and then sell them to Europeans."

"MacRaes don't buy slaves, Miss du Marchand," Margaret said, sounding far more advanced than heryears.Jeanne smiled at Margaret, and it appeared to Douglas that her look was filled with approval."Uncle Hamish was a slave once," Margaret confided to Jeanne in a voice that was meant to be a whisper, he was certain. Nevertheless, he heard her well enough, and turned to give her a censorious look. "Papa doesn't like to talk about it." Another confidence. This time, he didn't bother glancing at her.

"Benin seems a barbaric country," Jeanne said.He smiled thinly. "Do not think Scotland so free of barbarism, Miss du Marchand. Dissent is not allowedhere. And France has not proven itself to be civilized of late."

And what about her form of barbarism? Now was not the time for a confrontation, but he found himself wanting to ask why she'd acted as she had, handing over her newborn infant to be fostered when it was so evident that the child wouldn't survive. How dainty of her to commit murder with no blood on her hands. But it wasn't the place, especially with Margaret looking at the two of them with such unabashed interest.

He replaced the spear and short sword, making a mental note that they should be unwrapped and polished before delivering them to the collectors who'd ordered them.

Edinburgh was a wealthy city. Curiosity about other cultures and a desire to collect items from other countries had led to the continued success of MacRae Brothers. Originally, the warehouse had held only the staples and necessities of life. In the last five years, however, their inventory had increased to incorporate the odd and the unusual.

Turning, he led the way deeper into the building, Margaret at his side. When he didn't hear footsteps behind him, he glanced over his shoulder to see that Jeanne had stopped and was looking about her with interest. Several large rugs were arrayed on top of bundles of hemp and large kettledrums.

"You really do import everything, don't you?"

"Wait until you see the spice locker, Miss du Marchand," Margaret said. "And the tea chest. It's a huge room with hundreds and hundreds of tiny little drawers. And the gold vault."

Douglas laughed and placed both hands on Margaret's shoulders. "Perhaps your governess is not as fascinated as you or I, Meggie."

She tilted back her head to look at him. "Oh, Papa, how could anyone not be?"

"There you have it," he said, glancing at Jeanne. "You are hereby commanded to be enthralled."

"But I am," she said, smiling at both of them. She looked at Margaret. "What do you think I should see next?"

His daughter seemed to consider the matter. It would be the gold, he knew. She was fascinated by the array of ingots, not for the wealth they represented but their color and heaviness. He waited until she spoke, and when she announced her decision, he hid his smile.

"The vault, I think. The gold first and then the spice locker."

"The vault it is," Douglas said.

He turned and led the way to the stairs. This staircase was wide, the steps deep, purposely designed this way to make it easy for the workers to transport heavy merchandise up to the second floor.

"Why do you have the vaults upstairs?" Jeanne asked when he led them to the locked area.

"Flooding," he said, glancing over his shoulder at her. "We're next to the docks, and it's been known to happen. This way, both the tea and spices are safe from water damage."

"And the gold?"

"It's impervious to most disasters," he said. "Except theft. The vault has been especially designed to discourage even the most determined thief."

At the top of the steps was a series of doors. One led to his office, the middle to the gold vault, and the far left to the tea and spice locker.

Margaret led the way, opening the door and glancing back impatiently at both of them. Unerringly, she went to the larger wheel door and waited for him to open it. When he did, she was the first inside. The room was small due to the reinforcement of brick and stone around it, a precaution in case of fire.

The wealth represented here not only belonged to him but to his brothers. Shelves lined the room on three sides, and were filled with an array of small gold ingots. Bags of gold dust filled the far wall, and on the bottom shelf were a series of small drawstring bags, each one marked with Margaret's name.

"You've put another one there," she said, surprised.

"You've a birthday soon," he said. Every year he marked another bag with her name as one of her birthday gifts. Douglas carefully selected Margaret's main present, wanting something that would incite her imagination and give her a special memory of that year. For a long time he wasn't sure she would survive, which made her birthdays even more special, a true day of celebration.

