So in Love (10 page)

He raised an eyebrow.

“It would be foolish for me to leave, I think.” She shrugged, a gesture he’d seen Margaret make often.

“You don’t seem very enthusiastic about your new post.” The second eyebrow joined the first.

She smiled, startling him. He’d forgotten the charm of her smile, the teasing nature of it. When Jeanne smiled, even her eyes mirrored amusement. “But I am.”

“Good,” he said, nodding at her.

He turned without saying another word and retraced his steps, passing his daughter’s room, acutely conscious that Jeanne was staring after him.

The chamber next to Margaret’s was currently occupied by her nurse. Today he’d give orders that it was to be vacated for Jeanne. Up until now he’d refused to hire a governess only because doing so would indicate that his daughter was of a sufficient age not to need him.

What an irony that he’d just hired her mother.

“I love the sea, Aunt Mary,” Margaret MacRae said, peering over the side of the ship. The current was swift and the newest of the MacRae fleet rode it easily, even at anchor. “It always looks different, depending on the time of day.”

“Indeed it does, Margaret. You should see the ocean near Italy, or off the coast of Spain. There it changes color from green to blue and back to green again within the span of hours.”

“Shall I ever see the ocean? I mean, now that I’m grown.” She looked over her shoulder at Mary. “I would so very much like to, but Father always gets that frown on his face if I ask when we’re going to sea again. Is it because I’m a girl?”

Mary thought for a moment, wondering how to say to the child that it wasn’t her gender that no doubt caused Douglas to scowl but the question itself. Margaret was bright and energetic, and had a daunting desire for adventure. Not unlike her mother, if Douglas’s tales were to be believed. Mary had begun to think that no one could possibly equal the adventurous Jeanne. Perhaps it was just as well.

“If he’ll not take you,” she said, realizing that it was a rash promise she offered the child, “then Hamish and I will one day.”

“Truly?”

“Most assuredly,” Mary said, moving from her perch at the bow. The day was beautiful as only a day in the Highlands could be—deep blue cloudless skies, with the sun shining so brightly overhead that it felt as if God Himself smiled on the Scots. The crisp breeze from the north ruffled the waters of the firth, carrying a hint of what an ocean might feel like beneath the hull of the
Ian MacRae.

The MacRae ships were mostly named after the women
of the family, except this one in honor of its patriarch. Ian would probably have been amused at the irony, since he wasn’t especially fond of the sea. Seven years ago, the ship carrying Ian and Leitis MacRae to Nova Scotia from Scotland had been lost in a massive storm. The newest ship from the MacRae shipyards was christened in a solemn and bittersweet ceremony, one that she and Hamish had witnessed from the firth.

Despite Hamish’s assurances to her that she would bring no harm to those living at Gilmuir, Mary hadn’t set foot on Scottish soil in ten years. Instead, she and her husband had sailed the world, expanding the MacRae trading empire, exploring the various ports, and accumulating all manner of treatments and medicaments.

Once she had been a healer, but had lost faith in her own skill. It was Hamish who had insisted that she begin again and use what she’d learned to help others.

She wouldn’t, Mary thought, looking at the brilliant blue sky over Gilmuir, have traded any of that time with Hamish. Her husband had brought love and laughter into her life, and those years had given her back a confidence in her ability to heal.

Smiling at the young girl in front of her, she thought that Margaret was one of her greatest healing success stories.

When she’d first seen the tiny, emaciated infant, Mary had been certain that it was only a matter of hours until she perished. But there had been a spark of life in the child, something so persistent that it had struggled and won the battle against death itself. The journey back to health had been a long and difficult one, but Margaret had proven that will alone is sometimes the most formidable weapon against illness.

Now, all these years later, Margaret was a radiantly healthy child, with an active mind and a generous heart.

She was the closest Mary would ever come to having her
own child, but that realization was an old one. After all these years, she’d still not conceived and she’d stopped hoping. Occasionally she might long for a son for Hamish, and sometimes she would ask him if he missed having an heir. He would always frown at the question, which was an answer in itself.

“If we had a child, Mary, eventually we’d have to stay on land,” he said the last time she’d asked.

“You wouldn’t leave me there and sail away?” she teased.

Another frown, this one fiercer than the first. “Are you daft?” He studied her carefully. “Why do you keep asking, Mary? Is it something you wish?”

She always shook her head, the lack of a child never disturbing her overmuch. Not when she had Margaret to love, and all the other MacRae nieces and nephews.

