"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'sa 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 amaid 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 waswilling to try. He told me that Miss Mary had recommended me." She smiled, evidently pleased by thepraise. "She said that I had a good heart and that was all that he cared about. I've been with him andMiss Margaret ever since."

"Miss Mary?"

"She married Hamish, one of Mr. Douglas's brothers. Poor thing can never spend another day inScotland." 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 hisface 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.

The more she learned, the greater her regard for Douglas grew. He evidently treated people with fairness and with affection they both felt and appreciated.

Breakfast finished, she stood, smoothing her skirts down. She folded her hands in front of her. "Thank you," she said to Cook. The other woman nodded, and a moment later Jeanne left the kitchen and the warm and welcoming group.

What was she to do in the meantime? She didn't want to return to her room and remain there as she had all day yesterday. Turning, she walked down the hall, hearing her footsteps on the polished oak boards.

She stood at the entrance to the parlor, realizing that she hadn't truly noticed her surroundings when she' d been here before. The room was lovely. There was not one discordant note about the entire chamber, and it had evidently been decorated with comfort in mind. The damask curtains were draped from the top of the window to the floor, the material matching that of several pillows arranged along the upholstered furniture in front of the large marble fireplace.

Two blue and white Chinese urns flanked either side of the fireplace. Now, of course, there was no fire, since the morning was warm. But the room was saved from stuffiness by the two windows open to let in the breeze. Below her feet was a richly patterned carpet that reminded her of the Lalange tapestry that had hung at Vallans. A creation of unimaginable beauty and age, it had faded over the years, acquiring a rich patina of beige, soft blue, and rose.

The parlor was both modest and luxurious, small touches like the gold bibelot boxes on the table between the chairs attesting to the wealth of its owner. But as warm and hospitable as it was, there was nothing here that revealed Douglas's taste. Nothing that revealed anything intrinsically personal about him, and that lack was what she noticed the most.

She would have been surprised to see anything out of place, a pair of shoes under the table or a book carefully waiting for a reader, a half-empty cup.

Retracing her steps, Jeanne walked into the morning room. Smaller than the parlor, it boasted a wall covering of patterned silk in tones of pale yellow. A settee sat against one wall, while a chair sat adjacent to it, the two pieces of furniture separated by a heavily carved circular table. A sideboard sat against one wall opposite a row of windows. She went and stood there, looking out at the view facing the garden.

Not a garden, she realized an instant later, but rather a wild place filled with overgrown bushes and brambles and half-grown saplings. In the middle of the space was a tree, an oak with massive branches heavily laden with spring leaves.

There had been a tree on the convent property, set out in the field, all alone. There wasn't anything about it to mark it as unique from other trees-it wasn't appreciably larger, or endowed with more magnificent branches. Birds congregated there before a storm or at nightfall or daybreak and then flew away in a swift rush of uplifted wings.

But she could see the tree from her cell, and it had become a lodestone for her eyes, a way to mark the seasons. In winter it appeared stark, with its grayish-colored branches clawing at the sky. Spring saw it adorned with curling green leaves spiky with new life. Summer was the time of lush growth, when a canopy of sheltering leaves hid the branches from view. Autumn was the dying time of year, and the tree -her tree-seemed to grieve in the season. The branches hung lower; the leaves fell with a slow and solemn certainty in a soundless dirge as they covered the ground.

How strange to be reminded of that single, simple tree, and how sad that it was her only happy memory of nine years.

Turning, she walked back to the door of the morning room. A young maid emerged from behind one panel into the hall, startling her.

"Good morning, miss," she said, bobbing a curtsy. With her clanking bucket and scrub brush, she disappeared into the morning room, leaving Jeanne standing in the hall.

The door to her right was closed, the brass handle newly polished and shining brightly, almost a lure for her to open it.

The combination of curiosity and loneliness proved too difficult to ignore. Jeanne pushed the door open and stepped into the room, closing the door hurriedly behind her.

Heavy velvet drapes obscured the windows and darkened the room. Here was, if not the soul of the house, then the mind of it. Mahogany bookshelves filled with gilded leatherbound books lined the walls. A massive carved rectangular desk faced the door.

Standing in front of it, she reached out and touched the wood, her fingers sliding over the satiny finish. In the middle of his desk lay a leather blotter, all four corners adorned with tooled leather. At the edge sat a crystal inkwell and next to it a set of quills all sharpened for his use. To her right was a curious lantern fixed with a black shade. Bending down to examine it, she realized that the amount of light could be adjusted by moving the central metal cylinder up and down.

On the left side of the desk sat a branch of candles, each contained within a shapely glass globe, the better to maximize light while keeping any wax from falling on the surface of the wood.

