“What is it?” Charlotte asked in a shaky voice, securing her bra haphazardly into place, swallowing her bitter frustration at having had him within her so briefly. As she zipped her jeans she glanced at Brad; he looked like a child who’d been offered pudding then had it stolen away. And despite the tension, the humor of the situation struck her full in the gut and she began to giggle uncontrollably.
“Sergeant Ramsey on the phone.”
“Just coming,” she spluttered, jumping up and grinning at Brad, who grinned reluctantly back as he straightened his hair. Then she rushed to her stool, picking up a pencil just as Moira popped her head around the door.
“They’ve taken Bobby in for questioning. He wonders if you could pop over for a few minutes.”
“Of course,” she replied, amazed her voice was so even. “I’ll just finish this and go. Thanks.”
“Coffee, anyone?”
“No thanks,” they answered in unison. She looked up, saw Moira’s questioning glance, the twinkle behind the lenses, and felt a dull flush spread to her cheeks. Then, withdrawing her gaze, she began drawing as though her life depended on it.
“I’ll go over with you to the station,” Brad said.
He did not look the least bit perturbed, she realized as Moira closed the door quietly behind her. Or as if he’d spent the past fifteen minutes with her on the rug. She drew a long breath and tried to assimilate what had happened. She wanted to rush to him, say something, feel his arms reassuringly about her. But they were like separate islands, divided by an ocean of cold reality.
“Moira told Sergeant Ramsey that she saw Bobby in here the other day,” she mumbled, to mask her feelings.
“That was smart. We can’t take any risks, I don’t care how harmless Bobby may seem. And, uh, Charlie?”
“Mmm…” She concentrated on shading the drawing, fingers agitated.
“We need to talk.”
“Not now.” The pencil dropped, rolling off the table onto the floor. She jumped up. “We’d better get over there now. Sergeant Ramsey’s waiting.” She caught his look of frustration. For a terrified moment she thought he would insist, but he gave way and stood aside for her to pass through the door.
“My car’s parked on the curb.”
“I’d rather walk.”
“It’s still raining.”
“I don’t care. I need the fresh air.”
“Take a brolly.” Moira pointed helpfully to the colorful array in the stand near the door.
Brad pulled out a large golf umbrella, opening it as they stepped into the rainy windswept street. They fell into silent step together, shrouded by the colorful umbrella, each wrapped in thought as they trod the slippery flagged pavement toward the police station that stood alone at the far end of the street.
Brad glanced down at Charlotte. She looked tense and nervous. He knew that look and his heart sank. “Charlie, we have to talk about this,” he insisted, knowing he could not allow the breach between them to widen. “We can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”
“Not now.”
“Okay, later.”
She gave a quick nod but kept up the fast pace toward the dull, uninviting building now in sight.
He had to be content with that, he realized, following her up the steps into the constabulary, realizing she was still assimilating what had occurred, just as he was.
He looked past two policemen, one peering at a computer screen, the other stirring a mug of coffee, to the window of an inner office. Bobby sat slumped on a wooden chair opposite the sergeant, his thin, damp, mouse-colored hair stuck to the top of his egg-shaped head like a dummy in a store window.
Sergeant Ramsey came out of the office to greet them. “Sorry to bother ye,” he said with an apologetic smile, “but I’ve got wee Bobby in.” He jerked a thumb at the office. “I’m trying to make sense out of all his jabbering,” he said, raising his eyes heavenward.
“Poor Bobby,” Charlotte murmured, glancing at him through the window. “Frankly, I don’t think the robbery had anything to do with him, Sergeant.”
“He swears it didn’t. Though he does admit he was up that way on the day. ’Course, that might not signify anything, for he goes up to mind the sheep from time to time. Come on in and see what ye can make of it. Coffee?”
“Thanks.” She didn’t feel like coffee but she didn’t want to spurn the offer. Entering the office, she slipped a hand onto Bobby’s stooped shoulder and squeezed it.
“Are you all right?” she inquired as Brad pulled two more wooden chairs from against the pale-gray wall.
