Dear Reader,

As a native of Scotland, I have always been drawn to the rugged beauty of the Isle of Skye, and the great history found in this land of churning seas, gentle countryside, ancient castles and local village pubs.

In The Lost Dreams I am thrilled to return to Strathaird Castle and the MacLeod clan. It is here, in this ancient fortress, that American Bradley Ward, caught between inherited responsibilities and new possibilities, must jump from being CEO of a multinational company and learn to become “Lord of the Manor.” Strathaird is also where Charlotte MacLeod must finally face the demons of her past, in order to reclaim her passions and her strength to face the future.

Some of you may already have met the MacLeod family in my previous novel The Stolen Years, which introduced readers to twins Gavin and Angus MacLeod, and to Flora, the woman they both loved. I, too, loved these characters. In fact, they became so dear to me that I had to discover what happened to the next generation of this captivating extended family. I hope you, too, will enjoy sharing their struggles, their secrets, their passions, fears and hopes, and most of all, the lost dreams they had never thought to find.

Happy reading!

Fiona Hood-Stewart

Also by FIONA HOOD-STEWART

THE STOLEN YEARS

THE JOURNEY HOME

SILENT WISHES

The Lost Dreams
Fiona Hood-Stewart

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To John with love

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As always, my love and thanks to my sons, Sergio and Diego, for their patience and support. Many thanks to Andrew, Jojo and Francesca Grima for their help in researching the jewelry described in the text. To my sister, Althea Dundas-Beeker for her input on the management of a Scottish estate, and to my editor Miranda Stecyk, and Dianne Moggy.

Into my life you came

When least expected.

Out of the dark

You stole my guarded heart.

Led me by the hand

To new tomorrows,

Showed me love,

Then taught me to impart.

Gone are the tears of yesterday,

The sorrows.

Shed, the lingering shadows,

Gone the pain.

Now, in their stead

The flame of your love lingers,

Wonder, light and joy

Their newfound name.

Dream a little dream

And let it wander.

Dare to listen

Deep inside your soul.

Breathe love’s tender joys

And heartfelt treasures—

Can’t lose the dream

When now, at last, it’s known.

F.H.S.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

1

Did he feel anything? Charlotte Drummond wondered, gazing at the thin, waxlike body lying perfectly still under pressed white sheets. Was it possible that, despite medical evidence to the contrary, the seemingly lifeless man before her somehow sensed her presence?

She shuddered, took a deep breath, and quickly shifted her gaze to the sterile hospital wall, then reached out blindly to pull the gray plastic chair back from the side of the metal bed and sat down wearily. The trip to Glasgow and the hospital was both physically and mentally wearing. Now, as she prepared to wait out the self-imposed hourly visit she undertook once every two weeks, as she had for the past year, she forced herself to get a grip on her emotions. She gazed at him once again in a more detached manner, studying the vestiges of those strong, handsome features that once had set the world on fire. Although the devastating smile that had flashed across movie screens and into the hearts of millions around the globe was gone now, obscured by the respirator tubes that kept him alive, his good looks were still evident.

Then another image flashed. Not so pleasant, but just as memorable. Instinctively she tensed and her fingers moved to her cheek, where more than once she’d felt the impact of his hand, sending her reeling. She trembled involuntarily, knuckles gripping the metal bed rail, hoping he would never wake, afraid that he would.

She rose nervously, moved quickly away, toward the long, paned window, and stared at the midday traffic trundling slowly under a thin summer drizzle in the street below, wishing she could somehow outrun the obsessive thoughts that always haunted her visits here. Memories she’d never escape, she realized, passing a hand over her eyes. She would never forget the sleepless nights and the obsessive fear that over the years had brought her to her knees. It was only when she’d finally hit rock bottom that she realized anything, even death, would be better than the life she was living, that to survive, she must climb out of the abyss by whatever means, and at whatever cost. It had taken several months, but finally she’d built up enough courage to make the break. Then came that last, harrowing quarrel, her rage and humiliation when he’d laughed at her threat to end the marriage once and for all. A vision of his face, white with fury, as he’d slammed the door, and her surge of satisfaction that at last she’d stood up to him. Then the call, several hours later, that had shattered her newfound confidence; she’d rushed through the streets of London to the emergency room at St. Thomas’ hospital, praying, begging for the news not to be true.

The rest of that awful day was a blur of images: the bleak, desperate faces of the director and the producer, the doctor’s blunt explanation of just how the fall from the high-rise building, a stunt he normally would never have attempted, had left him in a coma. For how long? she’d asked, recalling the suffocating desperation. But nobody knew.

Worse had been the remorse. Shame for the unexpected rush of freedom, the relief of knowing that he couldn’t hurt her mentally or physically ever again, accompanied by the deep-rooted fear that she was the one to blame.

Charlotte’s head drooped. She closed her eyes and thrust trembling fingers into her long titian hair. Oh God. Was it her fault he’d left the house in such a towering rage that day? Was this his way of punishing her? For punish her he had, holding her prisoner, silently forcing her on this fortnightly pilgrimage of penance, keeping himself and her guilt alive for as long as he remained tied to the machines that linked him to life.

Perhaps, even in his comatose state, he sensed the guilty secret that she harbored, the unvoiced wish that they’d simply pull the plug.

No. That was impossible. Even considering such a thing was wicked. While there was still an ounce of hope, she had no right. Just as she couldn’t possibly divorce him now, however much Mummy and Moira insisted she should. After all, whatever he’d done in the past, he was still her husband and she must stand by him. It was the only decent thing to do.

But what if he did suddenly wake up? It had been known to happen. She doubled over again, willing the wave of nausea to pass, schooling her mind, driving out demons, replacing them with problems of the moment, ones she could do something concrete about.

Raising her aching head, she fixed her gaze carefully beyond the body and the bed to the wall behind, and forced herself to think of something else.

Anything else.

Bradley Ward. She considered his impending visit and felt better. Wonderful, decent Brad, her dear friend and cousin. Well, she reflected ruefully, only a distant cousin, but still, family all the same. But he was also the man who was forcing her to leave Strathaird, that rugged dauntless fortress she adored, the place she called home. In winter, the untamed North Sea plundered the craggy rocks below its grim facade, in summer, laughing frothy crests lapped gently. It was home. Her beloved ancestral home. The one place that had never let her down. Within the sanctuary of its massive stone walls that for centuries had withstood enemy onslaughts, raiding Vikings and plundering rival clans, within the cozy embrasure of the worn chintz window seat of her bedroom or curled under the old mohair rug in the deep leather armchair next to the library fire, watching the rain slash the sturdy diamond-shaped windowpanes, she felt safe from the world.

And now Strathaird would be hers no longer.

Not that Brad had wanted the property—he’d done everything possible to get the estate’s entail voided in favor of her mother and herself, but the rule of law apparently trumped a generation of occupancy and dedication to the land.

And broke her heart.

Charlotte swallowed the lump in her throat. Even though she was grateful the estate would be in Brad’s capable hands, she didn’t think she could bear to witness the changes his tenure would inevitably bring.

And now he’d be coming with a bride.

His engagement had been a complete surprise, one she was still trying to fathom and accept. She should have known that one day it would happen. Not that she objected, of course—far from it; she planned to pull his leg royally at the wedding, then be the first to toast his good fortune. It just felt odd to think of her Brad tied permanently to another woman, when he’d always been there for her. Now, she supposed reluctantly, she’d have to learn to share his strength with someone else.

All at once, Brad’s image materialized before her. Not as he was now, but as he’d been that night in Chester Square all those years ago, when he’d taken her in his arms and she’d felt his lips on hers. It had been years since she’d given it any thought, ages since she’d remembered. So why now? she wondered, eyes still carefully pinned above the bed, tracing shadows on the wall, trying to make some sense of these irrational thoughts. It was so silly. For over a decade, they’d had nothing more than a close friendly relationship. Still, she sighed involuntarily. The fact remained that after Brad married Sylvia, things would never be quite the same again.

The loud beeping of a monitor brought her crashing back to earth. She blinked uneasily at the panel of lights to the right of the bed, knowing the nurses would be in soon to check the apparatus. She flexed her fingers nervously and got up, feeling frustrated and cramped, and paced the room, agitated as a caged cheetah. If only there was some way to tear herself away, reach beyond this restless, dark-edged world that hovered constantly. But that was wishful thinking. Like it or not, she was stuck in a deadly impasse, unable to relinquish the past and powerless to claim the future.

She tried desperately to breathe, to regain composure, and realized with shock that she was trembling. Every instinct rebelled. She refused to regress. But as she cast a final fleeting glance at the motionless figure in the hospital bed, she felt the familiar ache rising in her throat; fear gripped her and panic hit.

The chair toppled as she fled from her husband’s side. Scrambling on the linoleum floor, she grabed her purse with a new sense of urgency, flung open the door and hurtled into the corridor, unable to stand it a moment longer.

A peacock blue sea sparkled, gulls soared and a warm west wind, herding clouds like woolly sheep, announced rain. But that would only come later, Penelope MacLeod realized, peering out the window of her daughter’s new home. The brine-filled breeze caressed her hair as she shook the duster vigorously and watched, mind adrift, as specks of dust sank into the rose bed. That, too, needed a good weeding, she thought, straightening her back, stiff from hours of sweeping, scrubbing and polishing. Her lips curved and she looked about her, amused. If she’d realized just how much elbow grease it was going to take to get Rose Cottage into some semblance of livability, she might not have offered her services to Charlotte quite so readily. Yet, as she gazed across the fields stretching out toward Strathaird Castle and the familiar knot caught once more in her throat, she knew that Charlotte had done the right thing by moving out. It was time to move on, and easier to deal with the logistics of the transfer before Brad arrived.

She sighed, gazed at the stark walls and turrets of what had always been their home, and thought about past and future. So much had happened in the past few years, so many revelations, so many unexpected twists and turns of fate that had changed life forever. Who would have imagined that Charlotte would move from that fast-paced life she’d led within the ambit of the movie business and the house in Notting Hill, back to Skye and now to the tiny thatch cottage left her by Granny Flora? More amazing was that her daughter seemed perfectly content to live away from the hubbub that not long ago had been her lifeline, with her young daughter Genny.

How one’s children change, Penelope reflected, thinking back to the restless, long-legged filly Charlotte used to remind her of. Then, turning her back to the window, she tucked a stray strand of soft blond hair behind her ear and took a good look at her handiwork. The cottage sparkled and she felt pride in the job. Charlotte would come home tonight to a tidy new home, where Penelope hoped very much that she’d be happy. Perhaps this was another sign her daughter was finally beginning to move on from the guilt and self-doubt she’d lived with these last many years.

The first sign of progress had been Charlotte’s sudden determination to open a gallery in the village to exhibit the jewelry designs she created. It had come as a welcome surprise, a signal that she was learning to trust in herself again. Penelope sighed and looked about her again. At least the cottage was a world away from London and all the craziness that had been her daughter’s life before her husband’s accident. A far leap from the castle half a mile down the dirt road, too, she realized with a sigh and a smile.

But right now, the cottage was where Charlotte wanted and needed to be.

She picked up the duster, eyes flitting over the sienna-colored walls Charlotte had painted with loving care, a warm backdrop to the many picture frames, lamps and two voluminous sofas discovered on a rainy afternoon binge in the attic at Strathaird. The sofas had cleaned up rather nicely, she reckoned, tilting her head and casting a critical eye over them. Covered with Charlotte’s extravagant throws and cushions, they looked comfy and welcoming.

