“Perhaps you just couldn’t see the forest for the trees.”
Charlotte wiped her hand across her nose and gave a loud sniff. “I got so used to him coming to the studio in the afternoon,” she wailed. “I expected him at the pub—plus, it was such fun whipping up dinner for him at the cottage.” She raised her head slowly and met Moira’s sympathetic gaze. “And now it’s all over. How can I suddenly miss someone so badly whose been out of my life for the past decade? It doesn’t make sense.” She stared out the window, then grabbed Moira’s arm, forcing her to duck. “For God’s sake, stay down. Mrs. P.’s on the rampage.” Moira grabbed the old dust sheet she’d used for her window decorating from the floor and they crouched under it, stifling giggles.
“When will we know that she’s gone?” Moira whispered.
Three minutes later, Charlotte peeked warily out the window, pleased to see Mrs. Pearson’s large form receding into the newsagent’s across the street. “The coast’s clear,” she said, withdrawing the dust sheet from Moira’s mussed hair. “God, we look like two scarecrows. I guess I’d better get the visit over with ASAP, as Rick would say. It’s amazing how the twins have grown up in a short time,” she added, dusting off her jeans. “Have you seen them yet? Rick looks exactly like the ambassador and Todd’s a sort of mini-Brad.”
“Not yet, but your mum asked me over for supper tomorrow. That should give me the chance to get a good look at the N.Y. competition.”
“Moira!” Charlotte declared firmly, “we’re not going to talk about this anymore, because it’s silly. Nothing’s going to change.” Ignoring Moira’s snort of disbelief, she grabbed her basket and threw her friend a look, determined to escape before she brought anything else up.
As she left the village she lowered the car window and breathed in the damp rainy evening. She drove slowly, in no hurry to arrive, her muddled feelings warring as she began the winding climb toward home. She had no right to expect anything from Brad but friendship. Particularly now. But Moira’s words rang disturbingly true and she was obliged to ask herself exactly what it was she wanted from him. And was it want, or need?
She gripped the wheel tightly, battling the growing tightness in her throat. Ever since her last visit to Glasgow and her conversation with her mum she’d felt stifled, as though trapped in a dark, airless hole begging for oxygen. When she’d looked at her husband’s lifeless figure, she’d pictured those closed eyes as they used to be, hard and hot with anger, heard his rich actor’s voice berating her, telling her horrible, hurtful things like how stupid and selfish and incompetent she was. He’d systematically worn her down until she believed him.
She’d stared at the comatose body, dizzy with fear that he’d suddenly lunge from the bed and push her violently against the wall, as he’d been prone to doing. Trembling, she’d forced herself to calm down, and begun the usual process of justification: there was nothing in her life that he could find fault with now—she was living quietly, carefully trying to find her place, watching out for Genny; even if he were to recover, surely John would be content to let her go her own way if she was a good girl and didn’t make a fuss; she wouldn’t do anything to make him angry.
Now, thinking back to that crazy litany of rationalizations, she realized she was still living in paralyzing fear of John. She’d let him get away with everything he’d ever done to her. By no means had she asked for such treatment. Had she deserved it? No, she hadn’t, but she’d caused much of her own misery by letting herself be brutalized. It was startling, almost frightening to realize that, as Mummy and Moira were continually reminding her, it was within her power to change all that, if only she could find the strength to forgive herself and move on. Problem was, the only time she felt truly strong was when Brad was by her side.
Charlotte gripped the steering wheel with trembling hands, tears pouring down her cheeks. She was so utterly confused and now, to crown it all, she had to face Sylvia. Evening settled on the heather-draped moors, a gentle mauve sea. The constriction in her throat grew as she headed on, past the harbor and the cluster of colorful fishing boats and up the hill. Facing Brad—and worse, Sylvia—in view of her newly discovered feelings seemed almost perverse. Knowing he was in love with Sylvia—not that it was her idea of love, when they’d discussed it over macaroni and cheese only a week ago—made her current predicament almost insurmountable.
