The Lost Dreams

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  All at once, she knew where she had to go. Getting up, she brushed away the tears, dashed through the hall, then out of the garden gate and ran as fast as her legs could carry her, down the rough track, hair flying, heart full. Scrambling over the low stone wall, she followed a centuries-old shortcut through the fields and raced toward the castle.

  “What do you mean, you can’t leave?” Sylvia stared coldly across the large partners desk, hands planted on her slim hips.

  “I already told you, Syl, I need more time.” Brad gestured to the pile of papers before him. “I need to be here. They need to know I’m taking charge. I have the local councilor to meet, a hundred invitations to answer.”

  “Get a secretary.”

  “These need to be answered in person,” he continued patiently. “I can’t roll in here like a goddamn bulldozer, Syl. They have their way of doing things.”

  “Maybe it’s time you imposed your own style.”

  “Look, it’s just not like that around here. Surely you’ve understood that by now. People expect me to be a part of the community, to participate in events. If I haven’t the time, I need to communicate that in the most tactful way possible. Preferably in a hand-written letter.”

  “Really? And what about Harcourts?” she asked in a conversational tone. “Or have you forgotten that you have a multinational business to run?”

  “I’m well aware of that,” he replied tersely.

  “It sure doesn’t look like it. While you’re playing Mary-had-a-little-lamb, writing personal, hand-written notes to the local gentry, your company is going to pot and—”

  “You know perfectly well that’s ridiculous.” He passed a tired hand over his eyes, annoyed at her absurd comment, wishing she would leave him alone so that he could finish reviewing the estate accounts and work through the pile of invitations Penelope had handed him earlier in the day. This was the third such argument they’d had in the past five days. Sylvia certainly wasn’t making things any easier.

  “If anyone’s being ridiculous, it’s you, Bradley Ward.” She leaned over the desk, blond hair swinging, jaw clenched. “I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you, but you seem to have forgotten where your priorities lie.”

  “How many more times are we going to have to argue about this? We’ve been over and over it, Syl. You know as well as I do that Harcourts doesn’t require my presence round the clock. Thanks in great part to you,” he added wearily, attempting a smile and reaching for her hand.

  She ignored it and sat down opposite him, her face set in an angry frown. “I can’t believe you’re planning to stay here another three weeks, Brad,” she exclaimed. “It’s crazy. And what am I supposed to do? Sew samplers? There’s the ad campaign for the new linen line to oversee, there’s—”

  “Ira can handle it.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “Syl, I’m asking you to do this for me,” he said quietly. “Think about it. From now on, Strathaird is going to be part of our lives. I told you I intend to spend more time here. It’s a legacy I can’t just sweep under the rug. I need to be a part of it.” How could he explain how strongly he felt, or the strange feelings that drew him here?

  “This wasn’t in the job description when we started out,” she said bitterly. “Our life is perfect. Everything is just fine. Why do you have to spoil it?” She rose nervously and stared out the window. “I hate this place. I detest the way they talk, with their hoity-toity British accents, like they’re better than us. And God help me if I so much as offer an opinion about changing how things are done,” she added sotto voce. Then she turned away, shrugging. “I know Penelope means well, it’s not her fault. But this isn’t my world, Brad. I can’t simply morph into the lady of the manor overnight, and I don’t want to. I’m a New Yorker, through and through. Hell, a weekend in Connecticut is as rural as I ever want to get.”

  Her eyes pleaded with him, and guilt, never too distant when it came to this particular matter, swooped over Brad once again. He had no right to upset their lives. Yet what choice did he have? What choice had he ever been given? Was he going to comply with someone else’s plans and desires yet again, setting aside his own hopes and ambitions for the sake of duty? Or was he finally going to make a conscious choice about how he wanted to spend his time? Surely a few months here couldn’t be that detrimental, either to Harcourts or to their personal life?

