The Secret Princess Page 11

  ‘I was thinking about marriage when I said that,’ he told her. ‘I’m not ready to marry yet. And as you don’t seem to be in any hurry to marry either, why shouldn’t we make the most of the time we’ve got together in the meantime?’

  Something flickered in the lovely grey eyes. Corran couldn’t be sure if it was relief or disappointment. ‘That’s what I think,’ she said. ‘We both know that it’s only temporary. I’ll be leaving in a few weeks.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LEAVING. A cold finger touched Corran’s heart, but he pushed the feeling aside. ‘That’s settled, then,’ he said, sliding a hand over her hip to draw her closer but she fended him off once more.

  ‘It’s just that the rest of the time, when we’re not…you know…’ She trailed off in confusion and Corran felt something shift in his chest at her blush.

  ‘I know,’ he said, doing his best to keep his smile under control, although he wasn’t sure how well he succeeded as Lotty was looking at him suspiciously.

  ‘Yes, well…the rest of the time, I want it to be the way it was before,’ she said. ‘I want to carry on working just the way I’ve been doing, and I want you to be just as crabby and cranky as you always are.’

  ‘Cranky?’ He had her warm against him once more, could kiss his way along the lovely slope of her shoulder. ‘When am I ever cranky?’

  ‘All the time,’ said Lotty, but she sounded breathless.

  ‘I’m not feeling very cranky at the moment,’ he told her, smiling against her skin. ‘You don’t want me to be crabby now, do you?’

  ‘Not now.’ Lotty’s hands were moving hungrily over his back, pulling him closer, pressing her nearer. ‘Later then,’ she managed unsteadily. ‘Promise me you won’t change.’

  ‘I promise,’ he said.

  But it was difficult when the weather stayed fine for the most part, when the days drifted one into the other and the long summer evenings seemed more golden than usual. Corran found it harder and harder to be as cross as Lotty wanted. How could he be cranky when she was there, smiling at him? When, no matter how hard they had worked, there were long hours of sweetness to look forward to at the end of the day? He did his best to maintain the grouchy demeanour that seemed to mean so much to her, but even he could see it was less and less convincing.

  Every morning, Corran told himself that he couldn’t afford to lose focus on getting the cottages finished. Every morning he reminded himself that Lotty would be leaving.

  There was no point in telling her his plans for the farm, Corran knew that, but still he found himself asking if she wanted to come with him to check on the sheep, found himself driving her up into the hills on the long summer evenings, walking with her across the heather. And if she stayed in the kitchen, as she often did, his step would quicken as he headed back to the house and, every time he caught sight of her, his heart lifted alarmingly.

  Lotty was still persevering in her attempt to bake the perfect scone.

  ‘I wish I’d never told you I liked scones,’ he said, coming into the kitchen to find her sulking over another batch of leaden scones with burnt bottoms.

  ‘I’m going back to Mrs McPherson,’ grumbled Lotty. ‘I’m sure she forgot some vital ingredient.’

  Corran slid his hands around her waist and pulled her back against him so that he could kiss the side of her neck. He liked the way she arched when he kissed her there, liked the tiny breath she sucked in. He liked how he could make a smile tremble on her lips, no matter how cross she was.

  Not that he was supposed to be noticing things like that. He was supposed to be thinking about the estate, not about how warm and sweet she was as she turned in his arms. Sure enough, she was smiling and the grey eyes were shining. He loved how transparent she was, how true.

  Loved? Corran caught himself up on the word. No, that wasn’t right. Liked, yes. Admired, yes. Loved, no.

  No, no, no.

  ‘What is it?’ said Lotty, and he realised that he had let her go.

  ‘Nothing.’ She wanted him to be grouchy, he would be grouchy. Now he felt grouchy. ‘I’d rather you spent time painting than making scones.’

  ‘I’ve been painting,’ she pointed out. She was on the third cottage and making good progress, as Corran well knew. ‘I’m waiting for it to dry before I do the top coat in the bathroom. I should finish tomorrow.

  ‘Which reminds me,’ she said as she tipped the scones into the bin. ‘Do you know what day it is tomorrow?’

