Читать книгу: «The Lost Dreams», страница 2

“We are?” Brad grimaced. “It’s not that important, is it? Can’t we reschedule?”

They reached the lobby of the Harcourts building and walked toward the car waiting at the curb. Sylvia swallowed her frustration. “Well,” she muttered grudgingly, “it’s not essential, but I’d hate to miss the chance to check out their penthouse. I hear it’s phenomenal.”

“Then you go, honey, you’ll enjoy it,” he answered, smiling absently as they slid into the back of the vehicle, and Ramon, the driver, glided smoothly into the Manhattan evening traffic.

“That’s not the poi—” She bit back the words, afraid she’d sound petty and childish. For some reason, this sudden eagerness to get to Scotland had upset her, and the fact that he wanted to go alone left her strangely empty and anxious. She shrugged, leaned over and poured them each a scotch, knowing it was ridiculous to be so uptight. Brad was straight as an arrow; he traveled all the time by himself and she never gave it a thought. Still, something about this particular trip left her uneasy. It just wasn’t her world.

Taking a long sip, she stared out the car window at late stragglers hurrying toward the subway, noticing a dog walker clutching the leashes of six hounds under a streetlight. What kind of person wanted a job as a dog walker? she wondered absently. Then, leaning back in the soft cream leather, she slipped her hand in his, determined to relax the rest of the drive home.

It was dark by the time Charlotte finally reached Rose Cottage and walked through the tiny hall into the kitchen. Pungent summer scents, dried flowers, and herbs hanging from low, waxed beams welcomed her as she tossed her bag on the counter. To her surprise, the house was spic and span. Then she caught sight of the shepherd’s pie and lifted the note with a tired smile. How sweet of Mummy to have taken all this trouble when she had so much to cope with before Brad’s arrival. And, despite her sadness at leaving Strathaird, she recognized how good it felt to be in a place entirely her own once more. Living at the castle with Mummy and Genny had been fine, but there was something to be said about opening your own front door and knowing you were home.

The phone rang and she picked up.

“Hello, darling.” Charlotte’s mouth curved as her daughter’s voice poured down the line in an excited, thirteen-year-old rush.

“Yes, of course you can sleep over, darling. But don’t be a nuisance to Mrs. Morison. Give them my love.”

Charlotte hung up, glad Genny had new friends. She’d been so alone and shy when they’d first returned to the island after John’s accident. Making the change from London hadn’t been easy. The other children had not willingly accepted her, and of course her limp hadn’t helped.

She switched on the kettle, absently inserted the pie in the oven, and shoved the recurring guilt over the night when she’d fallen asleep at the wheel. Genny had paid the price, her leg crushed in the twisted metal. The accident had left her with a serious limp that Charlotte prayed would diminish with time. She quickly shifted her thoughts back to the present before remorse engulfed her and reflected on all that had happened in the past few months. Change, it seemed, was the order of the day.

Of course, it was unrealistic to believe that life would go on forever as it always had. Brad and his soon-to-be wife, Sylvia, could hardly be expected to put up with the inconveniences that were a part of Strathaird, she acknowledged, taking a chipped Winnie the Pooh mug off the hook above the sink and opening the tea tin. It was ironic, she reflected, that she, who so desperately longed for change in her personal life, could not bear the thought of seeing Strathaird transformed even a little. Which was why she’d left. She was only half a mile up the road, she realized, but mentally she was gone. Strathaird, with its draughts, the lift that always got stuck and the broken step leading down to the lawn that for some reason never got repaired, was a part of her past. But for all her life, it had represented home.

She dangled the mug carelessly, engulfed by sudden nostalgia, then stopped short, remembering the mammoth-size crates filled with gym equipment that had been delivered three days ago, now looming ominously in the Great Hall. Moving out was definitely the right thing to do, she realized with a shudder, picturing Sylvia, sleek and blond, mounted on the treadmill.

Selecting a ginger snap from the dented biscuit tin, she set it beside the tea mug. The image of Brad’s smooth, sexy, sophisticated fiancée flashed vividly in her mind’s eye. A smart, highly organized, modern woman, she reflected, remembering the one time they’d briefly met, two years ago, long before there was any talk of marriage. Pouring boiling water into the mug, she bit dismally into the cookie, feeling suddenly dowdy and drab. The woman probably had a color-coded closet. Her bags full of designer outfits were probably already carefully packed for her stay on Skye—or would Prada and Calvin Klein remain stashed in her pristine Manhattan apartment?

