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.”
