Although he felt he’d inherited the property unjustly, it was a moot point as far as the courts were concerned. His solicitors had argued that the castle and its lands rightfully belonged to Charlotte and Penelope, but the law couldn’t see past Dex’s revelation that Brad was the true heir.
Shading his eyes, he felt a sudden shiver as he watched a flag in the east turret unfurl with noble arrogance over the ramparts, the dying sun caressing the mullioned windows. He stood a while, absorbing the majesty, sheer power and rugged sense of permanence, and for the first time accepted that he had a place here. A strange, inexplicable primal response gripped him, as if all at once the MacLeod blood coursing in his veins could somehow sense that it was nearing home.
He blinked, smiled and looked away. He must be really overtired to be imagining such things. He’d never experienced any particular connection to the place on past visits, so why now?
Shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, he turned his thoughts to his grandfather, that strange elusive figure who had given up his true identity as Gavin MacLeod after World War I, and for seventy years, assumed the identity of Dexter Ward. It was all by chance, Brad reflected, that his grandfather had found himself recruited by the New York Sixty-ninth in 1918.
But fate had finally caught up with Gavin and changed all their lives. Could it be, as Granny Flora had believed, the MacLeods claiming of their own back to the fold? He shrugged, closed his eyes and enjoyed the warm, scented summer breeze licking his face and mussing his hair. Enough of the past, he decided, peering once more at the castle. It was time now to focus on the present and all that needed to be done. Without question, Strathaird could prove his most challenging duty to date. But he wasn’t daunted. Quite the opposite. He was suddenly aware that the urge to shed his shackles—a sensation he’d felt all too acutely in recent months—was absent as he approached the bluff and stared down into the violet-gray waters lapping the rocks. They reminded him of something. He frowned. The color was the same as Charlotte’s eyes, gentle yet stormy. Gone was the growling swell of autumn and winter’s harsh, bleak, angry hiss. Instead, expectation flowed, as though the waters were eyeing him speculatively, like the locals whose lives he was about to touch, waiting to see for themselves how the new laird, a foreigner to whom this land and sea meant little, would fare before passing judgment.
He stooped, tweaked a sprig of heather and twiddled it absently between his thumb and index finger. Just how much of his being was he willing to invest in Strathaird? he asked himself as he walked thoughtfully back to the car. Or, more likely, just how much would Strathaird extract?
He settled once more behind the wheel and resumed the climb up to the castle. As he crested the last hillock, he reflected on how little he knew about running a Scottish estate. Thank God for Charlotte and Penelope. They both played a key role in the everyday operation of the place, and would help make up for the fact that the new laird planned to be an absentee landowner.
As the Aston Martin hugged the last bend, he glanced at his watch. He should have phoned to warn Aunt Penn that he’d decided to come to Strathaird straightaway, rather than spend the night in Glasgow as he’d planned. But the temptation to hit the road, cell phone off and with no appointments to rush to, had won. He’d even lingered on the banks of Loch Lomond, and felt the eerie chill of the valley of Glencoe.
Coasting up the driveway, bordered by fields dotted with peacefully munching sheep and grazing highland cattle, oblivious to the fact that they now had a new owner, he experienced renewed relief that his initial encounter with Strathaird and its tenants was taking place on his own.
Reaching the castle, he circled the flower bed, heard the familiar scrunch of gravel under the tires and came to a standstill in front of the massive oak doors, aware that a new part of his life was about to begin.
He stood at the foot of the shallow steps, caught sight of the view and paused. The last rays of dying sun flirted languorously on the surf. In the distance, small fishing craft bobbed gently into harbor while twilight lingered in the wings. To his left, several crofters’ cottages nestled at the foot of the hills. Farther up the dirt road, a single thatched cottage stood by itself among a haze of purple heather. After the rush of New York, it was disconcerting to think that year after year, season after season, little changed in this remote part of the world.
He walked up the steps, about to knock on the huge, recessed oak doors, when he realized that since the evening was so fine, the family was probably having drinks outside on the lawn.
