by Karen Ranney
“Then kiss me, Jeanne,” he said. “And all sour-faced nuns be damned.”
When he touched her in the faint light she opened her arms, welcoming him into her heart with no more resistance than a sigh.
She felt tears come to the corners of her eyes when he kissed her neck and murmured something against her skin. No matter what had happened between them, whatever history they carried, they would always be hungry for each other.
But would that be enough?
He was suddenly naked and in a few swift moves her nightgown was tossed to the floor.
He sat up and drew her to him, his breathing more controlled than hers. Gently, he pulled her on to him so that she sat half on, half off his thighs, his erection brushing her intimate folds. She wanted him inside of her, but he wouldn’t move farther, only remained just out of reach.
Her fingers began to tremble as well as the muscles in her abdomen. As if he were opium and she desperately needed the drug. Laying her cheek against his shoulder, she breathed deeply, exhaling against his neck.
“Soon, Jeanne, but not now.”
He teased her with words, and with softly stroking fingers. She bit her lip and kissed his throat, feeling the heat rise both inside her body and on his skin. Reaching out one finger, she traced a circular path around and then down the length of his erection. Once, as a girl, she’d held him cradled between her palms and stroked him to fulfillment, absolutely amazed and delighted at his response to her touch.
“No,” he said now, the word uttered from between clenched teeth. “You’re not supposed to do that.”
“I’m not?”
Their whispers were heated, their words soft and intimate, no one else to hear them in the cocoon of the bed. It might have been another world they created, silk-shielded and shadowed. Here they might be anyone other than who they were, and here they might love in unfettered pleasure.
“Stop me if you can,” she said, teasing.
“You know I cannot. Besides, I would be a fool to do so.”
She didn’t know how long they tormented each other, but when he raised a finger and touched her breast, circling the nipple slowly, she placed a soft kiss against his throat and then another against his ear. He’d always liked it when she nibbled on his lobe and bit enough that he turned his head and kissed her once again.
That was all they allowed themselves—soft, gentle teasing touches, and chaste kisses—until she thought she might go mad with it.
Minutes passed, and then it seemed as though hours had transpired. Her breath grew more rapid, her blood felt hot, her skin fevered.
“Please,” she said, whispering against his ear. “Please.”
Suddenly the pillow was beneath her buttocks and he was lifting her higher for his mouth.
Her body arched without thought as pleasure swept over her, so fiercely that she bit her lip rather than cry out.
As she crested, he was inside her, fevered and impatient and wondrous.
“Forgive me,” he said, an apology for his need. The sudden imploration was an unwelcome interruption. Her arms wrapped around his neck.
“Forgive me,” she whispered, an echo of his plea. The words became a refrain, as the past entwined with the present. He inhaled her plea in a kiss and sent it catapulting somewhere where nonsense words and soft-voiced entreaties disappear.
“Forgive me,” she murmured later.
He kissed her once more, not understanding, and she, coward that she was, sought pleasure and ignored the chance for revelation.
Chapter 16
T he next morning, Jeanne was awakened by a knock on the door. Glancing to the side of the bed, she realized she was alone.
Standing, she donned her wrapper before opening the door. The woman facing her was close to her age, with pale blond hair arranged in plaits on the top of her head. Her dress was dark blue, with white collar and cuffs.
“Good morning, miss,” she said, smiling brightly at Jeanne. “I’ve just come to tell you that your chamber’s been readied.”
“You’re the housekeeper,” Jeanne said, only to receive a laugh in response.
“Oh, no, miss,” the other woman said, her blue eyes kind. “I’m Betty, Miss Margaret’s nurse. Not that she truly needs a nurse, being the great grown girl that she is.” She smiled at Jeanne. “That’s what she’s forever telling me.”
She took a few steps away from the door and pointed to a room down the hall. “I’ve moved my things. One of the maids and I have tidied it up right enough for you. I’d be pleased to help you move your belongings.”