The raid on the attic had yielded a number of other treasures. An ancient Indian chest with brass fittings and ivory inlays, a relic of the Raj that must have belonged to Great-Uncle Dougal MacLeod, who’d married the daughter of a local maharajah, now served as a coffee table, decked with heavy beeswax candles, a splattering of art books and a couple of artsy ashtrays. Penelope shook her head in admiration, amazed at her daughter’s ability to create an atmosphere straight out of House & Garden with old attic remnants and personal flair. Where had her child inherited her vivid imagination? she wondered. Neither David, her late husband, nor she were particularly artistic. Yet Charlotte oozed originality and creative talent.

Penelope glanced doubtfully at the tiger skin—probably another of Great-Uncle Dougal’s trophies—staring up at her from the grate with wide questioning eyes. She frowned, wondering whether Genny would be upset by its presence in the house. It pained her to see how sensitive her granddaughter was, how small things touched her in unanticipated ways. She hesitated. Perhaps if they gave the animal a name they could all become friends, and Genny wouldn’t mind. Rudyard Kipling came to mind. That was it! They’d name the tiger Arun, and her possible distaste would be allayed.

Smiling, she moved to the mantelpiece and carefully straightened great-great-grandfather Hamish MacLeod’s freesia-filled silver christening mug, making sure it was dead in the center of the Chippendale mirror frame above. She glanced at the photos Charlotte had placed on either side. Her gaze hardened as it fell upon John Drummond’s handsome, devil-may-care face staring up with confident arrogance, the photo shot days before the stunt that had caused his accident. Why couldn’t he have just died? she asked herself bitterly, not for the first time. The thought was wrong, of course, but she didn’t give a damn. The man had nearly ruined her daughter’s life. Could she be blamed for wishing him dead and Charlotte free? Even now, as he lay passive in his hospital bed, he continued to wield power. Charlotte was neither a wife nor a widow. God knows she’d tried to persuade her to carry on with the divorce proceedings she’d finally had the courage to face up to on that fatal day of the accident. But it was useless. Despite all the abuse she’d suffered from him—or perhaps partly because of it—Charlotte refused to be swayed.

Penelope sighed and shifted her gaze quickly to a picture of Genny and Charlotte, arms entwined aboard a yacht in Ibiza, then paused at the photo placed to the far right, featuring Brad, her husband, David, and her beloved son, Colin. Tears welled and she swallowed. Would she ever come to terms with her son’s sudden disappearance in the avalanche, or David’s heart attack so soon afterwards? In the space of a year she’d been deprived of the two men she most loved. And now Brad was the new Lord MacLeod and would be here in a couple of days to take Strathaird’s reins, and life as they knew it would change forever. Still, she was thankful it was him and not a stranger, as might well have been the case.

Penelope turned firmly away from the mantelpiece, determined not to let herself plunge once more into depression. Life went on. David and Colin would always be dearest to her heart, but now she must face the future alone. And there was her nephew to help. Brad would need all her assistance as he assumed his new role. It was not an easy position to be landed with at any time, much less so when you weren’t born and bred to it and were a foreigner, to boot.

The thought of him cringing at his new title cheered her up considerably and she laughed out loud. Poor boy. He was so cosmopolitan, yet at times he could be so wonderfully American too, the mere thought of an aristocratic title not at all in keeping with his views!

Well, he’d just have to get used to it. But she couldn’t help wondering if he was truly prepared to shoulder this new set of responsibilities when his grandfather had already saddled him with so much.

The problem, she realized, a tiny smile hovering at the edge of her full mouth, was that Brad was too nice. Anyone else would have been thrilled to inherit Strathaird Castle for all the wrong reasons. Considered it their right.

But not Brad.

Instead, he’d gone to great lengths to try to have the entail on the estate reverted to Charlotte and herself.

She picked up an empty mug from the bookshelf and stared again at the photograph. What a handsome, fine, strong man he’d grown up to be. And how thrilled she was that he’d finally met someone with whom to share his life.

Not that Sylvia would have struck her as Brad’s type. But then, what did she know about it? She remembered the smart, desperately chic woman she’d met briefly at a luncheon at the Savoy Grill several months earlier and hoped Sylvia would take to the people on the estate and enjoy them as much as she did.

A sudden vision of the sophisticated New Yorker had her gazing blindly at the bowl, hands falling dejectedly to her sides. How could poor Sylvia possibly be expected to learn in a few weeks what came handed down over generations? Again she sighed and shrugged. There was little use worrying. But how would old Mrs. McKinnon fare without her weekly cup of tea, where she brought Penelope up to date with all her latest aches and pains? And how would Tom, the crofter, get to his doctor’s appointment on Tuesday afternoons now that his granddaughter was at university in Glasgow?

These and many other seemingly insignificant thoughts preoccupied her, followed by an unexpected memory of Brad and Charlotte years ago, playing tennis at La Renardière, the family home in Limoges. They’d been as thick as thieves then, hardly needing anyone else in their entourage, having so much fun together. But that easy familiarity and bantering had all changed when Charlotte became pregnant and married John Drummond fourteen years ago.

She’d wondered back then if Brad’s feelings for her daughter had reached deeper than he’d cared to admit. There had been a look in his eyes, not to mention his unswerving determination to protect Charlotte. She was almost certain, she reflected, giving the nearest cushion on the sofa a pat, that Brad had loved Charlotte at one time. But for years now, nothing but old friendship had reigned. Like all mothers, she desperately wished that her child could have found happiness, instead of all the misery she’d encountered, and was still enduring.

Leaving the mug and duster in the kitchen, Penelope left the shepherd’s pie she’d prepared, ready for Charlotte to pop in the oven, and picked up her old Barbour jacket. It was a long drive back from Glasgow and the hospital, and Charlotte would get back late. If only she’d do some much-needed shopping instead of sitting for hours in that dreadful sterile atmosphere, a morgue filled with live corpses. But there was little use trying to persuade Charlotte; once she set her mind to something, neither man nor mountain could move her.

She glanced at her watch. Armand would be back for tea soon. Her late husband’s French cousin, a Parisian fashion designer, was not the easiest of guests. Still, she should be thankful he was taking such an interest in Charlotte’s jewelry designs, she realized, dashing off a quick note that she placed in front of the pie. He seemed genuinely delighted with the gallery and its creations, and Charlotte had blossomed under his praise. Life was full of surprises, she reflected ruefully. Sometimes help came from the most unexpected sources.

Heading for the door, she picked up the basket she’d left on the front step. Looping it on her arm, she took a doubtful look at the somber sky before venturing briskly down the hill toward Strathaird, hoping it wouldn’t rain before she reached home, as she’d forgotten her brolly.

Sylvia Hansen glanced speculatively at Brad, leaning back in the plush leather desk chair, hands entwined behind his neck, eyes glued on the enormous corner-office window. It was well into the evening, and already the lights of Manhattan vividly dotted the night sky. She stifled a yawn but reminded herself once again how damn lucky she was to have him. Bradley Harcourt Ward was gorgeous, successful and ambitious—all the things she considered herself to be.

She smiled briefly. Together they made one hell of a team. She had no doubt at all that soon they would be one of the city’s premier power couples. Despite the travails of the past that were hers alone, she was finally about to achieve what would have seemed impossible not so long ago. Yes, she reflected, her expression softening as she watched him, Brad was well worth the wait, even though she’d almost taken the initiative and proposed to him herself in the end. Now she sported an impressive diamond that had once belonged to his great-grandmother on her finger, and a fabulous winter wedding was scheduled at the St. Regis. Not bad for a girl who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks in Little Rock.

She shuddered inwardly. The past and the shadows sometimes lingered, but she cast them aside and concentrated on what Brad was saying, swallowing a weary sigh when she realized he was back on the subject of Strathaird. During the past weeks, she’d heard more about that wretched Scottish castle he’d inherited by some stroke of ill-fated chance than she cared to recall, and was sorely tempted to leave him sitting here in the office and get their driver to take her home. Surely he must realize it wasn’t that important? Couldn’t he simply hire people to take care of the place? Scotland and his new inheritance could hardly require the kind of involvement he seemed determined to give it. She smoothed her skirt over her knees and crossed her legs, aware of a new inflection in his tone. Wondering if she’d missed something, she frowned. “What exactly are you getting at?” she asked, eyebrows knit.

“Well—” Brad twiddled his Mont Blanc pen thoughtfully “—as I’ve already mentioned, Strathaird is going to require my personal attention. At the beginning, at least. Which is why I was considering hopping over to Skye by myself first.” He glanced briefly at her, across the vast expanse of desk. “You know, there’s going to be a heck of a lot to do—or learn, rather. The truth is, Syl, I know as much about running a Scottish estate as training the New York Mets.” He raised a hand and grinned. “I take that back. At least I know the rules of baseball and have scored a couple of home runs in my time, but to me this is estate management 101. Arriving there on my own would give me half a chance to start sorting things out before you arrive.” He smiled, his riveting eyes seeking hers, as though her agreement was important.

Sylvia came awake with a jolt. “You want to go there alone?”

“Why not? It’d only be a few days—a week at most. It’d give me an opportunity to wet my feet, meet the tenants, become familiar with a number of issues, and let you finish whatever you have to do here, instead of sitting around the castle alone with me busy all day.”

Sylvia nodded doubtfully. The prospect of sitting about in a musty old castle on the Scottish moors was not especially compelling, particularly if Brad was going to spend his days elsewhere. Normally, she’d have used the downtime to get more work done, but he’d already laughingly assured her there wasn’t a cell tower within a hundred miles of Strathaird. The thought of surviving without her BlackBerry pager gave her a serious pause. “All right,” she mused, “you have a point. I’m still working through those Australian contracts and need to wrap them up in the next two weeks.” She glanced up at him, shirt-sleeves rolled up, tie still in place, the tan from their trip to St. Barthes still glowing despite a full week’s work, and smiled into his piercing blue eyes. “Okay. You go and I’ll stay. After all, one of us had better stay on board the ship.”

“Good girl.” He grinned, leaned across the desk, past memos and the array of telephones, and took her hand in his. “You’re a great gal, Syl. I know I can always count on you.”

“Thanks.” She mustered a sassy grin, knowing he meant it as a compliment, and wondered why his words made her feel like a well-worn trench coat.

“Right.” He brought his hand down firmly on the desk. “Well, now that we’ve settled that satisfactorily, we should consider food. Do you want to go out for dinner or shall we order in?” He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“We had a reservation at Town, but I canceled about an hour ago. Tell me, when exactly are you planning to leave?” she asked, frowning.

“At the end of the week or so.” Brad began tidying his papers. “That is, if all goes well with Seattle and Chicago. I’m glad you see the sense of me heading over there alone,” he continued, getting up. “It’ll give me time to catch up with the family, too,” he remarked, stretching. Moving toward the large panoramic window, he stared broodingly out the window at the streaming traffic fifty-two stories below. “You know, I haven’t had a real heart-to-heart talk with Charlotte in a couple of years. Time goes by so fast. We barely even get the chance to talk on the phone anymore.” He turned and picked up his jacket.

Sylvia followed suit, slipping the large black Prada purse that contained her life over her shoulder, and frowned. “I met Charlotte in London that time we went to the Chelsea Flower Show,” she murmured, glancing at him. “I didn’t realize you were close. You and Charlotte call each other regularly?”

