The Secret Princess

by Jessica Hart

  Corran had known there was something special about Lotty too. He just hadn’t realised that it involved a crown.

  Everyone in Mhoraigh had hated him once; now they pitied him. He was the frog who’d blown his chance with the princess.

  Betty McPherson was very kind and often cooked him a meal to take home, but Corran hated the sympathy in her eyes. He hated the way she told him about the parties Lotty had been seen at, about the beautiful dresses she had worn. He hated the way he would drive back to the empty house afterwards and find that Lotty wasn’t there.

  She wasn’t in the kitchen. She wasn’t in the cottages, her hair tied up in that scarf, humming tunelessly as she painted. She wasn’t walking Pookie down by the loch or sitting on the beach, sipping tea from the flask. She wasn’t there when he reached for her in the night.

  She was in Montluce, being a princess, and far, far out of his reach.

  Corran had thrown himself into work on the estate, but nothing was the same any more. Pookie was forlorn, and even Meg looked reproachful. ‘It’s all for the best,’ he found himself telling them as if they could understand him, but the words sounded hollow, even to himself.

  And yet, how could it not be for the best? If Betty McPherson was to be believed, Lotty had slotted right back into her life in Montluce. It was absurd to hope that she might be missing Loch Mhoraigh, where there were no parties, no people, nowhere to wear those elegant clothes, and where her beauty was wasted on the hills and his mother’s ridiculous little dog. And him.

  She had been happy there, yes. Corran knew that. He remembered the way her eyes used to shine—but he remembered, too, that she had never once said that she wanted to stay for ever.

  Why would she? Just once, Corran had given in to temptation and looked Princess Charlotte of Montluce up on the internet, and there she was. A fist had closed around his heart at the sight of her. She was the perfect princess, just as she’d told him. Corran read about her life, and how much everyone loved her. Not a single scurrilous story was attached to her. She was just very beautiful, very good, very royal.

  Oh, and very rich.

  What could a man like him, a working farmer struggling to restore an isolated, dilapidated estate, possibly have to offer Princess Charlotte of Montluce?

  Betty McPherson rang up the milk and the biscuits while Corran looked out at the first real snow of the season spitting from a leaden sky. He should stock up in case the track was ever impassable. Those were the kind of practicalities he should be thinking about, not how very far away Lotty seemed.

  He opened his mouth to tell Betty that he would take more milk when she got in first. ‘Have you seen our lassie’s in the magazines again?’

  Corran set his teeth. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Betty, I think I might—’

  ‘Look.’ Ignoring him, she pulled a copy of Glitz from the top of the pile on the counter. A Royal Rush Into Marriage! was splashed across the cover over a picture of Prince Philippe and Lotty’s friend, Caro. Philippe and Caro Wed This Weekend.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Corran. ‘Could I have—’

  ‘And here’s our lassie.’ Betty folded the page back and showed it to Corran. ‘She looks peaky, doesn’t she?’ Her sharp blue eyes rested on Corran’s face.

  Corran didn’t answer. He’d forgotten about milk and bread. He was staring down at the picture of Lotty. She looked strained, but beautiful still, standing next to some chinless wonder in a dinner jacket. Charlotte and Kristof: Another Wedding in the Offing?

  There was another picture of Lotty on her own. The caption to that one read, Charlotte’s Bump: Could She be Pregnant?

  He picked up the magazine with hands that weren’t quite steady and looked more closely at Lotty’s stomach. It did look like a bump. Was it possible? But how long before a pregnancy showed? It was three and a half long, long months since Lotty had left.

  Corran did the sums in his head and stiffened. Crushing the magazine in his hand, he stood for a moment staring unseeingly ahead of him before he turned on his heel and stalked out of the shop without thinking to pay for the magazine, or remembering the milk and biscuits left abandoned on the counter.

  Betty McPherson smiled gently and put them back on the shelf.

  The palace was alight with excitement. Lights blazed in the windows and the staterooms were filled with a hubbub of conversation as representatives from every part of Montluce mingled with the glamorous guests and visiting royalty who had been invited to see Prince Philippe marry Miss Caroline Cartwright the next day.

