The Secret Princess Page 5

  ‘I’d rather be pretty,’ she said.

  ‘Isn’t beautiful better than pretty?’

  ‘Pretty is warmer, less intimidating.’ She stirred the shingle with the toe of her shoe. ‘Being beautiful isn’t the same as being desirable.’

  ‘No,’ said Corran thoughtfully after a moment. ‘I suppose that’s true.’

  Not but you’re desirable, Lotty. Not I think you’re wrong. I find beautiful women very desirable.

  Well, what had she expected? Lotty chewed glumly on the second half of her sandwich. It was stupid to feel disappointed because he didn’t think that she was desirable.

  A pedestal could be a cold and lonely place. Thousands of people said they thought she was beautiful. Thousands loved her. But would they still love her, still want her, if they really knew her? Lotty wondered. If they could get past the mystique of royalty, past the security guards, past the rigid protocol of palace?

  Lotty longed for someone to want her enough to try.

  She longed to be desired, not for her title or her wealth, but for her body. She longed to know what it was like to love a man, to know what every other woman, it seemed, knew. What was the point of being beautiful if you could get to twenty-eight having barely been kissed? Lotty had never met a man who wasn’t intimidated by the suffocating etiquette that surrounded her in Montluce. Sometimes it felt as if she was the only twenty-eight-year-old virgin in the world.

  Dispiritedly, Lotty finished her sandwich and brushed the crumbs from her hands. Beside her, Corran was drinking his coffee, his eyes narrowed at the hills across the loch. The fingers around the mug looked very strong. He had a farmer’s hands, square and capable and scarred with nicks and scratches. There was a focused quality to him, a forcefulness that sharpened the air around him and made it impossible to ignore even the smallest detail: the flat hairs at his wrist, the plaster dust in his hair, the creases edging his eyes.

  He sat easily on the rock, long legs thrust ahead of him into the shingle, dusty boots crossed at the ankle. Never in a million years would Lotty have that assurance, that sense of being utterly at home in one’s skin. Corran McKenna wasn’t a man who would be intimidated by anything. If he wanted something, he would go out and get it.

  He wouldn’t care about mystique. If Corran wanted her, he wouldn’t think twice about brushing aside her close protection team and knocking down her pedestal.

  If Corran wanted to lose his virginity, he wouldn’t bleat about how difficult it was to meet the right person. He wouldn’t feel overwhelmed by ignorance or insecurity. He would reach out with those big hands and take what he wanted.

  Lotty’s mouth went dry and she swallowed, yanking her eyes away from that ruggedly uncompromising profile. It had taken all her courage to jump off her safe, lonely pedestal for a while. She might be descended from the likes of Raoul the Wolf and Léopold Longsword, but she wasn’t brave enough to take the next step just yet.

  She tipped the last of her coffee onto the shingle. ‘I think I’d better get back to work,’ she said in a hollow voice.

  Afterwards, Lotty was never sure how she got through that first week at Loch Mhoraigh House. She had been tired before, but never with that bone-deep physical weariness that left her feeling leaden and light-headed at the same time.

  Determined to prove Corran wrong that first day, she shut the doors and windows of the cottage once the midges gathered at four o’clock and began stripping off the peeling and faded wallpaper until her arms ached and her eyes bulged with exhaustion. Her grandmother had brought her up to do whatever needed to be done without complaint, and Lotty was going to stay there until she was finished.

  ‘What are you still doing here?’ Corran stomped into the cottage, slapping irritably at the midges. He had finished baling half an hour ago, and had expected to find Lotty back at the house. Having to come and find her had done nothing to improve his temper.

  Slamming the door behind him, he took in Lotty, who was halfway up a stepladder, swaying alarmingly as she scraped at the sitting room wall. There were curls of wallpaper clinging to her scarf, and what little he could see of her face through the layer of grime was smudged with exhaustion. ‘For God’s sake, woman, get off that ladder before you fall off!’

  ‘You told me I had to get the cottage ready for painting.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you to spend all night in here!’