“Not lately. But we used to spend hours on the phone. Of course, that was a while back. I tried to help her through some of her problems. She had a bad marriage. So, which is it going to be?” he asked, changing the subject and slipping an arm around her. “Thai, or will you whip us up one of your superb omelettes? If I have any say in the matter, I’ll opt for the omelette.”

“Sounds good to me. I’m too tired to go out,” she replied, leaning into him.

“Then omelettes it is. I’ll even give you a back massage, how’s that?” He gave her a brief hug as they moved toward the door.

“What’d I do to deserve that?” She tilted her head up at him as they traversed the quiet hall.

“You’re the best,” he teased, reaching for the button of the elevator.

“Yeah, right!”

“I swear. You understand everything, you never bitch. What more could a man ask for?” He grinned down at her and pinched her cheek. “Remind me to send an e-mail to Aunt Penn, will you? I just remembered it’s Charlie’s birthday on Friday. Maybe I could arrive as a surprise,” he added as the wide metallic doors slid open on the marble and mirrored elevator.

“But we’re going to the Walsh dinner party on Saturday night,” Sylvia exclaimed, taken aback. Jake Walsh was one of the Street’s legendary arbitrageurs, and she’d spent the last year carefully cultivating a friendship with his young wife, Karen, who was on most of the city’s most prominent charity boards. Anyway, the ones she was interested in joining.

“We are?” Brad grimaced. “It’s not that important, is it? Can’t we reschedule?”

They reached the lobby of the Harcourts building and walked toward the car waiting at the curb. Sylvia swallowed her frustration. “Well,” she muttered grudgingly, “it’s not essential, but I’d hate to miss the chance to check out their penthouse. I hear it’s phenomenal.”

“Then you go, honey, you’ll enjoy it,” he answered, smiling absently as they slid into the back of the vehicle, and Ramon, the driver, glided smoothly into the Manhattan evening traffic.

“That’s not the poi—” She bit back the words, afraid she’d sound petty and childish. For some reason, this sudden eagerness to get to Scotland had upset her, and the fact that he wanted to go alone left her strangely empty and anxious. She shrugged, leaned over and poured them each a scotch, knowing it was ridiculous to be so uptight. Brad was straight as an arrow; he traveled all the time by himself and she never gave it a thought. Still, something about this particular trip left her uneasy. It just wasn’t her world.

Taking a long sip, she stared out the car window at late stragglers hurrying toward the subway, noticing a dog walker clutching the leashes of six hounds under a streetlight. What kind of person wanted a job as a dog walker? she wondered absently. Then, leaning back in the soft cream leather, she slipped her hand in his, determined to relax the rest of the drive home.

It was dark by the time Charlotte finally reached Rose Cottage and walked through the tiny hall into the kitchen. Pungent summer scents, dried flowers, and herbs hanging from low, waxed beams welcomed her as she tossed her bag on the counter. To her surprise, the house was spic and span. Then she caught sight of the shepherd’s pie and lifted the note with a tired smile. How sweet of Mummy to have taken all this trouble when she had so much to cope with before Brad’s arrival. And, despite her sadness at leaving Strathaird, she recognized how good it felt to be in a place entirely her own once more. Living at the castle with Mummy and Genny had been fine, but there was something to be said about opening your own front door and knowing you were home.

The phone rang and she picked up.

“Hello, darling.” Charlotte’s mouth curved as her daughter’s voice poured down the line in an excited, thirteen-year-old rush.

“Yes, of course you can sleep over, darling. But don’t be a nuisance to Mrs. Morison. Give them my love.”

Charlotte hung up, glad Genny had new friends. She’d been so alone and shy when they’d first returned to the island after John’s accident. Making the change from London hadn’t been easy. The other children had not willingly accepted her, and of course her limp hadn’t helped.

She switched on the kettle, absently inserted the pie in the oven, and shoved the recurring guilt over the night when she’d fallen asleep at the wheel. Genny had paid the price, her leg crushed in the twisted metal. The accident had left her with a serious limp that Charlotte prayed would diminish with time. She quickly shifted her thoughts back to the present before remorse engulfed her and reflected on all that had happened in the past few months. Change, it seemed, was the order of the day.

Of course, it was unrealistic to believe that life would go on forever as it always had. Brad and his soon-to-be wife, Sylvia, could hardly be expected to put up with the inconveniences that were a part of Strathaird, she acknowledged, taking a chipped Winnie the Pooh mug off the hook above the sink and opening the tea tin. It was ironic, she reflected, that she, who so desperately longed for change in her personal life, could not bear the thought of seeing Strathaird transformed even a little. Which was why she’d left. She was only half a mile up the road, she realized, but mentally she was gone. Strathaird, with its draughts, the lift that always got stuck and the broken step leading down to the lawn that for some reason never got repaired, was a part of her past. But for all her life, it had represented home.

She dangled the mug carelessly, engulfed by sudden nostalgia, then stopped short, remembering the mammoth-size crates filled with gym equipment that had been delivered three days ago, now looming ominously in the Great Hall. Moving out was definitely the right thing to do, she realized with a shudder, picturing Sylvia, sleek and blond, mounted on the treadmill.

Selecting a ginger snap from the dented biscuit tin, she set it beside the tea mug. The image of Brad’s smooth, sexy, sophisticated fiancée flashed vividly in her mind’s eye. A smart, highly organized, modern woman, she reflected, remembering the one time they’d briefly met, two years ago, long before there was any talk of marriage. Pouring boiling water into the mug, she bit dismally into the cookie, feeling suddenly dowdy and drab. The woman probably had a color-coded closet. Her bags full of designer outfits were probably already carefully packed for her stay on Skye—or would Prada and Calvin Klein remain stashed in her pristine Manhattan apartment?

Not that she cared.

Charlotte straightened her drooping shoulders and sipped her tea cautiously. Sylvia could look as good as she liked, and she wished Brad very happy. After all, the woman was obviously the perfect choice for him: neat, orderly, efficient, the ideal companion for a man with all his responsibilities.

The acrid scent of burning food made her swivel toward the oven, the shepherd’s pie that she’d forgotten a sharp reminder of just how absentminded and unorganized she could be. Sylvia, she reflected somberly, probably never did silly things like leave the oven on. Then, hoisting a slender hip up onto the counter, she grinned as she imagined Sylvia’s apartment; probably somewhere in the upper east sixties, the perfect address, très slick, Italian furniture—modern, of course—a very clean, minimalist look, all ecru and beige with touches of chrome. Not a thing out of place.

A crack of laughter broke the silence as she slipped on a pair of charred oven gloves, opened the oven door and pictured Brad and the twins in this hypothetical home. She grimaced at the burned crust, glanced despondently at the oven’s too-high setting and pulled herself up guiltily. She had no business criticizing Sylvia, who from all accounts was delightful and who adored Rick and Todd, Brad’s half brothers whom he’d taken in eight years ago when their parents died tragically in a plane crash. What right had she to judge someone who, according to general opinion, was the perfect wife for him?

Charlotte gazed down at the pie, burned to a crisp, whose destination was the rubbish bin. She decided to give her mother a thank-you call before she went to bed, although she wouldn’t mention the burning bit. Mummy was a brick. It was so decent of her to have finished the cleanup, which she’d been dreading returning to.

Dumping the pie temporarily in the sink, she took her tea to the old wooden table and sat down on one of the rickety wooden chairs with a thud, the day’s emotions and the long drive finally catching up with her. She jiggled the stool warily. Perhaps Mummy was right and she should invest in some new furniture on the next trip into Glasgow. But she hated crowds and shops and people and decisions—even minor ones such as choosing chairs or curtains seemed insurmountable right now. And that went for clothes too, an issue her mother brought up constantly. Why she should care what she looked like here on Skye was beyond her. After all, there were only the sheep and now Armand de la Vallière to see her—and Armand, though very fashion-conscious, was gay, so he didn’t really count.

Her mind wandered back to Brad wondering how he truly felt about inheriting Strathaird. She swung her foot absently, remembering their talks of old. It had been a while since they’d sat down for a long cozy chat. God knows, in the dark bleak days when she and John leaped from one argument into another, knowing he was a phone call away had been a lifesaver. But since the accident, their conversations had somehow fizzled out. She had felt guilty talking to him for so long and so often without a specific reason. Before John’s injury, there had always been a motive. She’d poured out some of her pain. And although she’d rarely taken his advice, it had helped. But since the accident, any talk had been businesslike and to the point. Oh well, Charlotte sighed, it was probably best. They each had their lives to live.

She rose briskly and brushed her hair away from her face, considering whether Brad fully realized all that inheriting Strathaird implied—the people, the everyday worries, the plans and intricacies? Or did he think he could run it like he ran Harcourts, the multimillion-dollar porcelain and upscale decorating enterprise he’d inherited from his grandfather? She refilled her cup, sipped absently. “Hell’s bells,” she swore crossly when she burned her tongue and the tea spilled, dirtying her T-shirt. This was definitely not her day, she reflected grimly, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. And why was she so concerned about Brad, when she had more than enough on her own plate? Ridiculous! Brad was a big boy. He knew the place well, had been coming here since he was a child and could very well take care of himself. There was no reason for her to worry. Or was there? It was one thing to pop over for short visits to see his grandparents, flying in on a chopper, then wafting out again. But this was a different kettle of fish altogether, and she doubted whether even the eternally well-prepared Brad had the slightest inkling of all that would be expected of him as laird.

A meow from the windowsill brought her out of her reverie. Hermione sat curled on the outside ledge, preening her whiskers and cleaning her soft tabby fur. Charlotte rose, opened the window and allowed the cat to pad daintily over the sink toward her basket by the stove. As she reached to close the window, a sudden movement caught her eye. She frowned, wondering if a sheep had wandered in from the fields. All at once she shivered, then pulled herself together, deciding she was even more tired than she’d realized. This was Skye, and there was no danger here. She turned and thoughtfully eyed the cat.

“Where have you been?” she inquired, picking her up and stroking gently. “I’m glad to see you know your new way home. How do you like it?” She was reassured by a satisfied purr. “Good,” she murmured, letting the animal slip from her arms. “At least one of us is happy.”

She was about to leave the kitchen when the sound of a muted cough made her stand stock-still. There was definitely someone out there.

Warily Charlotte slipped into the hall, opened the antique chest on the floor and picked out a cricket bat. Just as stealthily, she opened the front door. As she emerged, a shadow flitted near the gate.

“Stop,” she called, rushing forward, wielding the bat wildly. A figure stumbled through the gate and she hurled herself toward it.

“Dinna’ hit me, Miss Charlotte, dinna’, please.”

The pleading voice of Bobby Hewitt made her drop her arms in sudden relief.

“Bobby! What on earth are you doing here?” she exclaimed, limp with irritation and relief. “You gave me the most awful fright.”

“I wasna’ doing anything wrong.”

“But what are you doing out here? It’s past ten o’clock.” She glanced at the bowed figure. Poor Bobby was a simple, harmless soul in his mid-forties who’d been trailing her adoringly since she was a child. But he had never snooped around at night. Of course, she realized with a frown, she’d always been ensconced in the castle. Now, on her own at Rose Cottage, things were different.

“Come here,” she said, taking him by the arm of his worn jacket and making him stand under the porch light. “Bobby, you can’t wander around at night spying on people.”

“I wasna’,” he remarked, his mouth taking on a stubborn twist. “I was making sure everything was all right. There’s strangers about.”

“They’re called tourists, Bobby.” Her face broke into a smile and she shook her head. “So you thought to guard the cottage? Don’t worry about me, Bobby, everything’s fine. There are no marauders around here. You know that.”

