by Karen Ranney
“Or stay,” he said, his voice softening.
He smiled at her, and it seemed to her that the expression held a certain daring to it, as if he challenged her with two words.
Chapter 11
“C ome with me,” he said, offering her another choice. He turned and led the way to the parlor. He knew she was following by the brush of her slippers on the wood floor behind him.
“Is your wife not here?”
The question surprised him. So, too, the look on her face as he turned and glanced at her. She appeared as if she were preparing for an answer she didn’t want to hear.
He chided himself for that foolishness and answered her. “I’m not married.”
“You aren’t?”
He hadn’t been wrong; there was relief in her expression.
Entering the room, he waited until she followed him before sliding the door shut behind her. He hadn’t noticed before that she smelled of spring flowers.
The parlor was one prepared for him by two of his brothers’ wives. Riona, James’s wife and Iseabal, Alisdair’s wife, came often to Edinburgh even though they both lived at least a day away. Sometimes, he thought, they visited not to engage in shopping as they told him, but to ensure themselves of his well-being.
Rose silk adorned the walls, a complement to the green patterned upholstery of the sofas and chairs arrayed in front of the fireplace. He’d overseen the construction of this house, but it was his sisters-in-law who had helped make it a home.
Douglas left Jeanne standing by the door while he lit a branch of candles on the mantel. The sculpture dominating it had been created by Iseabal and depicted his mother and father standing together, their faces turned toward the distance. The work of art had been replicated for all the brothers, the better to remember Ian and Leitis.
He pointed to an overstuffed chair with rolled arms near the fire. “Won’t you be seated?”
She looked as if she would demur, but finally sat on the end of the sofa. He turned and studied her, thinking that this moment was steeped in irony. Margaret often sat right there, her feet dangling as she impatiently practiced her manners. His daughter had the once effusive nature of her mother. But the woman who’d given birth to her, and abandoned her, was a pale, almost shadowy copy of the vibrant child.
For a long moment he and Jeanne simply existed in the same room, neither of them acknowledging the other. He went to the sideboard and poured a glass of brandy. He should, perhaps, offer her a cordial, a glass of mulled wine, something to take away the chill of the evening or to warm her blood.
He wasn’t entirely certain he wanted her blood warmed. A cold and distant Jeanne was preferable to one who reminded him of nearly a decade ago.
They still had not acknowledged their shared past. Not a past, he amended, only a few months from his youth. An enchanted summer, perhaps, when he’d been less wise and ready to be charmed. She had indeed fascinated him from the first moment he’d seen her. She’d been the darling of her father, a popular young woman on the verge of conquering Paris, a sought-after friend.
But from the instant they met, she’d given up most of her outings, occupations, and meetings with friends to spend time with him. He had been the sole focus of her life, as she had been his. They’d been dangerously besotted with one another, so in love that they’d been stupid with it.
In those months she’d always been smiling, her eyes dancing with enthusiasm, excitement, and, later, passion. There was no topic that she would not discuss, nothing that she didn’t want to know. They’d spent hours in debates. He’d told her of growing up in Nova Scotia, and related tales of his older brothers. She, too, had shared her life with him. She grieved, still, for her mother, and he suspected she was often lonely being an only child. She had a riotous talent for mimicry and amused him with her tales of court life, sketching vignettes of the friends and acquaintances of her father.
Oddly enough, he’d frozen Jeanne as she’d been at sixteen, never allowing himself to consider the woman she might have become.
She looked tired, he noted with detachment. Beneath her eyes were pale smudges of shadow. The flush of rose on her pale cheeks was a delicate counterpart to her bisque complexion. She was, he thought, no more animated than the sculpture on the mantel.
He didn’t want to feel compassion for her. He couldn’t allow himself that luxury. The instant he did, the second he became curious about her, he would fall beneath her spell, and he wouldn’t be that foolish again.
The woman in his parlor possessed no legacy from the Jeanne of his youth. Now she sat with her hands clasped in front of her, appearing the personification of propriety. If anything, she was a colorless reminder of the girl he’d known. Perhaps that was just as well. Jeanne of the sparkling voice, of the easily summoned passion and bright laughter, cared for no one but herself.
“I take it Hartley is proving to be a difficulty,” he said, impatient with himself and his penchant for recall. If he remembered anything, it should be the day he’d rescued Margaret.
“I’ve left his employ,” she said, looking too sedate for the luminous promise of her eyes.
“Does he know it?” He smiled at her look of surprise. “Most servants do not leave at night, Jeanne,” he said, deliberately using her name for the first time. She looked disconcerted by his familiarity. There’d been a time when she’d whispered his name, teasingly drawing out the syllables.
“I have a position,” he said, hearing the words leave his lips. He returned to the sideboard, wished he were the type of man to drown himself in port. If so, he’d take refuge in spirits, anything but continue on this wildly foolish course he’d unexpectedly set for himself.
Margaret was at Gilmuir, and she would remain there another three weeks. In the meantime, there was no harm in the pretense. He might want revenge from Jeanne du Marchand, but he abruptly realized he had no idea what form it might take.
“Do you truly have a daughter?”