Not that she cared.

Charlotte straightened her drooping shoulders and sipped her tea cautiously. Sylvia could look as good as she liked, and she wished Brad very happy. After all, the woman was obviously the perfect choice for him: neat, orderly, efficient, the ideal companion for a man with all his responsibilities.

The acrid scent of burning food made her swivel toward the oven, the shepherd’s pie that she’d forgotten a sharp reminder of just how absentminded and unorganized she could be. Sylvia, she reflected somberly, probably never did silly things like leave the oven on. Then, hoisting a slender hip up onto the counter, she grinned as she imagined Sylvia’s apartment; probably somewhere in the upper east sixties, the perfect address, très slick, Italian furniture—modern, of course—a very clean, minimalist look, all ecru and beige with touches of chrome. Not a thing out of place.

A crack of laughter broke the silence as she slipped on a pair of charred oven gloves, opened the oven door and pictured Brad and the twins in this hypothetical home. She grimaced at the burned crust, glanced despondently at the oven’s too-high setting and pulled herself up guiltily. She had no business criticizing Sylvia, who from all accounts was delightful and who adored Rick and Todd, Brad’s half brothers whom he’d taken in eight years ago when their parents died tragically in a plane crash. What right had she to judge someone who, according to general opinion, was the perfect wife for him?

Charlotte gazed down at the pie, burned to a crisp, whose destination was the rubbish bin. She decided to give her mother a thank-you call before she went to bed, although she wouldn’t mention the burning bit. Mummy was a brick. It was so decent of her to have finished the cleanup, which she’d been dreading returning to.

Dumping the pie temporarily in the sink, she took her tea to the old wooden table and sat down on one of the rickety wooden chairs with a thud, the day’s emotions and the long drive finally catching up with her. She jiggled the stool warily. Perhaps Mummy was right and she should invest in some new furniture on the next trip into Glasgow. But she hated crowds and shops and people and decisions—even minor ones such as choosing chairs or curtains seemed insurmountable right now. And that went for clothes too, an issue her mother brought up constantly. Why she should care what she looked like here on Skye was beyond her. After all, there were only the sheep and now Armand de la Vallière to see her—and Armand, though very fashion-conscious, was gay, so he didn’t really count.

Her mind wandered back to Brad wondering how he truly felt about inheriting Strathaird. She swung her foot absently, remembering their talks of old. It had been a while since they’d sat down for a long cozy chat. God knows, in the dark bleak days when she and John leaped from one argument into another, knowing he was a phone call away had been a lifesaver. But since the accident, their conversations had somehow fizzled out. She had felt guilty talking to him for so long and so often without a specific reason. Before John’s injury, there had always been a motive. She’d poured out some of her pain. And although she’d rarely taken his advice, it had helped. But since the accident, any talk had been businesslike and to the point. Oh well, Charlotte sighed, it was probably best. They each had their lives to live.

She rose briskly and brushed her hair away from her face, considering whether Brad fully realized all that inheriting Strathaird implied—the people, the everyday worries, the plans and intricacies? Or did he think he could run it like he ran Harcourts, the multimillion-dollar porcelain and upscale decorating enterprise he’d inherited from his grandfather? She refilled her cup, sipped absently. “Hell’s bells,” she swore crossly when she burned her tongue and the tea spilled, dirtying her T-shirt. This was definitely not her day, she reflected grimly, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. And why was she so concerned about Brad, when she had more than enough on her own plate? Ridiculous! Brad was a big boy. He knew the place well, had been coming here since he was a child and could very well take care of himself. There was no reason for her to worry. Or was there? It was one thing to pop over for short visits to see his grandparents, flying in on a chopper, then wafting out again. But this was a different kettle of fish altogether, and she doubted whether even the eternally well-prepared Brad had the slightest inkling of all that would be expected of him as laird.

A meow from the windowsill brought her out of her reverie. Hermione sat curled on the outside ledge, preening her whiskers and cleaning her soft tabby fur. Charlotte rose, opened the window and allowed the cat to pad daintily over the sink toward her basket by the stove. As she reached to close the window, a sudden movement caught her eye. She frowned, wondering if a sheep had wandered in from the fields. All at once she shivered, then pulled herself together, deciding she was even more tired than she’d realized. This was Skye, and there was no danger here. She turned and thoughtfully eyed the cat.