“Ye canna’ be too careful.”

“No, of course not. Still, you mustn’t come scaring me like that. I almost went after you with Colin’s cricket bat.” She swung it over her shoulder. “Now get back to your mother’s cottage and no more roaming around here after dark, promise?”

“Aye.” He nodded penitently, seeking forgiveness.

Charlotte smiled at him. “If you wait two seconds, I’ll get you some of Mrs. McTavish’s toffees. You like those, don’t you?”

He nodded in eager response, like a small child.

Charlotte sighed, propped the bat against the hall wall and went back to the kitchen where she found a bag of toffees. Perhaps something should be done to help Bobby, although he seemed perfectly content.

“Here you are. Now off you go, straight home, and don’t let this happen again.”

“Aye. Thanks, Miss Charlotte. I’m sorry I scared ye. I didna’ mean any harm.”

“I know. Now run along.”

She watched as he hurried off, his shoulders slightly stooped, long hair trailing thinly on his shoulders. Poor Bobby. She should have realized he might get up to something like this, but frankly, Bobby Hewitt was the last person on her mind right now.

She locked up and glanced at the heavy gold watch on her wrist. Gosh, it was late. Better give her mother a buzz, then get to bed.

The library fire dwindled, embers stuttered, coals shifted and Armand de la Vallière sighed. It was his favorite room in the castle.

He sat in solitary contemplation, surrounded by leather-bound books, heavy mahogany furniture and the ancient French-damask curtains installed so many years ago by Tante Hortense, a balm to his strained nerves. He peered through the mullioned windows into the inky summer evening, vaguely aware of Penelope’s voice echoing through the Great Hall. Concentrating, he leaned forward, staring once more at the packed shelves of books, eyes narrowing. It would be a difficult search, one that would require all his ability. The sheer physical impediment of having to climb up to the highest shelves made it almost impossible to take a good look at the books without attracting suspicion. He stared into the dying flames, obliterating the haunting images that lurked in his memory since childhood, replacing them instead with shining scenes of glitz, glamour and glory. It was a technique he’d perfected over the years, and infallibly it worked.

Now, as fleeting shadows played on the spines of the ancient book covers and the darkened walls, he replaced the packed shelves with visions of splendid jewels. They shimmered in his imagination, and he sighed. The method acted as effectively as any hallucinogen. Slowly his tense muscles relaxed and he breathed easier, entranced, visualizing the catwalk, the agitated buzz, models preparing to strut the runway, hairdressers, makeup artists and seamstresses, all waiting for his final orders. His fingers unclenched as he pictured himself directing operations, adding the finishing touches with a master’s skill. Finally he would place each of Charlotte’s exquisite pieces at precisely the right angle before sending the model forth, waiting with bated breath for the murmured hush of the crowd.

A frisson of satisfaction left him sighing. Nothing less than perfection would do. And he had seen perfection in Charlotte’s work. He drew a cigarette from an antique silver cigarette case, tapped it thoughtfully on the arm of the old leather chair, then lit it. To have such amazing talent, yet be so oblivious. A quivering pang of envy darted straight to his heart. Why was life so unfair? Why did some have all the suffering, the toil, the trouble, while others glided unwittingly into fame and fortune? Indeed, why did life bestow talent on those who didn’t give a damn, while denying it to those for whom it meant the world?

He took a long drag and leaned back in the deep armchair, aware there was little to be gained from such thoughts. It was too late to acquire that which God had not given him.

Still, he decided with a grim little smile, it might not be too late to redirect fate into avenues more suited to his liking. After all, there was a reason for his presence here, at this specific time.

Once more he inhaled deeply, then let the smoke curl up toward the coffered oak ceiling and shut his eyes. He was so close. So very close. And nothing would convince him otherwise.

2

Brad studied the preliminary agenda for next month’s board meeting and added a few margin notes, increasing the time allotted to discuss international expansion. Harcourts may have begun as a porcelain empire almost a century ago, but over the decades, particularly since Brad had been CEO, the business had expanded to include all aspects of upscale home décor. International growth was essential and needed special attention. World markets were growing fast and he planned to be there on the crest of the wave.

Capping his pen, he tossed it on the desk, loosened the silk tie that was suffocating him and allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation. The last quarter’s profits had surpassed everyone’s expectations. The company was leaner and more productive than any in the industry, and the innovative publicity campaigns Sylvia had engineered for the new designer dinnerware lines had taken the public by storm; sales had doubled in several markets and Harcourts was on a roll.

And now he was obliged to carve two weeks out of the hectic and tense period before the annual directors’ meeting to go to Scotland. It wasn’t going to be easy, Brad realized, drumming his foot while studying the schedule his secretary had laid on the desk this morning. He wondered briefly if there was any way of avoiding it, knowing very well he could not put off the trip to Strathaird. Based on the teleconference with the solicitors in Edinburgh, it was clear his presence was required to settle the labyrinthine legal issues related to the estate, and he owed it to Aunt Penn and Charlotte to deal with matters as quickly and cleanly as he could. He thought of what he’d discussed with Sylvia the previous evening. It was true that he wanted to go. And of course the idea of seeing the family again, spending time in a place he’d always enjoyed, had its attractions. It was just such a damn inconvenient moment.

He leaned back and swiveled the ample leather office chair, picturing the rugged fortress, battered by centuries of wind and rain, relentless waves and enemy onslaught. Lately it seemed to be beckoning him.

Learning he was a part of Strathaird’s heritage had come as a shock. Discovering he had become its owner was sobering. But he’d accepted the inevitable, and now there was nothing to do but assume his duties as laird and invest what little time his busy life permitted to try and do the job right. Although he knew the place well, had climbed its rocks and walked its shores and moors since early childhood, he’d never considered himself more than a guest in his grandparents’ home.

He glanced once more at the schedule, wondered if perhaps two weeks would be too little and whether it could be stretched into three. His gut told him he’d need the time. Penelope expected it of him, Charlotte probably expected it of him as well, and apparently the tenants did, too. That, he sighed, had been made abundantly clear, both in his meetings and by his aunt. Not directly, he realized, smiling at how subtle the British could be. Nothing was ever said head-on, just implied.

He rose and moved across the large office to the window and stared at the Manhattan skyline. But instead of Rockefeller Center and the Empire State Building, a riot of titian hair and violet eyes flashed before him. He pulled himself up with a jolt and glanced guiltily at his watch, remembering he was due to meet Sylvia in an hour at Julio Larraz’s private art showing. Focusing on the subject of art he thought of the several Larraz paintings and two bronze sculptures he’d already acquired. He’d missed the exhibition in Monte Carlo and was damned if he’d wait for another auction at Christie’s or Sotheby’s to acquire another piece. Turning on his heel, he pressed a button on the chrome phone panel and punched.

“Yes, sir?” Ramon answered promptly.

“I’ll be down in ten,” he said, glancing again at his watch.

“Very good, sir.”

A perfunctory knock was followed by the door opening. Marcia, his secretary, entered with her usual brisk step. “I’ve made a couple of changes to the schedule,” he remarked, handing it to her while answering his cell phone. He sent her an apologetic smile while she stood patiently, with the air of one used to waiting. She gasped as she glanced at the changes.

“Right,” Brad spoke into the phone. “Start buying as soon as the market opens, but not so much stock that anyone’ll notice. Yeah…I learned today they’ve got a merger going.” There was a pause as he listened. “Sure thing. Good night.”

“You’re not serious, Brad. Three weeks?” Marcia squeaked, her slim, blue-suited form tensing. “You simply can’t stay away that long. For one thing, you have the Australian trip coming up, and the meetings in London, not to mention Chicago and Seattle. And the board meeting—”

“I don’t have a choice.” He picked up his briefcase, slipped in a couple of memos, then closed it. “We’ll manage somehow, Marcia. I’m counting on you, as always. Sylvia’s going to be around for at least the first week I’m gone.” He did not notice the disapproving sniff. “Better make reservations for Friday.”

She groaned. “Why couldn’t they just let Charlotte and Penelope MacLeod have the darn estate? If I were them, I’d slap a lawsuit on the judge for sexual discrimination,” she added, following him hurriedly out the door, into the vast, well-lit hallway where secretaries and junior executives still circulated, despite the late hour.

Downstairs the car awaited him at the curb. As he climbed in, Brad took conscious stock of the fast-paced Manhattan hub where he’d lived all his life, and wondered suddenly what it would be like to function for three weeks at the slow, lazy pace of Skye, with its grazing sheep, one-lane roads and fishing boats bobbing on a choppy gray sea.

Leaning back, he did something rare: he let his mind wander. Usually he answered e-mail or made calls, gaining time in traffic. But tonight, Scotland was uppermost in his mind. As the car crossed Houston Street and continued into SoHo, he stared at the bustling crowd on the sidewalk, remembering long summer days spent catching tadpoles with Charlotte and Colin, hours fishing together from the rocks below the castle, picnics prepared by Aunt Penn and Granny Flora, carried to the moors at sundown and set among the heather, while Dex, his grandfather, spun yarns around the campfire, and all of them laughed at the outrageous tall tales Charlotte wove with such imagination and skill. He smiled. That was something he and Charlie must do with Genny and the twins, he reflected, the thought instantly appealing.

Traffic stopped, a horn honked angrily and Ramon lowered the window to follow the loud argument going on between irate drivers over a delivery van parked smack in their lane.

“Eet’s crazy, Mr. Brad,” Ramon remarked, shaking his gray head disapprovingly. “Worse than Puerto Rico,” he complained.

Brad murmured sympathetically, used to the city’s eccentric ways and Ramon’s disapproval, his mind far away in a remote part of the globe about as alien to Manhattan as you could get. Then, all at once, he realized that Sylvia was absent from his fantasy and experienced a moment’s shame. Probably because they’d never been to Strathaird together, he justified. That would all change once she arrived. They’d make new memories together. Still, the more he thought about it, the more surprised he was at how appealing the trip to Scotland seemed. He couldn’t help the pleasure he experienced at the thought of spending some time alone with Charlotte, catching up, roaming the estate and becoming familiar with the people and their lives. Anyway, Syl needed to stay put while he dealt with business over there, he reasoned. Of course, she’d be a wonderful help in Scotland, too—of that he had little doubt. His future wife was supportive, enthusiastic and he could not ask for a better companion. But he was relieved, nevertheless, not to be descending upon Strathaird loaded with Vuitton luggage, which might set the wrong tone with the locals, who were low-key at the best of times.

The car drew up in front of the gallery and Brad shook off the mood. Entering the building, he was immediately engulfed by laughing chitchat, the clink of fine crystal, hot deals disguised by small talk and the feel of female eyes following him closely as he surveyed the large, streamlined space. He waved to Larraz and his lovely wife, Pilar, then caught sight of Sylvia, simple and chic in a strict black dress, hair falling blond and sleek to her shoulders, her only jewelry a pair of diamond studs and his Grandmother Ward’s imposing diamond engagement ring.

Picking up a glass of scotch from a roving waiter’s silver tray, he made his way among the guests to where she stood chatting animatedly to a large man in a black blazer and T-shirt. One of the L.A crowd, he figured, dropping a fleeting kiss on Sylvia’s cheek before joining in the conversation. He wondered suddenly how Sylvia would react to his idea of spending three weeks in Scotland instead of two. He nursed his scotch, replying automatically to a woman in bloodred silk he vaguely remembered was a Broadway actress, and decided that the extra time on the island would do the twins good. He made a mental note to call Diego de la Fuente, the twins’ maternal grandfather, in Montevideo, and convince him to join them in Skye, as Aunt Penn had suggested.