  ‘Thursday.’

  She clicked her tongue. ‘More important than that.’

  ‘It’s not your birthday, is it?’

  ‘It’s exactly a month today since we made that bet.’ Lotty cocked her head on one side. ‘You said I wouldn’t last a day, and I bet you I’d still be here a month later. Remember?’

  ‘Oh. That.’ Corran shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘Well, I’ve already admitted I was wrong.’ He pretended to glower at her. ‘What more do you want?’

  ‘We had a deal,’ Lotty reminded him. ‘You promised to take me out to dinner.’

  ‘All right.’ Corran didn’t mind doing that. She had earned a decent dinner. ‘We’ll go to Fort William on Saturday. There’s a good restaurant on the loch there.’

  But Lotty was shaking her head. ‘I don’t want to go to Fort William,’ she said. ‘I want to go to the ceilidh at the Mhoraigh Hotel tomorrow.’

  She knew Corran wouldn’t want to go. She could see him thinking of reasons not to.

  ‘The food there is terrible,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘You don’t care about food,’ Lotty pointed out.

  ‘I do if I’m paying for it.’

  ‘We’ll eat before we go. The point is the dancing, not the dinner.’

  Corran rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Wouldn’t you rather go out for a nice meal?’

  ‘No,’ said Lotty. ‘I want you to take me to the ceilidh.’

  The past week had been a revelation. Nothing she had read in books had prepared her for how different she would feel. It was as if she had never been properly alive before, Lotty thought, as if she had been sleepwalking through life doing what was expected of her. Now every cell, every fibre of her was alight, on fire.

  She loved making love with Corran. It was messier and more awkward and much, much more exciting than she had imagined, and it made her feel wild and reckless. She loved knowing that the rules changed the moment they closed the bedroom door and she didn’t have to be sweet and good any more. She loved abandoning herself to the passion that flared between them every night, loved forgetting everything but the touch of Corran’s hands, the feel of his lean, hard body, the taste of his mouth, the shivery, shocking excitement, the glittery rush.

  But in the morning she remembered. In the morning the old Lotty was back, wagging a mental finger and pointing out that forgetting like that was a very bad idea. Reminding her that she would have to go home one day soon, and that there would be no more heart-shaking nights, no more bonemelting pleasure. There would be duty and responsibility and doing the right thing.

  She would go back to Montluce and be the perfect princess once more, and Corran would be here alone. Lotty hated the thought of it. Self-sufficient he might be, but she wanted him to at least make contact with the village again. She’d wondered how to make it happen until she had driven to the shop in Mhoraigh that morning.

  ‘Mrs McPherson was telling me about the ceilidh this morning,’ she said to Corran. ‘She says everyone goes. I think it sounds like fun.’

  ‘It won’t be if I go,’ said Corran flatly. ‘No one wants me there, and you know it.’

  ‘Because they don’t know you,’ Lotty said. ‘They’ve just got an image of you that you’ve never bothered to correct. I don’t understand why you’re not open with them. If you told them the truth and let them see you as you really are, they would change their minds. What’s the point of pretending to be someone you’re not?’

  ‘I’m not pretending,’ Cor
ran said with a touch of irritation. ‘They think I’m unfriendly and an outsider, and I am.’

  ‘I’ve seen you up in the hills,’ she reminded him. ‘You belong here.’

  ‘You won’t get them to believe that.’

  ‘If they saw what you’re doing here, and knew what you felt about the estate, they would.’

  ‘Frankly, Lotty, I don’t care what they believe,’ Corran said. ‘They’re not interested in me, and I’m not interested in them. I can’t see how me going to the ceilidh is going to change that.’

  ‘It’s not all about you,’ Lotty pointed out. ‘I want to go.’

  ‘Then go with Mrs McPherson. She seems to be your big buddy.’

  Her mouth set in a stubborn line. ‘I want to go with you.’

  ‘The deal was for dinner,’ Corran tried, scowling, but Lotty wasn’t going to be intimidated out of her plan. Corran might not accept it, but he needed to be part of the village.