  ‘I will if that’s what it takes.’ Lotty jutted her chin at him in a stubborn gesture he was already finding familiar. ‘There’s no point in wasting the light when the evenings are long like this.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Corran snapped. ‘You’re dead on your feet.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ she said, which was so patently untrue that he didn’t even bother to argue.

  ‘What about the dog?’ He glared down at Pookie, who was scrabbling at his knees in the usual fawning welcome. Like Lotty, the dog was filthy, his white coat grey with dust and tangled with scraps of wallpaper and other rubbish. ‘I don’t suppose it occurred to you that he might need to be fed?’

  As he’d intended, Lotty was instantly guilty. ‘No, I didn’t think of it. Sorry, Pookie.’ She looked back at Corran. ‘I don’t suppose you could take him back with you and feed him now, while I finish this?’

  ‘You suppose right,’ he said. ‘I want you to stop being so stubborn and come back to the house before you collapse.’

  It was amazing how a mouth that looked so soft could set in such an implacable line. ‘I want to finish this job.’

  Corran had had enough. ‘If you don’t do as I say, I’m going to sack you, and then you won’t have a job.’ He jabbed his finger at her. ‘Now, you get off that ladder right now or I’ll come and drag you down myself!’

  There was no mistaking that tone of voice. Lotty scrambled down from the ladder without another word. Nobody had ever spoken to her like that before and, even through her exhaustion, she was conscious of a flicker of shameful excitement. It was almost worth provoking Corran’s temper to have the satisfaction of being treated so unlike a princess!

  And the truth was that she wasn’t sorry to be forced to stop. After a sixteen-mile walk the previous day, a sleepless night and the day’s hard physical work, she was so tired she couldn’t even muster the energy to brush the midges away, and she stumbled over her own feet until Corran took her arm in a hard grip.

  ‘You are one stubborn woman, you know that?’ he growled. ‘Why don’t you just admit that it’s all too much for you?’

  ‘Because it’s not. I’m fine, honestly.’

  ‘You can’t even walk straight! This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen,’ he said grouchily. ‘I haven’t got time to worry about what sort of state you’re in, you know. I can’t concentrate on what I’m doing if I have to wonder about whether you’ve collapsed in a heap somewhere because you’ve got no idea how to be sensible!’

  He harangued Lotty all the way back to the house, although she was too tired to take in much of it. As soon as they were inside and could shut the midges out, he let go of her arm and she slumped against the wall without his support. It was all she could do not to slide onto the floor with Pookie, who was yapping hysterically at the prospect of being fed.

  Corran looked from one to the other as if unable to decide which of them was more exasperating. ‘You!’ He pointed at the dog. ‘Shut up! And you,’ he added to Lotty, jerking his finger at the ceiling, ‘go up and have a bath. You’ve got half an hour before supper. And don’t fall asleep in there!’ he shouted after her as she bumped against the wall on her way to the stairs, the prospect of getting clean too delicious to resist.

  The bathroom was draughty and as cheerless as the rest of the house, with linen fold panelling halfway up the walls and lino that curled at the corners. The cast iron tub had claw legs and rusty stains beneath the taps, but to Lotty it beat any five star bathroom hands down. She sank into the hot water with a groan of pleasure.

  It felt as if every m
illimetre of her was caked with grime. Holding her breath, she squeezed her eyes shut and sank below the surface, to emerge smiling and spluttering a few moments later. It had been a long, tough day, but she had survived it. She had a job, she had somewhere to stay, and now she was going to be clean as well.

  It felt wonderful.

  Closing her eyes, Lotty rested her head against the rim of the bath and let her mind drift. And somehow it drifted to Corran, and the way he had looked when he had stormed into the cottage. He had obviously showered himself, because his dark hair had been damp still. His jeans emphasised his long legs and narrow hips, while the plain dark T-shirt moulded his broad chest.

  Lotty had to admit that she liked his body. It was strong and solid, without being showy. She liked the easy way he moved, the feeling she had that he was utterly at home in his skin. She liked his competence, the assurance with which he did everything, even if it was just snapping his fingers at a dog or unscrewing a flask. Corran was in control of whatever he was doing.