She blew her nose hard, wiped her eyes and tried to rationalize her feelings, a hundred arguments crossing her mind. Perhaps she was imagining her emotions. Maybe the months spent wondering what would happen to John and worrying about Genny had finally caught up with her. Maybe she was just too much alone. She hadn’t been touched by a man in forever, hadn’t wanted to be after all John had subjected her to. Perhaps it was only because Brad was the first truly kind and charming individual who’d crossed her path that he’d grown so important again in her life.
At the foot of the castle’s drive she hesitated, engine running while she made up her mind. Then, on impuse, she drove through the fields, avoiding Strathaird, and stopped outside of Rose Cottage. She peered breathlessly into the rearview mirror, relieved, and almost laughed at the mess she’d caused by her outburst. She was probably just starved for sex, like those women she read about in magazines. A sudden, vivid image of Brad, tossed sheets and sex bolted into her brain. Catching her breath, she grabbed her basket and jumped from the car. She was in no shape to face Brad and Sylvia tonight. The meeting would simply have to wait. She’d ring up, make an excuse and join them for breakfast at the castle. Tomorrow, when hopefully her mask would be back in place.
8
Except for the odd creak in the woodwork, a shutter banging persistently somewhere downstairs and the hoot of an owl, the castle stood silent. Everyone had retired early tonight. Sylvia scowled at herself in the mirror as she brushed her hair and considered her present dilemma. It had become obvious in the past twenty-four hours that Brad was seriously entrenched here. He seemed to actually like the place. When he spoke about Strathaird, he used expressions like “family commitment” and “love of the land”—words that made her skin crawl and proved all too clearly that she had a serious problem on her hands. She frowned and pondered her options. It was definitely time to take action. Two nights spent alone in her room’s narrow single bed had left her simmering with frustration. She couldn’t believe Brad hadn’t made an attempt to join her. Granted, the locals seemed to have prehistoric notions about sex between consenting adults, but surely Brad wasn’t worried about what they thought?
She dismissed the niggling concern, opened the top drawer of the heavy mahogany chest and selected a creamy silk nightgown. The designer had been delightfully skimpy with the material, she reflected, a slow grin dawning as she slipped the tantalizing silk over her smooth naked body. Any doubts would be dispelled as soon as Brad saw her in this. Turning to the worn armchair, she picked up her robe and pulled it on. You never knew who you might meet on the way. The grin grew as she reached the door. The intrigue lent spice to the illicit nature of her plan. It might even be amusing—for a couple of nights at least—to play this ridiculous game, nipping up the flight of stairs, not knowing if she’d be caught, so that she could slip silently into Brad’s bed. She dabbed a little gloss on her lips and contemplated the vision in the mirror, imagining his expression when she slipped out of the robe.
Her mouth went dry and she swallowed with anticipation. It had been too long since they’d made love. She missed him, his arms holding her, and the sense of security his lovemaking gave her. So much better than resorting to Xanax, she figured, realizing that the angry irritability she’d felt since her arrival at Strathaird was probably due to raging hormones gone unfulfilled.
She slipped from the room, peeked from left to right along the dark corridor, lit only by a dim wrought-iron sconce on the wall, then froze, cringing, when the door squeaked noisily shut behind her. Pausing once more to make sure no one was about, she quietly began the climb up the long fli
ght of stairs. It was drafty and she moved swiftly, making her way down the wide passage to the large gothic doors of the laird’s apartment. A glimmer of light shone from under it and her anticipation mounted. Was he still up reading? Or, better yet, waiting for her? A floorboard groaned. Stopping dead in her tracks, she glanced once more up and down the passage, stifling a nervous giggle. It was ridiculous to worry. Still, she felt better knowing all was quiet.
Tingling with expectation, she pinched her nipples through her gown to ensure that they’d look invitingly pert, then opened Brad’s door with a flourish.
“What the—”
“Shh. It’s just me,” she whispered, closing it quickly behind her.