  It was a long time since Montluce had seen a royal wedding, and the country was making the most of it. In spite of the snow, huge crowds had gathered outside the palace to ooh and aah at the guests as they arrived, and many had staked their claim on the roadside to watch the procession the next morning.

  Lotty was working her way round the room, trying to talk to as many people as possible. She had pulled out all the stops to celebrate Caro and Philippe’s wedding and was looking regal in a ball gown made of heavy Italian red silk. Her shoulders were bare except for the ancestral ruby and diamond necklace and she wore a tiara in her dark hair. The beautiful cut of the dress had been specially designed to draw attention away from her bump, but she had draped a chiffon stole over her arms as a further distraction.

  Lotty wasn’t ashamed of her pregnancy, but this party was in honour of Caro and Philippe and she didn’t want anything to attract attention away from them tonight. Already there had been some speculation in the papers. Most of the reception guests were too polite to stare directly at her stomach, but Lotty could tell that they were wondering if the gossip was true or not.

  So she smiled and chatted and hoped that nobody could see how tired she felt.

  Standing up to her grandmother’s fearsome will had been harder than Lotty had imagined. The Dowager Blanche had been devastated by Lotty’s pregnancy and was unable to comprehend how she could even contemplate having the baby on her own. Her latest plan was to marry Lotty off to Count Kristof of Fleitenstien.

  ‘He would raise the child as his own,’ she assured Lotty. ‘He understands how these things are done.’

  Lotty didn’t want things done. The baby was hers and Corran’s. She wasn’t going to pretend anything else. She wasn’t going to pretend to love anyone she didn’t. She had had enough of pretending.

  Across the room, Lotty watched Caro and Philippe circulating amongst their guests. She was so happy for them, but whenever she saw the easy way they touched each other, the way they caught each other’s eye in a moment of private amusement, she felt so lonely she could hardly breathe.

  She missed Corran so much. She ached for him, hungered for him, like now, when the longing to be back at Loch Mhoraigh, pressed against him, was like a great hand closing around her throat. Sucking in her breath at the pain, Lotty closed her eyes without thinking.

  ‘Altesse? Can I get you anything?’

  Lotty’s eyes snapped open and she fixed a smile automatically back into place. ‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’ From somewhere she summoned a name and set out to charm, but all the time she was remembering how different it had been with Corran, who never minced his words, who was caustic and abrupt and treated her exactly the way he treated everyone else.

  Her gaze fixed courteously on the guest’s face, she didn’t at first register the commotion at the door, but as his gaze widened at something over her shoulder, she turned.

  And froze.

  There, pushing his way through the footmen, was Corran.

  Corran, unmistakable, even in a dinner jacket and bow tie. Corran, grim-faced, looking tall and forbidding and utterly out of place under the glittering chandeliers in spite of his clothes.

  Lotty stared, paralysed by shock, disbelief and incredulous, astounded joy.

  He was striding across the ballroom, shaking off the footmen who hurried after him, searching the throng of guests with his eyes.

  Looking for her.

  Then he saw her. Even thr
ough the crowds, she could see the blaze of expression in his pale eyes as he checked, and headed straight for her. At the same time, security officers were converging on him from all sides, muttering hastily into the radios on their wrists, while the startled guests fell silent around them.

  Lotty pulled herself together. She had to stop things before they got out of hand. They couldn’t have a major security issue in the middle of Caro and Philippe’s party.

  Stepping forward, she gestured the security officers back before they could wrestle Corran to the ground, and he strode the last few yards unmolested until he stood right in front of her.

  ‘There you are,’ he said.

  There was a rushing in Lotty’s head and her vision darkened as a great tumble of emotions crashed through her. She didn’t know whether to throw herself into Corran’s arms or beat at his chest in fury. She was spinning wildly in a turmoil of anger and ecstasy and confusion and, leaping through it all, the astounding, wonderful knowledge that it was him, it was really him, he was there and nothing else mattered.

  She couldn’t faint. Lotty gripped the edges of her stole so tightly that her knuckles showed white. This was Caro and Philippe’s party. She couldn’t spoil it by making an exhibition of herself. Already half the room seemed to be turning to stare and a space was forming around them.

