LITMIR.BIZ

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because I went to school in England. I’m actually from Montluce.’

      She waited to be told that Montluce was part of France but, to her consternation, it turned out that Betty McPherson was an avid reader of gossip magazines, and knew all about Lotty’s country and the crisis in finding a successor to her father.

      ‘What a time that poor family has had!’ she said, shaking her head.

      ‘Yes, it’s been difficult for them,’ said Lotty, beginning to wish that she had kept her mouth shut. But she couldn’t bring herself to deny her own country.

      Mrs McPherson seemed to have followed the crisis in such detail that Lotty had a few moments’ anxiety in case she was recognised, but the older woman didn’t seem to have made the connection between the elegant Princess Charlotte and the scruffily dressed girl who stood in front of her. It was partly a question of expectation, Lotty knew, but she was glad that she had had her hair cut nonetheless, and perhaps the red hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.

      As soon as she could, she changed the subject by asking for Mrs McPherson’s scone recipe. Her first attempt to make scones had been a disaster and left the kitchen full of smoke. Fortunately, this proved to be an effective diversion, and it was some time before she was able to escape, sent on her way with lengthy instructions.

      ‘And don’t forget to dust the baking tray with flour,’ was Mrs McPherson’s parting shot, which meant nothing to Lotty. She smiled anyway and waved from the door, hoping that she was going to be able to remember it all.

      As soon as she got back to Loch Mhoraigh House, she rushed into the kitchen and tried to put Mrs McPherson’s instructions into effect, but if anything that batch of scones were worse than the ones she’d made before.

      And that was saying something.

      ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Corran, but Lotty wouldn’t give up. How hard could it be to make scones?

      Mrs McPherson made it sound so easy. The recipe books made it sound easy. So why couldn’t she do it? Was she really so lacking in any talent or ability? The more she thought about it, the more depressed Lotty got.

      What, really, was she good for? Smiling and shaking hands. That was it. She was going to have to go home to Montluce and all she would have to show for it would be some broken fingernails. Yes, she had acquired a few basic skills like peeling a potato or painting a wall, but neither was exactly challenging. Lotty was terribly afraid that when it came down to it, she was just the pampered princess that the anti-royalists thought her after all. A smiling face. A walking clothes hanger. Nothing more than that.

      What if that was all she was?

      Raoul the Wolf would be ashamed of her.

      Lotty kept thinking about her grandmother, whose spine of steel never bent, who would never, ever admit that a member of the royal house of Montluce was beaten.

      So she kept on making scones, as if that would prove something, although whether it was to her grandmother or herself or her illustrious ancestors Lotty was never quite clear.

      And the scones kept turning out flat and hard.

      ‘I really don’t understand why it matters so much,’ said Corran, as Lotty gazed despondently at that day’s flat offering.

      ‘I just want to be able to do something well,’ she tried to explain.

      ‘You do lots of things well,’ said Corran impatiently.

      ‘Like what?’

      He hesitated. ‘See?’ she pounced on him. ‘You can’t think of anything!’ Her face crumpled. ‘I’m useless!’

      ‘You’re not useless. What a ridiculous thing to say!’

      Corran glowered at her. He wanted to tell her how she had changed the feel of the house just by being there. How he looked forward to coming in at the end of a long day and seeing her at the range, stirring some sauce with a dubious expression. How she lit up a gloomy day with her smile.

      But he didn’t know how to say it without making it sound as if he wanted her. Which he didn’t.

      Much.

      Lotty was the last kind of woman he wanted to get involved with, Corran had to remind himself every day after yet another night haunted by the image of her in the bath. The pure line of her throat seemed to be etched into his brain and, no matter how hard he tried not to look, his eyes would catch on the sweet curve of her mouth.

      She worked with a steely determination that would put many men far stronger than her to shame, but she was beautiful and, even tired and dirty and despondent, there was a glamour to Lotty that made Corran leery.

      There was no place for glamour at Loch Mhoraigh House. His own mother had been a perfect example of how disastrous it could be when you took someone out of their natural milieu, and his brief marriage to Ella had simply underscored that. Corran wasn’t making that mistake again. When he had time for a relationship again, it would be with someone who belonged here, someone who could offer practical support and do more than look decorative.

      Already he was getting too used to having Lotty around. It made Corran uneasy. ‘You’re just looking for attention,’ he told her crossly.

      ‘You can’t think of anything, can you?’

      Corran could feel himself being driven into a corner. ‘You’re good with Pookie,’ he offered at last.

      It was true too. With Lotty to shower attention on him, Pookie had settled down and wasn’t nearly as irritating. He still looked more like a toy than a dog, but he could be appealing enough when he tried. Sometimes when he sat on the sofa Pookie lay beside him on his back to have his tummy scratched and Corran found himself obliging.

      Lotty was looking unconvinced. ‘And you’re a whizz with a broom,’ he tried again, but the face she made at him showed what she thought of that as an accomplishment.

      ‘Those sausages you cooked yesterday were pretty good.’

      ‘They were burnt!’

      ‘I read somewhere that charcoal is good for you.’

      A tiny smile quivered at the corner of her mouth. ‘You’re just trying to indulge me.’

      ‘I’ll do whatever it takes to get a meal on the table,’ he said acidly. ‘What gastronomic treat do we have tonight?’

      ‘Mince again. It’s all we’ve got left,’ she added, seeing Corran’s involuntary grimace. They had been eating a lot of mince recently. It was one of the few things she had learnt to cook without burning and even Corran was getting sick of it.

      ‘We’ll stock up again tomorrow on the way back from Glasgow,’ he said. ‘We can collect your case, buy some furniture and do a supermarket session on the way home. If we’ve got to waste a day, we may as well do everything at once.’

      ‘What do you mean, you haven’t got the code?’ Corran looked at Lotty in exasperation. They were standing in front of the left luggage lockers, which were cleverly locked with a digital code.

      ‘It was printed on a bit of paper and I put it in my purse to keep it safe.’

      ‘The same purse you left on a pub table?’

      She nodded guiltily. ‘I’d forgotten all about it until we got here. I’m really sorry it’s a wasted journey.’

      ‘You can’t be the only idiot who loses the code. We’re not leaving here without that case,’ Corran said. ‘Stay there,’ he ordered and strode off.

      Lotty wasn’t at all surprised to see him come back with a station official a few minutes later. He might not be able to lay on the charm, but he was competent. If something needed to be done, you could rely on Corran to do it.

      She clearly wasn’t required to do anything more than stand and look

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