“Aye,” he muttered. Then his hazy eyes turned toward her, pleading. “I’d nae’ do anything te’ harm ye, Miss Charlotte. I’d never take anything that wasna’ mine. I slipped the wee bit of metal in ma’ pocket because Moira gave me a fright, that’s all. I didna’ mean to steal it from ye. I just wanted to take a peek at yer pretty work.”
“I know you didn’t mean any harm, Bobby.” Charlotte smiled gently. “Sergeant Ramsey’s just trying to find out as much as he can about who might have broken into Rose Cottage the other day, that’s all.”
“Do you have any idea?” Brad added, seating himself on Bobby’s left.
“No. I’ve nae’ clue,” Bobby murmured, head swaying despondently. Then he thought for a moment. “The wee man stayin’ at the castle—the one who looks like a bird and uses foreign words ye canna’ understand? He was the only person I saw up there that day.”
“He must mean Armand,” Brad murmured, frowning. “Was he up near the cottage? At what time?”
“A’ dinna’ rightly know. In the early afternoon, I think. I was headed te’ the fields with Shana, ma’ collie. One of the ewes got stuck in the wire up yon. I took the pliers to cut the fence. I fixed it afterward, ma’ lord.”
“Sure, don’t worry about it.” Brad smiled reassuringly “What I’m wondering,” he remarked, glancing past Bobby to Charlotte, “is what Armand was doing up there.”
“He often goes that way for his afternoon walk. Sometimes Diego joins him,” Charlotte said dismissively.
“I see.” Brad sat back thoughtfully. Sergeant Ramsey returned with two mugs of lukewarm coffee.
“Sergeant, I don’t think Bobby can help us.” Charlotte sent him a beseeching smile.
“Maybe not—” he glanced sternly at Bobby “—but ye’ve nae’ business lurking around Miss Charlotte’s cottage in the dead of night, giving her frights and the like.”
“A’ was guarding the cottage,” Bobby answered defiantly, a gleam entering his watery blue eyes. “There’s strange people about.”
“Well, that’s very thoughtful, Bobby, but you did give me an awful scare, you know,” Charlotte told him.
“I’m sorry, Miss Charlotte. I’ll nae’ do it again.” He hung his head like a guilty child and she exchanged a look with Sergeant Ramsey.
“Surely he can go, Sergeant. I mean—” She raised her hands and gave a quick compassionate glance at the pitiful figure in the faded yellow sweatshirt and scuffed sneakers. “I really don’t think there’s much Bobby can do. But,” she added in a bracing tone, “I’m sure he’ll be the first to come forward if he remembers anything else, won’t you, Bobby?”
He raised his head and looked at her adoringly. “Aye. Anything fer you, Miss Charlotte.”
“Very well, Bobby. I’ll drive ye home then.” The sergeant put his hand under Bobby’s elbow.
“Wait a minute.” Brad raised a hand and turned once more to Bobby. “How close was Armand to the cottage?”
“A’ couldna’ say.” Bobby’s eyebrows creased as he tried hard to remember. “At the gate, a’ think.” He rubbed his head then shook it. “No. Perhaps he was nearer the field. But then, he might have been at the door, too,” he added, trying desperately to please.
Brad sighed, then smiled. “That’s okay, Bobby. Don’t worry.”
“What would it matter if Armand was near the cottage, anyway?” Charlotte asked, bristling. “He’s
always going for wanders up on the moors.”
“Nothing. Just trying to piece all the facts together, that’s all,” Brad replied evenly, a new angle forming in his mind.
“Don’t worry about Bobby.” Charlotte smiled at Sergeant Ramsey. “I have to get back home. I can drop him off on the way. Coming, Bobby?”
He smiled at her gratefully and rose. “I’d never do anything te’ hurt nae’ one,” he insisted, glancing sheepishly at the sergeant, who’d also risen.
“I know, Bobby.” Sergeant Ramsey patted his shoulder in a friendly manner. “Now ye gae’ home with Miss Charlotte and send ma’ best to yer mum.”
“Aye.” Bobby nodded more cheerfully as they headed for the door.
“I’ll buy you a bun at the bakery,” Charlotte said, grinning. Bobby loved sugar buns.