Making his way around the west face, past the herb garden and the conservatory, he opened the gate that led to the lawn, the sudden urge to see Charlotte making him hurry. He would surprise her by giving that long titian mane a good tug. Then, after she’d squealed in surprise, he’d take her in his arms and give her a major hug.
He reached the lawn. Two figures sat in white wicker chairs next to the summerhouse. Neither was Charlotte.
“My goodness, Brad!” Penelope shrieked, jumping up and stretching out her hands in welcome. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.” Penelope reached up and kissed him affectionately.
“Sorry, Aunt Penn. I should’ve called. But I lost track of time.”
“You drove?” she asked, quirking a surprised eyebrow.
“Yeah. I picked up a car in Glasgow and ambled on up.”
“Good. You probably needed the break,” she said with her usual insight. “I hope you enjoyed the drive.”
“I did. It gave me some much-needed time to think.” He smiled down at her. She was still as attractive and lovely as ever. He took her arm. “I hope this isn’t too much trouble, Aunt Penn.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This is your home now, Brad,” she said, making him cringe. He didn’t want her to think of Strathaird as no longer hers.
She led him to the table where he immediately recognized Armand de la Vallière, rising to greet him.
“Bradley. It’s been a long time. Quel plaisir.”
Armand shook hands warmly. Brad wished he could feel the same enthusiasm. Armand was someone he’d never quite figured out and whom he was ashamed to say irritated him for no reason in particular.
“Have a drink.” Penelope pointed to the tray where a bottle of wine stood chilling in an ice bucket.
“Love one. Where’s Charlie?” he asked casually, looking around, expecting to see her walk out any minute, through the French doors and down the steps of the castle’s south face.
“Charlotte’s not going to be here this evening, I’m afraid,” Penelope replied, pouring the wine.
Armand shook his head. “Charlotte is very obstinate.” He tut-tutted between sips. “This sudden necessity to—”
“Have a life of her own,” Penelope interrupted, handing Brad the glass. “Charlotte needs to get her life organized,” she added, putting an end to the matter. “Now, sit down and tell me all about New York and the twins, I can’t wait to see them. They must have grown so much this year. Oh, and Sylvia, of course.”
“The twins are doing fine,” Brad responded easily, wondering what Penelope meant about Charlotte and why she seemed reluctant to pursue the subject. “They’re having a blast in Uruguay. Diego’s hacienda is quite something.”
“So I hear. I’m so glad he’s decided to come. It may do him good to get away.”
“Definitely. I threatened to kidnap the twins if he didn’t. He rarely leaves home now except to go to his house in Switzerland.”
“I know. It’s so sad. But understandable, after losing his wife and daughter one after the other,” she murmured, her limpid blue eyes reflecting her own loss.
Seeing Armand pout, Brad made a conscious effort to draw him out of the doldrums that Penelope’s interruption appeared to have caused.
“How are the collections coming along?” He took a sip of wine and leaned back in the chair, masking his disappointment at Charlotte’s absence.
“Very well, very well indeed. In fact,�
� Armand purred with a conspiratorial wink, “Charlotte and I are hatching plans for the autumn.”
“Really?” Penelope pretended to look surprised.
“Yes, chère Penelope.” He pronounced her name penne-Lop, making it sound like a pasta dish. Brad smothered a smile, knowing how much it irritated her. “I have proposed to Charlotte that she exhibit her pieces with my fall—as you Americans say—collection.” Armand pronounced the words like a reporter announcing breaking news.
“That’s terribly generous of you, Armand,” Penelope exclaimed. “And so exciting. She must be thrilled.”
He gave a modest smile. “Her talent is exceptional and should not remain hidden from the world. Charlotte is a great artist. Her work is inspired by the great master Sylvain de Rothberg—my uncle by marriage, you will recall. It has a similar feel.”
“Really,” Penelope murmured politely. Brad caught her quick, astonished glance. Armand was prone to name-dropping and was always underlining his relationship to the la Vallières, his late father’s family, not to mention the tenuous one to the Rothbergs. Recalling the sad circumstances of Armand’s tragic youth, Brad decided the impulse to embroider his family history was understandable. “I never realized she was designing jewelry seriously,” he remarked.