  He might not smile, but there was an appealing sureness to him. Lotty’s mind floated further, back to the rock where she and Corran had shared lunch, back to wondering what he would be like as a lover.

  If only she had more confidence! She was intelligent, capable, beautiful. She was a princess, for heaven’s sake. By rights, she should have the nerve and the knowledge to seduce him without a second thought.

  Not a single one of her distinguished ancestors would have hesitated to take what they wanted. But they hadn’t had to be perfect, had they? They hadn’t been brought up by Grandmère, hadn’t been expected to take her mother’s place and save her father distress by behaving perfectly at all times.

  She didn’t have to behave perfectly now, Lotty reminded herself.

  The idea, terrifying in its recklessness, glimmered back into life. This was her chance, her one shot at living life like everyone else. For three short months, she could be normal.

  And how normal was it to be a virgin at twenty-eight?

  Maybe it was the hot water, but Lotty could feel herself beginning to glow. Perhaps she would never have the nerve, but she was allowed to dream, wasn’t she?

  She wanted to dream that she got out of this bath and went downstairs. In her dream, Corran was in the kitchen. Perhaps not the most romantic of settings, but it was the only room she had seen properly. Besides, there was something about all that tough masculinity in a domestic setting that appealed to her.

  So, yes, he was in the kitchen, doing something ordinary. Cooking. Chopping something. Not onions or garlic, but something not quite so pungent. Tomatoes, perhaps. His head was bent and he was totally focused on his task, but when she appeared in the doorway, he lifted his head.

  And he smiled.

  Lotty had never seen Corran smile, not properly, but she knew it would be slow and sure, like the rest of him, and she shivered at the way it warmed the granite face, creasing his cheeks and curving that cool mouth.

  Come here, he said, and in her fantasy his voice was dark and low and urgent. All the breath leaked out of Lotty’s lungs just imagining it. It was a voice that would brook no disobedience, and it would never occur to her not to do exactly as he asked. So she would cross the kitchen towards him without taking her eyes off his and…

  No, wait, what was she wearing? Lotty rewound a little. If she was going to have a fantasy, she might as well get it right, and she didn’t want to lose her virginity in the jeans, camisole and raspberry-pink cashmere cardigan, which was all she had had to wear in the evenings for the last week. She certainly didn’t want to be wearing her grungy work clothes.

  Just a towel? She wouldn’t have the nerve, Lotty decided. No, if this was a fantasy, she didn’t have to be limited to the contents of her rucksack, did she? Her suitcase that was still sitting at Glasgow Station contained a Japanese print silk robe. She could wear that.

  Satisfied, Lotty mentally slipped into the robe. Beneath it, she was naked and the silk felt cool against her bare skin. Ah, yes, now the fantasy was well back on track.

  Come here, Corran said—again—and she walked towards him, the robe fluttering around her legs. She stood in front of him, and he reached wordlessly for the belt, tugging it gently so that the robe fell open.

  Would he gasp at her beauty? Lotty considered and rejected this regretfully. She just couldn’t imagine Corran gasping at anything. But he might smile again, mightn’t he? A slow smile that started in his eyes and made her heart thump as he put his hard hands at her waist and drew her towards him.

  And then—oh, then!—he would lower his head and—

  ‘Lotty!’ The door flew open and Corran charged into the bathroom.

  Gasping with shock, Lotty jerked upright out of the water and slapped her hands to her shoulders to cover her breasts. ‘What are you doing?’ she shrieked.

  ‘I thought you had drowned!’

  He’d called her name. He’d knocked on the door. Silence. And then he’d remembered how tired she had been, because of him. He’d gone cold, picturing her sliding beneath the water, too tired to rouse herself, and he’d panicked, bursting into the room, convinced that he would find her limp and lifeless, desperately trying to remember resuscitation techniques.

  And there she was, her eyes huge and frightened, her shoulders bare, and Corran’s eyes had taken on a weird life of their own and were ensnared by the wet, glowing body in the bath, skidding from clavicle to earlobe to elbow to the arms clamped firmly over her breasts.

