The Lost Dreams

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  “My God,” she exclaimed out loud. “Could it be Charlotte?”

  Upstairs, Brad shifted uncomfortably among the sheets, unable to sleep.

  He tried closing his eyes, thumped the pillow and tried to rest, praying that he was in the middle of a nightmare. Why this? Why now? He’d long ago relegated Charlotte to a convenient, determinedly compartmentalized corner of his brain, one that allowed him to treat the woman he’d once so desperately wanted to love and possess in a friendly, sexless manner. Deep down, he’d always known she could never really be that. But it had worked all these years. And tonight, inexplicably, Sylvia had released the long-suppressed genie from its bottle. What made it worse, he realized with a gusty sigh, was the sneaking suspicion the genie would prove damn hard to cork up again.

  But in truth, there was more to this than just the undeniable, inescapable attraction he felt for Charlotte, he reflected, shoving his arms behind his neck as he stared at the translucent moon shining through the half-open curtains. He’d discovered a new side of himself here at Strathaird. That was something he found hard to explain to himself, let alone to Sylvia. Another woman she might understand, but not this new unexpected curve in his life. That she would never accept. Her whole being revolved around Manhattan and their life there. Skye, and all Strathaird represented for him, was about as real to her as Disney World. How could he possibly make her understand that it was fast becoming an essential part of his life?

  Poor Syl. He’d treated her horribly, and she deserved better. He’d make it up to her, have his secretary select something special from Tiffany’s. Or perhaps, he reflected suddenly, he’d have Charlotte design her a unique piece of jewelry. His guilty conscience began to quiet down. It might be a good way of bringing the two women together, help get things back on track in an orderly manner. As for the still-very-much-married Charlotte—he reminded himself sternly—just because his body had betrayed him didn’t mean his mind would as well. What had happened tonight was nothing but a temporary aberration. He’d make damn sure of it. Charlotte would be returned to the enchanted bottle from which she’d popped out, and the stopper well secured.

  Still, that didn’t solve the fact that Strathaird was in his life to stay. He punched his pillow once more, realizing reluctantly that, like it or not, he’d have to make that very clear to Syl. It wasn’t fair to keep her in the dark about his growing attachment for the place. After all, she had the right to know that he intended to spend large chunks of time here in the future. What, he wondered, would she say to that? He tossed, turned and flung the covers off, wishing this awful, drawn-out night was behind him. But even as he willed himself to sleep, Charlotte’s image intruded ruthlessly, that same, eerie tug that had gripped him when he’d envisioned her in the Great Hall lurking persistently. He tossed again. Was Strathaird playing tricks on him? The idea was ridiculous. Yet he could almost feel her silky hair flow gently across his chest, read the longing in her eyes, picture her generous lips taking him into her mouth.

  Jesus! What next? Brad asked himself, angry at his own weakness. Gripping the sheets, he bunched them in his fists and closed his eyes tight, firmly determined to eradicate any tantalizing visions that might seek to rob him of his rest.

  But after several valiant tries, he realized it was futile. The thought of Charlotte echoed like a siren’s song, luring him inexorably into peril. After another half hour’s tossing and turning, he finally relented. With a guilty groan, he reluctantly gave in to the forbidden fantasy and allowed himself to dream.

  Sylvia surveyed the breakfast table, charmingly arrayed with the fine Harcourts porcelain. A small crystal vase of wildflowers stood in the middle, a splash of bright color against the white lace cloth. But her mind was far removed from esthetic details as she eyed Brad surreptitiously over the rim of her coffee cup. He looked tired and seemed to have trouble meeting her gaze, although he’d been very solicitous and affectionate when she’d entered the dining room. Perhaps this was his way of trying to apologize for the previous evening. She watched with considerable disgust as he downed the huge Scottish breakfast of porridge, ham, eggs, kippers, oatcakes and God knows what else with ease. The mere thought of all that cholesterol gave her the shivers.