  ‘Lucky you,’ she said. ‘I’m a cheap date.’

  ‘I don’t dance.’ It was his last shot, and Lotty wasn’t having any of it.

  ‘Come on, Corran. You made the bet, and you lost.’

  He tried to glare her down, but she just returned him stare for stare, and in the end he sighed irritably. ‘Oh, very well. If that’s what you want. But don’t blame me if it’s a disaster.’

  ‘I thought you’d wear a kilt.’ Lotty’s face fell when she saw Corran waiting for her in black jeans and a dark shirt. He looked vaguely menacing, not helped by his forbidding expression.

  ‘Lotty, you’ve got a ridiculously romantic notion of what this ceilidh is going to be like,’ he said. ‘No one will dress up for it. It’s just a dance in a pub, not a formal ball.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lotty looked down at her acid yellow shift dress. ‘Am I going to be overdressed?’

  Corran studied her with mingled exasperation and affection. It wasn’t that the dress was ostentatious. The style was spectacularly simple, in fact, but the cut and the material shrieked expense. She wore it with little pumps and her short hair was tucked behind her ears to show plain pearl earrings.

  ‘Massively,’ he said. ‘You look like you’re going to a cocktail party in Paris, not a ceilidh in a crummy country hotel.’

  Lotty bit her lip. ‘Do you think I should change?’

  ‘No.’ The trouble wasn’t what she was wearing, it was the style with which she wore her clothes, the elegance with which she held her head. ‘You’re going to look out of place whatever you wear,’ he told her. ‘Let’s just go and get this over with.’

  The band was tuning up as they walked into the hotel’s dining room, which had been cleared for the ceilidh. Silence fell at the sight of them, broken only by the scrape of the fiddle and the squeeze of the accordion. They could hardly have looked more alien, Corran thought. Himself, dark and forbidding, the unwanted son, and Lotty, bright and elegant and regal.

  He had known it would be like this. There was no place for either of them in the village. Looking round the hostile faces, Corran wished that he had flatly refused to come. Not for himself, but he hated the thought that Lotty would be ostracised because she was with him. She would be hurt and upset, and the prospect was enough to make him reach for her arm, ready to swing her round and lead her back out before anyone could reject her.

  But, not for the first time, Lotty surprised him. For someone with so little confidence in herself, she was undaunted by the hostile atmosphere. She moved forward, smiling, as if she had spent her life defusing awkward situations and, before Corran knew what was happening, she had put everyone at their ease and the party atmosphere resumed.

  Watching her, Corran was puzzled and impressed. The surly Mhoraigh villagers unbent to a man in the face of her charm, and before long she was being swept off to dance by the burly Rab Donald, who had been Andrew’s best friend when they were boys and who had eyed Corran himself with uncomplicated dislike.

  The music struck up with a flourish, and the dance began with much swinging of partners and stamping of feet. The floor was full, but it was impossible to miss Lotty in her yellow dress, a bright light at the heart of the room. Next to Rab, she looked tiny, a delicate, elegant pixie.

  Rab had his meaty hands at her waist. Corran’s brows drew together.

  ‘Now there’s a fine girl.’ Mrs McPherson spoke beside him, clearly following his gaze.

  Fine. It was a good word to describe Lotty, Corran thought. There was nothing crude about her at all. From her delicate ears to her little feet, she was all pure lines and light.

  He glanced at Mrs McPherson, then back to Lotty. ‘Yes, she is. Except when it comes to cooking, of course.’

  ‘How is she getting on with her scones?’

  ‘They get worse and worse.’

  Mrs McPherson laughed. ‘She’s always asking if I’ve left out some vital ingredient.’

  Corran had always liked Betty McPherson, and she at least wasn’t eyeing him askance the way the rest of them were. Lotty might have been accepted, but the others were still giving him a wide berth.

  It was nice of Mrs McPherson to come and talk to him, but he was having trouble concentrating on the conversation when Rab was out there, touching Lotty, holding her. Corran could feel his hands curling into fists with the longing to push his way through the dance and punch Rab off her.