Besides, Hamish was right, if she had a child they would have to curtail their current life, make arrangements to spend more time on land. The problem was, where would they ever settle down? Not in Scotland, surely. Nor England, since they shared the same crown. France? Not a palatable choice, given that more and more people were leaving France daily. America might do, but it was too far from the rest of the MacRaes, and Nova Scotia held only bittersweet memories now.

She’d been remanded for a hearing in Sheriff’s Court in Inverness for the crime of killing her first husband, Gordon Gilly. While his death had occurred during her treatment of him, the truth was that the elderly man had died as a result of a tragic accident. Neither she nor Hamish had wanted to stay and let the courts in Edinburgh reason that out, not when they could have easily put her to death.

For now they were both happy to sail the world. As often as they could, Mary and Hamish came to Gilmuir, and every year they planned their visit to coincide with Mar
garet’s summer trip to the MacRae fortress. For a month Douglas allowed her to visit with her cousins, his oldest brother, Alisdair and his wife, Iseabal, acting as guardians for the assembled brood.

“I wish Father would come soon,” Margaret abruptly said.

“He’s not due to arrive for three weeks, Margaret.”

The girl sighed heavily. “I know, but it seems such a very long time.”

“I thought you were having a good time.”

“I am, of course,” Margaret said, tracing a path on the rail with one finger. “My cousins are all very nice, and I love Gilmuir, but it seems so much better when Father’s here.”

The bond between father and daughter had always been strong, even during these summers. Yet she’d never seen the child as pensive as she was now, as if something weighed heavily on her mind.

Reaching over, she placed her arm around Margaret’s shoulders. “Is there something troubling you?”

Margaret shook her head and then smiled, the expression such an obvious effort that Mary was alarmed.

“It’s Cameron MacPherson,” she said, sighing again. “He is such a bother.” She propped her elbows on the railing and stared out at the narrow firth. “He’s my cousin Robbie’s best friend and the most aggravating boy.”

“You must simply ignore him, then,” Mary said, trying not to smile.

Margaret frowned over at her. “It is not that easy, Aunt Mary. He’s everywhere. He lives in the village and he comes to Gilmuir all the time! His father is a stonemason and he’s forever underfoot. Besides,” she said, staring down at the churning waters of the firth, “he refuses to leave even when I tell him to go away. He calls me blackbird,” she muttered. “And says that my eyes are a very odd
color.” She looked up at Mary again. “They are not. They’re the same shade as Father’s, and his are wonderful.”

Mary smiled at that remark, carefully not commenting that Margaret thought everything about Douglas was wonderful. “Well, he sounds as though he amuses himself by teasing you. Perhaps if you just pretended he wasn’t there?”

“He pulls my hair,” Margaret announced. “And worse, when he’s around, Robbie doesn’t want to be bothered with me.”

Mary couldn’t imagine the cousins quarreling. Alisdair’s son, Robbie, was only two years older than Margaret. They’d played together ever since Douglas had brought Margaret to Gilmuir for the first time as a toddler. Aislin, Robert’s sister, was older by four years, and had a separate set of interests and friends. This summer, she’d been allowed to visit Sherbourne, her father’s estate in England.

“Would you like to go sailing with us, then, lass?”

Mary turned to see Hamish standing there. He was the largest of the, half a head taller than Alisdair, his oldest brother, and broader in the chest than any of them. There were scars on his face—and the rest of his body, although those were only for her to see—where he’d been tortured years earlier. Over the years the scars had faded, but a stranger still noticed them. She’d stopped seeing them the day after she’d met Hamish MacRae. To her, and most women—a truth she’d rather not admit—he was an arresting and attractive man, but never more so than now, attired in his white shirt and black trousers, with his thumbs hooked at his waist. His left arm did not move as quickly or as easily as his right. But that was a vast improvement from the time when the limb was nearly useless.

“Aunt Mary said that we might go sailing on the ocean,” Margaret said, her eyes expectant.

“She did, did she?” he teased, his glance going to
Mary. “I was thinking of a shorter voyage, myself. Up to the mouth of the firth and then back. Will that be enough?”

Margaret looked disappointed, but she resolutely smiled and nodded. “Shall I go help the first mate, then?”

Hamish laughed and gestured to where Thomas stood. “Go and tell him I said you were to be shown the sextant. A good sailor must know where she’s going as well as how to come back.”