“Where have you been?” she inquired, picking her up and stroking gently. “I’m glad to see you know your new way home. How do you like it?” She was reassured by a satisfied purr. “Good,” she murmured, letting the animal slip from her arms. “At least one of us is happy.”

She was about to leave the kitchen when the sound of a muted cough made her stand stock-still. There was definitely someone out there.

Warily Charlotte slipped into the hall, opened the antique chest on the floor and picked out a cricket bat. Just as stealthily, she opened the front door. As she emerged, a shadow flitted near the gate.

“Stop,” she called, rushing forward, wielding the bat wildly. A figure stumbled through the gate and she hurled herself toward it.

“Dinna’ hit me, Miss Charlotte, dinna’, please.”

The pleading voice of Bobby Hewitt made her drop her arms in sudden relief.

“Bobby! What on earth are you doing here?” she exclaimed, limp with irritation and relief. “You gave me the most awful fright.”

“I wasna’ doing anything wrong.”

“But what are you doing out here? It’s past ten o’clock.” She glanced at the bowed figure. Poor Bobby was a simple, harmless soul in his mid-forties who’d been trailing her adoringly since she was a child. But he had never snooped around at night. Of course, she realized with a frown, she’d always been ensconced in the castle. Now, on her own at Rose Cottage, things were different.

“Come here,” she said, taking him by the arm of his worn jacket and making him stand under the porch light. “Bobby, you can’t wander around at night spying on people.”

“I wasna’,” he remarked, his mouth taking on a stubborn twist. “I was making sure everything was all right. There’s strangers about.”

“They’re called tourists, Bobby.” Her face broke into a smile and she shook her head. “So you thought to guard the cottage? Don’t worry about me, Bobby, everything’s fine. There are no marauders around here. You know that.”

“Ye canna’ be too careful.”

“No, of course not. Still, you mustn’t come scaring me like that. I almost went after you with Colin’s cricket bat.” She swung it over her shoulder. “Now get back to your mother’s cottage and no more roaming around here after dark, promise?”

“Aye.” He nodded penitently, seeking forgiveness.

Charlotte smiled at him. “If you wait two seconds, I’ll get you some of Mrs. McTavish’s toffees. You like those, don’t you?”

He nodded in eager response, like a small child.

Charlotte sighed, propped the bat against the hall wall and went back to the kitchen where she found a bag of toffees. Perhaps something should be done to help Bobby, although he seemed perfectly content.

“Here you are. Now off you go, straight home, and don’t let this happen again.”

“Aye. Thanks, Miss Charlotte. I’m sorry I scared ye. I didna’ mean any harm.”

“I know. Now run along.”

She watched as he hurried off, his shoulders slightly stooped, long hair trailing thinly on his shoulders. Poor Bobby. She should have realized he might get up to something like this, but frankly, Bobby Hewitt was the last person on her mind right now.

She locked up and glanced at the heavy gold watch on her wrist. Gosh, it was late. Better give her mother a buzz, then get to bed.

The library fire dwindled, embers stuttered, coals shifted and Armand de la Vallière sighed. It was his favorite room in the castle.

He sat in solitary contemplation, surrounded by leather-bound books, heavy mahogany furniture and the ancient French-damask curtains installed so many years ago by Tante Hortense, a balm to his strained nerves. He peered through the mullioned windows into the inky summer evening, vaguely aware of Penelope’s voice echoing through the Great Hall. Concentrating, he leaned forward, staring once more at the packed shelves of books, eyes narrowing. It would be a difficult search, one that would require all his ability. The sheer physical impediment of having to climb up to the highest shelves made it almost impossible to take a good look at the books without attracting suspicion. He stared into the dying flames, obliterating the haunting images that lurked in his memory since childhood, replacing them instead with shining scenes of glitz, glamour and glory. It was a technique he’d perfected over the years, and infallibly it worked.

Now, as fleeting shadows played on the spines of the ancient book covers and the darkened walls, he replaced the packed shelves with visions of splendid jewels. They shimmered in his imagination, and he sighed. The method acted as effectively as any hallucinogen. Slowly his tense muscles relaxed and he breathed easier, entranced, visualizing the catwalk, the agitated buzz, models preparing to strut the runway, hairdressers, makeup artists and seamstresses, all waiting for his final orders. His fingers unclenched as he pictured himself directing operations, adding the finishing touches with a master’s skill. Finally he would place each of Charlotte’s exquisite pieces at precisely the right angle before sending the model forth, waiting with bated breath for the murmured hush of the crowd.

