The Royal Collection. Rebecca WintersЧитать онлайн книгу.
Philippe is being hailed as a hero of the environment.’
‘See, there’s a point to him after all,’ said Lotty, but she was wondering what was really happening in Montluce.
She hadn’t heard from Caro for a while. The Dowager Blanche would be furious. Lotty’s father hadn’t taken much interest in anything beyond Ancient Greece, so it was her grandmother who had been running the country behind the scenes for years. She was the one who had made the original agreement for the pipeline, and she wouldn’t take kindly to her will being crossed.
Expecting a crisis, Lotty was a little puzzled when none seemed to materialise but she had other things to think about. In spite of all her efforts to reconnect with Montluce, she was absorbed in life at Loch Mhoraigh. Sanding floorboards, walking the dogs, washing dishes, poring over a recipe, sweeping and tidying… Lotty clung to the ordinary things while she could, committing the simple joy of day-to-day life to her memory.
And when the day’s tasks were done, there were the long, sweet nights with Corran. She hoarded every moment. Each touch, each kiss, each gasp of wicked pleasure was dipped in gold and stored in her head for the future when memories would be all she would have.
How could she think about Montluce when there was Corran, his sleek, powerful body, his mouth—his mouth—and those strong, sure hands? Lotty wanted to burrow into him, to hold on to him as if he could stop the hours passing and make it always now, and never then.
But the clock kept ticking on and, just when Lotty had let herself forget about life in Montluce, she received an email message from her grandmother that jolted her back to reality.
Caro, it seemed, had gone back to England and everything had gone wrong. Where was Lotty when she was needed? Her grandmother missed her. Please would she come home soon.
It was a querulous message, so unlike the indomitable Dowager Blanche that Lotty was instantly worried. Her grandmother never begged, never admitted that she needed help.
Lotty bit her lip.
Unseeingly, she looked out of the office window. It was a dismal evening with rain splattering against the glass and an angry wind rattling the panes, but Lotty was thinking about the palace in Montluce. Did her grandmother need her now? Had she been selfish long enough?
‘May I use the phone?’ she asked Corran, who was in the kitchen, poring over figures for his breeding programme.
He looked up, and his brows drew together at her expres sion.
‘Of course,’ he said.
Lotty went back to the office, took a deep breath, picked up the phone and dialled the palace’s number. As soon as it was answered she gave the code word which put her call immediately through to the Dowager Blanche’s office, and then there was a click and her grandmother herself on the line.
‘Grandmère?’ Lotty’s throat tightened unaccountably at the sound of her grandmother’s voice.
‘Charlotte!’
The Dowager Blanche, realising that her granddaughter was on the line, proceeded to give Lotty a lecture on how selfish and irrational she had been.
Lotty bore it, insensibly reassured to hear that her grandmother was still on her usual intransigent form. From what she could tell, the Dowager was unsure who to be more cross with, Caro, Philippe or Lotty herself. It seemed that they were all ungrateful and irresponsible. Caro had gone back to England—not that the Dowager cared!—and Philippe was moping around. She was beaten and tired, her grandmother told Lotty, but she didn’t sound it. She sounded like an old lady whose will had been thwarted and who didn’t understand what was going on.
‘When are you going to stop this nonsense and come home?’ she demanded at last.
‘Soon, Grandmère, I promise. There’s just something I need to do here.’
‘What sort of something? And where is here? What kind of granddaughter won’t even tell her grandmother where she is?’
The querulous note in her voice stabbed at Lotty’s conscience, but she steeled herself. ‘I’ll tell you about it when I come home.’
She ended the call and sat for a while, holding the phone against her chest, before she set it back in its cradle and went to find Corran.
‘Problem?’ he asked, looking up from his papers.
Lotty hugged her arms together. ‘No…I’m not sure,’ she confessed. ‘Things seem to have gone wrong. My grandmother sounds OK, but I think she needs me.’
‘Do you want to go home?’ Corran made himself ask.
She hesitated, then shook her head. ‘Not yet. I don’t think there’s much I can do for now. I’ll stay until after the Rowlands have been.’
‘And then?’
Lotty drew an uneven breath. ‘Then I’ll have to go.’
‘This looks…incredible.’ Corran stared around the drawing room, amazed at the transformation.
Having banished Lotty from ladders, he had painted the ceiling and coving, and helped her carry in the furniture, but everything else she had done herself. The dusty floorboards had been sanded until they were a warm honey colour, and she had painted the walls a pale yellow so that the room seemed to be filled with sunshine even on the dullest of days.
Lotty had chosen two of the simple sofas they had bought for the cottages, and set them on either side of the fireplace with a sturdy coffee table between them. The only decoration was an arrangement of wildflowers in the grate. Bare the room might be still, but it looked stylish and welcoming too.
‘Incredible,’ said Corran again, remembering how sad the room had looked before.
‘Let’s hope the Rowlands think so,’ said Lotty. ‘Now all we need is a nice day so they can see Loch Mhoraigh at its best.’
That last morning, Lotty woke early. She lay for a while blinking at the morning sun that striped the bed and glinted off the hairs on Corran’s chest. He was still asleep. Her face was pressed against his warm shoulder, and she could hear him breathing slow and steady.
Lotty’s hand drifted down his arm. She didn’t want to wake him, but she had to touch him. His muscles were firm beneath her palm, and her fingers played with the flat hairs on his forearm before curling around his wrist. How many more minutes would she be able to lie like this, drinking in the scent of his skin, comforted by his size and solidity and strength, loving him?
Of course she loved him. Lotty hadn’t wasted time trying to deny it to herself. She even thought Corran might love her too, but not enough to give up Loch Mhoraigh. She knew what this place meant to him. She wouldn’t ask him to leave it to live in Montluce with her, even if she had the courage to tell him who she was. Corran would hate the formality of the palace, and her grandmother would be horrified.
And how could she turn her back on her grandmother and her country to stay here when Corran had made it so clear that he was looking for quite a different kind of woman to share his life?
No, they had agreed to a temporary affair, and it had been wonderful, more wonderful than Lotty could ever have imagined, but it would be better for both of them if they left it at that.
If only Dick Rowland was impressed enough to invest in the estate. Lotty told herself that it would be easier to leave if she knew that Corran would have the money to bring Loch Mhoraigh back to life. He would be happy here.
And she would be happy in Montluce. Somehow.
LOTTY’S stomach churned and she shifted uneasily. She had been feeling queasy a lot recently. She’d tried to convince herself that it was anxiety about the Rowlands’ visit