“Thank ye, Miss Charlotte, I’d like that,” he said eagerly.
“Charlie—” Brad’s hand snaked swiftly to her arm. She glanced at him uneasily. “Will you come over to the castle later?”
“I don’t know. I’ll see. Bobby, you run ahead and I’ll catch up with you at the bakery,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. Turning to Brad as Bobby loped off hopefully down the street toward the bakery, she hesitated, glancing up at the drizzling sky. This was neither the time nor place to be announcing major life decisions. Still, she desperately needed to tell him. “There’s something I—I’ve decided to do, Brad. I haven’t told Mummy or anyone yet, so please keep it to yourself.” She shifted uncomfortably, gripping the brolly firmly and staring at the wet pavement, aware of the full weight of what she was about to say. It was the most serious step she’d ever undertaken, and she hadn’t taken it lightly. This was no impulsive urge like so many she’d regretted in the past; this was a conscious choice based on understanding and acceptance of facts that had taken her years to come to terms with. She’d finally understood something vital: John’s accident didn’t change the bigger scheme of things or the man himself. The decision she’d come to before the event was the right one.
Brad stood, crouched with her under the umbrella, lips inches from hers, eyebrows creased expectantly. There was a serious gleam in her eyes that told him that what she was about to tell him was vitally important. “Shoot,” he murmured, touching her arm reassuringly.
“I—I’m going ahead with the divorce,” she said in a rush. Their eyes met, locked, then she looked away. “I went to see the lawyers and it’s all settled. Of course, it doesn’t mean I’ll abandon him,” she continued. “I’ll go on visiting him even after the divorce. But on my own terms.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard in ages,” he declared, grinning, and pulling her close, wanting to fold her in his arms. Then a sharp pang reminded him that though she would now be free, he was about to commit himself forever to Sylvia.
“I have to go,” she muttered, anxious to leave now that she’d gotten it out. The decision had loomed for so long, a seemingly insurmountable hurdle, yet as she’d spoken the words it had sounded incredibly simple.
Movement to their left made Charlotte look up. She stepped quickly out of Brad’s reach as Mrs. Pearson’s bicycle rounded the corner. “Oh God, not now,” she moaned.
“Hello, hello.” Mrs. P. called briskly as she slowed the bike, oblivious to the downpour and the wilting feather in her hat.
“Hello, Mrs. Pearson.” Charlotte mustered a smile.
“Lord MacLeod. What a pleasure to see you taking an interest in village affairs. I heard from Councilor Dumbarton that you have great plans afoot?” Her tone was conspiratorial, her eyes alive with avid curiosity.
“Absolutely,” he replied blithely. “Lots of things cooking.”
“Anything I can do to help?” Mrs. Pearson said, her withered face creased in a hopeful beam.
“I’m afraid it’s early days. But I’m sure as soon as the councilor has his show on the road, we’ll be in touch.”
“Ah! I have a few suggestions of my own that might come in useful. Not that one would wish to intrude, of course,” she said, with the air of one who had every intention of doing just that, “but one is fairly au fait with the goings-on.” She leaned closer. “If at any time you feel the need for personal guidance, the Colonel and I would be only too glad. These waters can be tricky to navigate,” she added with a quick glance to the right and left.
“Uh, yes—of course. Very generous of you.” Brad smiled briefly, then glanced regretfully at his watch. Charlotte smothered a grin. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, Mrs. Pearson, urgent business at the castle, you know.”
“But of course. Far be it from me to intrude upon your duties. Perhaps you and your charming fiancée would like to pop over for a drink sometime? Does she plan to make a prolonged stay?” The eagerness in her voice was barely disguised.
“That would be very nice,” he murmured blandly, skirting the last part of her question while casting Charlotte a look.
“Bye-bye, Mrs. Pearson.” Charlotte nodded firmly and turned. “I’m off to get Bobby his bun. See you later.” She waved and moved quickly down the pavement.