A frisson of satisfaction left him sighing. Nothing less than perfection would do. And he had seen perfection in Charlotte’s work. He drew a cigarette from an antique silver cigarette case, tapped it thoughtfully on the arm of the old leather chair, then lit it. To have such amazing talent, yet be so oblivious. A quivering pang of envy darted straight to his heart. Why was life so unfair? Why did some have all the suffering, the toil, the trouble, while others glided unwittingly into fame and fortune? Indeed, why did life bestow talent on those who didn’t give a damn, while denying it to those for whom it meant the world?

He took a long drag and leaned back in the deep armchair, aware there was little to be gained from such thoughts. It was too late to acquire that which God had not given him.

Still, he decided with a grim little smile, it might not be too late to redirect fate into avenues more suited to his liking. After all, there was a reason for his presence here, at this specific time.

Once more he inhaled deeply, then let the smoke curl up toward the coffered oak ceiling and shut his eyes. He was so close. So very close. And nothing would convince him otherwise.

2

Brad studied the preliminary agenda for next month’s board meeting and added a few margin notes, increasing the time allotted to discuss international expansion. Harcourts may have begun as a porcelain empire almost a century ago, but over the decades, particularly since Brad had been CEO, the business had expanded to include all aspects of upscale home décor. International growth was essential and needed special attention. World markets were growing fast and he planned to be there on the crest of the wave.

Capping his pen, he tossed it on the desk, loosened the silk tie that was suffocating him and allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation. The last quarter’s profits had surpassed everyone’s expectations. The company was leaner and more productive than any in the industry, and the innovative publicity campaigns Sylvia had engineered for the new designer dinnerware lines had taken the public by storm; sales had doubled in several markets and Harcourts was on a roll.

And now he was obliged to carve two weeks out of the hectic and tense period before the annual directors’ meeting to go to Scotland. It wasn’t going to be easy, Brad realized, drumming his foot while studying the schedule his secretary had laid on the desk this morning. He wondered briefly if there was any way of avoiding it, knowing very well he could not put off the trip to Strathaird. Based on the teleconference with the solicitors in Edinburgh, it was clear his presence was required to settle the labyrinthine legal issues related to the estate, and he owed it to Aunt Penn and Charlotte to deal with matters as quickly and cleanly as he could. He thought of what he’d discussed with Sylvia the previous evening. It was true that he wanted to go. And of course the idea of seeing the family again, spending time in a place he’d always enjoyed, had its attractions. It was just such a damn inconvenient moment.

He leaned back and swiveled the ample leather office chair, picturing the rugged fortress, battered by centuries of wind and rain, relentless waves and enemy onslaught. Lately it seemed to be beckoning him.

Learning he was a part of Strathaird’s heritage had come as a shock. Discovering he had become its owner was sobering. But he’d accepted the inevitable, and now there was nothing to do but assume his duties as laird and invest what little time his busy life permitted to try and do the job right. Although he knew the place well, had climbed its rocks and walked its shores and moors since early childhood, he’d never considered himself more than a guest in his grandparents’ home.

He glanced once more at the schedule, wondered if perhaps two weeks would be too little and whether it could be stretched into three. His gut told him he’d need the time. Penelope expected it of him, Charlotte probably expected it of him as well, and apparently the tenants did, too. That, he sighed, had been made abundantly clear, both in his meetings and by his aunt. Not directly, he realized, smiling at how subtle the British could be. Nothing was ever said head-on, just implied.

He rose and moved across the large office to the window and stared at the Manhattan skyline. But instead of Rockefeller Center and the Empire State Building, a riot of titian hair and violet eyes flashed before him. He pulled himself up with a jolt and glanced guiltily at his watch, remembering he was due to meet Sylvia in an hour at Julio Larraz’s private art showing. Focusing on the subject of art he thought of the several Larraz paintings and two bronze sculptures he’d already acquired. He’d missed the exhibition in Monte Carlo and was damned if he’d wait for another auction at Christie’s or Sotheby’s to acquire another piece. Turning on his heel, he pressed a button on the chrome phone panel and punched.

“Yes, sir?” Ramon answered promptly.

“I’ll be down in ten,” he said, glancing again at his watch.