  Having decided that ignoring last night’s disaster was by far the wisest way to deal with a potentially embarrassing situation, she nibbled a piece of dry toast while surveying the other guests. Armand was picking at a soft-boiled egg, complaining of a bad night’s rest, while Penelope listened politely. She glanced at Diego de la Fuente, who had just seated himself opposite Penelope. Mid-sixties, good-looking and in great shape, she noticed that his gaze seemed to linger on their hostess. Interesting. At least romance was in the air for someone, she thought with a twinge.

  There was still no sign of Charlotte, who’d been expected to join them, though Genny and the twins had been in earlier with a bouquet of wildflowers picked for her on the moors. Sylvia was more touched than she showed and Penelope had immediately put the flowers in a vase for her room. Somehow, the children’s gesture reminded her of all she might lose if she couldn’t fix whatever it was that was changing Brad. Wasn’t he aware of what they had together? The company, the kids, a stimulating and cosmopolitan life? She couldn’t believe the man she knew would be willing to give all that up.

  Still, it didn’t hurt any to see that he felt guilty about last night’s mess. When men knew they were in the doghouse, they were so much more malleable. The thought cheered her, and she remembered that she’d awakened this morning feeling wonderfully empowered. After all, she had a plan to mend things, and today she would put it into immediate action. As soon as breakfast was finished—and the less of this depressingly weak coffee she had to drink, the better—she’d go to the village and investigate. If Charlotte was indeed competition, then it was time to size up just what sort of danger she posed.

  Brad pushed away from the table and stood up. “I’m off up to the North Farm, Aunt Penn. Anything you need to tell the Murrays?”

  “No. Thank you, Brad.”

  “Well, I’ll be up there most of the day.” He glanced at Sylvia as though about to say something, then merely leaned down to kiss her. She tilted her head invitingly.

  “Have a great day, kiddo. I’ll see you this evening,” he murmured.

  “I sure plan to.”

  “Yes, you run along, Brad, dear. I shall be showing Sylvia the house and some of the ropes, and we’re going to talk about the fête where I’m planning to introduce her to everyone. The councilor’s wife should be ringing me back about tea on Thursday. Perhaps later you’d like to take a walk or drive to the village?” Penelope remarked, turning in her direction.

  “I’d love to,” she responded enthusiastically, glad of the cue. “I was hoping I’d get the chance to visit Charlotte’s gallery,” she added in a moment’s inspiration. She sent Brad a sidelong glance but elicited no reaction. He merely smiled briefly, nodded and picked up the papers before leaving the dining room.

  “Armand.” Sylvia watched Penelope plaster on a bright smile and turn to the Frenchman. “Any plans for the day?”

  “Perhaps.” He sounded vague, somewhat morose. “After the consumption of this egg I shall retire to the library for a short rest. Later I shall repair to the village. Charlotte,” he added in a hushed tone, “has been creating.”

  “Ah! Yes. Well, that’s very nice.” Penelope sent Sylvia an apologetic smile. Poor woman. Imagine having to deal with this all day long. Sylvia stifled a sympathetic grin.

  “I would love to go to the gallery and see Charlotte’s work,” she remarked. “Maybe I could treat myself to a gift.”

  “You will not be disappointed,” Armand exclaimed as though seeing her for the first time. “The originality of the pieces will exceed your expectations.”

  “I’m sure.” Sylvia smiled tactfully. All she wanted was to get a good look at Charlotte and see if she could ferret out if anything was going on between her and Brad.

&
nbsp; After spending the morning with Penelope, visiting the house and the garden and meeting the rest of “the ladies”—the ones who apparently would disapprove of her sleeping with Brad—Sylvia finally got directions for a shortcut down a steep, narrow path that almost killed her shoes, but that led to the road and on into the village. After removing the pebbles from her loafers, she made her way down the main street. An old man doffed his tweed cap and she felt as though she’d walked straight into a Scottish version of Jane Eyre. She smiled graciously at passersby. Even if she didn’t know who they were, there was a distinct possibility they knew she was Brad’s fiancée. It was an opportunity to make contact with the natives, she reckoned, wondering what the chances were that the newsagent she’d just passed carried the New York Times. Probably as slim as her chances of finding a salon that could give her a proper facial. Lord knows how her skin would react to all this distressingly fresh air.