Then he observed Sylvia. She was in her element tonight, networking, enjoying the party, letting no opportunities for furthering business slip through her fingers. He wouldn’t be surprised if, by the time they got back to her place, some hot new deal was cooking. The image of her sitting quietly, sipping white wine at sunset on the lawn at Strathaird, seemed painfully incompatible.

Banishing the niggling doubt, he hailed a friend and chatted for a couple of minutes. In the end, she’d be as comfortable at Strathaird as she was here. He felt certain of it.

Satisfied that everything would work out, he put all thoughts of Scotland aside and set about acquiring the painting he’d decided on.

Leaning out the window of her old Land Rover, Charlotte breathed long and deep, smiled at the pale sunbeams piercing the traveling clouds, and sighed as a strong westerly breeze carrying subtle scents of brine and heather mussed her hair. Overhead, gulls squawked and beyond the fields of grazing sheep divided by low stone walls, a soft purple haze draped the moors. Strathaird might change, she reflected with a rush of pleasure, but this would always be hers.

She headed down the bumpy single-track road, slowing when a tractor trundling in the opposite direction obliged her to veer onto the grass before coming to a grinding halt.

The driver respectfully raised a hand to his faded tweed cap. “A good day to ye, Miss Charlotte. Am nae’ sure this fine weather will last, though.” Old Fergus Mackay sniffed doubtfully. Eyes narrowing, he pointed to the drifting clouds hovering overhead. “There’ll be rain later on,” he remarked with the satisfied assurance of one who knew his weather.

Charlotte looked up and nodded in solemn agreement. He was right. When wild gusts moved inland, they brought heavy warm rain in their wake. She smiled, chatted for a few minutes and sighed inwardly. It was sweet how the locals still called her Miss Charlotte, even though she’d been married for years.

“I hear the new lordship’s arriving shortly.” The statement was followed by a dour sniff.

“Yes. He’s meant to be here early next week,” Charlotte responded enthusiastically.

“Aye. And about time too. It’ll nae do fer him to stay away from the land too long.”

“Brad’ll be here. Don’t worry. He’s a good sort,” Charlotte encouraged, cringing at the note of disapproval she heard in the old man’s voice. Speculation in the village and among the tenants was rife.

“Aye. I remember him as a wee laddie.” Fergus Mackay straightened his cap and smiled sadly, his eyes surprisingly blue and bright under thick bushy white brows. “’Tis a pity yer ain’ brother Colin passed on, Miss Charlotte. A fine laird he woulda’ made. We’re all agreed on that.”

“He would. But it wasn’t to be. Brad wasn’t brought up here and hasn’t had the advantage of knowing you all the way Colin did, but I’m sure he intends to do his best. And the more help he gets from all of us, the easier things will be and a better job he’ll do. For all of us,” she added pointedly, hoping that by paving the way with old Mackay, an elder in the church who held strong influence over his peers, she’d ease Brad’s transition.

They conversed for several minutes, then the tractor continued its lumbering course up the hill and Charlotte drove on down toward the sea and the village. She glanced up to her right at the castle, rising rugged and alone.

A shard of sunlight washed the weathered stones of the east turret, illuminating the faerie emblem of the MacLeod flag, fluttering proudly in the brisk breeze. Before she could stop them, another rush of tiresome tears made her jerk her head away. Stop it, she commanded herself, biting her lip. It was ridiculous to get sentimental and silly about Strathaird. The castle was moving on, as it always had and always would. It was nothing new or different from what had occurred in the past. Merely the last male MacLeod, the heir to Strathaird, was coming home, as was right and proper. But how long would he stay? she wondered, swerving into the village, past the snug harbor packed with colorful fishing boats and into the main street, thinking still of all the inevitable adjustments that were bound to take place. If Brad were to do the job properly and stake his claim as laird, he’d have to introduce his own ideas and innovations.

And what about Mummy, without whose quiet yet efficient hand everything would have run amuck? What would happen once Brad and Sylvia were installed and they didn’t need her any longer? she wondered, heart aching.

Charlotte drove between the narrow row of whitewashed houses. With an effort, she sent Mrs. Bane, the newsagent, a bright smile and a wave, thinking worriedly about her mother’s situation. Penelope MacLeod was an integral and fundamental piece in the smooth running of the estate. She knew everything. The tenants, their worries and needs, how to handle the drove of MacLeods who appeared every year from all over the world, anxious to trace their ancestry and who always received a warm personal welcome from Lady MacLeod herself, however inconvenient, before she sent them on their way to Dunvegan, the seat of the MacLeod clan.

As for what she herself did around the estate, Charlotte thought that was less important. Still, perhaps she valued her involvement more than she liked to admit, she realized uneasily. How would it feel, now that Sylvia, and not she, would be doing those same things?

She parked in front of the Morissons’ quaint house on the edge of the village and waved to Genny and Lucy, waiting for her, heads together, on the front steps. Genny was wearing baggy pants and a T-shirt, her colorful backpack slung over her right shoulder. The friendship with Lucy had helped her become part of the group, Charlotte realized, watching as the two girls hugged before Genny came down the path toward her and circled the vehicle. As always, Charlotte had to stop herself from jumping out and helping her climb in, knowing she must allow her daughter to be independent.

“Have a lovely time?” she asked as Genny settled beside her. Gosh, how she’d grown this last year. And with her trendy clothes, really looked like a teenager. Like every mother, she smiled with pride and listened, amused, to Genny’s description of the sleepover at Lucy’s.

“You’re not too tired?” she inquired as they drove down the village street headed for school.

“No. It was cool, Mum.” Genny turned and smiled. “Can I tell you a secret, Mummy?”

“Of course.”

“You sure?” Genny cocked her red head warily.

“Come on, don’t leave me in suspense,” Charlotte urged, suppressing a smile.

“Lucy’s decided she wants to be a famous actor like Daddy.”

“Really? Well, that’s a change,” Charlotte countered. “Three weeks ago she wanted to be a vet.”

“I know, but she’s changed her mind. She’s going to cut her hair. Mummy, can I have a belly piercing?”

“What?” Charlotte nearly swerved into an oncoming vehicle.

“Why not, Mum? Everybody has a piercing. You have a tattoo,” she added reproachfully. “If you were my age I’ll bet you’d have rings all over you.”

“Perhaps. But I probably would have regretted it by now,” Charlotte argued, remembering the follies of her youth and feeling hypocritical all at once. “Piercing’s so…I don’t know. It gives me the creeps. Why don’t you wait until the twins arrive and see what they think?”

“I don’t need male approval to be myself,” Genny replied grandly as they drew up in front of her school. Dropping a peck on her mother’s cheek, she alighted slowly and Charlotte sighed. Last year it had been, “Todd thinks,” and “Rick says.”

She did a U-turn and drove back the few hundred yards into the main street of the village, parked askew opposite the gallery and got out, slamming the car door a tad harder than she’d intended. Frowning absently, she walked toward the gallery.

“Ah, Charlotte.” The strident voice of Marjory Pearson hailed from across the street, bringing her to an abrupt halt.

“Good morning, Mrs. Pearson.” There was no escape, she realized, heart sinking. Mrs. P. stood firmly entrenched on the opposite side of the street in front of the gallery, hands gripping the handlebar of her prewar bike. She was sensibly attired in her usual outfit of corduroy knickerbockers, the tweed jacket she wore rain or shine, topped by a green felt hat with a long feather acquired on one of her yearly visits to the Tyrol.

“Off to your gallery, I see,” Mrs. P. remarked over the bicycle’s reedy basket, plump with groceries. “I was just looking in your window,” she added, shaking her head in amazement. “I’m surprised anyone would spend such ridiculous amounts of money on frivolity. It goes against the grain,” she added, glancing disapprovingly toward the gallery window and sniffing. “Just shows one what the world’s coming to.” She peered closely at Charlotte. “I had my doubts about this venture of yours,” she continued grudgingly, “but I suppose you’re quite right to encourage the tourists to spend, my dear, quite right indeed. I myself thought trinkets would have been more suitable, but the Colonel was saying just the other day that he believes you have talent.”

This last was said with the satisfied air of one bestowing high praise. She sent Charlotte a condescending look of approval. “I must say, Charlotte, you’ve come a long way,” she added, her eyes narrowing, “I never would have thought after the way you behaved in your youth that you’d end up being an example of female behavior to the community. As the Colonel repeats again and again, we must not judge.” She leaned over, her wrinkled face too close for comfort. “I’m very glad to see you staunch, my dear. I was saying to the Colonel only the other day that many a young woman on this island could take a leaf out of your book.” She drew back, sniffed and pursed her lips. “When I think of some of the goings-on…” She ended with a meaningful glance.

Charlotte shifted uncomfortably, searching desperately for an excuse to get away.

“Your loyalty to your infirm spouse can only be applauded,” Marjory Pearson continued relentlessly. “How is he, by the way?” she asked, her beady eyes glinting with unabashed curiosity.

“Pretty much the same, I’m afraid,” Charlotte murmured, glancing hopefully at the gallery door.

“I’m sorry.” Marjory’s disappointment at the lack of gossip showed. Then she brightened once more. “I hear the new Lord MacLeod will be with us shortly. Will he be making a prolonged stay? I needn’t tell you how much speculation is going on,” she added, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“I have no idea what Brad’s plans are.”

“Quite a job he has ahead of him,” Mrs. P. remarked, shaking her head wisely, avid to be the first to acquire any possible tidbits to pass on down the bush telegraph. “I hear he has a fiancée? One wonders what sort of female she is. Americans can be so very different, if you know what I mean.”

“Sylvia’s delightful.” Charlotte waxed enthusiastically. “Terribly efficient, and just the right person to be the new Lady MacLeod.”

“I see.” Mrs. P.’s shoulders drooped. “We must hope so, indeed. We wouldn’t want any changes in the village, now, would we?”

Charlotte murmured a vague assent, smiled brightly and frowned at her watch. “I’m awfully sorry, Mrs. Pearson, but I’m expecting rather an important client in ten minutes. I simply have to run. Send the Colonel my best.”

“Goodness, of course. So selfish of me to be holding you back. Did that large Frenchwoman with the bun buy the necklace in the window? I saw her pass several times while I was at the butcher’s the other day. She seemed quite enamored. I told the Colonel I thought it was a go. Quite amazing that you’re able to command such elevated prices, Charlotte. Are you sure you shouldn’t consider—”

“Must run, Mrs. Pearson,” Charlotte interrupted blithely. “All’s well on the home front.”

“Ah. Good. Then I shall report back to the Colonel. He’ll be pleased.” Mrs. P. braced herself, balanced the creaking bike and readied for action, while Charlotte made good her escape.

She dashed inside the gallery, located in one of the crooked whitewashed houses bordering the main street, nestled between the bakery and the Celtic Café, run by her friend Rory MacLean. Leaning against the door, Charlotte let out a frustrated huff. “That woman,” she remarked to Moira Stuart, her lifelong friend who was now a goldsmith and manager of the gallery, “is simply awful.” Shaking her head, she stepped into the light, monochromatic space, dotted with glass showcases, halogen lights and burlap settings showing off her exclusive jewelry designs, then stopped short, surprised to see Armand de la Vallière, attired in tweed knickerbockers and a cap, examining her latest creation under a magnifying glass. She coughed, smothering the giggles that the sight of his costume always caused her. He looked like a fashion ad for a shooting weekend.

