The Lost Dreams

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

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.