Brad switched on the other lamp and sat up. He’d almost fallen asleep. Now, as he watched Sylvia advance across the room, her silk robe falling artfully from her shoulders, displaying an expanse of soft white skin, he stifled a secret wish that she’d left him alone.
Where had that come from? he wondered with a guilty start. After all, this was Sylvia, the woman he planned to marry, clearly bent on seduction. “Come on in,” he grinned, determined to enjoy the moment. Throwing back the covers, he patted the space beside him.
“Not so fast.” She lingered a few feet from the bed, allowing the robe to slip seductively down her body to the floor, revealing long, shapely legs and firm breasts barely covered by the minuscule square of white silk she’d no doubt paid a fortune for.
“Hey!” Brad exclaimed. “Stop tempting me and get in here.” He gave her his best wolfish grin and purposefully ignored the fact that her perfect body left him strangely unmoved.
Slowly she approached the bed, climbed onto the covers and sent him a sexy smile. “I’ve missed you.”
Brad slipped his hand to her waist and drew her close, seeking her lips as she pressed her body against his. She felt warm and pliant, lean and wanting.
And he felt nothing.
What the hell was the matter with him?
He breathed in the scent he knew so well and that should have intoxicated him, wondering desperately why the feel of her fingers pressing unashamedly against him left him unaroused. He caressed her automatically, seeking the spots he knew pleased her, heard the tiny gasp when his fingers reached farther, felt her moist heat and closed his eyes. He wanted her. Of course he wanted her, he reasoned frantically as his thumb grazed her taut nipple. But his body remained disturbingly unresponsive.
“Come on, honey, now, please,” she pleaded. “It’s been so long. I think I’ll burst if you don’t come inside me right away.”
“Just a bit longer,” he murmured, buying himself time. “Let’s enjoy it a while.” He felt a moment’s panic. What on earth was happening to him? He and Syl had always been great together. Why the hell wasn’t his body responding to her? As his hand slid once more between her thighs, a sudden image of Charlotte, lying naked, titian hair draping the pillow, flashed before him. To his horror he felt himself harden, seized by a craving stronger than anything he’d felt in years. Before he could stop himself, he drew Sylvia on top of him and plunged into her, hard and deep. She gasped, leaned back and moved fast, hair flying, close to climax.
For a moment he rode with her, the vision of driving himself into Charlotte’s willing body drowning out all sense. Then he opened his eyes and reality hit: he was making love to the wrong woman. Desire waned as abruptly as it had surged, and he pulled away, embarrassed and drowned in guilt.
“What’s the matter?” Sylvia rolled off and stared at him strangely, “What happened? Something I did?”
“No, nothing. I’m sorry, Syl. I guess I’m a little tired,” he murmured, flailing for an excuse.
“You—tired? You’ve never been tired in your life!”
“Well, I guess there’s always a first,” he responded with a weak attempt at humor. Mortified, he pressed a light kiss on her forehead.
“I don’t understand,” she continued insistently. “It’s been over a month, Brad. You must be dying for it.”
“I am. Of course I am, I…I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight. I guess my mind’s not letting me concentrate.”
“Concentrate? You shouldn’t have to concentrate.”
“Christ, Syl, you know what I mean.”
She lay tensely next to him, her head resting on his shoulder. The note of irritation was new and she didn’t like it. Something was desperately wrong. She mustn’t panic. All she needed was to figure out a way of getting him away from here as soon as possible. She could feel his pounding heartbeat through the thin cotton of his T-shirt as she considered her options. Perhaps she could create a diversion, devise some strategy whereby he’d be obliged to return to New York. Once they were back in the city, she was convinced everything would return to normal.
But what if it didn’t?
Sudden dread made her stiffen. Didn’t he find her attractive any longer? No, that couldn’t possibly be the issue. Their relationship was too time-tested for that. Could it be true, then—was he really tired? Or was it something else?
She tried to shift to an angle where she could examine his face, but he slipped an arm around her and drew her close, squeezing her tight. She lay impatiently next to him, watching roaming moonbeams cast silver threads over the counterpane.