When had she learned to portray such poignancy in a question? She sounded almost sad, the words simple enough but layered with emotion.
“Do you doubt it?” he asked, turning and facing her.
“Then you’re a widower.”
“Yes.” The lie came easily, but of the two of them, her conscience was more burdened. What was one of his simple falsehoods in comparison?
“Where is the child now?”
She looked around the room as if to find Margaret hiding behind a chair.
“Margaret’s not here at the moment,” he said, unwittingly amused. “She’s away from Edinburgh.”
“How odd that you require the services of a governess this evening.”
“No more so than that you require a position, Miss du Marchand.” He bowed slightly to her and held out a glass of sherry. She took it, their fingers brushing.
Retreating to the other side of the room, he watched her.
“My daughter is very intelligent,” he abruptly said, understanding the irony of describing their child to her. “She wants to know everything, and I have been delaying hiring someone simply because I didn’t want a stranger in my house.”
She didn’t speak, and Douglas found himself irritated at her silence. He wanted her to be curious, to ask questions.
“Perhaps you should not hire a governess, then.”
He frowned at her. He’d not expected her reluctance.
“Perhaps you’re not qualified,” he said, goading her. To his disappointment, she remained silent. The Jeanne of his youth wouldn’t have been so restrained.
“I was given to understand you’re French. You can teach my daughter the language.”
“I’m half English,” she said. “I no longer speak French,” she added, once again surprising him.
“Why?”
She shrugged, a gesture that further irritated him.
“Very well,” Douglas said. “You can teach Margaret Italian, then. And a little mathematics. I presume you also teach the basics of a good
gentlewoman’s education? Watercolors? Pianoforte? Delicate needlework?”
“I do not excel in needlework,” she said, evidently determined not to be hired.
“You do play the pianoforte?” he asked sardonically.
“Yes,” she said shortly. “I can also dance well enough to instruct. That is, if you wish to save yourself the expense of a dance master.”
She’d danced with him once, beneath the weeping willow in the corner of the garden. They’d circled the trunk and laughed at the fact that they took turns humming a tune. He wondered if it was a memory she’d forgotten.
“I needn’t worry about money, Miss du Marchand. In addition, I can pay you more than Hartley did.”
“There are more important things than wealth, Mr. MacRae.”
“Such as?”
“Safety.”
Once again she surprised him, further annoying him. “What does that mean?”
“Is it your intent to make me your mistress, Mr. MacRae? I have no intention of leaving one position only to land in another similar circumstance.”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Who hires a governess with no child in attendance?”
He surveyed her for a good minute. Finally, he spoke again. “I’m a great deal richer than Hartley, Miss du Marchand, and I do not doubt that I’m a better lover.”
Jeanne had obviously expected a different answer. One laced with indignation, perhaps. Or wrapped in honor like twine. He wanted to warn her that where she was concerned, he had little honor left. Rage, yes. Even a reluctant curiosity. But not honor.
She played with the locket at her neck. The room was warm but that wasn’t, he suspected, why her cheeks were pink.
“Are your governesses normally measured by their willingness to share your bed?”
“I’ve never hired a governess before.”
“Nor have you now.” She raised one eyebrow and studied him.
She gathered up the shawl around her shoulders. At first he thought she would stand and move toward the door. But she only inclined her head, stubbornly refusing to speak further.
“I’ve already sent Lassiter to bed. Shall I rouse him to show you to a guest chamber or will you allow me to do so?”
He didn’t doubt that she was about to refuse when he raised his hand to forestall her words. “Tomorrow you can decide about my offer, Miss Marchand. Tomorrow is soon enough to plan your future.” He forced a smile to his face. “Edinburgh at night is no place for a woman, even one so unwaveringly independent.”
She looked as if she would still refuse.
“Shall I give you some type of guarantee that I am not the type to prowl at my servants’ doors? Or an affidavit from my existing staff that I have not once made a nocturnal visit to their rooms? I furnish locks to my female servants, Miss du Marchand, a device necessary for their peace of mind, not because I’m afraid I’ll be crazed by lust before morning.”
“Have I insulted you?” she asked, looking genuinely curious.
He frowned at her. “It’s raining outside. Do you want to stay or not?”
For a moment they shared a look, and he wondered if she could feel his confusion. He wanted to hate her, but she was weaker than he right now. He’d never taken advantage of a woman’s vulnerability and wouldn’t begin tonight.
He should let her leave. If he did, he needn’t be bothered with her again. But she would be somewhere, interfering with his peace of mind. At least now he knew where she was and what was happening to her.
For two years he’d thought her dead and that was the only reason he’d been able to tolerate her memory. But Jeanne was very far from dead, and very far from forgettable.
Everything he had become, and was now, dated back in some way to Jeanne. Because of his love for her, he’d returned to France and found his daughter. Caring for Margaret had made him mature quickly, had focused his desires to be as successful as or more so than his brothers. Because of Jeanne he was no longer the young man he’d been in Paris. Nothing would ever make him as foolish again.
But in her presence he was reminded of that boy, of the artless wonder of those days.
She was a dangerous woman.