“I can’t take your room,” Jeanne protested.
“Oh, but it’s really for the governess,” Betty said cheerfully. “I’m already settled on the third floor.” She bent closer, as if afraid that someone else might overhear. “In truth, miss, it’s a little less formal up there. Not that I don’t think the world of Mr. Douglas and Miss Margaret, but I’m looking forward to the change.”
“Give me a moment,” Jeanne said, “and I’ll join you.”
Jeanne donned her most severe and governess like attire, a dark blue dress not unlike Betty’s, ornamented with a white neckline and matching piping on the edge of the cuffs. She, who had been coached on how to direct retainers all her life, now looked every inch the upper-class servant.
She put her hair up in a style similar to Betty’s. Perhaps the severe braid was more of an effort to modify her nature than her curls.
Betty led the way down the hall, with Jeanne following. The room was larger than she expected, with two tall windows facing east. On the west wall was a large four-poster bed hung with beige linen drapes. Along one wall was a heavily carved wardrobe and bureau, while a fireplace occupied the third wall. Underfoot was a lovely oval carpet in shades of gold and beige.
“That door leads to Miss Margaret’s room,” Betty said. “You can brighten it up yourself, miss. If you need any help moving your things, just give me a call.” She pointed to the bell pull beside the fireplace. “It rings in the kitchen, but Cook can find me right enough.”
“I’m sure I’ll do fine,” Jeanne said. “Unfortunately, what belongings I have can be easily put in a valise.”
Betty’s smile dimmed somewhat. “I know what you mean, Miss. The same thing happened to me once. But you’ll find that you’ve come to a place you can easily call home.” She hesitated for a moment. “Would you like a tray in the room, miss? Or would you care to take breakfast with the staff?”
Jeanne glanced down the hall. Douglas was gone; it was time for her to begin being a governess. How she behaved from this moment forward would dictate the tone of her stay at Douglas’s home.
“I’d like to take breakfast with the staff,” she said. “Give me a few moments and I’ll join you downstairs.”
Betty nodded.
Jeanne packed her valise with what few belongings she had. At the door she looked back at the room she’d occupied for only two nights.
Did the servants know that Douglas had spent the previous night with her? They probably did. Little of import happened in a house, even as large as this one, without the staff knowing. But, like all well-trained employees, they would probably not reveal how they personally felt.
In her new chamber she placed her valise in the tall armoire. After breakfast she would unpack. Now she surveyed herself in the mirror, smoothed her hair back at the temples. With some trepidation Jeanne walked down the hall and slowly descended the stairs.
Lassiter greeted her as she rounded the last curve. The elderly majordomo nodded slightly. No doubt the gesture was meant to be a bow but was modified somewhat for both his age and her new position as governess.
“Good morning, miss,” he said, his voice sounding rusty and unused.
“Good morning, Lassiter,” she responded. She hesitated, her hand still on the banister, as she considered whether or not she should ask about Douglas’s whereabouts.
“Mr. MacRae asked me to give you his compliments, miss, but
he was called away.”
She nodded, hiding the fact that the news was surprising.
“I see. Will he be gone long?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.” There was that unctuous half bow again. She had to commend Lassiter; he was adept at conveying exactly what he thought while seeming to avoid even a hint of insolence.
“Thank you,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “Could you tell me where I can find Betty?” she asked.
For a moment she didn’t think he was going to answer her.
Sighing inwardly, she drew herself up and frowned down at him. She might wish to forget that she was the Comte du Marchand’s daughter, but the role of two-thirds of her lifetime was one she could easily and quickly assume. “Well, Lassiter?” she asked.
He wiggled one of his white, bushy eyebrows at her. She stifled her smile as she realized it was Lassiter’s version of surprise.
“This way, miss,” he said. Bowing once more, he began to shuffle down the corridor. She followed him to a large, airy room in the rear of the house.
“Miss,” he said, almost as if announcing her. He stepped aside as she entered, and then simply melted from sight.
