by Jessica Hart
‘Please tell me it’s not more scones!’
Lotty was at the range, peering dubiously into the oven, but the moment Corran came into the kitchen her pulse kicked up a notch. It always did that, even now. It didn’t matter where they were or what they were doing, something inside leapt at the sight of him every time.
‘I thought I’d try a chocolate cake for a change,’ she told him as he dumped a couple of carrier bags on the kitchen table. He’d had a meeting at the bank in Fort William and grudgingly agreed to stop off at the village shop on his way back to pick up a few essentials.
A man with shopping bags. Nothing glamorous or heroic about that, but he was so lean and so powerful, and his presence filled the room so that the breath dried in Lotty’s mouth. It did that every time, too.
Lotty kept waiting to get used to making love with Corran. She had expected that it would slake that terrible craving to wind herself round him and press herself against him and crawl all over him, but if anything it was worse. She was still dazzled by lust and longing and the thrill of being able to touch him. After years of being a good girl, Corran’s touch had let loose a different Lotty, one whose recklessness and passion both thrilled and alarmed her.
Only the day before she had finished painting the woodwork in the cottage’s kitchen. It was too late to start a new room—or that was the excuse Lotty gave herself, anyway—so she went to find Corran. Perhaps she had it in mind to help him tidy up. Or perhaps she had something quite different in mind all along.
He was in the next cottage, boxing in the bath. When Lotty paused in the doorway, he was bending over a sheet of plywood, sawing it into shape. The floor was covered in sawdust and wood shavings and the smell of new wood filled the air.
As Lotty watched, the sun came out from behind the clouds and a shaft through the open window lit directly onto Corran, hot and sweaty in a faded T shirt and jeans. She could see the dust hanging in the light. Her gaze followed the sunbeam to where it gilded the prickle of stubble on his jaw, to the curve of his back as he bent over the wood, to the muscles that flexed in his arms as he wielded the saw, and she was gripped by a need so acute that she couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe. She could just stand and stare at him.
Sensing her gaze, Corran glanced up and froze at her expression. He didn’t say anything but something shifted in the air, something hot and dark that lit the fever in Lotty’s blood.
Corran laid down his saw and straightened.
She took a step inside the room.
‘You’re a bad girl,’ he said, and his voice was dark and dusty with desire.
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘You didn’t need to.’
He put his hands on the wall on either side of her, trapping her, and Lotty’s heart pounded with excitement. She slid her hands beneath his T-shirt so that she could run them over his flanks, loving the feel of his warm, solid skin, revelling in the flex of his muscles beneath her touch, smiling at his indrawn hiss of breath.
‘Do I need to say anything now?’
‘No,’ he said, and the expression in his eyes snarled every one of Lotty’s senses into an urgent knot of desire.
And then…oh, then! Lotty still burned at the memory. It had been wild, exciting, reckless.
Very reckless.
‘I’m going to have to be prepared if you’re going to do that to me again,’ Corran said unevenly at last, resting his forehead against hers.
‘Do what?’ Lotty was breathless. She clung to him, limp with satisfaction. ‘What did I do?’
‘You looked at me. You know what I mean,’ he said as she started to laugh. ‘You turned those great eyes on me and they told me you’d die if you couldn’t have me.’
‘That’s how I felt,’ she confessed.
‘We mustn’t do that again, Lotty,’ said Corran. ‘It’s too much of a risk.’
‘No,’ she had agreed. It was stupid to make love without taking precautions, of course it was. But, deep down, Lotty loved the fact that she could be bad. That she could make him forget about everything but her, his hands on her, her mouth on his, make him forget about anything but the rocketing need between them.
That she could forget that she was a princess. Lotty loved that most of all.
Flushing with remembered heat, Lotty made herself turn back to the range and pull out the cake. How was it possible that it looked flatter and harder and thinner than it had when she’d put it in?