“Very good, sir.”

A perfunctory knock was followed by the door opening. Marcia, his secretary, entered with her usual brisk step. “I’ve made a couple of changes to the schedule,” he remarked, handing it to her while answering his cell phone. He sent her an apologetic smile while she stood patiently, with the air of one used to waiting. She gasped as she glanced at the changes.

“Right,” Brad spoke into the phone. “Start buying as soon as the market opens, but not so much stock that anyone’ll notice. Yeah…I learned today they’ve got a merger going.” There was a pause as he listened. “Sure thing. Good night.”

“You’re not serious, Brad. Three weeks?” Marcia squeaked, her slim, blue-suited form tensing. “You simply can’t stay away that long. For one thing, you have the Australian trip coming up, and the meetings in London, not to mention Chicago and Seattle. And the board meeting—”

“I don’t have a choice.” He picked up his briefcase, slipped in a couple of memos, then closed it. “We’ll manage somehow, Marcia. I’m counting on you, as always. Sylvia’s going to be around for at least the first week I’m gone.” He did not notice the disapproving sniff. “Better make reservations for Friday.”

She groaned. “Why couldn’t they just let Charlotte and Penelope MacLeod have the darn estate? If I were them, I’d slap a lawsuit on the judge for sexual discrimination,” she added, following him hurriedly out the door, into the vast, well-lit hallway where secretaries and junior executives still circulated, despite the late hour.

Downstairs the car awaited him at the curb. As he climbed in, Brad took conscious stock of the fast-paced Manhattan hub where he’d lived all his life, and wondered suddenly what it would be like to function for three weeks at the slow, lazy pace of Skye, with its grazing sheep, one-lane roads and fishing boats bobbing on a choppy gray sea.

Leaning back, he did something rare: he let his mind wander. Usually he answered e-mail or made calls, gaining time in traffic. But tonight, Scotland was uppermost in his mind. As the car crossed Houston Street and continued into SoHo, he stared at the bustling crowd on the sidewalk, remembering long summer days spent catching tadpoles with Charlotte and Colin, hours fishing together from the rocks below the castle, picnics prepared by Aunt Penn and Granny Flora, carried to the moors at sundown and set among the heather, while Dex, his grandfather, spun yarns around the campfire, and all of them laughed at the outrageous tall tales Charlotte wove with such imagination and skill. He smiled. That was something he and Charlie must do with Genny and the twins, he reflected, the thought instantly appealing.

Traffic stopped, a horn honked angrily and Ramon lowered the window to follow the loud argument going on between irate drivers over a delivery van parked smack in their lane.

“Eet’s crazy, Mr. Brad,” Ramon remarked, shaking his gray head disapprovingly. “Worse than Puerto Rico,” he complained.

Brad murmured sympathetically, used to the city’s eccentric ways and Ramon’s disapproval, his mind far away in a remote part of the globe about as alien to Manhattan as you could get. Then, all at once, he realized that Sylvia was absent from his fantasy and experienced a moment’s shame. Probably because they’d never been to Strathaird together, he justified. That would all change once she arrived. They’d make new memories together. Still, the more he thought about it, the more surprised he was at how appealing the trip to Scotland seemed. He couldn’t help the pleasure he experienced at the thought of spending some time alone with Charlotte, catching up, roaming the estate and becoming familiar with the people and their lives. Anyway, Syl needed to stay put while he dealt with business over there, he reasoned. Of course, she’d be a wonderful help in Scotland, too—of that he had little doubt. His future wife was supportive, enthusiastic and he could not ask for a better companion. But he was relieved, nevertheless, not to be descending upon Strathaird loaded with Vuitton luggage, which might set the wrong tone with the locals, who were low-key at the best of times.

The car drew up in front of the gallery and Brad shook off the mood. Entering the building, he was immediately engulfed by laughing chitchat, the clink of fine crystal, hot deals disguised by small talk and the feel of female eyes following him closely as he surveyed the large, streamlined space. He waved to Larraz and his lovely wife, Pilar, then caught sight of Sylvia, simple and chic in a strict black dress, hair falling blond and sleek to her shoulders, her only jewelry a pair of diamond studs and his Grandmother Ward’s imposing diamond engagement ring.

