LITMIR.BIZ

       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 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

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