The Lost Dreams
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“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.
5
It was already twelve-thirty and she was due at Cipriani’s at one. Sylvia wondered where the morning had flown. With a precise swivel of her beige leather office chair, she turned to her computer and deftly typed in some notes. After a quick check to make sure not a hair of her sleek, shoulder-length blond coif was out of place, she straightened the jacket of her well-tailored Armani suit and rose, ready for action. The luncheon was important, the clients were major. Brad was in Scotland, so she would handle it.
A flash of irritation marred her patrician features before she picked up her voluminous black leather purse and moved across the elegant corner office toward the wide, light-wood double doors with a worried frown. Two weeks had turned into three, and now he was talking of six! Six weeks in Scotland, indeed. What on earth was Brad thinking? she wondered. Heading into the corridor, she adopted a friendly yet distant smile calculated to impart that she was in control but still accessible.
She was going to have to do something about this sudden decision of his to prolong the visit. He’d sounded so odd on the phone, barely even commenting on her news about the Australian deal. Someone who didn’t know him as well as she did would have said he sounded bored. And then this bombshell about extending his visit. Spending that amount of time away from the company was simply out of the question, she decided, entering the half-empty elevator and nodding at the senior partner of a law firm that occupied one of the lower floors.
As the elevator sank fifty-two floors, she began reshuffling her own schedule. It was definitely time to get her butt over to Scotland and assess the situation first-hand. No amount of sheep could merit a six-week absence, she figured, reaching the busy marble lobby, satisfied to find her car waiting at the curb. Once she got to Skye, she’d sit Brad down and make him see how impossible it all was. Then, matter-of-factly, she switched mental gears and focused on the upcoming luncheon. Slipping into the back seat of the vehicle, she pulled out her brief on the latest market trends, and allowed herself a small smile. Aside from sex with a sensibly chosen partner, nothing gave her the same high as the prospect of clinching another deal.
It had taken Brad little more than a week to realize that, for the first time in his life, he was in over his head. Endless meetings in the study, reviewing accounts, and long sessions with Penelope discussing the histories of the different tenant families—the exact nature of their activities and problems—had been only one part of the daunting process of learning what running an estate involved. There were expeditions on horseback with Mr. Mackay—the factor, who was in charge of Strathaird’s administration—to view repairs to fences in spots too remote to be reached by car, followed by lengthy afternoon visits to the homes of the tenants, where he was met by men with wary gazes and women with soft smiles who welcomed him cautiously. He was offered home-baked cake and endless cups of tea laced with Talisker, the local island whiskey. The veiled hints of what they expected from the laird did not go unnoticed. All this and more had given him a fair idea of what was expected of him: his mind, his body and soul, and above all, his presence.
He’d ridden the land on Colin’s gelding, enjoying the windswept moors, the ever-present breeze and the strong sea air. He had stopped by the roadside to listen to complaints regarding the falling price of sheep on the mainland, and the island’s lack of employment. And he was surprised to find himself being drawn into this far-flung web of concerns that until recently had been little more than another job to handle. But though it was a job—one that demanded far more than he’d bargained for—there was something else beckoning, something far deeper that he was unable to define. He couldn’t put it into words, exactly. He just knew he was destined to do this. Doing it right, he realized somberly, riding back to the castle under a light drizzle, would require a heck of a lot more time here than he could spare.
He stared at the gray sky. It had rained all day, a tenacious drizzle interspersed with hearty wind gusts, leaving the air chilly and damp. But he didn’t mind. The rain felt good, just as the long exchanges with the locals gave him a better insight into this new way of life.
He thought back to his earlier phone conversation with Sylvia, aware she was annoyed that he intended to stay longer than they’d originally planned. He’d tried to explain, but it was impossible for her to understand the need to be here, to show his face to those who depended upon him. Still, he was damn lucky he had her to stand in for him at Harcourts, he reflected as the horse clip-clopped into the courtyard at the rear of the castle. Dismounting, he led the horse back to the stables, wondering how he was going to divide himself between operating the company—a full-time job and more—and running Strathaird without stretching himself so thin he did neither job right.
He let out a long breath, handing the horse over to Andy, a redheaded teenager who mucked out the stables in the afternoons, and dragged his fingers slowly through his thick chestnut hair, searching for a solution. There was always a solution—Dex had taught him that—but what first came to mind didn’t strike him as feasible. He frowned as he made his way through the back door, hanging his wet jacket on a peg among the mackintoshes in the entrance. Then, heading past the pantry, he climbed the stairs that led toward the Great Hall.
What he really needed was time, a commodity he didn’t have. Time to find his feet; time to get to know these folks who’d lived on this land forever and now counted on him to understand their worries and needs; time to break down the silent wall of mistrust that he read in their unflinching looks.
He reached his study and walked over to the window, staring thoughtfully through the mullioned window at the misty scene beyond. That this could feel like home in such a short period of time was amazing. He thought of Sylvia and realized uneasily that it was almost impossible to imagine her here—in fact, to imagine her anywhere but Manhattan, in the midst of meetings, endlessly ringing cell phones, business breakfasts and working lunches.
He hoped Charlotte would be joining them for dinner. He’d spent yesterday evening and the evening before chatting with her in her cozy kitchen. He grinned, only just now thinking of a witty riposte to one of her outrageous comments, and wished she were there to hear it. Lately he’d developed a habit of popping by her gallery most afternoons too. Somehow they always ended up sharing a pint or a dram at the Celtic Café, where he and Rory discussed politics, soccer and other burning issues. They were usually joined by Hamish, an old fisherman and pal of his grandfather’s, who was only too ready to tell him long-forgotten tales, some of which were no doubt embellished but made good stories anyway.
His mind turned again to Charlotte. She’d seemed calmer the past few days, less nervous. He’d enjoyed watching her from a distance as she sat poring over her work, both her enthusiasm and talent apparent. She was obviously enthralled by the collection she and Armand were putting together. He frowned. There was nothing wrong with Armand, he supposed, but still, he couldn’t stomach the guy.
He stood a while longer, peering thoughtfully across the lawn. A dreary day. One that suited his pensive mood and made Harcourts, the factories in Limoges and Taiwan, and the new stores being opened in fifteen states seem impossibly remote. How had Jamie MacTavish’s sheep managed to assume the pole position on his list of priorities, he wondered. If he told Syl that, she’d definitely send him to a shrink. She’d insist he return immediately to New York, to its familiar pace, the buzz of traffic, and a healthy dose of carbon monoxide.
But, in truth, he didn’t want to be there. He’d slipped into this new, peaceful existence like a hand into a smooth kid glove, and he wasn’t ready to give it up yet. In fact, he realized, he could easily get used to setting his own pace without Marcia’s efficient voice reminding him of his next appointment.
Not that he didn’t appreciate his high-powered, highly competent secretary. Quite the contrary. It was precisely those sharp, organizational skills that had allowed him to be here without going crazy.
The only hiccup to date had occurred at three in the morning two days ago, when he’d been woken up by Mr. Chang, his director in Taiwan. He’d spent the better part of the night on the phone. Once they’d fixed the problem, he’d turned over in Aunt Penn’s lavender-scented linen and gone straight back to sleep in the huge four-poster that had cradled the worries and pleasures of his ancestors for several generations.
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