“I’m sorry, babe,” Brad murmured, kissing her ear. “Let’s just forget about tonight. It’s been a rough day. We’ll try this again when I can give you and your delicious body my full attention.”
Mollified by his compliment, she twisted and smiled seductively, only to open her mouth in shock when he pulled back the covers and gave her a little push. “Better get that cute butt back down those stairs, or you might fall asleep here. We wouldn’t want to get caught by the ladies in the morning.”
She glared suspiciously at his overly bright smile, and the stubborn streak in her writhed. “I can’t believe this. You sound scared.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, looking away.
“Then what are you worried about?” she demanded.
“Nothing.”
“This is your fucking castle, Brad, and I’m the woman you sleep with, the woman you’re marrying, remember? Who cares what a bunch of local yokels think about what we do or don’t do? I’m staying.” She wriggled purposefully among the sheets.
“Syl, please, just go.” The impatience in his voice left her smarting in hurt surprise. There was something so peculiar in his manner, something so different from the man she’d last made love to in her Manhattan apartment.
“Okay,” she replied coolly. Slipping from the bed, she gathered her negligee and the remnants of her dignity. Upset and angry, she picked up the robe from the floor, flung it over herself and gave the belt a sharp twist. “Have a great night,” she muttered. Then, turning on her heel, she headed for the door.
“Good night, Syl…don’t be mad. This has nothing to do with you.”
She didn’t bother to answer, merely allowed the door to close with a sharp bang. She made no effort to mute her footsteps and derived a small measure of satisfaction when the ancient stairs squeaked beneath her as she hurried furiously away. She’d almost reached her bedroom door when the hallway light suddenly came on, leaving her paralyzed, like a fox gazing into headlights.
“Mon Dieu, I thought there were intruders.” Armand peered sleepily from his half-open door, then his mouth curved into a simpering smile. “You are returning from a nocturnal promenade, I gather?”
Sylvia took a deep breath. This was all she needed. Determined to save face, she sent him a sassy smile. “That’s right. Good night, Armand. Cute pj’s.”
“Peejays?”
“Yeah. Those red pajamas suit you.” She wiggled her eyebrows expressively.
Murmuring an embarrassed “Good night,” Armand disappeared and she rushed for her own door, barely able to contain herself.
Reaching the bedroom, she threw herself onto the bed and indulged in an uncharacteristic bout of tears. Everything h
ad been so right between Brad and her, and now, for some inexplicable reason that was not just this stupid pile of stone that he appeared so attached to, their relationship was floundering. She sniffed, rubbed her hand over her eyes, then sat up and tried to think. She must regroup. If she wasn’t the problem, as he’d implied, and it wasn’t the castle, then there had to be something else. And there was only one other possibility left, she realized somberly: another woman.
Fear and pain gripped her. How could he? How dare he? Her fingers balled in a tight fist and she gulped. What right did he have to come here and mess up all they had?
For a minute she sat cross-legged on the small, chaste bed, feeling sorry for herself. Then, as always, habit won, and she began formulating a plan. She would find out exactly what was going on and make darn sure she put an immediate end to it. For a while she sat, eyes narrowed, mind hard at work. Then she lay back and slipped under the covers, taking long deep breaths, determined to get some sleep. The last thing she needed were rings under her eyes. That wouldn’t help her compete against whatever island milkmaid had captured Brad’s fancy.
She must stay calm, she reminded herself, not get too worked up about this. Perhaps it was just a passing fancy—after all, men went through that sort of thing, or so she’d heard. But if she played her cards right, soon enough, Brad would remember what they had together and realize how much he stood to lose. Plus, she’d be willing to bet none of the single women he’d had the opportunity to meet on this waterbound rock pile could hold a candle to her.
The strain of the evening, compounded with disappointment and emotional exhaustion, finally got the better of her. Soon her lids drooped and she curled into the pillow. But just as sleep was about to catch up with her, a face flashed vividly before her. She sat up with a horrified start.
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