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 always 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.
‘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