‘I don’t think it’s supposed to look like this,’ she said, her mouth turning down at the corners. It certainly didn’t look like the exquisite patisserie that the palace kitchens produced. The head chef made a chocolate cake that was so light and delicious that it was hard to believe that it contained any calories at all. It melted in the mouth, so that one slice was never enough.
This cake had about as much chance of melting in the mouth as a brick.
‘It’ll be fine,’ said Corran, without glancing at it. He was putting milk away in the fridge. ‘Let’s have some tea and we can always dunk the cake in it.’
‘Good idea.’
Lotty put the kettle on. She had never cared for tea before, but now she drank it all the time. They often had a mug in the afternoon, taking a brief break from working.
The cottages were coming on really well. Lotty felt proud when she looked around her and remembered what a desperate state they had been in when she first arrived. She didn’t mind getting dirty and tired. She could see the cottages being transformed in front of her eyes. She was doing something, not just having things done for her. Lotty sat on the doorstep with Corran and the dogs on those afternoons, and she watched the hills and drank tea and felt completely happy.
Every now and then the cold finger of reality would poke her in the stomach, reminding her that time was passing and this wasn’t for ever, but Lotty’s heart shrank back from dealing with it. One more week, she said to herself every time. One more week, and then she would face the prospect of leaving.
It was getting harder and harder to remember this wasn’t her real life. Montluce felt very far away. Corran had offered her the use of his computer after she had told him she’d used the internet café in Fort William, so she had been able to check her email over the past month, but increasingly she found herself putting it off. She’d had a stiff message from Dowager Blanche, who was obviously hurt and angry, which made Lotty feel horribly guilty, as it was no doubt intended to, and she didn’t want any more like that.
Caro’s messages were much more entertaining. Lotty enjoyed seeing palace life through her friend’s eyes. It made her realise how absurd all the formality she had taken for granted for years was. Lotty was glad Caro seemed to be having a good time, although she was suspiciously cagey about her relationship with Philippe. It sounded as if the people of Montluce had taken her to their hearts too.
Lotty even allowed herself a little fantasy that Caro would get together with Philippe. If the two of them married, Caro could be first lady of the realm and Lotty would be free. Then Lotty felt selfish. How could she wish the restrictions of royal life on her free-spirited friend? Besides, she couldn’t see her grandmother accepting Caro as the future Crown Princess. The Dowager Blanche had firmly traditional views on who might or might not be acceptable to marry into Montluce’s royal family. A commoner like Caro was unlikely to go down well.
Then there was Philippe to think about too. Lotty knew how difficult going back to Montluce even for a short time would be for him. He would be putting a good face on it, but his relationship with his father was too bitter for him to want to stay in the country a moment longer than necessary.
No, Caro and Philippe had done enough for her as it was. She couldn’t expect them to take over her life on a permanent basis. She couldn’t run away from her obligations for ever. She would have to go back to Montluce and do her duty, the way she had been raised to do.
But not yet, her heart cried. Not yet.
‘Oh, I nearly forgot.’
Corran drew a glossy magazine from the bottom of the carrier bag. ‘Mrs McPherson sent you a present.’
‘A present?’ Surprised, Lotty set the two mugs of tea on the table and took the magazine. ‘Really? For me?’
‘She seemed to think you’d like it. I can’t imagine why,’ he said austerely as Lotty turned the magazine over to reveal the distinctive cover of Glitz. ‘It’s full of vacuous celebrities as far as I can see. Why would anyone care about all that trivial gossip?’
‘It’s called being interested in people,’ said Lotty, who had been known to flick through a magazine in her time too.
She fanned the pages. ‘Besides, it’s not all gossip. There’s also important stuff in here about shoes and frocks and make up. We’re not all riveted by breeding programmes for Highland cattle, you know.’
‘I forget you’re interested in that kind of stuff,’ said Corran, drinking his tea morosely.
‘I wonder why Mrs McPherson thought I would be?’ Lotty said, still puzzled.