“Hello, Armand.”

“Ah, ma chère Charlotte.” Armand laid the delicately crafted platinum choker back in the showcase and hastened forward, raising her fingers to his lips. “Simply magnificent, chère cousine. You have surpassed yourself.”

“You like it?” Charlotte kissed him on both cheeks, unable to squelch the twinge of pride at Armand’s words. “Any sign of the Americans?” she asked Moira.

“Not yet.” Her friend’s eyes, shaded behind thick lenses, showed amusement. An Indian skirt and blouse and heavy leather sandals gave her the air of a tired hippie.

Charlotte turned back to Armand, grinning. “I’m glad you like the choker. I worked a long time on it. I think the jade works, don’t you?”

“Exquisite. Quite unique.”

“I have some other designs to show you. The ones I was telling you about the other day,” she said breathlessly, flinging her basket on a chair behind the desk that served as a counter.

“I would be delighted to view them. You have un talent exceptionel, Charlotte.”

“Do you really think so?” Charlotte asked earnestly, clear violet eyes sparkling with pleasure at his words. “Or are you just being terribly polite?”

“Now, now, young lady. You are fishing for compliments.” He wagged a finger at her. “If I were merely polite, I would murmur a few banalities. But non, Charlotte. It is time you faced your own ability and gave it wing.”

“It’s really just a hobby,” she mumbled, fiddling behind the desk, where she felt protected. “I didn’t even mean to take it this far. The gallery and the workshop, I mean.” She waved a hand vaguely. “It just sort of happened.”

“And so will the rest. It is inevitable, ma chère. There is no use hiding your light under a bushel. You are who and what you are. An artist of incredible flair. Your ability—I should say genius, rather—is indiscutable.”

“Oh, rubbish,” Charlotte scoffed, embarrassed, digging her hands deep into the pockets of her worn jeans and flushing, flattered despite herself. He was, after all, a Parisian designer, a man of taste, a connoisseur who knew the world of fashion and jewelry back to front. And since his arrival on the island two weeks earlier, he’d seemed genuinely enchanted with her work.

“I can assure you that I will not be alone in my opinion. Once your work is known to the world, you’ll soon see that I am right.” Armand nodded wisely, smoothed his fingers gently over her arm, and smiled. “I found it intriguing when our Oncle Eugène mentioned that you had taken up designing with apparent success. I now predict a brilliant and well-deserved future ahead for you, chère Charlotte. In fact, I would be honored if you would consider showing your jewelry with my fall collection in Paris.”

“Gosh, I don’t know.” Charlotte slumped, gaze shifting as she remembered all the troubles in her life. “I don’t really want a brilliant future, Armand. I just want to survive the present.” Success and the spotlight didn’t seem important compared to getting Genny walking properly again, or finding out what would happen to John’s condition.

“Give yourself a chance,” Armand murmured gently.

She shook herself, aware that she’d drifted off again into one of her daydreams, and plastered on a bright smile. “How about a quick coffee before my morning appointment?”

“Why not? To be in your company is always un plaisir.” Armand bowed gallantly and she laughed. He reminded her of a courtly Pink Panther. The walk, the talk, the tailored tweeds—even a walking stick and mole-skin waistcoat, she noticed. He should have looked ludicrous, yet somehow Armand managed to carry it off.

She took his arm affectionately and turned to Moira. “Hold the fort for a little, will you, Mo? I’ll be back in under an hour. And make sure you sell something to those Yanks,” she added, grinning. “I’ve got all the new supplies to pay for, not to mention the leaking pipe in the loo.”

“Peter’s coming to deal with it later.” Moira looked up from the accounts and smiled.

“Thank God for that. Come on, Armand. I’ll treat you to one of those sticky green cakes at Rory’s.”

“Mon Dieu, no, I beg you.” He shuddered.

“All right, just coffee then.”

“Merci. But I shall stick to tea. A much safer bet. The coffee—if that is what it really is—” he rolled his eyes “—is undrinkable, ma chère.”

“Oh, all right, be like that,” Charlotte teased, yanking the wraithlike figure by the arm and out onto the street. “If you’re not careful, I’ll tell Rory what you said.”

Armand’s lips curved and he caught her eye. “A truly gorgeous young man,” he murmured wistfully.

“And married, so hands off.”

“Charlotte! As though I would mix with the common herd!”

“Ha!” She threw back her head and let out a rich laugh. “If Rory so much as gave you the time of day, you’d be up and running, and well you know it,” she teased in a loud whisper as they entered the smoky haze of the Celtic Café. She spotted Rory, tall and muscled behind the counter, his long black hair tied back in a ponytail. Charlotte waved and sent him a critical glance. His bright blue eyes were indeed a riveting sight, but being a pal, she’d never thought much about them.

“Hello, Charlie.” Rory came out from behind his post and gave her a whacking kiss on both cheeks that left Armand sighing. “So, did you finally finish the move? I can help you on Saturday if you’ve odd jobs needing done.”

“Thanks. I’ve got most of it sorted out.”

“How was Glasgow?” He quirked a heavy eyebrow at her.

“The same.” She answered shortly, making for the table. Rory sighed, shrugged and wiped the table off with a damp cloth as Armand sat down. She caught Rory’s piercing gaze and swallowed. He was an old friend, one who knew her well, knew all the ups and downs in her life over the past few years. But, like Moira and her mother, he was unable to understand why she stuck staunchly by John even after the abominable way he’d treated her. None of them understood, she reasoned, seating herself. How could they possibly realize that her troubles were of her own making, that she was to blame?

“You know where to find me if you need me,” Rory murmured with a resigned shrug. “Cup of tea?”

“Two, please.” She smiled gratefully, glad he’d dropped the subject. “By the way, Brad’ll be here in a few days.”

“Great. How’s he doing?”

“Engaged to be married.”

“You already told me that,” Rory remarked dryly, sending her a penetrating look before returning behind the counter. The three had played together as kids and the friendship went back a long way.

“Not bad,” Armand remarked, lifting his glasses and peering critically at the watercolors painted by a local artist gracing the wall. “For such a backward little village, there appears to be quite a mouvement artistique in this place.”

“Mmm,” Charlotte answered, mind wandering. She still had to go up to the castle and pick up the last remaining odds and ends.

“So, Bradley is expected within the next couple of days?” Armand remarked as Sheena, the waitress, placed the tea on the table.

“Day after tomorrow, I think. Thanks.” She sent Sheena a smile.

“And you’re sure that you will survive in that cottage?” Armand’s lips pursed in distaste. “It seems very rural, ma chère. And quite abhorrent that Bradley should be expulsing you from the château.”

“Armand, you know perfectly well Brad’s not expulsing anyone,” she exclaimed, exasperated. “This is none of his doing, much less his fault. The judge decided Strathaird’s fate, not him. In fact, he begged Mummy and me to stay on,” she added more patiently.

“Then why the move?” he asked, stirring a lump of brown sugar into the strong brew.

“Because,” she said with a sigh, “like it or not, things are going to change. And I know I won’t be able to handle it.” She flexed her fingers nervously. “It wouldn’t be fair to him or me, or the others involved. It’s simply time to move on, Armand, and better to get it done before he arrives.”

“Je suppose.” Armand shrugged doubtfully and patted her arm. “You have much courage, cousine.”

“It’s not as if I’m moving into a cave! The cottage has every modern convenience, hot water, a washing machine. You make it sound as if we’re out on the street.”

“The accommodations appear needlessly common to me.” Armand sniffed.

“Well, you’ve never been inside, so you can’t tell,” Charlotte retorted. “Which reminds me, why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow night? That is, if you can bear to eat in such modest surroundings.” She sent him a mischievous grin, then changed the subject and set about recapturing their former lighthearted mood.

When Armand returned from his visit with Charlotte, he was pleased to see that the library was quiet. The local ladies who cleaned Strathaird had finished their ritual morning vacuuming and were having coffee in the kitchen, and Penelope had left for the village. Armand took a deep breath, trying to quell the surge of anticipation. He’d already set one part of his plan in motion this morning, and here was an ideal opportunity to take the next step.

Leaving his jacket carefully folded on the sofa, he moved to the circular wooden ladder at the far side of the room. He would begin here, searching the entire collection shelf by shelf. It would require time and concentration, but he’d already waited so long and time was no longer on his side; he’d have to force himself to go slowly, be methodical. This might be his only chance. But what if he was wrong? he wondered with a sudden pang. He swallowed, throat tight, and tried not to think about it. There were other possibilities, he reminded himself quickly. If he did not find what he was looking for here among the books, then obviously his first deduction was correct. The answer would be where he’d always believed it was.

He glanced at the door, then mounted the steps carefully. He would begin with the French novels, so that if anyone questioned his actions he’d be able to justify the choice. Once they got used to seeing him fiddling in the library, nobody would think anything of it.

Half an hour later his search had yielded little. He passed a white linen handkerchief across his forehead and nervously wiped the perspiration, leaning his right hand on top of a pile of ancient volumes on a higher shelf. As he did so, his fingers met with an object on top of the books. Steadying himself carefully on the library steps, Armand pulled it carefully toward him, amazed when he beheld a small, silver-mounted pistol. He studied it, eyes narrowed. It was definitely of another age, small and elegant, designed perhaps for a woman. The butt was delicate and exquisitely inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

The muffled sound of voices emanating from the hall made him slip the pistol into his trouser pocket and hasten back down the steps, being careful not to trip. Grabbing a book, he ensconced himself once more in one of the leather armchairs before anyone entered the room.

Charlotte turned off the Land Rover’s engine and stared for several moments at the castle’s ancient austere facade, softened by her mother’s terra-cotta pots, spilling pink and white hydrangeas over the shallow stone steps, and thought over what she and Armand had talked about earlier. A sigh escaped her. Paris and the thought of her jewelry parading down the catwalk on Armand’s models was exciting, flattering and very hard not to dream about. It was a long time since she’d dreamed about anything, she realized suddenly. John’s image flashed before her, making her feel immediately guilty, but she swept it aside, determined not to allow the dark cloud to descend upon her. And for the first time in years, she dared to peek into the future.

Biting her finger abstractedly, she stared at the castle walls without really seeing them. Was Armand right? Could her designs really open up a new avenue in her life? Lately it had seemed so bleak. She sat for a minute behind the wheel, pondering, caught between past, present and future. Following the soft orange glimmer caused by the setting sun bouncing off the glistening stained-glass windows like sparks off a live wire, she let out the breath she’d been holding. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to dare. Then she jumped out of the vehicle, pulled out the planters her mother had asked her to pick up at Haldane’s Nursery in the village, and carried them up the steps, torn between the budding urge to take the plunge and the overwhelming guilt that just thinking of doing so caused her.

“Ah, there you are, darling,” Penelope said, looking up and smiling as Charlotte entered the hall.

“Hello, Mum. Here’s everything you asked for. I told them to put it on the bill,” she said, thankful for the distraction.

“Thanks.” Penelope frowned doubtfully. “Do you think we should do that, now that Brad…” Her voice trailed off as she gazed down at the plants.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mum! The plants are for Strathaird. Of course you must put them on the estate account,” Charlotte replied, annoyed.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. But what if Sylvia doesn’t like them? Perhaps I should have waited and let her choose them herself. She sent me an e-mail this morning.”