  Remembering Penelope’s description of the gallery, Sylvia glanced at the quaint houses, the bursting window boxes and colored shutters. She had to concede that the village held a certain charm. Then her eye fell on the pretty, crooked whitewashed house squeezed between a café and what looked like a bakery. She crossed the road and peered in the window, then frowned, impressed. The space was sophisticated and well planned, not at all what she’d imagined. Just what had she imagined? she wondered, hearing a soft tinkle as she opened the door. Perhaps she was entirely wrong. The more she thought about the Charlotte-Brad thing, the more implausible it seemed. Maybe Brad really had been tired last night and nothing more.

  Trying hard to feel convinced, she stepped inside. A woman with a shock of long, mouse-colored hair and thick glasses sat behind a table. She gave her best smile.

  “Hi.”

  “Can I help you?” The woman rose. She wore leather sandals and a long Indian skirt, and looked artsy.

  “I came to see Charlotte. Is she available?”

  “She’s in the workshop. Whom should I announce?”

  “I’m Sylvia.”

  “Oh, hello. I’m Moira.” Sylvia thought she caught a look of unease before the woman’s face broke into a warm smile. “You’re Brad’s fiancée, aren’t you? Glad to meet you. Come on in. In fact, you’re in luck. Brad’s in there with Charlotte right now.” She led the way toward a small door in the wall behind the table. Sylvia froze. So this was what he was doing when he was supposed to be checking on some remote farm? Then, mastering herself, she regrouped and followed Moira, head high, her faltering confidence giving way to anger.

  Moira opened the door with the care of one used to not disturbing the room’s occupant. Then she stepped aside and allowed Sylvia to enter. Stopping on the threshold, she swallowed, throat suddenly dry. Charlotte was seated, leaning forward intently, hand moving fast. She couldn’t see properly, for Brad’s back was shielding her. He leaned over Charlotte, hand poised intimately on her shoulder.

  Sylvia swallowed again, pulse hopping, unable to unglue her eyes. Battling anger and humiliation, she listened to their murmuring voices, her worst fears confirmed. She caught Charlotte’s soft laugh, watched, horrified, as she tilted her head up to smile at Brad.

  Then Moira broke the spell. “Guys, look who’s here.”

  They turned in unison like naughty children caught in a prank. Brad stepped away, and Charlotte jumped up from her stool. “Hello, Sylvia, come on in. Sorry I haven’t managed to get over to the castle. I’ve been dreadfully busy.” She came forward. Sylvia smiled automatically, using every ounce of self-control to school her expression.

  But inside, she felt as if she’d just taken a punch to the gut. She and Charlotte had met only once before, in London at the Chelsea Flower Show. She’d remembered her as a messy bohemian type, and recalled wondering how she’d managed to land a total dreamboat like John Drummond, rated sexiest actor of the year. Now, taking in the full force of her porcelain skin and violet eyes, the mass of seductive flame-colored hair, and her lithe, athletic body, Sylvia had to acknowledge that Charlotte Drummond had a rare and disturbing beauty. Even knowing she was married to a sexpot like Drummond, most men would have a hard time keeping their hands off her. Knowing the husband was in a coma might make it harder still. Sylvia smoothed moist hands against her pants, afraid she might be revealing her distress.

  Extending her hand to Charlotte, she grinned brightly. “Hi. Just thought I’d pop by and visit. This place is great,” she enthused, “really incredible. I’m tempted to treat myself to a gift.” She sent Brad a cursory wave. “You got finished early?”

  “Yeah. I…” His voice trailed off uncomfortably.

  Charlotte picked up a white page from the table and glanced apologetically at Brad. “Sorry to spoil your plans, Brad, but I think Sylvia should see the drawing herself.” She handed the paper to Sylvia. “Brad wants me to design you something. He wanted it to be a surprise, but frankly I think you should give your own input. That way you’ll have something you’ll really enjoy wearing.”

  For the first time in years Sylvia was caught off balance. “Wow!” she said, staring in bewilderment at the sketch, when finally she could breathe. “That’s beautiful, Charlotte. Thank you, Brad.” She smiled at him across the room, a knot rising in her throat. Her eyes dropped again to the sketch, face flushed, mind in a whirl. He’d been choosing something for her. She felt suddenly ashamed of her doubts. Yet, as she and Charlotte pored over the design, she couldn’t quite banish the memory of the quiet intimacy that had reigned when she’d entered. Coupled with last night’s episode, she was left feeling less sure of herself than she had in years.