This year he'd picked out a tiny chest from the Orient, a box so perfectly carved from ivory that it was a work of art. Inside he'd placed a length of ginseng he'd found. The wizened and withered spice resembled a dancing figure with arms outstretched. Once, he'd seen Margaret in that same pose, and the figure reminded him of her. There were those in the Orient who believed it good fortune to keep a ginseng root that resembled oneself.

"May I show Miss du Marchand the spice locker now, Father?"

"Perhaps your governess isn't interested," he said, glancing at Jeanne. She returned the look, the first time she'd done so since they'd climbed the stairs.

"If you'd rather I wait in the carriage, I shall," she said calmly.

"Why would you think that?"

"You seem to think I'm bored."

"Aren't you?"

"I can assure you that I'm not. I've learned a great deal in a short time."

"What have you learned, Miss du Marchand?" His tone was too rough; he could hear the edge of his words. She looked at him levelly, never glancing away. But then, he'd never faulted her courage.

He bit back any further comments because Margaret had turned and was looking at them curiously again.

Walking the short distance to the far wall, he jerked on the bell cord that he'd had installed in case anyone was ever trapped in the vault.

When the young man assigned to help Jim arrived, he instructed him to find Henry Duman.

Henry was the most senior of his employees, a grizzled veteran of the war with America. Because he was one of the most trusted of his employees, Henry performed many sensitive duties, including his most recent visit to London. Douglas had sent him as an emissary to negotiate for a plot of land on the Thames. Henry was tactful, resourceful, and above all, loyal.

A moment later a tall man stooped below the lintel to enter the vault. Although his jacket fit correctly, his arms seemed curiously too long for his body. His legs, likewise, seemed out of proportion, almost as if he were perched on stilts. He looked as if he had been stretched on the rack. Even his face was elongated, a graying beard softening the line of his jaw. But when he smiled, as he did now, the expression lit up his face, giving him a charm that made people forget about his appearance.

Margaret squealed in delight and ran to him. "Henry, you're back!"

For some odd reason, one Douglas didn't quite understand, his daughter had been fond of Henry from the first moment she'd seen him. She'd been five at the time, and had gone to him without hesitation. For his part, Henry had been bemused by the attention. Douglas often wondered if Henry had been isolated for most of his life because of his appearance. If that were the case, his life had changed the minute Margaret met him. His daughter was acutely protective of Henry, asking that the older man and his wife be invited to dinner at holidays, making Henry a present for his birthday. In turn, Henry always brought back a small surprise for her from each of his journeys. In that, he spoiled her as much as Douglas probably did.

"Do you have a present for me?" Margaret asked now.

"Margaret," Douglas said, reprimanding his daughter with a look. She glanced up at him and smiled her most beguiling smile, evidently not the least chastised.

"I do," Henry said, smiling and looking to Douglas for permission.

"Go ahead," Douglas said, watching as Margaret walked down the stairs with Henry. The older man's office was in the administration building, adjacent to the clerks. When Henry was not traveling as an emissary of MacRae Brothers, he was an excellent accountant.

Douglas knew from past experience that his daughter would perch in the chair in front of Henry's desk and proceed to tell him everything that had happened in her life since the last time they met. His daughter' s distraction would give him some time to talk to Jeanne.

The moment had come. Finally. Irrevocably.

He turned and addressed Jeanne, bowing slightly. "We can either have this discussion where anyone can overhear, or we can do it in relative privacy. Your choice, Jeanne."

Her frown had the effect of irritating him further. "What is wrong, Douglas?"

"You," he said sardonically. "All my problems ultimately come down to one person-you."

Her frown intensified but she didn't say anything.

Douglas left the vault, glancing behind him to see if she was following. In front of his office door, he wondered if this was the wisest decision. Although this confrontation had been coming for days, if not weeks, once the words were said they couldn't be taken back. He would have a choice-to banish her from his life, or hate himself for not sending her away.

She hesitated for a moment, and then left the vault, her hands folded demurely one over the other at her waist, her bonnet very properly at the perfect angle, her soft green dress the same one she'd worn when he'd first seen her at Hartley's home. There was little about her to recall the girl she'd been. There was no gaiety in her half smile, only forbearance. Her once expressive face was now impossible to read. Her posture was straight, perfect, and utterly rigid.

