LITMIR.BIZ

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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 get worse and worse.’

      Mrs 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

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