“I don’t give a damn what she likes,” Charlotte mumbled crossly. “I’ll set these in the pantry.” They walked down the steps together and along the corridor to the pantry. Charlotte dropped the plants on the counter then moved to the sink and turned on the single tap to wash away the dirt from her hands. “What did she want, anyway?”

“Something to do with Brad and computer programs. She seems terribly efficient.”

“Well, bully for her.” Charlotte gave the tap a sharp twist and dried her hands on an old kitchen towel. “She’ll jolly well have to adapt, Mum, if she’s going to do a half-decent job here. If she thinks she can waft in and turn Strathaird into her fancy Park Avenue digs, she’s got another think coming.”

“Don’t be horrid, Charlie, it’s not like you.” Penelope looked at her, surprised. “By the way, I had a call from Ambassador de la Fuente. He and the twins are arriving straight from Uruguay via somewhere I can’t remember, on—” she leaned over and picked up the agenda that was never far out of reach and slipped on her glasses “—the fifteenth. I suppose they’ll arrive here by helicopter.” She glanced up, shoulders sagging slightly. “I don’t think I can cope with picking anyone up just now. Oh, and Brad phoned to say he’s arriving on his own because Sylvia has some job or other she has to finish. She’ll be following in due course.”

“Good. The longer she stays away the better,” Charlotte muttered, swinging a leg from her perch on the windowsill.

“Charlie, do stop being petty and childish. There’s nothing wrong with the poor girl. In fact, the one time I met her she seemed perfectly charming. You know very well that it’s our duty to make her feel at home and help her take over. Daddy would have expected no less of us.”

“Oh no, Mummy, not today, please.” Charlotte cast her eyes heavenwards. Jumping down from the ledge, she dragged a chair forward and straddled it. “I’m finished up at the cottage, by the way. Oh, and Armand was over at the gallery,” she added casually.

“I know. He seems genuinely taken with your work.” Penelope sent her daughter an encouraging smile, saw clouds hovering and sighed. Charlotte was like a barometer, up and down, that temperamental artistic nature so difficult to fathom.

“Armand wants to exhibit my stuff with his autumn collection,” she burst in a rush.

“In Paris? That’s awfully flattering.” Penelope laid down the flowers she was holding with a surprised smile.

Charlotte fidgeted. “Do you think it’s a good idea, Mum? I mean it’s not as if I have that many pieces ready and it would take time to make the others, and what with Genny and John and one thing and another I…” Her voice trailed off.

“Now, don’t start making excuses,” Penelope exclaimed, exasperated. “It’s a wonderful opportunity and you must avail yourself of it. You’ve more than enough time and I’m sure Moira will pitch in to make whatever you need.”

“I suppose so.” Charlotte gave a listless shrug, then grinned despite herself. “It would be incredible if my jewelry actually took on, wouldn’t it?”

“Darling, of course it would. And I don’t see why it shouldn’t. Look at all you’ve already sold. People love it. You have such wonderful taste and talent.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re my mother.”

“Rubbish,” Penelope dismissed. “I say a lot of things because I’m your mother, but I wouldn’t lead you to spend your time and effort on something I didn’t think was worthwhile.”

“I suppose not.”

“Charlotte, look at yourself,” Penelope exclaimed, moving into the center of the room and wiping her hands on her jeans. “You’re thirty-four years old. You’ve spent the better part of your adult life in the clutches of a man whose treated you worse than the dirt under his feet—”

“This has nothing to do with John,” Charlotte rejoined defensively.

“It has everything to do with him. With all he’s stopped you from becoming, thanks to his threats and his selfish, egocentric behavior,” she answered, unable to disguise her bitterness. “I don’t say it’s all his fault,” she countered, clasping her hands. “Perhaps you should have divorced him long before this. But frankly, I don’t think you stood a chance.”

“That’s ridiculous, Mummy,” Charlotte cried, rising so quickly she overturned the chair. “John needs me. And even if he doesn’t, I can’t just walk out on him in the state he’s in. It wouldn’t be humane.”

“Was the way he treated you when he was conscious humane?” Penelope asked bitterly. “Was slapping you around when he didn’t get exactly what he wanted, or flaunting his mistresses in the papers, humane? I want you to wake up and take charge of your own life, Charlotte. I find it incredible that despite all he’s done to you, all you’ve gone through over the years, you’re still determined to go on catering to him. Is that really what you want, or is it just easier than facing reality?”

“Stop it,” Charlotte cried, flushing indignantly. The truth of her mother’s words stung. “What has this got to do with Armand and the jewelry and Paris? I merely asked if you thought it was a good idea and look where it’s got me.” She threw up her hands. “I can’t say anything but you throw my marriage in my face.” Tears burned and she clenched her fists, determined not to give way.

Penelope sighed and dropped her hands to her sides. “I’m sorry, darling. You’re right. It’s not my affair and I shouldn’t be telling you how to lead your life. I just pray that you won’t be obliged to see your child’s life being shredded to bits by some unscrupulous—” She stopped herself, let out a sigh and mustered a smile. “Forget it, darling. Coming back to Armand and the jewelry, I really think you should go ahead.”

Charlotte nodded, and bent down to pick up the chair. “By the way, Armand thinks the cottage is the pits,” she said in an attempt at humor.

“Armand is hardly a reference,” Penelope remarked, laughing, moving the plants to the floor, relieved Charlotte hadn’t flounced out in anger. “As far as he’s concerned, anything short of the 16ième arrondissement is the slums. God only knows what he sees in Skye to keep him here for so long. I would have thought he’d be bored stiff by now, yet according to Mrs. McKinnon, he was ensconced in the library this morning, sifting through the French book collection. He asked if it was all right to stay until Oncle Eugène arrives,” she added in a hollow voice. “Of course, I had to say yes, but you can imagine how thrilled I am!” She sighed guiltily and exchanged a long-suffering look with her daughter. “The Cardinal will be here at the beginning of August. I’m quite surprised he’s decided to make the trip at his age and after all these years. That means another three whole weeks of Armand,” she added gloomily. “I must admit that my heart sank at the thought of entertaining him all that time.”

“Stop worrying, Mum, Armand’s all right. I’ll take him off your hands.”

“Good.” Penelope gave her a conspiratorial wink. “I know I’m being perfectly horrid, but there are times…”

“You’re not. I think you’re wonderful, the way you put up with us all. Especially me,” she said ruefully, taking her mother’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “I’ll be off now. As for Armand,” she added airily, pausing at the door with a mischievous grin, “he’s probably just soaking up atmosphere for a Scottish-inspired clothing collection.” She giggled and rolled her eyes. “Just imagine, Mummy, Mrs. P. could well be next autumn’s fashion icon.”

“Good Lord, what a ghastly thought!” Penelope gasped in feigned horror. “Off with you, before you come up with any other dreadful notions. You’ll be late picking up Genny unless you dash. And, darling—” she became suddenly serious once more as her gaze met Charlotte’s “—I really would give Armand’s proposal some serious thought, if I were you. It’s not every day a chance like this crosses one’s path. And you’re very good at what you do.”

Charlotte hesitated then smiled. “Okay, Mummy, I will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

They hugged and Charlotte went on her way. Though troubled by her mother’s outburst, she also welcomed her encouragement. It’d been so long since she’d thought of anything more ambitious than simply surviving each day. But the truth was she’d been longing for something to give her focus, something to help her shake the feeling that she was standing in quicksand, unable to make a move for fear she’d sink deeper.

Perhaps Mummy was right, she reflected as she climbed back into the Land Rover. Maybe she should seriously consider Armand’s offer after all.

3

As the powerful Aston Martin he’d picked up in Glasgow traveled the last few miles of the winding island road, flanked by sea on the one hand and heather-bathed moors on the other, Brad allowed himself to enjoy the luxury of the solitary freedom, the purr of the engine and the ride. Yet, as the journey ended and he neared Strathaird, he felt compelled to slow down and take stock of his surroundings. The car slowed to a crawl, and he reflected not for the first time on how his grandfather’s extraordinary life had shaped every step of his own existence. Well, perhaps not every step, but quite a few. He drove thoughtfully, aware that he didn’t resent the fact that much of his life had been decided for him, for he’d accepted it at a very young age as part of his destiny. Sometimes though, of late especially, he had felt the sudden urge to rip off the straitjacket, cut loose and make his own choices. A childish fantasy, he acknowledged, ruefully, for this latest inheritance was Dex’s final legacy, and Brad knew that, as always, he’d shoulder it and try to do a good job.

Shouldering responsibilities was something he prided himself on, he acknowledged as the car bumped over a rough patch of potted tarmac. He’d never questioned his role as the Harcourts heir and had worked tirelessly for years learning the business, guided by his grandfather and Uncle David, gradually taking on more and more responsibility. When his father and Dolores were killed in a plane crash eight years ago, he’d never hesitated in assuming the role of surrogate father to his two seven-year-old half brothers. It was only when Colin had died and his grandfather had revealed that his true identity was not Dexter Ward, but Gavin MacLeod of Strathaird, had Brad wondered if fate might possibly have made some grave mistake.

The car purred round the last bend in the narrow bumpy road, bringing him face-to-face with Strathaird Castle, standing high above the bluff. His pulse beat faster and he edged off the road, bringing the vehicle to a halt on a patch of windswept grass. His hands dropped from the wheel and he gazed up, mind and heart alive with memories, some sweet, some less so. Getting out, he stretched his legs, gaze still fixed on the castle. Now, because of ancient laws, created centuries earlier to preserve property and the homestead, Strathaird had finally fallen…to him.

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.

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 my 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.

“I’m not much good at the estate.”

“Why do you always belittle yourself?” he asked, handing her back her glass. “You’re good at a lot of things. You just don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Charlotte shrugged and took a long sip. She didn’t want to get into a deeper conversation that would involve exposing her feelings on a number of subjects. Years ago, over the phone, those conversations had seemed much easier. Now, face-to-face, she felt vulnerable. “I don’t get involved with the everyday working of the estate. Plus, I’ve got loads of work now. Did you know I have a gallery in the village?”

“So I heard and I think that’s great, but don’t change the subject. We were discussing Strathaird.”

She spun round and poked at the casserole with her back to him. “Look, Brad, I don’t want to get involved. Perhaps I can show you a couple of things, but Mummy’ll do a much better job of getting you acquainted with everybody and everything.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “And Sylvia might not want me poking my nose where I don’t belong.”

“Why should she care?” He threw back his head and let out a rich laugh, hiding the discomfort her words had caused. “I’m sure she’d love to have you teach her how things are run.”

“Yeah, right. Typical.” Charlotte shook her head and gave the lamb a jab. “Only a man would say something as silly as that.”

“I don’t see what’s silly about it,” he replied.

“I don’t suppose it occurred to you that Sylvia might want some independence?” She sent him an irritated glance.

“But we’ll only be here a few weeks. Why would she care? We could work out something satisfactory for all of us.”

“Wishful thinking, I’m afraid.” She turned down the gas, left the casserole simmering and faced him. “Get one thing straight, Brad—no amount of arguing is going to get me back to the castle. It’s yours and will soon be Sylvia’s, too. There’s no room for me there any longer and I’ve my own life to lead. All I’d do is make your life hell. And you’ve known me long enough and well enough to realize that’s probably true.” She jabbed his chest, looked at him through her dark lashes once more. “Deep down, you know I’m right. You just won’t admit it.”

“I don’t agree. There’s no reason for anything to change. Everything’ll go on exactly as it always has.”

“No, it won’t and it’s naive of you to believe it. Remember when you took over Harcourts? Didn’t you want to implant your own management system? I remember all the ideas you had and how you were determined to see them carried out.”