  From somewhere Lotty found her princess smile and pinned it on.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked through stiff lips.

  ‘Is it true?’ Corran demanded fiercely.

  She knew what he meant, of course she did, but couldn’t answer, not here in front of everyone. ‘We can’t talk about this now,’ she said with an edge of desperation, and then, to her relief, Caro and Philippe were there, supporting her, looking from her to Corran and back again.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Philippe rarely put on airs, but he could be daunting when he wanted to be.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lotty automatically.

  Just as Corran snarled, ‘No.’

  He took hold of Lotty by the wrist. ‘No, it’s not all right,’ he told Philippe flatly. ‘I don’t want to break up the party, but Lotty and I are going somewhere we can talk.’

  Philippe took a protective step forward, but Caro had been watching Lotty’s face and she put out a hand to hold him back. ‘I think this must be Corran,’ she said with a faint smile. ‘I’m glad you’ve come,’ she said to Corran. ‘I hoped you would.’

  Lotty found her voice. ‘Corran, this is—’

  ‘We’ll do introductions later,’ he interrupted her. ‘Right now, you and I are getting out of here.’

  Keeping a firm hold of her wrist, he turned without a further word to Philippe and Caro and dragged her towards the doors but, before he could reach them, he was baulked again. This time it was the Dowager Blanche herself who stepped into his way.

  Lotty’s grandmother was small and elderly, but she had a presence that could stop even Corran in his tracks. More than one person watching flinched at the expression on her face as she fixed Corran with gimlet eyes. She was, Lotty thought, far more frightening than the security officers on either side of her who were sliding their hands to their shoulder holsters.

  ‘Take your hands off my granddaughter,’ she said in freezing accents. ‘Do you know who she is?’

  Corran had stopped, but he didn’t let Lotty go. ‘I do,’ he said, looking the Dowager Blanche right in the eyes. ‘Do you?’

  ‘This is Her Serene Highness Princess Charlotte!’

  ‘No,’ said Corran. ‘This is Lotty.’

  Lotty sucked in a breath and tried to interrupt before her grandmother annihilated him. ‘Grandmère…’ she began, but it was too late.

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ Her grandmother’s voice was like a lash. ‘And how dare you talk about my granddaughter in that vulgar way?’

  ‘I dare because I know her better than you do,’ said Corran.

  ‘You are impertinent!’

  ‘I’m also right,’ he said. ‘I bet you don’t know how out of tune she is when she hums or how she sticks her tongue out of the corner of her mouth when she’s concentrating. Do you know how stubborn she is, how hard she works? How she stretches when she’s tired, how grouchy she gets when her scones don’t turn out? Do you know the exact angle she puts her chin in the air when she’s crossed?

  ‘I didn’t think so,’ said Corran when the Dowager looked astounded. ‘Well, I do. I know the Lotty you’ll never know. The Lotty who’s fussy about her coffee and snappy if I forget to wipe my boots. Who smiles when she washes up and who hates cleaning her paintbrushes.’

  His eyes went to Lotty and the two of them might as well have been alone, although all pretence at conversation had died around them and the entire ballroom was listening.

  ‘The Lotty who’s sweet and true and funny, who made me happy and who left me all alone because I was too stupid to tell her how I felt.’

  He turned back to the Dowager and his face hardened. ‘You only know the princess. I know the woman. I may not know Princess Charlotte, but I know Lotty.’

  His eyes flickered to the bodyguards. ‘Now, I’d like to talk to her alone so I’d be glad if you’d call off your goons and let us leave.’

  There was a frozen moment when the air between Corran and the Dowager fairly crackled and then, to Lotty’s utter astonishment, her grandmother stood aside without another word.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Corran in a cool voice.

  There was utter silence in the ballroom as he pulled Lotty out of the main doors to where the great state staircase swept down two sides to the marble hall. The area outside the doors was thronging with footmen and guests who had missed all the excitement. Corran ignored them all.

  ‘God, how do we get out of here?’

