The Lost Dreams

“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.”