  Sylvia stood in the middle of the room, looking forlorn yet determined. Watching her, he suddenly knew something fundamental had changed in him and between them, and that even if he did go back with her to New York right now, their life would never be quite the same. This went far beyond his strange reluctance to touch her intimately, and his newfound frustration with her black-and-white approach to life. Strathaird stood between them like a rockslide blocking the road. And Strathaird wasn’t going away.

  “I can’t force you to stay,” he said quietly, rising and coming around the desk. “I can only ask.”

  “But you’re staying anyway. Is that what you’re saying?” Her tone turned belligerent. “I don’t believe that this sudden need to find your ancestral roots is all that’s keeping you here, Brad.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, suddenly defensive.

  “I don’t know,” she answered, eyes narrowing. “I haven’t figured it out yet. I have a few ideas, though.”

  “After five days, if you still aren’t aware of all that needs to be done here, then you’ve got blinders on,” Brad blustered, unaccountably annoyed at her determination to pry him away. “Plus, the kids are having a great time and we need to relax.”

  “Relax? Here? In the land of brown bathwater? You have got to be kidding.” She let out a harsh laugh and faced him.

  “You made up your mind not to like this place before you even got here,” he interjected. “That’s not like you, Syl.”

  “At least I don’t have rose-colored glasses on. This place is a liability. The sooner you get rid of it, the better.”

  “That’s impossible,” he said quietly.

  “Why? Are you scared old Duncan MacLeod on the stairs might be upset? Hang him up in Sutton Place if he means that much to you.”

  “Now you’re being irrational. You know that the well-being of the tenants’ families hangs in the balance. I can’t ignore their needs.”

  “Think of it as a takeover. It happens all the time. People lose their jobs and find others.” She shrugged, dragging her hand across her aching, tense neck. “This is business, Brad—you’re the one who made it personal. Hey, if it bothers you that much, bring in a management team, as I’ve suggested time and again. Maybe you could turn this place into a hotel—that would resolve your job problem. In fact, you’d be helping the island’s economy.”

  “That’s not an option,” he muttered. Why couldn’t she at least try to understand that Strathaird wasn’t just a piece of real estate? Somehow, unexpectedly and almost overnight, it had become a part of him. He knew the defensiveness he experienced every time she criticized such feelings was totally unreasonable. He’d tried to reason with himself, but it was useless. Deep down, he knew he had no intention of following any of her sensible suggestions. Their eyes met and his conscience pricked once again when he saw tears glistening.

  “I’m sorry, Syl. I never meant for this to cause you pain.”

  “Then stop playing lord of the manor and come home,” she pleaded, taking a step closer. “You’re an American businessman, Brad, not a country squire. This is just a whim,” she added in a softer tone. “I know a bunch of people will be upset, but you know what? That’s life.” She glanced at him persuasively. “Come on home and give us a chance, honey. Please.” She sidled up to him, slipped an arm around his neck and caressed his dark hair.

  “I’m coming home. Just not right now.”

  She pulled away angrily and threw up her hands.

  “Okay, be that way. But I’m darned if I’m going to spend my time compiling lists for garden fêtes an
d having tea with the local vicar. Jane Austen is fine at the box office, but I live in the real world. Look at these people. Penelope’s a nice lady but she’s totally unorganized. And as for Charlotte—” she gave a low disparaging laugh “—she’s certainly not going to get far, given the way she runs her business. Her designs are pretty unique, but I give her six months at best. Did you know that she calculates what she charges for a piece based on how much she likes or dislikes the client?”

  “Leave Charlotte out of this,” he snapped.

  “Why? It strikes me she may be very much a part of it.”

  “She has nothing do with my decision to spend time at Strathaird.” He read the hurt suspicion in her eyes and tried to keep the edge out of his voice.

  “Well, I guess we’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?” Sylvia cast him a sarcastic glance and moved toward the door. “I don’t know what’s come over you, Brad, but you’re a very different man from the guy who left New York.”

  “Maybe I needed the change.”

  “Like hell you did.”