Brad watched in frustration as Mrs. Pearson cycled off lugubriously and Charlotte entered the bakery. Her words left a sudden emptiness inside. Independence was what he wanted for her. He should be thrilled, but knowing he would not be a part of her newfound freedom left him drained and listless. There were responsibilities, an engagement, the twins and the real world to contend with. None were about to disappear because of Charlotte’s news. All he wished for was a magic wand that could somehow make her a part of his life.
He glanced back at the station. For a moment he considered having a one-on-one talk with Sergeant Ramsey, then thought better of it, deciding instead to head back to the castle. The talk with Charlotte would have to wait.
As he walked back to his car, he considered Armand and his often odd behavior. The man was a throwback to another era. He knew Armand had suffered a strange and tortured childhood. His mother had been shot as a collaborator during the war, and he’d been taken in by the Cardinal and educated by Jesuit priests. Clearly, the guy carried a huge chip on his shoulder as a result. His past reminded Brad of his grandfather’s, all strange twists and turns and the river of revelations that had led to his own, unexpected destiny. Could there be more secrets stashed in the closet, waiting to be revealed? he wondered suddenly.
Opening the car door, he got in and for a moment gazed blindly through the wet windshield. Did the past have anything to do with Armand’s unexpected presence at Strathaird?
Probably not much.
Still, he was prompted to dig further. The obvious person to ask, he realized, turning the key in the ignition, was Oncle Eugène. The Cardinal had arrived at Strathaird a few days earlier. Between his duties and Sylvia’s departure, he hadn’t had much opportunity to talk with his grandfather’s cousin. Now he was glad to have something to take his mind off the growing guilt that hovered whenever Sylvia’s image flashed. Guilt was putting it mildly, he realized uncomfortably, especially given what had happened in Charlotte’s studio. He pushed the events of the morning out of his mind, knowing he’d need to address them but finding it safer, for the moment, to focus on the matter at hand. It was time, he decided as he drove back up the hill toward Strathaird, to set some feelers out and learn all he could while Eugène was still around to spill the beans about the past. If beans there were to spill.
Something told him there were.
11
It was Tuesday afternoon, just moments into Harcourts’ board meeting. Sylvia stared at the members of the board assembled around the long polished table—all of them established businessmen in their own right, all of them eyeing her expectantly—and walked as casually as she could to Brad’s deep leather chair at the head of the table.
As she lowered herself into the seat, she experienced a sudden rush. She’d never directed a board meeting before, but instantly she knew she’d want to again. Placing her papers in careful order,
she looked up and smiled.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. It’s unfortunate that our chairman is unable to be with us today, but pressing matters in Scotland prevented him from attending.” She stopped, looked from left to right, eyes connecting for a moment with those members she’d been talking to over the past few days. Then she continued. “As I remarked, it’s unfortunate, but I hope I’ll be able to stand in in an adequate manner.”
“Sylvia,” Barry Granger sent her an amused glance from under bushy white eyebrows, “I don’t think any of us doubt that. You know more about Harcourts than the rest of us combined.” There was an answering murmur of approval.
“Thank you.” She smiled briefly then turned to her right and addressed a tall man, dressed in a pinstripe suit, with thick black hair and heavy glasses. “Everard, you have our agenda for today. I believe we’re all ready.” She leaned forward and studied the memo before her, careful to betray none of the nervousness she felt.
After clearing his throat, Everard launched into a preview of the items on the agenda. They were all pro forma, Sylvia realized as she allowed her mind to wander. It was eight o’clock in Scotland. What was Brad doing right now? she wondered. Was he with—Immediately she stopped herself. She mustn’t let emotion cloud her mind; if there was ever a moment she needed all her faculties about her, this was it. Clearing the decks, she concentrated on Everard and the meeting, aware that now was the time to sow seeds for the future.
And plant she must, if her plan was to succeed.
The afternoon did not improve, the sky remaining cloudy. A walk, even in the close perimeters of the castle, was out of the question. Resigning himself to an afternoon of reading, Eugène de la Vallière repaired to the library with the aid of his companion and caregiver, Monsignor Kelly. There he continued to read and snooze. When the door opened quietly he shifted, wished his back weren’t so stiff, his annoyance fading when he saw Brad.
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