She stepped onto the lawn glancing sadly at the rose garden to her left. She would miss tending it, just as she’d miss the autumn mists, the churning gray waters that had become such a part of her over the years. But that was life, and part of what happened in families like theirs. She smiled as she stepped over the grass. Brad’s insistence that they stay on at the castle was touching. Of course, being a man, he couldn’t understand how impossible it would be for them all to coexist under the same roof.
It was getting chillier, the evening closing in fast, and she pulled the heather-colored cardigan closer. Composing her features, she approached Armand, seated with his back to her, facing the sea. The more she thought about it, the more she realized Charlotte had done the right thing by moving out. It was time that she, too, begin making plans for the future. Plastering on a neutral smile, she sat down to finish her wine. What conversational subjects could she possibly introduce to keep Armand entertained throughout dinner? she asked herself. Perhaps mentioning the Rothbergs, whom he loved to talk about, would be a good way of whiling away the evening.
4
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 m
y 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.
The Lost Dreams Page 7