The Lost Dreams

“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.