The Lost Dreams. Fiona Hood-Stewart

asked suspiciously, following her into the diminutive kitchen, pleasantly surprised by the aromatic scent of herbs, and the bright terra-cotta walls. Stopping in the doorway he cocked a curious eyebrow at the cooker. “Charlotte Drummond, don’t tell me you’re actually cooking food?”

      “Absolutely. Stay for dinner and you’ll see what a fine cook I’ve turned into.” She twirled, sent him a roguish grin and dipped a long wooden spoon into a large copper casserole.

      Brad eyed her thoughtfully, all five-foot-seven of her, slim and lovely, that heart-shaped face and huge violet eyes still as expressively haunting. Yet something indefinable had changed, something that left him feeling strangely disconcerted. It was as though she was desperately determined to master that wild tempestuous nature she’d displayed moments earlier, and rein in her natural instincts. He gave her another critical glance. If anything, she was more beautiful than he remembered, except for the deep sadness that hovered close to the surface in those huge violet pools. That she couldn’t hide from him, however hard she tried.

      “Open the wine, will you?” She was blabbering now, inspecting pots, adding salt and keeping up a flow of inconsequential conversation.

      “Where is it?” He moved inside the kitchen, filling it with his presence.

      “Fridge, top shelf,” she mumbled, licking the wooden spoon. “Mmm. I hope you like it.” She dipped the spoon straight back in the casserole, and Brad winced, watching amused, as she carefully added a pinch of pepper, stirred, then tasted it once more. “Ah! That’s better.”

      He stepped over to the old fridge covered with Save-the-Whales and Greenpeace stickers, removed the bottle of Sancerre from the fridge and cast it an approving glance. Noticing a corkscrew hanging strategically on the wall, he set to work.

      “I’ll have a glass of wine with you,” he remarked, “but that won’t stop us from having a talk, Charlie.”

      “Of course.” She smiled brightly across the newly set Mexican-tile floor that Rory had put in three days earlier, confident she was in control. “It’s about time we caught up. It’s been too long.” She concentrated once more on the casserole as though her life depended on it. The kitchen seemed strangely confined all at once, making it hard to breathe. “Hungry?” she threw over her shoulder.

      “Sure smells good.” He handed her a glass, then leaned against the counter, enjoying the view, surprised to see how at home she was in the tiny kitchen, amid her herbs and her pots and pans. Not at all the way he’d imagined or seen her before.

      “It’s cassoulet,” she stated proudly, turning down the heat. “A new recipe Armand gave me. He got it from a famous restaurant near Toulouse.”

      “Armand cooks?” He raised his glass then took a slow sip.

      “Of course, he’s French.”

      “Right, I forgot. By the way, what’s he doing here?”

      “Taking a break, having a holiday.” She stirred carefully. “Pass me the herbes de Provence, will you? No, not that jar, the other one.” She pointed to his left.

      Brad handed her a stone jar and watched, fascinated, as she added a studied pinch. “That’s about right. Here, try it.” She thrust the wooden spoon at him to taste.

      “Mmm. Good stuff.” He gave the spoon an extra lick.

      “Don’t be disgusting.” She grabbed it back, laughing. “Stay for dinner, please?” She tilted her head and familiar dimples peeked out at him. “Genny’s at her friend Lucy’s again tonight, so we’ll be on our own. We can have a nice long chat.”

      It was a deliciously tempting offer and impossible to refuse. “I’d better call Aunt Penn. I left in somewhat of a hurry.”

      “You mean you stormed out.” Her eyes narrowed in amusement. Oh, how well they knew one another and how impossible it was to stay distant for long. “Don’t worry about Mum, she won’t mind.” Charlotte turned to the sink and began tossing the salad. “I’m planning to grow my own vegetables,” she remarked, picking up a gratin of mixed veggies and expertly popping it into the oven. Despite the confidence in her actions, Brad got the impression of a different Charlotte than the one he’d known, a Charlotte desperately seeking solace and security.

      “I’m so glad you’re back, Brad,” she said quietly, taking out a loaf of bread and placing it on the cutting board.

      “Then why the move?” he asked gently, eyes meeting hers over the breadboard.

      “Nothing personal, it’s just time to move on.” Her face shuttered once more as she began slicing. “Your and Sylvia’s arrival merely moved it up a bit. Ouch!” she exclaimed angrily when the knife nicked her.

      “Let me do that.” He put down his glass, took the knife from her and gently inspected her finger.

      “So stupid,” she exclaimed, but he heard the wobble in her voice, and his eyes flew from her bleeding finger to the tears hovering on her lower lashes.

      “Oh, baby.” He drew her into his arms and soothed her, brushed a thumb over her cheek, his lips touching her temple in a gesture as tender as it was natural. Just as naturally, she reached up and their lips met softly. For an instant his blood roared, his head whirled, and he all but plundered her mouth. Then, with a supreme effort he drew back, sought her eyes and read the bewilderment there.

      “Better get this taken care of,” he mumbled, taking a deep breath. “Got some alcohol?”

      “Of course.” She turned hastily, opened a nearby cupboard and produced a bottle and some cotton swabs.

      “It may sting.”

      “That’s okay. I’ll survive.” Her tone was back to normal, as though the air hadn’t been charged with tension and desire just moments before.

      “When’s Sylvia arriving?” Charlotte asked brightly, wincing as the alcohol stung.

      “In a couple of weeks,” he replied, feeling doubly ashamed of his inexplicable behavior. Where was his head at? He was engaged, for Christ’s sake—and he’d better make damn sure he remembered it. With grim determination he slipped a bandage over the cut. “There. That should do it.”

      “Thanks.” Charlotte turned back to the cooker and Brad began slicing the bread. “Do you think she’ll like it here?”

      “Who?”

      “Sylvia.”

      “Sure. Why not? It’s a great place. It would have been greater still if you’d stayed at Strathaird. You could have helped her find her feet.”

      Charlotte shrugged. “I don’t think that would work. Sylvia will want to make her own mark on the place and will need her own space.”

      “I fail to see what that has to do with you leaving the castle. I’ll say it again, Strathaird’s your home. Syl and I will probably only spend a few weeks a year there. You could easily have stayed.”

      “Thanks, but no thanks.” She smiled but shook her head. “It wouldn’t work. Perhaps once you’ve been here a while you’ll understand.” She sent him a veiled look as though about to say more, then thinking better of it, kept her thoughts to herself.

      He eyed her a moment. “I was counting on your help on the estate,” he remarked. Moving next to her, he picked up her glass, and topped it up.

      “I’m not much good at the estate.”

      “Why do you always belittle yourself?” he asked, handing her back her glass. “You’re good at a lot of things. You just don’t give yourself enough credit.”

      Charlotte shrugged and took a long sip. She didn’t want to get into a deeper conversation that would involve exposing her feelings on a number of subjects. Years ago, over the phone, those conversations had seemed much easier. Now, face-to-face, she felt vulnerable. “I don’t