“Those were corporate decisions.”

“This isn’t very different. It’s only right and proper things should change. But I don’t want to be a part of it.” Her eyes went misty and she bit her lip. “I’ve had enough ups and downs as it is. I’d resent the changes and only be a hindrance, Brad, and we’d all suffer.” She swept a stray strand of hair behind an ear and turned quickly back to the cooker. “This needs a few more minutes.”

As he watched her, Brad reluctantly began to understand. Her whole adult life had been a crazy insecure roller coaster. John had manipulated and undermined her constantly. Now she was slowly regaining territory, desperately cleaving to tufts of earth and rock jutting out from the crevasse into which she’d sunk, climbing out bit by bit. He wished things could remain exactly as they were, that he could keep her safe in Strathaird Castle, the one place that had always remained untouched, where she knew no harm could befall her.

“I’m sorry, Charlie.” He squeezed her shoulder gently, understanding the emotional consequences of what it must feel like to have your home usurped by another. His heart clenched and his anger at fate resurfaced. Taking her face gently in his hands, he wiped another tear that had escaped onto her cheek. “God, I’d give the world to change the inheritance, Charlie, and leave Strathaird all to you,” he muttered. “God knows I tried.”

“Don’t.” She pulled away and sniffed loudly. “I know you’ve done all you could. It’s not your fault, Brad, it’s just the way the cookie crumbles.” She smiled, let her hand rest on his a moment, then drew it quickly away. “It’s taken me long enough to start getting my life in order, and the sooner I face these changes and get on with it, the better it’ll be for all of us. Let’s take the wine and sit outside until dinner and you can tell me all about the twins.”

He followed her out the French door, into the little back garden where a small bistro table covered with a checkered blue and white tablecloth stood under an open umbrella. Charlotte flopped onto one of the foldable chairs and he followed suit, listening to the soothing murmur of the sea, the relentless rise and fall of waves bathing the rocks below the bluff, the subtle scent of heather and roses wafting in on the evening breeze. Twilight still hovered, loath to surrender to the couple of stars that already shone timidly. Hermione crossed the tiny patch of lawn and curled up at Charlotte’s feet, purring softly, occasionally raising a paw to the handful of bees buzzing hopefully among the bluebells and perennials. In the half-light, he could still distinguish the windswept grass beyond the picket fence and the gentle hue of heather etched on the moors soft as a Monet.

For a while they remained in congenial silence, transported back to adolescence, those long evenings spent confiding secrets, sharing dreams and cracking jokes. It felt strange to have him sitting only a few feet away after so long, Charlotte reflected, casting a quick glance at his profile. She’d gotten used to him at a distance, a phone confidant whom she trusted implicitly but with the advantage of being heard and not seen. Now Brad was very much here, his presence overwhelming. It came as a shock and she half wished for the old long-distance relationship that was far less daunting. Ridiculous, she chided herself. With Brad, there was no need for words, though God knows they could talk for hours when they wanted. She let out a long sigh, closed her eyes and tried to relax. She should be savoring the moment instead of wishing him a million miles away, particularly as this would probably be one of the last times they would share alone together. Whether Brad realized it or not, Sylvia’s arrival would inevitably alter things, however determined he seemed to believe the contrary.

“Tell me about the jewelry,” he remarked, breaking the spell. “What inspired you to get into designing?”

“I don’t really know. It was when things were really iffy with John…” Her voice trailed off and he waited. “I saw a program about jewelry design on telly one day and it seemed a good idea. So I took a course and loved it. It really helped.”

“You mean it helped you see things in a clearer light?” he murmured perceptively.

“I suppose you might say that. At the time, it seemed that way. But then John had the accident and I wondered if—oh hell, I don’t know and it doesn’t matter anymore,” she said in a rush, gulping down the wine. The last thing she wanted was to get into a conversation that would surely end in Brad telling her she should leave her husband and get on with her life. Nobody, least of all him, could understand her reasons not to.

“I think it’s great you’re taking it so seriously,” he responded in a neutral voice and she sighed, relieved.

“Yes. I enjoy designing and lately visitors seem to be quite taken with some of the pieces. Moira’s my goldsmith, you know. She went to the Royal Academy and has been in this business for years now. Real luck, that, wasn’t it?” she added, grinning. “I wasn’t sure that expensive jewelry would work here on the island, but you’d be surprised at the number of tourists who’ve bought pieces.”

“I hear you’re planning something with Armand. He seems to think you’re very talented.”

“It’s just an idea. I haven’t really given it a lot of thought,” she lied, taking another gulp of wine and reaching down to pet Hermione.

“You’re taking this to heart, aren’t you, Charlie?”

“I suppose so.” She shrugged. “Keeps me busy.”

“I’m glad. You needed something to fill your life.”

“God, Brad! Don’t be patronizing,” she snapped crossly.

“Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.” He leaned back, laughing.

“Then how did you mean it?” Her eyes flashed and she plunked her glass down with a bang. “Charlotte has something to keep her busy while Genny’s at school?” she mimicked. “You make me sound like one of those silly women—” She cut off, bit her lip and turned away, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Brad, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I always get the impression you all think I’m a flake who can’t take care of herself.”

He reached across the table and placed a hand over her long, nervous fingers. “Nothing’s wrong with you that can’t be set right. You’ve been trapped in limbo in your marriage and since the accident it’s been worse, because you feel so darn guilty you can’t see the forest for the trees.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“We’re going to have to talk about it, Charlie. It might as well be now as later,” he said, determined to bring the subject out in the open. Her fingers clenched under his and he squeezed them tight before she could escape. “How is John?”

“Just the same. No change.”

Brad hesitated, stroking her hand gently. “Have you thought about taking measures to end it?” he asked quietly. It was time someone made her face the fact that it might be better to let John die a natural death, rather than keep him alive, hooked up to a machine.

“No!” she burst out, snatching her hand away. “I can’t and won’t do it. They don’t know if he’ll get better or not, but while there’s the remotest chance, I don’t feel I have that right. And I wish you’d all stop going on at me. He’s my husband, after all, and Genny’s father. I have some sense of loyalty left, even if you lot don’t,” she spat.

“Yeah, well, maybe we were all so impressed by the loyalty he showed you over the years that it’s hard to feel the same sympathy for him that you apparently do,” he threw back dryly.

“It’s nobody’s business but mine,” she muttered. “Sometimes I think his eyes flicker, but the nurse claims it’s just his nerves reacting.” She sighed, lifted her glass and sent him a brittle smile. “Cheers. Tell me, how are the twins?”

“They’re great. Looking forward to seeing Genny.” He watched as she retired once more behind that shield of self-protection. There was no point pursuing the subject, but he was glad he’d brought it up and cleared the air, for although John brought back memories best forgotten, he loomed too large to be ignored.

“She’s terribly excited, too.” Charlotte smiled at the thought of her daughter and the twins, who she adored. “I haven’t seen them since last summer. Gosh, time flies, doesn’t it? Are they huge?”

“Rick’s shooting up like a beanstalk and Todd’s not far behind. I’m worried about his schoolwork, though. His attention deficit disorder’s a real problem and tough on his self-esteem. But we’ll get there.”

“Perhaps he should be in a special school.”

“Yeah. We’re looking into it for the fall. Sylvia thinks she may have found just the right place.”

Charlotte winced at the “we.” It sounded so final. A unit. One she was not part of. She was definitely right to have moved out, she realized with a twinge of determined satisfaction. Crossing her legs under her on the chair, she glanced at him. “I’m glad you’ve found someone to share your life with, Brad. I hope you’ll be very happy. Do you think Sylvia will like being mistress of Strathaird? It’s quite a job, as I’m sure Mummy will tell you. I hope she’ll be up to it.”

“Syl?” he gave a rich laugh and grinned. “She’ll take on anything. She’s so organized it’s unreal. I don’t know where we’d be without her at Harcourts. You should see her Filofax, and her BlackBerry pager.” He laughed, shook his head and took another sip of wine. “I don’t expect it’ll be easy for her, but I know she’ll give it her best try. And Syl’s best tries are usually very successful.”

“Well, that’s great then, isn’t it?” Charlotte jumped up, feeling suddenly antsy. “It’s a bit chilly to eat out, lets go in.”

“Sure. Can I help?” He followed her back inside, not certain what had prompted the sudden change in her but aware that something he’d said appeared to have displeased her. He shrugged, caught the fresh scent of her as she passed, and smiled inwardly. Charlie was mercurial as a weather vane and he was used to her ups and downs.

“You can set the table,” she remarked, returning to the stove and lifting the lid off the casserole to take a sniff. “The mats and cutlery are in the drawer to the right of the sink.”

Brad opened the creaking drawer, picked out two mats and frowned. “Didn’t you pick these out in Sarlat one summer? I seem to remember them. It was the year you turned fifteen.”

“Good memory. I chose them for Mummy. We had fun that day, remember?”

“Very well.” He placed the knives and forks and napkins on the table while Charlotte tended to the casserole, recalling amusing anecdotes that took them back many years, then placed the piping-hot gratin on the table. It felt homey, cozy and right being in her kitchen. Too cozy for his own good, he reflected grimly, Sylvia’s image flashing as he picked up the cruet and placed it on the table. “We must do this when Syl arrives,” he said out loud, confirming it to himself. The sooner the three of them became good pals, the better.

Charlotte swallowed a childish jab of resentment and carefully studied the table, knowing it was unfair to be jealous of his fiancée. Perhaps after a while she’d get used to having Sylvia around and even like her, who knew? But she and Brad had always been self-sufficient, never needing or wanting anyone but each other when they were together. Even Colin, her beloved brother, had sometimes been de trop. And even though years often went by without seeing one another, as soon as they were back together again the same natural intimacy and easy camaraderie established itself, just as it had now.

Charlotte lifted the casserole with the oven gloves and brought it to the table.

“Smells wonderful,” Brad remarked, sniffing appreciatively. “I’m still trying to grasp the fact you can cook.” He sat opposite her at the pine table and poured more wine.

“I recently became interested. It’s creative if you don’t follow recipes too closely. I let my imagination flow. The only trouble is, I never remember exactly what I did the time before, so the dish never comes out quite the same. That can be good or bad, depending,” she added wrinkling her nose and spooning a large helping onto his plate.

He laughed, relaxed, and tasted.

“Like it?” Charlotte waited anxiously for his verdict, annoyed that it should mean so much.

“This is haute cuisine, man. You should open a restaurant.”

She flushed with pleasure, barely eating, the sight of his obvious enjoyment nourishment in itself. “Last time I made you a meal you refused to eat it.”

“Yeah, well, you can hardly blame me. An outdated can of baked beans and three-day-old toast.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“No, it was worse. The beans were cold.”

“Yuck! That’s disgusting, Brad, and a complete lie.” She giggled, realizing she hadn’t spent such a happy, relaxed evening in ages. “Do you remember the summer we got stuck up in the chimney at the factory in Limoges, trying to find remnants of the radio that Dex operated during the war?”

“Do I remember?” he said with feeling. “That’s one of the few times he belted me, good and proper. And it was all your fault for climbing up too high.”

“Dex beat you?” she asked, amused yet surprised. He’d never told her about the punishment.

“He was waiting for me when I walked in the door. I could hardly sit down for a week.”

“You never said anything.”

“Nope. I took it like a man.” He winked at her and grinned. “You don’t really think that at twelve I would have admitted to you that I got the living shit beaten out of me, do you?”

“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.

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