  Sylvia hated the fact that she sounded like a shrew, but she couldn’t help herself. He was shutting her out of decisions that affected them both—and the fact that he was still avoiding her bed like the plague certainly didn’t help matters. She sensed something deep inside him had changed—something she couldn’t share—and the cold fear that he was slipping away made her want to fight tooth and nail to hold him by her side. She moved nervously to the window.

  “Does it never stop raining in this place?” she murmured.

  Just then the door burst opened. Charlotte tumbled into the room, hair wet and jacket soaking. She looked a mess. And devastatingly beautiful.

  “Well, speak of the she-devil,” Sylvia muttered.

  Brad didn’t hear her comment. He was already halfway across the room, slipping a protective arm around Charlotte while his eyes searched her face.

  “What’s wrong, Charlie?”

  Sylvia winced. He’d never spoken in such a gentle, soothing tone to her. She listened, mesmerized, as Charlotte began speaking in an agitated manner. They might as well have been alone in the room for all the notice they gave her.

  “The cottage has been burgled.”

  “What?”

  “It’s true. Somebody broke in sometime this afternoon. The drawers in my room have been ransacked. Several items are missing. And, Brad, my watch is gone,” she wailed, “and some jewelry and cash that was on the dressing table.” Charlotte stopped for breath and Sylvia watched as Brad’s fingers slid through her thick mane. The gesture was so natural she caught her breath.

  He cared for her.

  Maybe he didn’t even realize it. Perhaps Charlotte didn’t either, she recognized, seeing only fear and distress in the other woman’s eyes. But the way they looked at one another…there was deep intimacy there. And that, Sylvia realized with a jolt, was far more dangerous than sex. This was no sudden, physical attraction but a strong and profound bond that existed between these two, one that predated her own life with Brad. How had she missed it before?

  The insight shocked her into action. Time to get out of Dodge, she decided. Trying to persuade Brad to leave was useless. He wasn’t going anywhere unless some outside event forced him to go. Her only option now was to return to New York and create a sufficiently serious reason for him to come back. Once she had him on her own turf, she’d have a chance. Here, she recognized bitterly, nothing short of an exorcism was going to get this place and this woman out of his mind. Looking at them huddled together, bile rose in her throat. Time to break up their little party, she decided, moving into the room.

  “Charlotte, I’m sorry your cottage was broken into,” she said in a smooth voice, watching as the two figures disengaged with a start. With a superhuman effort, she maintained a polite, concerned expression. “Is there anything I can do? Have you called the police?”

  “Not yet,” Charlotte replied, running a shaking hand through her hair. “I’ll call the sergeant at the station in a minute. Not that it’ll do much good. No one’s ever been broken into around here. I suppose it must have been a passing tourist. None of the bigger valuables were taken.”

  “Makes one wonder if it’s safe to be here,” Sylvia said, nodding sagely. “I think you should call in extra security, Brad. I don’t like it.”

  “It’s probably just an isolated incident,” Charlotte said nervously, looking in her direction. “There have been a couple of similar break-ins near Portree. They all turned out to be petty crimes. Probably someone in need of quick cash.” She passed a hand over her eyes. Sylvia noticed how her fingers still trembled. The girl was a pile of nerves and Brad seemed only too ready to soothe them. “I just wish they hadn’t taken my watch,” she added, her huge violet eyes filling with unshed tears. “It was Daddy’s and I love it. Daddy always wore it and then Colin and then—”

  “Don’t worry,” Brad interrupted gently, gripping her shoulder. “We’ll do everything we can to get it back, Charlie, I promise. It won’t be an easy piece to resell, and any effort to do so will surely bring it to the attention of the authorities. We’ll find out if anyone was around the cottage this afternoon. One of the tenants or someone in the village may have seen a car.”

  “That’s true,” Charlotte murmured, and Sylvia watched in dismay as Brad reached out to envelop her in his arms.

  She moved quickly across the room, unable to stomach any more. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you two to sort this mess out. I have a couple of calls to make.”

  Charlotte smiled absently and Brad sent her a friendly, dismissive nod. She crossed the hall, fuming.