  It surely had to be the longest dance in history, but at last the music ended. Corran’s tense muscles relaxed. The dance was over. There was no need for Rab to touch her any more. And no need for Lotty to encourage him by smiling at him like that either.

  But now she was laughing, agreeing to dance with Nick Andrews, who had owned the hotel as long as Corran could remember, and who made no secret of his dislike of Corran either. Corran’s expression grew blacker but he managed to drag his attention back to Betty McPherson.

  ‘I don’t know why she’s so obsessed with those bloody scones,’ he said, and she smiled gently.

  ‘She wants to make them perfect for you.’

  There was a tiny silence, then Corran turned to her as the fiddle struck up once more for Strip the Willow. ‘Would you care to dance, Mrs McPherson?’

  ‘Betty,’ she corrected him. ‘And, thank you, I would.’

  When it was Corran’s turn to make his way down the line of ladies, he found himself face to face with Lotty at last. Holding out her hands so that he could swing her round, she smiled at him, such a joyous, shining smile that Corran felt something unlock in his chest. She looked so beautiful, he didn’t want to let her go.

  But, sooner or later, he was going to have to.

  Lotty was obviously having a wonderful time, and her delight was infectious. She danced every dance, and Corran made himself stand back and let her meet everyone. He was uncomfortably conscious that he had been selfish. He had wanted to keep her to himself, but he could see now that Lotty needed more. She was happy now at Loch Mhoraigh, he knew that, but so perhaps had his mother been at the beginning. In the end she would want people, parties, more than just him.

  Perhaps Lotty knew that herself. Perhaps that was why she was so insistent that she would be leaving. Perhaps it was just as well she was going.

  Or so Corran tried to convince himself.

  So he stood back and let the other men dance with Lotty, but when the leader of the band called everyone onto the floor for the last dance, he made sure that he was standing next to her. It would be a slower tune, he knew, and he pulled her onto the floor before anyone else had a chance to get his eager hands on her.

  Now he could get his hands on her instead.

  Corran held her, the way he had wanted to hold her all evening. He spread his fingers over her back, feeling the tiny bumps in her spine through the silk dress. Her hair was growing out of its pixie cut but if he ran his hand up to the nape of her neck, the skin there was still soft and enticing beneath the feathery wisps of hair. She was slender and warm in his arms, and he could smell the faint expensive fragrance she alw
ays wore in the evenings. He was going to miss that when she left.

  He was going to miss a lot of things, Corran realised. Already he was used to her being in the kitchen, frowning down at the cafetière, wrinkling her nose at the smell of tea. He was used to the way she tied her hair up in a scarf like a Fifties housewife when she was doing dirty work. Only Lotty could carry that look off without looking ridiculous!

  She had an innate style whatever she was wearing, he thought. In the evening she would change into a skirt or loose trousers after a bath, and Corran had to admit that her elegant, feminine presence had made a difference to the feel of the house. The rooms felt comfortable since Lotty had taken on the role of housekeeper. Corran wasn’t quite sure how she had done it. They were still bare, but they felt lighter, happier, somehow. She found wild flowers in the overgrown garden and made charmingly haphazard arrangements with them. Even the kitchen looked mellow and inviting now, in a way it had never done before. Corran liked going in at the end of the day and finding her there.

  He liked how eager and responsive she was in bed. How passionate. How she could make his senses reel with the brush of her lips.

  Yes, he would miss her, Corran acknowledged to himself. But Lotty had made it very clear that she had no intention of staying for ever. She would be moving on soon.

  And that was just as well, Corran reminded himself. Lotty wasn’t the sort of wife he needed. She couldn’t cook. She didn’t understand the country. She was ethereal and lovely, and he needed someone sturdy and strong. She was all wrong for him.

  Still, he rested his cheek against her hair and felt her relax wordlessly into him. He turned his lips to her temple and touched the skin there. Her hand tightened in his and she eased closer, her body soft and pliant. The feel of her made him light-headed. It made him forget that she was leaving, forget the village and the hostility he still sensed beneath the smiles, forget everything but the woman in his arms. Lotty, who was all wrong, but who felt so right.