He walked to where Mary stood, looping his arm around her back, the two of them watching Margaret scamper over the deck, her braid coming loose and tendrils of black hair spreading over her shoulders.

“She reminds me of you,” Hamish surprisingly said.

She glanced at him quizzically. “How so?”

“She’s got a world of curiosity in those eyes of hers. So do you.”

“I do?” She smiled at him, wondering if he was talking about her interest in healing or other, more sensual pursuits. They’d been lovers since a few days after they met, their need for each other instantaneous and fiery. Nor had the years dimmed their yearning for each other.

“I worry about her, though,” Mary said.

“Why? She’s an heiress, her father dotes on her, and everyone at Gilmuir adores her.”

“And she doesn’t have a mother. A mother is very important for a little girl of nine.”

Hamish nodded.

“You’ll just have to do the job, Mary.”

“For now,” she agreed. “Until Douglas marries.”

He drew back, surprised. “You think he will?”

She smiled at him, reached up, and placed her hand flat against his cheek. “The MacRae men are very lusty,” she teased. “He cannot help but find a mate soon. I only hope she likes Margaret and Margaret approves of her.”

“A fierce requirement for any woman,” Hamish said.

“Perhaps too much of one,” Mary agreed and wondered if love would ever find Douglas MacRae again. Or was he destined to love only one woman, lost to him by both circumstance and hate?

A
fresh-faced maid with a charming, elfish smile nodded at her from the doorway. “Begging your pardon, miss.”

Jeanne turned from where she stood by the window and smiled in response.

“Dinner will be served in the small dining room, miss. I’m to take you there, if you’re ready.”

Jeanne felt her stomach clench, but outwardly she didn’t reveal any sign of her nervousness. “Yes,” she said simply. “I am.”

What, after all, did she need to do to prepare to meet with Douglas again? Comb her hair? She’d done that. Ready her attire? She’d smoothed as many wrinkles as she could from her dress. Her face was washed as well as her hands.

If her complexion was pale it could be blamed on the loss of sleep the night before. That, too, might be the reason her eyes sparkled entirely too much.

Tonight she wore her best dress, a deep blue with ecru lace at the neckline. If one looked closely it was possible to
see that the lace had been mended in two places and the material showed wear at the cuff. But it was so much more ornate than anything she’d worn in the last decade that she prized it.

Now she adjusted her shawl and pretended that she was as poised as she had once been, while following the maid through the corridor and down the lovely soaring staircase.

Douglas had evidently built his home with comfort in mind, but he’d added decorative touches that surprised her as well. The walls had niches in them, small shell-like enclosures that framed a sculpture here and there. On the landing was another embrasure and inside it a strange-looking brass object.

“It’s an astrolabe,” the young maid said. “It’s very old and very rare.” She looked in both directions and then whispered to Jeanne, “And it’s the very devil to dust.”

“What does it do?”

“It’s a medieval instrument, used for navigating,” she said, frowning up at the ceiling as she obviously recited something she’d learned. “It’s been replaced by the sextant.”

Amused, Jeanne thanked her and didn’t mention the fact that she was no clearer as to its use.

Douglas came from a family of men dedicated to the sea, a fact she’d once questioned. “Do you not wish to sail?”

“I want to see everything,” he admitted. “I want to go to the Orient, and learn what I can there. And India, of course. There’s a big, wide, wonderful world out there, Jeanne, and I want my share of it.”

He’d been lying on his back, his arms folded beneath his head, staring up at the sky. She remembered the day as clearly as if it had occurred an hour ago. The spot was not conducive to lovemaking, being too public, but they had spent the afternoon talking.

Catching sight of a small cinnabar jar in yet another embrasure, she wondered if he’d been to the Orient after all.
There was so much she knew about him, details that were personal and private. Yet there was so much still a mystery.

She and Douglas were intimate strangers.

At the bottom of the staircase the maid turned to her right, leading Jeanne through another series of corridors. The house was huge, the rooms they passed all luxurious and well appointed. She’d not seen them the previous evening, and her day had been spent in circumspect and self-imposed isolation. She hadn’t wanted to see Douglas, delaying that moment when they’d meet again. The encounter this morning had been confusing enough.

He’d looked as if he were angry with her, as if he wanted to punish her for what had happened between them. At the very least, he looked displeased that he’d offered her the position as his child’s governess and then oddly relieved when she formally accepted.