  “If you think you’re going to brush me aside like an old blanket, you’ve got another think coming, Bradley Ward,” she muttered, marching up the stairs, a plan already forming in her resourceful brain. The next board meeting was coming up in just two weeks. Apparently Brad didn’t intend to be there.

  But she would see about that! You could bet your bottom dollar she would.

  “What a terrible situation,” Armand said for the umpteenth time as everyone sat in the petit salon, debating the matter of the robbery. Sergeant Ramsey had left an hour ago with the promise to investigate further, and Armand still seemed shaken by the whole event. “Worst of all is the disappearance of the watch,” he remarked, face pale, the twitch in his cheeks pronounced. “It is irreplaceable, a unique Rothberg piece that—” He broke off in midsentence and shook his head. “You should have kept it more carefully,” he admonished. “Vraiment, Charlotte, it was irresponsible of you to leave such an heirloom lying carelessly about.”

  “Well, I could hardly have guessed that the one day I happened not to be wearing it, someone was going to come barging into the cottage and grab my stuff,” she remarked tartly. She was sick and tired of Armand, who was going on and on, repeating the same litany.

  “Still, it is a dreadful shame,” he muttered.

  “I always wear it,” Charlotte said defensively. “The only reason I didn’t today was because we’d planned to go swimming. You remarked on it today, Armand, when you stopped by the shop. I told you I never wear it when we go on picnics by the sea, and you said that was wise. I’m just too scared of losing it. Then when the busload of tourists arrived, I got caught at the gallery and never had the chance to get away.”

  “What’s so special about the watch?” Sylvia, perched on the arm of the sofa next to Penelope, inquired. “I mean, apart from the fact that it belonged to her dad. Why is Armand so uptight about it?”

  “It was an exceptional Rothberg piece. We never knew exactly how David came by it. Once he asked Dex about it, but he didn’t seem to know either, and Flora was always so vague.”

  “It is an enduring mystery,” Armand pronounced with a sad shake of the head.

  “The person we’ve never thought to ask is the Cardinal. After all, his sister was married to Sylvain.” Penelope leaned toward the teapot and glanced at Diego, seated silently opposit
e. “Perhaps he may be able to shed some light on the origins of the watch. Not,” she noted sadly, “that the information will help us now.”

  “A strange business,” Diego remarked in a low voice. “It might be worth finding out who was about at the time. Are there any neighbors?”

  “No. Brad’s already set the word about, but the cottage stands on its own, as you know. The only road leads back to the castle, and frankly, very few people would have any reason to go up that way.”

  “I know. Armand and I have been on walks there. It’s definitely not a place a robber would simply happen upon. Too far from civilization,” Diego agreed, a frown covering his bronzed features.

  Penelope looked at him uneasily. “Exactly. This would all make more sense if it had been one of those cottages nearer the main road.”

  “What was the watch’s value?” he asked, adding a slice of lemon to his cup of tea.

  “We don’t know its exact worth,” Penelope said. “Nobody ever had it appraised. But it probably is quite valuable. It was rather bulky and sometimes I used to tease my husband about it. Then, when Colin turned twenty-one, David gave it to him. Charlotte’s been wearing it ever since Colin—” She bit her lip and Diego’s hand slipped gently over hers.

  “I understand. It is the sentimental value of the piece that counted.”

  She nodded silently, the firm grip on her hand reassuring. Then, pulling herself together, she drew away and gave him a grateful smile.

  “You know, this has created a precedent,” Sylvia remarked in a decided manner as she crossed her legs and balanced her cup elegantly on her knee. “I think you can prepare yourselves for more break-ins. As I mentioned earlier, you should beef up security immediately.”

  “Goodness! Surely that’s not necessary?” Penelope glanced anxiously at Brad. “It seems like an isolated incident.”

  “Penelope, that’s wishful thinking and you know it,” Sylvia said. “Let’s face it, guys, this island’s going to become just as dangerous as anywhere else. I know you all want to believe you live in your own private little paradise, but I hate to burst your bubble—from now on you’re going to have to lock doors, install alarm systems and take proper security measures.”