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 bone-melting 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,’ Corran 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