She’d wanted to tell him that he shouldn’t come to her bed again, that the post of governess should preclude the position of mistress. But she’d remained silent, surprising herself.

Perhaps because she was afraid that he might make a vow not to come to her room again, never to tap on her door demanding entrance. Not once would he cross the threshold, invade her bed, or place his hands on her or kiss her the way he had.

How could she bear that?

So she’d remained silent, the promise unsolicited, the vow unmade.

The young maid gestured to a doorway and then simply faded away. Lassiter appeared, as if she’d conjured him up to guide her the rest of the way. He bowed unctuously, his black uniform accessorized with a stiff white stock and spotless white linen gloves.

Jeanne, who’d been surrounded by hundreds of servants during her formative years, was suddenly uncomfortable in his presence.

“Good evening, Lassiter,” she said. Her voice sounded unused and strange.

He only bowed in response before turning and leading the way inside the dining room. Stepping aside, he bowed once again before nodding to a footman, who drew out a chair. Douglas stood, waiting for her to sit. She did so, and he regained his seat to her left at the head of the table.

The room was a cozy one, the table small and square, and matching the sideboard on either side of the room. A small door connected to a passageway that no doubt led to the kitchen.

As intimate as the dining room was, it was still impressive in its show of wealth. The walls were covered in gathered folds of patterned silk, and a crystal chandelier hung over the table, lit with dozens of candles. More candles, pale yellow columns of beeswax, were arranged in silver holders atop the sideboard.

If Douglas wished to impress her with his wealth, he’d already done so. His home was a showplace and the treasures he’d collected no doubt worth a fortune. But she’d learned that the content of a man’s character was more valuable than his wealth.

“I’m pleased you decided to join me,” he said, dismissing Lassiter with a nod. The majordomo hesitated in the doorway, looking back at both of them. She wanted to assure the elderly servant that she would do nothing to Douglas that warranted such a last, concerned gaze.

“I have to eat,” she said, a less-than-civil comment.

Once, she’d been adept at those social niceties required to make a guest feel comfortable at either Vallans or their Paris home. As her father’s hostess, she was skilled at making a shy person feel welcome, and steering a garrulous visitor to an audience.

The past nine years, however, had stripped the gift of
conversation from her. Silence was a more comfortable companion.

“I think you’ll enjoy the meal,” he said, as if her surly response to him hadn’t been followed by silence. “My cook is quite renowned.”

“I’m certain I shall.” There, she sounded almost civil.

“Did you have a good day?”

“A restful one,” she admitted. She’d done nothing but remain in her room, waiting for him, if the truth be told. Yet truth wasn’t a necessary component between them, was it? They’d shared many things, but nothing as brutal as honesty.

“I trust my staff has seen to your comfort.” He inclined his head, ever the genial host.

She forced a smile to her face. “They’ve been exceedingly polite.”

As the two of them were being polite. Yet anyone walking into the room could easily feel the undercurrents between them.

She raised her glass of wine and sipped from it.

“A good vintage,” he said, “with a back note of oak.”

She smiled politely, wondering if he remembered some of their earlier conversations. Vallans had had its own vineyards and she’d grown up appreciating the labor and skill necessary to transform the grapes into wine. Once, she’d even ventured the subject with her father with an idea of initiating some changes into the process. She’d been roundly reproached for even thinking of such a thing. The daughter of the Comte du Marchand did not indulge in wine-making, however old and venerated the tradition.

If Douglas remembered, he didn’t mention it. Nor did he give any inclination that they were anything more than acquaintances. But she knew the shape of his shoulders beneath his fine shirt and exquisitely tailored jacket. She
could measure the width of his chest with three hand spans, fingers splayed. He shuddered when she touched him and stroked his erection between her hands, and breathed an oath against her cheek when pleasure grew too much to hold silent.

She was a fool to be sitting here with Douglas. There were too many things left unsaid, too many conversations that lingered in the air between them, all memories of better times.

A sensual interlude was no substitute for honesty.

She smiled into her glass, thinking that, in addition to being a fool, she had also learned the skill of self-deception.

Very well, the truth. Those months in Paris had been the most joyous and the most beautiful of her life. She’d spent nine years paying for the sin of them. Was it so terrible to want to re-create them for a little while? Possibly. Last night had proven to her that she could revisit the past, if only for a fleeting moment. A span of hours, silent and hushed and replete with recollection.

