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.
And what about Mummy, without whose quiet yet efficient hand everything would have run amuck? What would happen once Brad and Sylvia were installed and they didn’t need her any longer? she wondered, heart aching.
Charlotte drove between the narrow row of whitewashed houses. With an effort, she sent Mrs. Bane, the newsagent, a bright smile and a wave, thinking worriedly about her mother’s situation. Penelope MacLeod was an integral and fundamental piece in the smooth running of the estate. She knew everything. The tenants, their worries and needs, how to handle the drove of MacLeods who appeared every year from all over the world, anxious to trace their ancestry and who always received a warm personal welcome from Lady MacLeod herself, however inconvenient, before she sent them on their way to Dunvegan, the seat of the MacLeod clan.
As for what she herself did around the estate, Charlotte thought that was less important. Still, perhaps she valued her involvement more than she liked to admit, she realized uneasily. How would it feel, now that Sylvia, and not she, would be doing those same things?
She