Lassiter was superb at disappearing.
The kitchen was a large open room with high ceilings and windows located in two walls. Sunlight filtered through white pots of herbs sitting on a series of shelves across the windows. The effect was almost like a conservatory, with the sun creating leafy patterns on the green walls. A large rectangular table stretched the length of the room and was currently occupied by several people who were enjoying what looked to be a luxurious breakfast.
A florid-faced woman standing at the stove turned as she entered the room, her warm smile greeting her. Jeanne returned the expression as Betty stood and made room for her at the table.
“Is it a French breakfast you’ll be wanting, miss, or the English one?” Cook asked.
Jeanne glanced at the array of food piled in the middle of the table. “I’ll just have a scone and some tea,” she said, opting for a meal somewhere between the two extremes.
“You just sit there, then,” Betty said, pointing to the head of the table. Jeanne hesitated, but Betty waved her to her seat.
“This fine gentleman is Stephens, the coachman,” Betty said, beginning the introductions. “And Malcolm, who heads up the gardeners.” She pointed to the stove and the plump woman standing in front of it. “That’s Granya, our cook, and you know Lassiter.”
Jeanne nodded and smiled a greeting at the three.
“Doesn’t Lassiter eat with you?” Jeanne asked, wondering if she was taking his chair.
“He’s only for a bit of oats in the morning,” Betty said. “He doesn’t eat as hearty as he should.”
Going to the stove, she filled a pot with boiling water from a simmering kettle and returned to the table. “We haven’t a housekeeper in place, Miss du Marchand. We have two maids who do the heavy work, and a few of Malcolm’s boys who still live at home and arrive every morning.”
“Don’t forget the grooms, Betty,” Stephens said in his gravelly voice. He turned to Jeanne. “I’ve three boys who sleep over the stable. Good lads, all. And two of Lassiter’s footmen, although they’re able to do a bit of everything.”
“I’m surprised,” Jeanne said, surveying them all, “that you manage a house this size with only the five of you.”
Betty smiled. “It would be easier with more staff, but it’s the way Mr. Douglas wants it. He doesn’t like a lot of people underfoot.”
“Have you been with him long?”
Malcolm answered her first. “Since the house was built, about seven years now. Before that, I was with Mr. Douglas’s brother Alisdair.”
Surprised, she turned to him. Malcolm’s beard was closely shorn, with enough gray hairs mixed among the black to give him a grizzled appearance. His brown eyes were ringed with deep lines, but his smile was broad and charming.
“Most of us know the MacRaes in one way or another,” Stephens explained. “I worked with Alisdair for years before Mr. Douglas set up this house. I bought his horses for him, and maintain his carriages. He’s a rich man, but he’s not a fool with his money.”
The others nodded.
“I worked in Inverness,” Cook said. “As well as Betty.” She and Betty smiled at each other.
“I would have stayed there for the rest of my days had it not been for Mr. Douglas,” Betty said. “I was a maid myself, working for one of Miss Mary’s friends. Mr. Douglas came straight from Gilmuir one day, and asked me if I would like to be a nurse. I told him that I’d never had any experience but that I was willing to try. He told me that Miss Mary had recommended me.” She smiled, evidently pleased by the praise. “She said that I had a good heart and that was all that he cared about. I’ve been with him and Miss Margaret ever since.”
“Miss Mary?”
“She married Hamish, one of Mr. Douglas’s brothers. Poor thing can never spend another day in Scotland.” Betty shook her head from side to side but wasn’t forthcoming with any details.
“She was married to an old man,” Malcolm said, evidently determined to pick up the slack in the story. “He died and she was accused of his murder.”
Betty sent him an irritated look but took up the tale in the next breath. “He was a very nice man but much older than Miss Mary. Up until he became sick Mr. Gordon was the nicest employer, but after he got ill a more crotchety man you could never find.
“Miss Mary tried everything she could to heal him.” She glanced around the table, relating the story to all of them.
