. And he had seen perfection in Charlotte’s work. He drew a cigarette from an antique silver cigarette case, tapped it thoughtfully on the arm of the old leather chair, then lit it. To have such amazing talent, yet be so oblivious. A quivering pang of envy darted straight to his heart. Why was life so unfair? Why did some have all the suffering, the toil, the trouble, while others glided unwittingly into fame and fortune? Indeed, why did life bestow talent on those who didn’t give a damn, while denying it to those for whom it meant the world?

He took a long drag and leaned back in the deep armchair, aware there was little to be gained from such thoughts. It was too late to acquire that which God had not given him.

Still, he decided with a grim little smile, it might not be too late to redirect fate into avenues more suited to his liking. After all, there was a reason for his presence here, at this specific time.

Once more he inhaled deeply, then let the smoke curl up toward the coffered oak ceiling and shut his eyes. He was so close. So very close. And nothing would convince him otherwise.