He shrugged as she pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘You seem to be her pet. I had to spend half the afternoon listening to her rabbiting on about scones and how wonderful everyone thinks you are now. Although she did say something about Montluce, now I come to think about it. She seems to know more about you than I do.’
Lotty looked at him sharply, unsure what to make of the faint undercurrent of…resentment? jealousy? bitterness?…she heard in his voice.
‘Well, it was kind of her to think of me,’ she said, careful to keep her expression neutral.
‘Yes, except then I felt obliged to pay for it,’ grunted Corran. ‘It’s probably a tried and tested sales technique of hers: make me feel guilty for not thinking of bringing you a present myself.’
‘Oh, so it’s a present from you, in fact?’ said Lotty with a half smile.
‘I don’t think it counts as a present if you’ve been blackmailed into buying it!’
She laughed. ‘Well, thank you, anyway,’ she said, opening the magazine out on the table and licking a finger so that she could leaf idly through the pages one by one. ‘A little frivolity makes a nice change.’
Corran was leaning against the kitchen counter, eyeing her morosely over the rim of his mug as she looked through the magazine, a tiny smile curling the corners of her mouth, long lashes downswept over the grey eyes. His gaze rested on the heart-shaking line of her cheek, and an ache for something he couldn’t name lodged in his chest.
The truth was that Betty McPherson had made Corran feel bad. He hadn’t thought of Lotty missing things like shopping and gossip, but of course she would. There was little scope for fashion at Loch Mhoraigh, but she still managed to look elegant and feminine. She was clearly someone used to a comfortable life, surrounded by fine things. Sooner or later, she would start to hanker for proper shops and things to do in the evening, he reminded himself. True, she hadn’t complained about their absence yet, but she hadn’t been there that long.
It just felt like forever. Corran struggled to remember what it had been like without her now, and when he tried to imagine the future when she was gone, he just came up with a terrifying blank.
He was going to have to try harder.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ELLA hadn’t complained either at the beginning, he remembered. She had claimed at first that he was all she wanted but, once they were married, it turned out that she wanted a lot more than that. Corran wasn’t enough at all. Every day, there had been something that he didn’t do or didn’t feel or didn’t provide.
His mouth twisted, remembering that time. Ella had been constantly discontented, it seemed. She was disappointed that he spent so much time at work, resentful that he didn’t surprise her with bunches of flowers or mini breaks in Paris or little pieces of jewellery and hurt that he didn’t send her messages on the hour, every hour.
Corran had never understood why Ella needed proof that he loved her. He said it, and he’d meant it, and it seemed to him that ought to be enough, but Ella required constant reassurance that he had obviously failed to provide. She would plunge into despair, punishing him with floods of tears or sulky silences, and then go out and spend huge sums on her credit card which apparently made her feel better. Corran wondered if she was subjecting Jeff to the same treatment now, and hoped his old friend was dealing with it better than he had.
He couldn’t imagine Lotty carrying on like that. She had a natural dignity and grace, a quiet strength apparent in the straightness of her spine and the tilt of her chin. But then there had been no warning that Ella was that needy either. He had married one woman and ended up with quite a different one, Corran remembered bitterly. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
And what, really, did he know about Lotty? He knew she was warm and passionate and stubborn. He knew she was hard-working and intelligent, but had an inexplicable lack of belief in her own beauty and abilities. He knew how her eyes lit when she smiled. He knew the scent of her skin, the softness of her hair, the precise curve of her hip. He knew she was stylish and sweet and a terrible cook.
But she was close-mouthed about her family and life before she came to Loch Mhoraigh. If it ever came up in the conversation, she would change the subject, and Corran was happy to pretend that her other life didn’t exist, that there was just this time they had together.
Her English was so perfect that he often forgot that she was from Montluce. Mrs McPherson’s reminder had been like a finger poking in the ribs. He didn’t like the idea that she had thought about Lotty being the kind of girl who would like to read a glossy magazine. He didn’t like her knowing something about Lotty that he didn’t. He didn’t like being reminded that Lotty had another life in another country, where she probably shopped and read magazines and wore expensive clothes all the time.