Slowly, she circled the desk and carefully pulled out the tufted burgundy leather chair. Resting her hands on either side of her, she felt the lion heads at the ends of the chair arms.

Douglas sat here, resting his hands in the very same place.

The house felt lonely without Douglas, and this room especially. Leaning back in the chair, she closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of leather. A masculine room, one that mirrored Douglas more than the other chambers she'd seen.

When would he return?

Coming to this house, being with Douglas again, had already altered her life so that she felt caught between the past and the future, in some nebulous present that had no shape or form. Her mind counseled restraint-being here with Douglas was an interlude, no more. Yet her heart could not quite concur. Love didn't remain dormant for long; it struggled to survive or it died.

In all this time, it had never died.

Opening her eyes, she surveyed the darkened room. Opposite the desk on the far wall was a fireplace, and this one was as ornately carved as the one in the parlor. Brass fireplace tools sat on one side of the hearth, while a large copper urn sat on the other. An upholstered fender welcomed the chilly visitor, urged him to come closer and sit before the fire. Farther back were two wing chairs, each covered in a deep burgundy cloth. Between the chairs was a curiously carved table in the shape of a crouching lion. On the marble top sat another branch of candles.

She stood slowly and made her way to the fireplace.

Above the mantel was an exquisite portrait of a young girl. The artist caught her smiling, almost as if she were getting ready to burst into laughter and restraining it by the greatest effort. Her brilliant blue eyes were dancing with mischief, her black hair hung in ringlets to her shoulders. In one hand she held a basket whose contents were revealed by a pair of shining eyes. A girl and her kitten.

Jeanne found herself smiling up at the picture. Going to the window, she drew back the curtains. A shaft of sunlight illuminated the portrait and as Jeanne stared into the vivid blue eyes of the little girl, she realized that it could only be Douglas's daughter, Margaret.

The surge of grief she suddenly felt surprised her. Reaching out, she gripped the mantel to steady herself. The resemblance to Douglas was startling. The little girl had the same shade of hair, the same blue eyes, and his stubborn jaw. There was a tilt to her head that reminded Jeanne of Douglas, and even her mouth, formed in a smile, brought him to mind.

If she'd lived, her daughter would have been nine this year. The child in the portrait looked older.

Jeanne only had flashes of recall from the morning of her daughter's birth. She remembered lying there marveling at the wrinkled infant on her stomach, tenderly covering her with both hands so that she wouldn 't be cold. Everything about her was perfect, from her wizened little face to the fists flailing in the air.

The midwife, however, had noticed something, some imperfection that she'd gleefully announced to the assembled women. "There's a mark on her leg," she called out. "A sign of the devil's touch. A sure sign that she was conceived in sin."

An indication of Jeanne's fall from grace, that none of the servants in attendance around her had chastised the midwife for her words. Even Justine, tall and spare and judgmental, had not ventured to silence the old woman.

Jeanne had ignored them all, so entranced with this miracle that she hadn't wanted anyone to sully it. True, there was a small birthmark, a crescent-shaped purple mark on her daughter's leg, but it would no doubt fade in time.

Time, one of those precious commodities she'd taken for granted in those halcyon days of her innocence. What a foolish girl she'd been.

As she stared at the portrait of Margaret, Jeanne felt as if she'd been knifed, the pain so real that she glanced down at herself to make sure she hadn't been wounded. She felt the same sense of horror standing there that she did on that morning so long ago. Only moments after Jeanne experienced wonder at the tiny creation she and Douglas had created, Justine had taken the baby, wrapping her tightly in a swath of linen and leaving the room. Jeanne's throat had been raw with her screams before she'd been force-fed a draught from the midwife.

Now she felt the same sense of helpless grief.

She stood there until her heart stopped pounding so hard and her breath came a little easier. The tears were more difficult to contain. Finally, she walked toward the window with the slow, heavy steps of an elderly person. Once the curtain was closed she stood in the darkness for several long moments, head bowed, trying to regain her composure.

Hearing a sound behind her, Jeanne glanced over her shoulder to see Betty entering the room. Before shecould be chastised for being somewhere she shouldn't be, she asked a question. "Did you know hermother?" She nodded toward the portrait, suddenly desperate to know more about Douglas's wife.

When Betty didn't answer her, Jeanne turned.

"It's not a subject we discuss, miss," Betty said, her expression guarded. "From the stories I've heard him tell Miss Margaret, he loved her very much."

Jeanne brushed the fingers of both hands over her face, straightened her bodice, and forced a smile to her lips. "Thank you, Betty," she said, once more composed. "I shouldn't have asked."