  ‘I did knock,’ he said, but his voice seemed to come from a long way away. He was disgusted with himself. He knew he had to get out of there, but he couldn’t move. He didn’t know whether he felt light-headed with relief or cold with anger.

  Anger was easier to deal with. ‘Why the hell didn’t you answer?’ he demanded.

  ‘I didn’t hear. I was d-daydreaming.’

  The tiny stammer jolted Corran back to himself. I still stammer a little when I’m nervous, she had said.

  She shouldn’t be nervous of him, but what else could she feel when he had stormed into the bathroom and was standing there, staring at her? Mortified, Corran forced himself to move at last. Turning his back on her, he strode for the door.

  ‘Well, since you’re alive after all, dinner’s ready,’ he said curtly.

  ‘I—I’ll be down in a minute.’

  How long was it going to be before he got the image of Lotty in the bath out of his mind? That luminous skin, the wet, lovely slope of her shoulders. Her short hair was spiky, the grey eyes wide and startled, and a pulse had hammered in the bewitching hollow at the base of her throat.

  Corran glowered as he drained the pasta. He’d been alone too long. The last thing he needed right now was a complication like Lotty.

  She appeared a few minutes later, modestly covered in jeans and a cardigan. Not her fault that the soft pink wool seemed to hug her arms enticingly, reminding him of the bare skin beneath, or that the top she wore beneath the cardigan emphasised the delicate line of her clavicle.

  Corran dragged his eyes away from it. ‘I’m sorry about earlier,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘No, it was my fault,’ she said. ‘I didn’t hear you and I might well have fallen asleep if you hadn’t checked, so thank you.’

  An awkward silence fell.

  ‘It must have been some daydream,’ he said to fill it. ‘I was quite loud.’

  A wash of colour swept up Lotty’s throat.

  Her eyes slid from his as she pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Something smells good,’ she said, pointedly changing the subject, and Corran’s interest was perversely piqued. What did a woman like Lotty dream about? he wondered.

  Who did she dream about?

  Well, it was none of his business, he reminded himself as he turned the pasta in the sauce. And he didn’t care anyway. He had to remind himself of that too.

  ‘Spaghetti bolognaise,’ he told her, plonking the pot onto the table. ‘I can only cook three dishes. This
isn’t going to be a great gastronomic experience for you.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Lotty, who was still jittery from the shock of Corran bursting into the bathroom. One moment she’d been dreaming that, and the next he’d been there, looking furious, and reality had slapped her around the face. This was no ardent lover. This was a man with far more on his mind than her pathetic little fantasies.

  In one of those gruff acts of kindness that kept catching her unawares, he’d retrieved her rucksack from the barn and put it in her room. She felt a little better once she was dressed in the outfit she’d worn every evening on the walk, but she was still desperately aware of Corran moving around the kitchen and her breathing kept getting muddled up. His presence seemed to be sucking all the oxygen from the air. The only other person Lotty knew who had that same compelling presence was her tiny autocratic grandmother.

  ‘Help yourself.’ Corran gave her a plate and pushed the pot towards her. ‘It’ll be filling if nothing else.’

  Lotty was still burning with embarrassment, but she took some pasta to be polite. The spoon and fork rang against the edge of the saucepan, loud in the silence.

  A princess always puts people at their ease. The memory of her grandmother’s voice was so clear that Lotty almost expected to turn and see her at her shoulder.

  Clearing her throat, she forced herself to make conversation. ‘Do you always cook for yourself?’

  ‘I don’t have much choice. Fortunately, I’m not that bothered about food, but I get pretty sick of the same three dishes, I have to admit.’ Corran paused in the middle of helping himself to pasta. ‘I don’t suppose you cook, do you?’

  There was no use pretending. Lotty had barely been in a kitchen before arriving at Loch Mhoraigh. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Pity. I was going to suggest you might like to earn some extra money.’

  ‘Extra?’ Lotty raised her brows. ‘I’m not earning any money, so how can I earn extra?’