Corran didn’t want to know about that Lotty. That Lotty was going to leave. If he thought about that Lotty, he’d have to remember that she wasn’t going to stay here at Loch Mhoraigh for ever. Watching her leaf through the magazine, remembering, Corran felt something cold settle in the pit of his stomach.
More fool him for forgetting in the first place. He had to get a grip, Corran told himself. He had lost focus on the estate. He was thinking about Lotty too much. He’d be knocking down a wall or plumbing in a new pipe, and he’d remember her softness, or the silkiness of her hair, or the way his heart pounded when she touched him, when he ought to be thinking about breeding programmes or investment strategies.
Lotty was sipping her tea, pursing her lips at a page, shaking her head at another as she flicked through the articles. They certainly didn’t require much reading. From what Corran could see, they consisted of a lot of shiny photographs with captions. How could she possibly find any of it interesting?
Then she turned a page and choked, spluttering tea everywhere.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
But Lotty couldn’t answer. She was coughing and laughing at the same time, her eyes watering, until Corran began to get concerned. Levering himself away from the counter, he patted her on the back.
‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ she tried to say, but it came out as a squeak and she put a hand to her throat. ‘Sorry!’
Unthinkingly keeping his hand on her back, Corran peered over her shoulder to see what had surprised her so much.
The page was dominated by a photograph of a vibrant girl with untidy hair. She was smiling at the camera and wearing a man’s jacket that was clearly much too big for her. A New Style Icon for Montluce, trumpeted the headline.
Another picture showed her with a good-looking man. Corran read the caption. Wedding Rumours for Prince Philippe, it read.
‘What’s so funny?’ he asked Lotty, who was still trying to clear her throat.
‘What? Oh!’ She tried to pull the magazine away. ‘Oh, nothing. I was just surprised. She…she reminds me of someone I used to know, that’s all.’
‘Pretty girl,’ Corran commented, studying the p
hoto. He was still absently rubbing Lotty’s back. ‘At least she looks like she’s got some personality, unlike most celebrities.’
Caro certainly had personality, thought Lotty. She was desperately aware of his warm hand moving over her, and she couldn’t resist leaning back into it as she wiped her eyes.
She wished she could tell Corran about her friend. She would have liked to have explained how Caro worried about her weight and wore the oddest clothes, like that old dinner jacket of her father’s, and how much she would laugh to hear herself described as a style icon.
It would be nice to tell him what a special friend Caro was, and how she had stepped in to give Lotty herself a chance to escape from Montluce for a while. Caro would say that it had suited her too, but Lotty knew that it was a lot to ask her friend to give up two months of her life.
But how could she tell Corran all that without telling him that she was a princess? Without changing everything.
They had so little time left. Why risk spoiling it? They were going to have to say goodbye anyway, Lotty reasoned. She wanted Corran to remember her as a woman, not as a princess pretending to be someone she wasn’t.
Unaware of her thoughts, Corran was still looking at the picture of Caro and Philippe. ‘What an awful life, though,’ he said. ‘Who’d want it? I can’t see the point of these tinpot monarchies, other than to fill the pages of trashy magazines.’
Tinpot monarchy? Lotty stiffened, unable to let the insult pass. ‘I’m from Montluce,’ she reminded him in an icy voice. ‘We don’t think of it as a tinpot monarchy.’
‘Oh, come on, Lotty! You’re not telling me you believe the monarchy in a tiny place like Montluce isn’t an anachronism?’ Taking his hand from her shoulder, he flicked the picture of Philippe dismissively. ‘What does this guy actually do other than get himself photographed? It’s not as if any of them do any work.’
Lotty thought of the long days smiling and standing until her back ached, of putting people at their ease and making them feel as if they had been part of something special even if they had just shaken hands with her. At the end of the day her hand was sometimes so sore she had to soak it in iced water to reduce the swelling.