“Neither did I until about four months ago, when she decided to open a gallery and workshop in the village. People seem to like her work, and I think it’s perfectly lovely. But of course, I might be prejudiced.” Penelope smiled apologetically.
“I’ll bet Charlie’s great at it,” Brad said. “She’s always had talent, but she just never bothered to tap into it or let it flourish into anything concrete.”
“Believe me, she has now, mon cher,” Armand said with a wise nod.
“I’m awfully glad you think so, Armand. Perhaps it’ll keep her mind off some of her other worries.” Penelope sighed and took a sip of wine, then tucked a stray lock behind her ear.
“How’s John?” Brad asked in a neutral voice. He’d schooled himself to have no feelings, negative or otherwise, regarding Charlotte’s comatose husband.
“Just the same, I’m afraid.”
“Why do they not remove the life support?” Armand raised a disdainful brow. “To think of such a handsome man deteriorating into mediocrity. Quelle horreur!”
“It’s not like he has much choice,” Brad commented dryly.
“I would much rather pull the plug and be remembered as my true self.” Armand shuddered delicately, the thought of John’s movie-star looks withering away apparently too much to bear.
Brad smothered his irritation, wondering how long it would be before he got Aunt Penn to himself. Not a chance before dinner, he figured, casting her an inquiring glance all the same.
Picking up on it, Penelope smiled brightly. “Armand, will you excuse us while I show Brad to his room? I’m sure you must want to get settled and freshen up before dinner.” She rose and Brad followed suit, blessing her for her quick-wittedness.
“I’m afraid poor Armand’s a bit of a bore,” she murmured once they were out of earshot and mounting the steps. “I don’t know how I’m going to keep him entertained until the Cardinal arrives,” she added as they went inside.
“Oncle Eugène’s coming?” Brad asked, surprised.
“Yes, I thought you knew. I was very surprised he wanted to make the trip. After all, he’s getting on.”
“I hope it won’t be too much for him,” he agreed. “Say, what can an inveterate urbanite like Armand possibly find to keep him in Skye, I wonder?”
“I’ve been asking myself that same question ever since he stepped foot on the island.” Penelope grimaced, climbing the last steps. “At first he said he was exhausted and needed a rest from Paris and the fashion world. Now he seems enthralled by Charlotte’s work.” She shrugged. “If it keeps him busy and she doesn’t mind, then all the better.”
“Speaking of Charlotte, when will she be back?” Brad asked, following his aunt indoors.
“You mean tonight?” Penelope’s eyes moved uncomfortably and Brad frowned.
“Yes. Shouldn’t she be home soon?”
“Normally, yes.” She hesitated, looked away.
“Normally? What’s up, Aunt Penn?” He frowned, stared at her, half serious, half amused.
“Charlie didn’t tell you?” she responded, forehead creasing.
“Tell me what? We haven’t talked in a while.”
“I see.” She sent him a quick, speculative glance then continued. “The fact is, Charlotte’s left the castle and moved into Rose Cottage.” She clasped her hands neatly at her waist. “I’m surprised she didn’t call you to explain.”
“Moved out of Strathaird?” he exclaimed, unbelieving. They were in the Great Hall, and he stopped dead at the foot of the oak staircase and stared at her. Charlie wouldn’t just up and go.
“Yes. You see, she felt that it would be better—that’s to say, she thought that perhaps with the changes…” Penelope’s voice drifted off. Brad’s expression darkened and he flexed his fingers.
“What changes? What on earth got into her head?” he asked uncomprehendingly. “It’s ridiculous. This is her home. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Of course it does,” Penelope replied briskly. “Charlotte is used to having her own space. You and Sylvia will need your own legroom, too. Plus, I think she needs the change.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” he murmured dismissively, certain this was not the reason for Charlotte’s sudden departure.
“By the way, some sort of gym apparatus arrived.” Penelope pointed to two large crates at the side of the hall.
Brad followed her finger, still preoccupied with Charlotte’s departure. “I didn’t order any workout equipment,” he said.
