by Karen Ranney
She had to leave. Now. Immediately, before his curiosity and his lust overwhelmed him again. And his curiosity.
I did something that earned my father’s displeasure.
The words returned, softly spoken and stated in a voice that didn’t ask for pity. She had stood straight and tall in front of him, clutching the sheet to her chest. But he had the impression that she would have been as filled with pride naked. There was something about Jeanne, some sense of herself, perhaps, that he’d never witnessed in another woman.
Or never wished to see.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing his headache away. He’d slept for a while, and then awakened holding Jeanne, all the memories of Paris he’d thought forgotten replaying in his mind.
He’d remembered their first kiss, the first time they’d loved, the sound of her laughter. She would bring books from her father’s library and they would read together, and argue points of logic or philosophy. He’d see things during the day that he couldn’t wait to tell her and would jot them down in a small book he carried for simply that reason. He’d stand outside in the street until the curtain slowly closed and then opened again, a sign for him to meet her at the entrance to the terraced garden.
They were as attuned physically as they were in thought. Last night her arm had slid across his chest and every pore on his skin had responded. She trailed a finger from his shoulder to his elbow and he shivered. When he’d entered her it was like coming home, the feeling so blissful that he registered it with a note of warning.
Why the hell couldn’t he get Jeanne du Marchand out of his mind and out of his life?
Because he’d invited her into his house, offered her a position, bedded her with gentleness, touched her with restraint, and even now replayed the memory of cupping his hands around her beautifully shaped bottom and lifting her so that the angle of his thrusts would bring them both greater pleasure.
He halted, recognizing his own idiocy with some chagrin. Even now he couldn’t stop thinking of how it had been.
Going to the fireplace, he looked above it to the painting he’d had commissioned of Margaret. She was seated not in the formal pose as was customary, but outdoors at a place they called Iseabal’s Knoll. Behind her was the great fortress of Gilmuir, the MacRae ancestral home.
There were some in the family who said that Margaret resembled him and others who said that she looked more like Moira, his grandmother. But his daughter reminded him of his mother, Leitis, with her black hair and brilliant blue eyes.
But in nature she was as bright and curious as Jeanne had been. What had happened to the girl he’d known?
They found it expeditious to enforce some lessons.
He concentrated on the portrait of his daughter, banishing, with some difficulty, the memory of Jeanne’s words.
Margaret was, from the moment he’d rescued her, the most important thing in his life. He had restructured his future for her, had changed his life’s course in order to rear her. He’d even built this house for her, in a proper section of Edinburgh where she’d be known as a wealthy heiress to his fortune.
For her sake, and to prevent her from being labeled illegitimate, he’d started the rumor that he was a widower. Even his servants thought him a man who grieved for his long-dead wife.
His relationships with other women had been circumspect at first, then gradually declining. He hadn’t wanted his behavior to taint Margaret’s future. Only recently had he begun thinking of marriage, to the extent that he’d actually attended some events in the newly constructed Assembly Rooms. His requirements for a wife were remarkably simple. Not only must he love her but Margaret must love her as well.
The only reason he’d reacted so feverishly to Jeanne was because it had been a long time since he’d had the company of a woman. He was simply lonely.
Going to his desk, he sat heavily in the leather chair behind it. He stared at the wall, envisioning the night before. She always bit at her bottom lip and arched her body when she found her pleasure, the better to savor the sensation she was feeling.
“It’s like the world is ending inside of me and beginning again,” she’d said once.
They’d been young lovers together, perfectly matched in needs and desires. He’d never known a woman since then so responsive to his touch. Last night proved that nothing had changed between them.
As he sat there, he recalled every single moment, and knew he always would. He ached to reach out even now and smooth her bottom lip with his thumb. Or cup her face in his hand, or touch his lips to her nipples.
Douglas stood, deciding that there was only one way to end this. She had to leave.
He took the stairs two at a time, striding past his chamber, past Margaret’s room located in the middle of the second floor. Finally, he came to the guest room. Before he had time to reconsider, he rapped sharply on the door.
Jeanne opened it quickly, as if she’d been standing there waiting for his summons.
For a moment, he forgot why he’d raced up here. Her cheeks were deep rose, her mouth still swollen from his kisses. He knew every inch of her body as he knew his own. To his surprise, he realized that the girl was only a faint rendition of the woman she’d become.
He’d fallen in love with the girl, but the woman attracted him as much as she confused him.
“Would you like to come in?” she asked, stepping aside. She looked at him quizzically and he realized he must have, indeed, been acting like an idiot, standing there speechless.
He shook his head.
“This won’t do,” he abruptly said.
She studied him with grave eyes. As a girl she’d been filled with enthusiasm. As a woman she was the personification of poise. Or was it coldness? After all, she’d sent a newborn infant away to be fostered, uncaring whether it lived or died.
“Have you given any consideration to my offer?” he found himself asking. They were not the words he’d intended to speak.
“I have.”
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 Margaret’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 kn
ow 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?
Chapter 14
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.”