Chapter 12
T he strange surroundings should have disturbed her, but Jeanne slept deeply, dreams chasing her. She was in Paris again, and then at Vallans, with the ruins forming an odd and eerie background to a scene of unimaginable beauty. The palest yellow roses were blooming against the gold-colored bricks. The blue sky was clear and cloudless, and the breeze blew from the south, carrying with it the scent of lavender. She saw herself in one of her favorite dresses walking the path from the chapel to the summer gardens, a journey she knew well and had made often. Abruptly, the scene changed again and she was in Scotland standing on the doorstep of her aunt’s home. Despite her frantic knocking, no one answered and in her dream she experienced the same desperate abandon she’d felt in her waking life.
A noise, the small click of a lock, made her restless, drew her upward from sleep. Pushing at the covers, she turned in the bed, one arm curled beneath a pillow, the other atop the heavily embroidered coverlet.
The touch of a finger on her hand incited her to wake, but she kept her eyes shut. His hand smoothed from her shoulder to elbow and then to her fingers. Lightly, his fingers wrapped around her wrist in a living manacle. She didn’t struggle or fight him. Instead she lay quiescent and pliant, perhaps even eager.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.
Douglas didn’t answer, but she knew he wasn’t going to leave. As long as she didn’t open her eyes, she didn’t have to banish him. He could be the youth of her heart, the boy she’d learned to adore through an awakening of their minds and bodies. He was the only one to teach her passion, the only one to debate and argue with her, the only one to exchange ideas as if they were fistfuls of gold, precious and to be excitedly examined.
She didn’t move, anticipation harnessing her breath. Slowly, she pulled back her hand, feeling the gentle abrasion of the fine linen sheet against her palm. The tips of her fingers counted each individual stitch in the needlework of the coverlet, worked out the pattern in her mind. A rose, a leaf, a singing bird.
Speak. Please speak, and I’ll know you’re real and not simply a dream.
She dared not open her eyes, because to do so would be to approve of his presence. Or find that he wasn’t here after all, that she’d only created him from dreams and half-formed memories.
Please be real.
That was a truly unforgivable prayer, wasn’t it? The nuns at the convent had failed abysmally in their mission to rid her of harlotry, then. She was indeed doomed to perdition, as they’d predicted so often.
She heard the rustle of fabric and wondered if he removed his clothing. When she felt him sit on the edge of the bed, she stretched out her hand and encountered a naked hip. She jerked back her hand as if she’d touched fire and then extended it slowly again, allowing her fingers to explore.
His hand caught hers, fingers entwined, and then she felt a most surprising sensation as her hand was lifted. He kissed her palm in a lover’s gesture, one he’d repeated countless times a decade ago. A soft exhalation, a gasp of pleasure, escaped her.
Touch me, she almost said and the words trembled on her lips, desperate to be voiced. Touch me, Douglas, and make me forget. She raised her arms, extending them around his shoulders. Gently, relentlessly, she pulled him down to her.
They lay there for a moment, silent and hushed, a thousand words unspoken between them. Yet they still had not kissed. In the darkness, in the silence, she kept her eyes closed, holding him, her cheek against his, listening to him breathe, feeling the texture of his skin beneath her palms. It seemed as if she were being granted a prayer after all. How many times had she wished for just such a moment? How many nights had she awakened from dreams of him longing only for a touch?
Please, do not let this be simply a dream.
But she c
ould feel the pounding of his heart, the abrasion of his night beard, and the callused tips of his fingers. Her dream lover had never appeared so real before tonight.
If she had the power, if she could control the world and all within it, she would freeze this moment poised on the brink of discovery forever. Once they had hidden from the world. Now they hid from each other.
He pulled back and placed his palm against her cheek in a hauntingly familiar gesture, all the more powerful for the fact that it evoked so many memories.
“Are you crying?” he asked softly.
She only nodded wordlessly. She felt too much at that moment. Grief and wonder, sorrow and joy. He’d come to seduce and instead had incited her tears.
For years she’d been told that her mortal soul was irrefutably blackened, that hell waited for her with its gaping, scorched maw. She’d stood before her accusers and confessed to whatever sins they wished from her, accepting that she was flawed and fallible.
Temptation perched upon her bedstead now, waiting for her to refute it. But how could she deny her need? Or her loneliness? Or him?
She opened her eyes and cupped his face with her hands, peering intently into it as if she could see in the darkness. If she had been capable of words, she would have told him what a handsome man he’d grown to be. The boy had been striking with his blue eyes and black hair, but the man stopped her heart.
Seeing him two days ago had brought back so many memories—the loss of her innocence, the loss of her freedom, the loss of her child. Yet loving him had been the single most wondrous act of her life, and those months in Paris had been filled with enough recollections to sustain her for almost ten years.
She wanted more.
Give me more memories upon which to build my life. Give me something that I can remember in the long, dark hours until I die. Give me your kisses and the feel of your body, and the hint of a love once so strong that it changed my life.
The words were improvident ones, the truth too painful to utter. Instead, she would simply converse with her hands and her fingers and her lips and her limbs. In loving him she’d salute the memory of that girl who had given so much, only to lose it all.