“Well, no. I think Sylvia did. Very sensible of her,” she added quickly. “I’m sure she wants to keep up her exercise routine once she’s here. She has such a lovely figure.”
Brad scowled at the boxes as if they were in some way to blame. “I still fail to see what a treadmill has to do with Charlotte’s decision to move.”
“It wasn’t the actual treadmill, Brad, but the realization of just how much is going to change. Let’s face it,” she added, laying a hand gently on his arm, “Strathaird is yours now and you have to be free to make it into what you want, just as every generation has in the past. I think Charlotte feels—rightly, I might add—that it would be difficult for her to see everything she’s always known and taken for granted being transformed—and not just painful for her, but perhaps difficult for you and Sylvia too. After all, Brad, we can’t all go on living in the past, or under the same roof.”
“Why not?” He frowned, raising his hands in a gesture of incomprehension. “This is her home. I’ve always told you I don’t want anything to change. I want you both to go on living here as you always have.” He looked down at her, angry and hurt. “Charlie knows damn well I would never expect her or want her to be anywhere but here.”
“I’m well aware of that, Brad dear, and so is she. But think about it,” Penelope urged reasonably. “Sylvia is going to become Lady MacLeod. It’s only right and natural that she should take over certain duties that up until now have been mine, and in some measure, Charlotte’s. She should have the freedom to do so in her own manner. Believe me, it’s much better this way.”
“Like hell it is. It’s an absurd decision and she must come straight back. Doesn’t she ever use her brain?” he exclaimed, pacing the hall, ignoring Aunt Penn’s arguments and suppressing his growing frustration. “Christ, you’d think after all these years and all she’s been through, she’d have gotten some sense into that stubborn redhead of hers. And what about Genny?” he added. “Has Charlotte stopped to think of her?” He forced himself to keep his voice low and not give full vent to his feelings.
“Of course she has. And you know, Brad, that’s another point. Soon you’ll be married. You and Sylvia will probably be starting your own family—�
�
“Sylvia and I aren’t planning on having kids,” he interjected dismissively.
“Oh…” Penelope stopped, taken aback.
“Our lives are too busy, plus we already have the twins.”
“Yes. I suppose—I didn’t realize.”
“Why don’t you tell me where she is, Aunt Penn,” he interrupted, returning to the subject at hand. “I’ll talk to her and get this mess straightened out right away.”
“It’s not a mess, Brad, merely a fact of life,” Penelope sighed, hand dropping from his arm. “She’s at Rose Cottage, about half a mile up the road. But I’m warning you, her mind’s made up. The cottage is all on one floor, so in a way that will be an advantage for Genny,” she ended lamely.
“Advantage, my ass,” he muttered under his breath.
“You can go and talk to her,” Penelope murmured doubtfully, “but I don’t think you’ll get very far.”
“We’ll see,” he said darkly. “Don’t hold dinner for me, Aunt Penn. Please make my excuses to Armand. I’m going over there right now.”
Penelope watched, concerned, as he took the front steps two at a time, jumped into a spiffy silver Aston Martin and roared down the driveway, raising dust. She was surprised that he’d taken Charlotte’s departure so much to heart. After all, she’d only moved half a mile up the road.
With a resigned shrug, she turned, switched off the hall lights, and wandered back through the lurking shadows, remembering how attentive to her own children Brad had always been. With another sigh, she recalled the bantering, the tennis parties, the picnics in Dordogne and the summers Brad, Colin and Charlotte had spent clambering over the rocks and on the shore. Of course, he’d been several years their elder, which had represented a lot when he became a teenager and they were still children. Even so, he’d always had time for them and always cared.
She paused, gazing over the lawn to where Armand sat in the wicker chair sipping his wine, and wondered what would have happened all those years ago if Charlotte hadn’t become pregnant and married John.
Silly to conjecture, she reflected, giving herself a little shake before proceeding down the steps. Charlotte and Brad were grown-ups now. Each had their lives to get on with and the sooner Brad realized that, the better. She herself was very well aware of what lay ahead, the responsibilities he and Sylvia would be assuming. The same ones she was relinquishing.
The Lost Dreams Page 6