Fiona Hood-Stewart - The Lost Dreams

Dear Reader,

As a native of Scotland, I have always been drawn to the rugged beauty of the Isle of Skye, and the great history found in this land of churning seas, gentle countryside, ancient castles and local village pubs.

In The Lost Dreams I am thrilled to return to Strathaird Castle and the MacLeod clan. It is here, in this ancient fortress, that American Bradley Ward, caught between inherited responsibilities and new possibilities, must jump from being CEO of a multinational company and learn to become “Lord of the Manor.” Strathaird is also where Charlotte MacLeod must finally face the demons of her past, in order to reclaim her passions and her strength to face the future.

Some of you may already have met the MacLeod family in my previous novel The Stolen Years, which introduced readers to twins Gavin and Angus MacLeod, and to Flora, the woman they both loved. I, too, loved these characters. In fact, they became so dear to me that I had to discover what happened to the next generation of this captivating extended family. I hope you, too, will enjoy sharing their struggles, their secrets, their passions, fears and hopes, and most of all, the lost dreams they had never thought to find.

Happy reading!

Fiona Hood-Stewart

THE STOLEN YEARS

THE JOURNEY HOME

SILENT WISHES

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To John with love

As always, my love and thanks to my sons, Sergio and Diego, for their patience and support. Many thanks to Andrew, Jojo and Francesca Grima for their help in researching the jewelry described in the text. To my sister, Althea Dundas-Beeker for her input on the management of a Scottish estate, and to my editor Miranda Stecyk, and Dianne Moggy.

Into my life you came

When least expected.

Out of the dark

You stole my guarded heart.

Led me by the hand

To new tomorrows,

Showed me love,

Then taught me to impart.

Gone are the tears of yesterday,

The sorrows.

Shed, the lingering shadows,

Gone the pain.

Now, in their stead

The flame of your love lingers,

Wonder, light and joy

Their newfound name.

Dream a little dream

And let it wander.

Dare to listen

Deep inside your soul.

Breathe love’s tender joys

And heartfelt treasures—

Can’t lose the dream

When now, at last, it’s known.

F.H.S.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Did he feel anything? Charlotte Drummond wondered, gazing at the thin, waxlike body lying perfectly still under pressed white sheets. Was it possible that, despite medical evidence to the contrary, the seemingly lifeless man before her somehow sensed her presence?

She shuddered, took a deep breath, and quickly shifted her gaze to the sterile hospital wall, then reached out blindly to pull the gray plastic chair back from the side of the metal bed and sat down wearily. The trip to Glasgow and the hospital was both physically and mentally wearing. Now, as she prepared to wait out the self-imposed hourly visit she undertook once every two weeks, as she had for the past year, she forced herself to get a grip on her emotions. She gazed at him once again in a more detached manner, studying the vestiges of those strong, handsome features that once had set the world on fire. Although the devastating smile that had flashed across movie screens and into the hearts of millions around the globe was gone now, obscured by the respirator tubes that kept him alive, his good looks were still evident.

Then another image flashed. Not so pleasant, but just as memorable. Instinctively she tensed and her fingers moved to her cheek, where more than once she’d felt the impact of his hand, sending her reeling. She trembled involuntarily, knuckles gripping the metal bed rail, hoping he would never wake, afraid that he would.

She rose nervously, moved quickly away, toward the long, paned window, and stared at the midday traffic trundling slowly under a thin summer drizzle in the street below, wishing she could somehow outrun the obsessive thoughts that always haunted her visits here. Memories she’d never escape, she realized, passing a hand over her eyes. She would never forget the sleepless nights and the obsessive fear that over the years had brought her to her knees. It was only when she’d finally hit rock bottom that she realized anything, even death, would be better than the life she was living, that to survive, she must climb out of the abyss by whatever means, and at whatever cost. It had taken several months, but finally she’d built up enough courage to make the break. Then came that last, harrowing quarrel, her rage and humiliation when he’d laughed at her threat to end the marriage once and for all. A vision of his face, white with fury, as he’d slammed the door, and her surge of satisfaction that at last she’d stood up to him. Then the call, several hours later, that had shattered her newfound confidence; she’d rushed through the streets of London to the emergency room at St. Thomas’ hospital, praying, begging for the news not to be true.

The rest of that awful day was a blur of images: the bleak, desperate faces of the director and the producer, the doctor’s blunt explanation of just how the fall from the high-rise building, a stunt he normally would never have attempted, had left him in a coma. For how long? she’d asked, recalling the suffocating desperation. But nobody knew.

Worse had been the remorse. Shame for the unexpected rush of freedom, the relief of knowing that he couldn’t hurt her mentally or physically ever again, accompanied by the deep-rooted fear that she was the one to blame.

Charlotte’s head drooped. She closed her eyes and thrust trembling fingers into her long titian hair. Oh God. Was it her fault he’d left the house in such a towering rage that day? Was this his way of punishing her? For punish her he had, holding her prisoner, silently forcing her on this fortnightly pilgrimage of penance, keeping himself and her guilt alive for as long as he remained tied to the machines that linked him to life.

Perhaps, even in his comatose state, he sensed the guilty secret that she harbored, the unvoiced wish that they’d simply pull the plug.

No. That was impossible. Even considering such a thing was wicked. While there was still an ounce of hope, she had no right. Just as she couldn’t possibly divorce him now, however much Mummy and Moira insisted she should. After all, whatever he’d done in the past, he was still her husband and she must stand by him. It was the only decent thing to do.

But what if he did suddenly wake up? It had been known to happen. She doubled over again, willing the wave of nausea to pass, schooling her mind, driving out demons, replacing them with problems of the moment, ones she could do something concrete about.

Raising her aching head, she fixed her gaze carefully beyond the body and the bed to the wall behind, and forced herself to think of something else.

Anything else.

Bradley Ward. She considered his impending visit and felt better. Wonderful, decent Brad, her dear friend and cousin. Well, she reflected ruefully, only a distant cousin, but still, family all the same. But he was also the man who was forcing her to leave Strathaird, that rugged dauntless fortress she adored, the place she called home. In winter, the untamed North Sea plundered the craggy rocks below its grim facade, in summer, laughing frothy crests lapped gently. It was home. Her beloved ancestral home. The one place that had never let her down. Within the sanctuary of its massive stone walls that for centuries had withstood enemy onslaughts, raiding Vikings and plundering rival clans, within the cozy embrasure of the worn chintz window seat of her bedroom or curled under the old mohair rug in the deep leather armchair next to the library fire, watching the rain slash the sturdy diamond-shaped windowpanes, she felt safe from the world.