  9

  Charlotte pulled up to Rose Cottage, bone tired but happy. It had been an extremely busy day at the gallery. With an unexpected busload of tourists arriving in the village that morning, the shopkeepers had been buzzing with predictions of strong sales. Even though her gallery stocked by far the most expensive items in the area, she had had more business than she could handle. One of the visitors, who’d identified herself as a fashion editor for a major New York magazine, had been especially enthusiastic, lingering over several pieces and insisting Charlotte get a publicist for her work. Up until now, Charlotte had taken Armand’s extravagant praise of her talent with a grain of salt, but the woman’s words had made her stop and think. Perhaps she should allow herself a glimmer of hope, she reflected, taking two shopping bags filled with groceries out of the Land Rover and kicking the door shut. Perhaps the woman’s keen interest meant Armand’s grand schemes for a Paris show had some merit after all.

  Cautioning herself not to get her hopes up, she carted the bags to the front door, her imagination already brimming with ideas for new designs. She couldn’t help but smile. It felt good to know that she’d have to get to work right away to refill the display cases. And if the whole Paris plan did actually take, well then, the sky was the limit.

  Peering over the shopping bags, she was surprised to see that the bright blue door of the cottage stood ajar. She frowned, then shrugged. The children must have been in and out and forgotten to close it. She must tell them to pay more attention. Mercifully it hadn’t rained, although storm clouds were gathering. Which reminded her, she had to pick them up later, feed them pizza and drive them to the movies in Portree. She grinned. Todd was obsessed with Harry Potter, and while Genny and Rick had enjoyed the movie once, they weren’t too happy about being dragged to see it over again.

  Balancing her bags, she pushed the door farther open, assailed by a sudden feeling of unease. For a moment she hesitated, then entered. All appeared as usual and she shrugged, breathing easier. Ridiculous to imagine anything ominous here on the island, she realized, pitching her car keys in the silver dish on the hall table and leaving the bags on the floor before heading to the bedroom.

  But when she opened the door of her room she gasped and her hand flew to her mouth in horror. The room had been ransacked. It looked as though a hurricane had hit.

  “My God,” she whispered, gazing at t
he drawers sagging half-open, their contents strewn haphazardly on the floor. Her eyes traveled to the bed, where the sheets had been pulled back and the mattress ripped open. The duvet lay gashed like a broken toy next to it, feathers oozing from its gut. Charlotte let out a horrified cry and rushed to the dressing table. The cash she’d left there earlier in the day was gone. So was her watch. Her throat constricted as she saw the dresser’s top drawer, dangling almost off its track. All her jewelry had disappeared.

  There hadn’t been much—just a couple of trinkets—and she was too upset about the watch to worry about them. The realization that the timepiece that all her life she’d associated with her father and her family was gone left her devastated. It was precious and irreplaceable. Not only because of its monetary value—it was a unique Rothberg piece—but because of all the sentimental associations that stretched back to before the war. It had been given to the family by Sylvain de Rothberg himself, and that had made her feel close to him.

  She sank forlornly onto the dressing-table stool and let her head drop, desperately regretting that she’d not worn the watch today. But they’d planned to go swimming, until the imminent rain made the movies a better option, and she was scared of losing it in the sea. How had the thief known where to look? she wondered, trying desperately to think straight. Not that it would have been hard to figure out, she reminded herself grimly. The bedroom was the first place any robber would search. With her usual carelessness, she’d made it all too easy for him.

  Should she tidy the room? Call the police? Do both? She sat motionless for a moment, paralyzed and overwhelmed. Something dark and ominous had ripped into the fragile new life she’d tried so hard to build for her daughter and herself, and for the first time she doubted her impulsive decision to move away from the solid security of Strathaird. Had she acted too rashly? No, she told herself sternly, this freak event wasn’t going to pull her off course. Still, she realized shakily, she badly needed a strong shoulder to cry on.