The Lost Dreams. Fiona Hood-Stewart

had taken Brad little more than a week to realize that, for the first time in his life, he was in over his head. Endless meetings in the study, reviewing accounts, and long sessions with Penelope discussing the histories of the different tenant families—the exact nature of their activities and problems—had been only one part of the daunting process of learning what running an estate involved. There were expeditions on horseback with Mr. Mackay—the factor, who was in charge of Strathaird’s administration—to view repairs to fences in spots too remote to be reached by car, followed by lengthy afternoon visits to the homes of the tenants, where he was met by men with wary gazes and women with soft smiles who welcomed him cautiously. He was offered home-baked cake and endless cups of tea laced with Talisker, the local island whiskey. The veiled hints of what they expected from the laird did not go unnoticed. All this and more had given him a fair idea of what was expected of him: his mind, his body and soul, and above all, his presence.

      He’d ridden the land on Colin’s gelding, enjoying the windswept moors, the ever-present breeze and the strong sea air. He had stopped by the roadside to listen to complaints regarding the falling price of sheep on the mainland, and the island’s lack of employment. And he was surprised to find himself being drawn into this far-flung web of concerns that until recently had been little more than another job to handle. But though it was a job—one that demanded far more than he’d bargained for—there was something else beckoning, something far deeper that he was unable to define. He couldn’t put it into words, exactly. He just knew he was destined to do this. Doing it right, he realized somberly, riding back to the castle under a light drizzle, would require a heck of a lot more time here than he could spare.

      He stared at the gray sky. It had rained all day, a tenacious drizzle interspersed with hearty wind gusts, leaving the air chilly and damp. But he didn’t mind. The rain felt good, just as the long exchanges with the locals gave him a better insight into this new way of life.

      He thought back to his earlier phone conversation with Sylvia, aware she was annoyed that he intended to stay longer than they’d originally planned. He’d tried to explain, but it was impossible for her to understand the need to be here, to show his face to those who depended upon him. Still, he was damn lucky he had her to stand in for him at Harcourts, he reflected as the horse clip-clopped into the courtyard at the rear of the castle. Dismounting, he led the horse back to the stables, wondering how he was going to divide himself between operating the company—a full-time job and more—and running Strathaird without stretching himself so thin he did neither job right.

      He let out a long breath, handing the horse over to Andy, a redheaded teenager who mucked out the stables in the afternoons, and dragged his fingers slowly through his thick chestnut hair, searching for a solution. There was always a solution—Dex had taught him that—but what first came to mind didn’t strike him as feasible. He frowned as he made his way through the back door, hanging his wet jacket on a peg among the mackintoshes in the entrance. Then, heading past the pantry, he climbed the stairs that led toward the Great Hall.

      What he really needed was time, a commodity he didn’t have. Time to find his feet; time to get to know these folks who’d lived on this land forever and now counted on him to understand their worries and needs; time to break down the silent wall of mistrust that he read in their unflinching looks.

      He reached his study and walked over to the window, staring thoughtfully through the mullioned window at the misty scene beyond. That this could feel like home in such a short period of time was amazing. He thought of Sylvia and realized uneasily that it was almost impossible to imagine her here—in fact, to imagine her anywhere but Manhattan, in the midst of meetings, endlessly ringing cell phones, business breakfasts and working lunches.

      He hoped Charlotte would be joining them for dinner. He’d spent yesterday evening and the evening before chatting with her in her cozy kitchen. He grinned, only just now thinking of a witty riposte to one of her outrageous comments, and wished she were there to hear it. Lately he’d developed a habit of popping by her gallery most afternoons too. Somehow they always ended up sharing a pint or a dram at the Celtic Café, where he and Rory discussed politics, soccer and other burning issues. They were usually joined by Hamish, an old fisherman and pal of his grandfather’s, who was only too ready to tell him long-forgotten tales, some of which were no doubt embellished but made good stories anyway.

      His mind turned again to Charlotte. She’d seemed calmer the past few days, less nervous. He’d enjoyed watching her from a distance as she sat poring over her work, both her enthusiasm and talent apparent. She was obviously enthralled by the collection she and Armand were putting together. He frowned. There was nothing wrong with Armand, he supposed, but still, he couldn’t stomach the guy.

      He stood a while longer, peering thoughtfully across the lawn. A dreary day. One that suited his pensive mood and made Harcourts, the factories in Limoges and Taiwan, and the new stores being opened in fifteen states seem impossibly remote. How had Jamie MacTavish’s sheep managed to assume the pole position on his list of priorities, he wondered. If he told Syl that, she’d definitely send him to a shrink. She’d insist he return immediately to New York, to its familiar pace, the buzz of traffic, and a healthy dose of carbon monoxide.

      But, in truth, he didn’t want to be there. He’d slipped into this new, peaceful existence like a hand into a smooth kid glove, and he wasn’t ready to give it up yet. In fact, he realized, he could easily get used to setting his own pace without Marcia’s efficient voice reminding him of his next appointment.

      Not that he didn’t appreciate his high-powered, highly competent secretary. Quite the contrary. It was precisely those sharp, organizational skills that had allowed him to be here without going crazy.

      The only hiccup to date had occurred at three in the morning two days ago, when he’d been woken up by Mr. Chang, his director in Taiwan. He’d spent the better part of the night on the phone. Once they’d fixed the problem, he’d turned over in Aunt Penn’s lavender-scented linen and gone straight back to sleep in the huge four-poster that had cradled the worries and pleasures of his ancestors for several generations.