“She was a healer, you see.” This comment from Malcolm, who’d evidently heard the story before.
“Anyway,” Betty said, with another quelling look toward Malcolm, “Miss Mary was very sad when he died. She spent the next year being a good citizen of Inverness. If anyone needed her help and could not pay, Miss Mary still treated them. She spent many a night sitting at the bedside of a patient.”
Betty chewed her muffin slowly, evidently thinking back to the days in Inverness. Jeanne folded her hands in front of her and took a deep breath, cultivating her patience. She’d had years of training from the convent in simply enduring, but periodically she reverted to that impatient girl of her youth.
“One day, one of the MacRae brothers came to her husband’s place of business. Did I mention that he was a goldsmith?”
Jeanne shook her head.
“He was a very talented man. His apprentice was not so talented, but very clever.”
“The man’s here in Edinburgh,” Malcolm said. “Charles Talbot. He should be ashamed of showing his face near decent folk.”
Once again, Betty shot him a look filled with irritation.
“I believe I know the man,” Jeanne interjected. “I’ve been to his shop myself.”
“A shop he set up with Mary’s money,” Betty said loyally.
Glancing over at Malcolm and then at Jeanne, she stopped herself. “But am I getting ahead of the story?”
Jeanne had no idea where the story began or ended, so she only smiled.
“Tell her about Hamish,” Malcolm suggested earnestly. His eyes never left Betty, and Jeanne had the feeling that it wasn’t just the story that prompted his interest.
Betty nodded. “One day, one of the MacRae brothers came to the shop and said that his brother Hamish was wounded and needed treatment. The laird and his wife had always been customers of Miss Mary’s husband, so she was eager to do what she could to help.”
Betty smiled, her expression holding a touch of mischievousness.
“One thing led to another as things sometimes do, and Miss Mary and Hamish found themselves in love. But Charles had other plans. I believe it was then that he started the rumors that Miss Mary killed her husband. She was taken to court and bound over for trial in Edinburgh. But before she could be sent away from Inverness, Mr. Hamish spirited her away.”
“That’s why she can never come back to
Scotland?” Jeanne asked. “Because she would be sent to trial?”
Betty nodded. “Everyone knows she had nothing to do with it, that Mr. Gordon’s death was an accident well enough. She has a heart as pure as the angels. But Mr. Hamish won’t take the chance. They went sailing off to see the world, they did, and only come back to Gilmuir once a year.”
Jeanne accepted a plate filled with scones from Cook and murmured her thanks. She took one and began to eat.
“That’s where Mr. Douglas is now, miss,” Betty said. “It’s time for the gathering.” The other servants nodded, as if understanding what Betty had said.
“The gathering?” Jeanne asked.
“All the MacRaes, miss. They come together every summer to meet at Gilmuir. The brothers and their wives—Hamish and Mary, James and Riona, Brendan and Elspeth—all join Alisdair and Iseabal. And, of course, Mr. Douglas.”
“It’s a way of keeping close ties among the family, Miss du Marchand,” Stephens said. “They want the cousins to know each other.”
“They’ve a crowd of children,” Cook said, her round face wreathed in a smile. “And Miss Margaret the queen of all of them.”
“With Mr. Douglas the most doting father,” Betty said. “No matter how long or hard he works, he’s always home to tuck her into bed.”
The rest of the conversation consisted of desultory things, places to shop, the weather in Edinburgh, and talk of people she didn’t know.
All her life she’d felt separated from others, kept apart. As a child because her father believed her better and more exalted than others. In the convent she’d been isolated because she was the greatest sinner.
Seeing the world as an outsider rendered her detached from other people. She’d long since realized that the ability to feel, really feel, for another human being was a worthy trait. But even more so was the courage to be vulnerable.
As she sat and listened, Jeanne envied these people who had so easily made room for her at their table and now included her in their conversation. Once, she might never have noticed them, and now she was desirous of their camaraderie and respect.