  Lotty found her voice at last. ‘I’m not sure I want to go anywhere with you after embarrassing me like that.’

  ‘You’ll never be the perfect princess again,’ Corran agreed. ‘Your reputation’s shot. There’ll always be gossip about you now—and there’ll be even more if we have our discussion here in front of everyone. I don’t mind,’ he said, ‘but you might want some privacy.’

  Lotty pressed her lips together, but she knew he was right. ‘We’ll go to my apartments,’ she said.

  An astonished footman sprang to life to throw open the door of the apartment for them. Head held high, Lotty swept in first.

  Corran shut the footman out and turned to face Lotty, who was standing in the middle of a sumptuously decorated apartment. The diamonds in her tiara flashed in the light. Her head was high, her eyes bright with anger, and in the red ball gown she looked very much a princess.

  ‘I don’t appreciate being humiliated in front of my family, our staff and a ballroom full of guests,’ she said icily.

  ‘And I don’t appreciate finding out from Betty McPherson that I’m a father!’ Corran snapped back. ‘How humiliating do you think that was?’

  Lotty stared at him for a moment, and then she dropped abruptly onto one of the sofas and covered her face with her hands.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice muffled. ‘I’m so sorry, Corran.’

  The anger leaked out of the air and Corran sat down heavily beside her. Gently, he pulled her hands from her face so that he could look into her eyes.

  ‘It’s true, then? You’re having a baby?’ His throat was very tight. ‘Our baby?’

  ‘Yes, it’s true,’ said Lotty, her fingers curling around his in spite of herself.

  ‘It was that afternoon when we couldn’t wait to go back to the house, wasn’t it?’ said Corran, and her cheeks warmed at the memory of the heat that had consumed them as the dust drifted in the sunlight and the smell of wood shavings filled the air.

  ‘I think it must have been.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Lotty?’

  She pulled her hands from his. ‘You told me you weren’t ready for children,’ she reminded him. ‘You told me how Ella tricked y
ou into marriage by claiming to be pregnant. You told me you were never making a mistake like that again.’ She swallowed.

  ‘I didn’t want to be a mistake, Corran,’ she said, ‘and I didn’t want you to think of our baby as one. I was afraid that if I told you before the baby was born, you’d do exactly what you’ve done, and come rushing out to do your duty.’

  ‘Duty?’ said Corran slowly. ‘Is that what you think this is?’

  ‘What else can it be?’ Lotty hugged her arms together to stop herself from reaching for him. ‘I know how you feel. I know that the estate is your priority now. You think having a child would be a disaster, and you don’t want to be stuck with a wife like me. I know all that.

  ‘I don’t blame you,’ she went on quickly as Corran opened his mouth. ‘I completely understand the kind of woman you need at Loch Mhoraigh.’

  ‘Do you?’ He put his head on one side and regarded her thoughtfully, a smile hovering for the first time around his mouth and in the depths of his eyes. ‘What kind of woman is that?’

  ‘You want a farmer’s wife.’ Her voice was dull and she fiddled with the ends of her stole. ‘You need someone practical who’s used to country living. I understand that.’

  Corran nodded. ‘I thought I needed a sensible, practical wife too. In fact, I was sure of it, but it turns out that what I really need is a princess who can’t cook.’

  Lotty leapt to her feet in agitation before he could go any further. ‘You’re just asking me because of the baby,’ she said, wrapping her arms miserably around herself. ‘I knew this would happen! That’s why I didn’t tell you.’

  She took a turn around the room while she tried to get her thoughts in order. ‘I don’t need you to look after me, Corran,’ she said eventually. ‘I’m not denying you your rights as a father. I know you’ll be a good one. I can see you don’t want your child growing up split between two parents the way you did, but you’d never be like your father. I know Mhoraigh will be an important part of our child’s life.

  ‘I’ll be fine on my own,’ she said, lifting her chin in the unconscious gesture Corran recognised so well. ‘I may be about to fall off my pedestal as far as the country is concerned, and my grandmother may be disappointed, but nobody’s going to cast me out onto the street. Even if they were, I’d rather do that than know you were marrying me because you feel responsible.’