Picking up a glass of scotch from a roving waiter’s silver tray, he made his way among the guests to where she stood chatting animatedly to a large man in a black blazer and T-shirt. One of the L.A crowd, he figured, dropping a fleeting kiss on Sylvia’s cheek before joining in the conversation. He wondered suddenly how Sylvia would react to his idea of spending three weeks in Scotland instead of two. He nursed his scotch, replying automatically to a woman in bloodred silk he vaguely remembered was a Broadway actress, and decided that the extra time on the island would do the twins good. He made a mental note to call Diego de la Fuente, the twins’ maternal grandfather, in Montevideo, and convince him to join them in Skye, as Aunt Penn had suggested.

Then he observed Sylvia. She was in her element tonight, networking, enjoying the party, letting no opportunities for furthering business slip through her fingers. He wouldn’t be surprised if, by the time they got back to her place, some hot new deal was cooking. The image of her sitting quietly, sipping white wine at sunset on the lawn at Strathaird, seemed painfully incompatible.

Banishing the niggling doubt, he hailed a friend and chatted for a couple of minutes. In the end, she’d be as comfortable at Strathaird as she was here. He felt certain of it.

Satisfied that everything would work out, he put all thoughts of Scotland aside and set about acquiring the painting he’d decided on.

Leaning out the window of her old Land Rover, Charlotte breathed long and deep, smiled at the pale sunbeams piercing the traveling clouds, and sighed as a strong westerly breeze carrying subtle scents of brine and heather mussed her hair. Overhead, gulls squawked and beyond the fields of grazing sheep divided by low stone walls, a soft purple haze draped the moors. Strathaird might change, she reflected with a rush of pleasure, but this would always be hers.

She headed down the bumpy single-track road, slowing when a tractor trundling in the opposite direction obliged her to veer onto the grass before coming to a grinding halt.

The driver respectfully raised a hand to his faded tweed cap. “A good day to ye, Miss Charlotte. Am nae’ sure this fine weather will last, though.” Old Fergus Mackay sniffed doubtfully. Eyes narrowing, he pointed to the drifting clouds hovering overhead. “There’ll be rain later on,” he remarked with the satisfied assurance of one who knew his weather.

Charlotte looked up and nodded in solemn agreement. He was right. When wild gusts moved inland, they brought heavy warm rain in their wake. She smiled, chatted for a few minutes and sighed inwardly. It was sweet how the locals still called her Miss Charlotte, even though she’d been married for years.

“I hear the new lordship’s arriving shortly.” The statement was followed by a dour sniff.

“Yes. He’s meant to be here early next week,” Charlotte responded enthusiastically.

“Aye. And about time too. It’ll nae do fer him to stay away from the land too long.”

“Brad’ll be here. Don’t worry. He’s a good sort,” Charlotte encouraged, cringing at the note of disapproval she heard in the old man’s voice. Speculation in the village and among the tenants was rife.

“Aye. I remember him as a wee laddie.” Fergus Mackay straightened his cap and smiled sadly, his eyes surprisingly blue and bright under thick bushy white brows. “’Tis a pity yer ain’ brother Colin passed on, Miss Charlotte. A fine laird he woulda’ made. We’re all agreed on that.”

“He would. But it wasn’t to be. Brad wasn’t brought up here and hasn’t had the advantage of knowing you all the way Colin did, but I’m sure he intends to do his best. And the more help he gets from all of us, the easier things will be and a better job he’ll do. For all of us,” she added pointedly, hoping that by paving the way with old Mackay, an elder in the church who held strong influence over his peers, she’d ease Brad’s transition.

They conversed for several minutes, then the tractor continued its lumbering course up the hill and Charlotte drove on down toward the sea and the village. She glanced up to her right at the castle, rising rugged and alone.

A shard of sunlight washed the weathered stones of the east turret, illuminating the faerie emblem of the MacLeod flag, fluttering proudly in the brisk breeze. Before she could stop them, another rush of tiresome tears made her jerk her head away. Stop it, she commanded herself, biting her lip. It was ridiculous to get sentimental and silly about Strathaird. The castle was moving on, as it always had and always would. It was nothing new or different from what had occurred in the past. Merely the last male MacLeod, the heir to Strathaird, was coming home, as was right and proper. But how long would he stay? she wondered, swerving into the village, past the snug harbor packed with colorful fishing boats and into the main street, thinking still of all the inevitable adjustments that were bound to take place. If Brad were to do the job properly and stake his claim as laird, he’d have to introduce his own ideas and innovations.