Yet even last night there had been an edge to their lovemaking. She’d been afraid. She could not allow herself to be vulnerable again, and he was the one person who had the power to hurt her. Above all, she’d been frightened that she might confide the horror of those months at Vallans to him, and the tragedy of their child’s death.

The word wasn’t right. Tragedy was such a barren word, imparting a certain detachment. A carriage loses a wheel and the occupants are injured. An epidemic of influenza decimates a town. Both occurrences, tragedies, happen without the victims’ foreknowledge or premonition.

What, then, did she call what had happened to her child? A horror, or perhaps even worse—an abomination. Even though she’d wished and hoped for her father to change his mind, she should have been prepared for his rage and for his cruelty.

Last night she’d not told Douglas the truth, leaving it sitting between them like one of the evil gargoyles of Notre Dame. Today, she was too cautious to reveal her most painful secret. They had not, in fact, admitted to each other a shared past. For that matter, they had not yet acknowledged the night before.

She studied him over the rim of the glass.

He’d shaved and changed his clothes. She’d bathed and had brushed her hair until it shone, had used a rag to polish her shoes. Both of them were intent upon presenting themselves at their best.

Should she also confess that she’d stared at herself in the mirror, seeking confirmation that ten years had passed? Her skin had aged, it was true, and was too heavily tanned. But that was from her escape from France and not the result of nine years within the convent walls.

There were several lines around her eyes that hadn’t been there a decade ago, and one tiny comma like indentation near her mouth.

Her eyes looked the most changed, the expression in them no longer excited or enthusiastic. She looked sad, an expression she could not banish despite her grimaces and silly faces into the mirror. Sorrow was a part of her, like the odd gray shade of her eyes and the tone of her voice, personal markers to identify her as Jeanne.

If they could not discuss their youth and they dared not discuss the future, that left only the present, these moments softly lit by candlelight and interrupted by the sounds of crystal being set down on the table linen, a napkin being unfolded, the fluttering of a candle flame. Words were rare between them, as precious and cherished as pearls strung on a silken thread.

She had dined at Versailles, and her own home, Vallans, had been a showplace of excess. She was not impressed with surroundings, but she found this cozy room to be the
most pleasant place she’d been for quite a while. What would Douglas think, to learn that she was content as long as she was warm and dry, with the knife-edge of hunger satiated? A far cry from the spoiled girl of her youth.

That Jeanne had been enchanted with this man. The woman was equally so, and there in lay the danger. She wasn’t the same person she had been, and neither was he. There was an aura to Douglas that hadn’t been there before, a slightly dangerous impression about him, some dark thread to his personality that intrigued her as it cautioned her.

“You’ve a beautiful home,” she said.

“Thank you. I’ve been moderately successful.”

“May I ask the nature of your business?”

How strange that she didn’t know.

“I trade,” he said, smiling. “I have a fleet of ships that bring goods from the Orient to England and Scotland.”

“It sounds like quite a venture.”

“It is,” he said. “The MacRaes were once sea captains, but we’ve branched out in the last decade. Now we have interests in a variety of concerns. My oldest brother, Alisdair, continues to build ships at our family home of Gilmuir. James trades in the linen produced in Ayleshire, where he’s settled. Brendan is the head of a distillery in Inverness, and Hamish still sails.”

“And you are the merchant of the family.”

“I am,” he said, studying her over the rim of his glass. “Do you find that distasteful, Miss du Marchand?” he asked, as if they’d never loved in the darkness. As if she hadn’t begged him to finish the torment and let her feel him climax in her arms.

“Trade?” She smiled. “No, I do not. A man is known by his character, Mr. MacRae, more than his occupation.”

“Then how do you judge my character?”

She looked directly at him and spoke the truth. “I don’t know you well enough to come to that judgment.”

He waited until the footman finished carrying the tureen to the table. After they were served, he nodded, a curiously imperious gesture that sent the young man from the room. Instead of challenging her remark, he asked a disconcerting question. “Why did you leave France?”

Because she’d been imprisoned for nine years, because she could not bear what they’d done to Vallans, because she wanted a new life, because there were too many agonizing memories there.

“I found that it was no longer safe,” she said instead. Revelation might be good for the soul but it had a way of leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

However, he seemed dissatisfied with her answer. He leaned back in his chair and surveyed her.

Twice she nearly spoke, to say something inconsequential, anything but allow the silence to stretch between them. She picked up her spoon and tasted the soup.