Royal Families Vs. Historicals - Rebecca Winters Mills & Boon e-Book Collections

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experience for you.’

      ‘I don’t mind,’ said Lotty, who was still jittery from the shock of Corran bursting into the bathroom. One moment she’d been dreaming that, and the next he’d been there, looking furious, and reality had slapped her around the face. This was no ardent lover. This was a man with far more on his mind than her pathetic little fantasies.

      In one of those gruff acts of kindness that kept catching her unawares, he’d retrieved her rucksack from the barn and put it in her room. She felt a little better once she was dressed in the outfit she’d worn every evening on the walk, but she was still desperately aware of Corran moving around the kitchen and her breathing kept getting muddled up. His presence seemed to be sucking all the oxygen from the air. The only other person Lotty knew who had that same compelling presence was her tiny autocratic grandmother.

      ‘Help yourself.’ Corran gave her a plate and pushed the pot towards her. ‘It’ll be filling if nothing else.’

      Lotty was still burning with embarrassment, but she took some pasta to be polite. The spoon and fork rang against the edge of the saucepan, loud in the silence.

      A princess always puts people at their ease. The memory of her grandmother’s voice was so clear that Lotty almost expected to turn and see her at her shoulder.

      Clearing her throat, she forced herself to make conversation. ‘Do you always cook for yourself?’

      ‘I don’t have much choice. Fortunately, I’m not that bothered about food, but I get pretty sick of the same three dishes, I have to admit.’ Corran paused in the middle of helping himself to pasta. ‘I don’t suppose you cook, do you?’

      There was no use pretending. Lotty had barely been in a kitchen before arriving at Loch Mhoraigh. ‘I’m afraid not.’

      ‘Pity. I was going to suggest you might like to earn some extra money.’

      ‘Extra?’ Lotty raised her brows. ‘I’m not earning any money, so how can I earn extra?’

      ‘All right, maybe you’d like to earn some money on top of your board and lodging.’ He looked at her assessingly. ‘You could be my housekeeper. I can’t pay much, mind, but it would be worth it not to have to do any more cooking myself for a while.’

      ‘If you can afford to pay a housekeeper, why not give me something for cleaning the cottage?’

      ‘That was a different deal,’ said Corran. ‘You wanted to do it. This is something I don’t want to do. See the difference?’

      Lotty chewed a mouthful of pasta. He was right. Filling was the best thing that could be said about it. Could she do much worse? The idea of earning her own money was ridiculously exciting for one who had been wealthy beyond most people’s dreams since she was born.

      Nearly as exciting, but not requiring nearly as much nerve as the idea of losing her virginity.

      Over Corran’s shoulder she could see a few tatty recipe books propped on the otherwise bare dresser.

      ‘I can’t claim any cooking experience, but I can read,’ she said. ‘I could have a go.’

      ‘Great,’ said Corran. ‘Consider yourself hired.’

      Lotty stared at him. ‘Is that it?’

      ‘I’m hardly going to give you an interview,’ he pointed out. ‘I don’t care what the meals are like as long as they’re edible and I don’t have to cook them myself.’

      It was a little late to start negotiating, Lotty realised, but she tried anyway. ‘Do I get extra time to finish the cottage? It’ll take me some time to do the cooking as well as the cleaning.’

      Corran finished his mouthful as he considered. ‘Fair enough,’ he agreed at last. ‘You can have an extra day. But that’s all. Take it or leave it.’

      Léopold Longsword would no doubt have wrung more concessions out of him in a process of wily negotiations, while Raoul the Wolf would probably have just chopped his head off, but Lotty took the deal.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      THERE were no curtains at her bedroom window. When the summer light woke her early in the mornings, Lotty would allow herself a few moments to just lie and remember where she was before she launched into another gruelling day. Her muscles ached, her bed was narrow, the mattress ancient and lumpy, the room bare, but she was very happy.

      Every day was full of new experiences. Small ones, trivial ones, but for Lotty it was like discovering a new world. She learnt to peel potatoes and chop onions, to wash dishes and empty the vacuum cleaner. She wrote her first shopping list and got down on her knees with a scrubbing brush. Unable to bear the disgusting coffee, which Corran insisted was perfectly adequate, she even began to acquire a taste for tea instead.

      It surprised her how quickly she fell into a routine. She would clear up after breakfast, prepare sandwiches for later and then head to clean the cottages. All morning she swept and brushed and scrubbed. The Dowager Blanche would be aghast if she knew that her granddaughter was on her knees like a servant.

      There were times when Lotty had to screw up her nose. Times when she was so tired and filthy that she was tempted to take a break, but ironically those were the times when she remembered she was a princess. Proper princesses might not get dirty, but they didn’t give up either.

      So she kept going until she heard the tractor outside, which was her signal to join Corran for lunch. Once when it was raining, they ate their sandwiches in the barn, sitting on hay bales, but usually they went to the little beach and breathed in the tangy air that blew down the loch from the sea in the west.

      Lotty was always stiff when she got up to head back for an afternoon’s hard physical work in the cottages, but that was easy compared to the task of preparing a meal every evening. She was rather miffed to discover that she was not a natural cook. Montluce had a reputation for fine food that rivalled that of its more famous neighbour, France, and Lotty couldn’t help feeling that she should somehow have acquired a talent for cooking along with the stubborn pride of all her countrymen.

      The recipes never looked that difficult but, however closely she followed them, meat ended up charred or raw or horribly tough, while even a simple task like boiling vegetables resulted in either a challenging crunchiness or an unappetising slush. With every disaster, Lotty’s chin inched a little higher, and the next day she would square up to the recipe book with renewed determination.

      Luckily, Corran didn’t seem that bothered. He had no interest in food and ate only to fuel himself as far as Lotty could see.

      ‘Isn’t there anything special you’d like me to make?’ she asked him once.

      ‘This is fine,’ he said, forking in a beige sludge that was supposed to be pasta with a delicate cheese sauce.

      ‘There must be something you like particularly,’ she persisted.

      Chewing, Corran gave it some thought. ‘My father had a cook for a while—Mrs McPherson. She used to make the best scones.’

      Scones. Well, that shouldn’t be too difficult. Determined to make something Corran would enjoy, Lotty found a recipe. It looked fairly straightforward, but she would need bicarbonate of soda and cream of tartar, whatever they were.

      She added them to the shopping list. Corran had a meeting with his father’s solicitor in Fort William, and had told her to make a note of any essentials they needed so that he could get them in one big supermarket shop. At the top, Lotty had written: ‘Decent Coffee!!!!’ Not that she expected Corran to take any notice.

      It was just as well she had given up on the seduction idea, Lotty reflected every night as she fell into bed. She was too tired to put it into action.

      If she

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