In all ways she appeared the proper governess.

However, in her gaze was a look of sorrow that shadowed her occasionally. He caught sight of it sometimes, so pervasive that it seemed as if a veil surrounded her, one constructed of the finest silk and nearly imperceptible to the eye.

Suddenly he wanted to banish that expression from her face, and make her laugh with Margaret's abandon. He wanted, for a few hours, to change her into the girl he had once known. He, who abhorred pretense but who had engaged in it these last few weeks, decided that a few more hours would suit him well enough.

Perhaps they might love together again tonight, after he convinced her to allow him to visit her chamber. Or perhaps he would urge her into his. He would love her not as a man, surfeited with confusion and curiosity, but as he had as a boy, with the purity of first and best love.

The air seemed to shimmer between them. He wanted to touch her, but he dared not. He wanted to shake her, but it would end in an embrace. He wanted to force her to confess all manner of sins, perhaps with a kiss.

God help him, but he still wanted her.

Chapter 27.

O pening the door to his office, Douglas stepped aside, allowing her to precede him.

Instead of entering, Jeanne wanted to leave. If she had any wisdom at all, she'd find her way to the French emigre couple who had given her refuge before and might again today. When, however, had she ever been wise around Douglas?

A wall of mullioned windows dominated the room, the view of the sea and busy port of Leith. At the far side of his office, facing the panoramic scene, was a large mahogany desk supported on all four corners with carved dancing dolphins. Seated here, Douglas would be able to see the vessels bobbing on the ocean currents. Did he dream of far-off places, or was Edinburgh enough of an adventure for him?

In front of the windows, perched on a tripod, was a long brass object. She walked to it, reached out her hand, and touched a metal wheel connecting the device to its support.

"What is it?" she asked.

"A telescope. With it you can see objects that are far away."

She nodded, wanting to ask him to demonstrate. Now was not the time, however, for wonders of science or for delving into his interests. He had something on his mind. All afternoon he'd been acting oddly, glancing at her from time to time as if expecting her to change before his eyes. Something was bothering him, but she wasn't entirely certain she wanted to know what it was.

"You can't see the past, however," he said.

She glanced over her shoulder at him and then turned to stare out at the docks. A beautiful ship, painted white, sat at the end of the wide wooden pier. The two tall masts, black against the brilliant blue of the sky, were devoid of sails. The hull swept forward, as if the ship itself were impatient to be on the waves again. The name, THE SHERBOURNE LASS, was painted on the side in red, swooping letters.

He was right, the past was obscured, but she could still feel the pain of it, even now.

"I should find Margaret," she said.

"Margaret will be occupied for a good quarter hour, Jeanne, which will give us time to talk."She didn't want to talk. Every time they met, she revealed a little more of herself.Her past had been hinted at but not exposed. He'd seen her scars, but she'd never told him that she'd used his name as a comfort, biting down on the sound of it to muffle her screams during the beatings. She 'd told him of returning to Vallans, but she'd never disclosed that she'd been nearly starving. He knew she'd escaped France, but he didn't know what that terrible journey had truly been like.

Nor did he know the greatest secret of all-that they'd had a child together.

Tell him. Tell him and then leave. Tell him what had happened all those years ago. Once she'd purged herconscience and unburdened her soul, she should ask him why he'd never come for her.But the words wouldn't come. She didn't want to leave him. Or Margaret. The little girl had burrowed into her heart and remained there, firmly fixed.

She finally turned and faced him. Douglas stood in front of her, the sun illuminating his carefullyexpressionless features. However, she knew him well enough to know when he was angry.His anger didn't frighten her. Only the truth did."I have to leave," she said, shocking herself. Yet it was easier, wasn't it, to deny him rather than be refused? She would be the one to walk away."After we've talked about Paris.""No," she said. She didn't want to talk about the past. "If you would ask the coachman to take me back to your house, I'll pack my belongings and leave."

"I went to see you in Paris," he said, as if she hadn't spoken. "I went to tell you my parents had come, but instead of you, Justine was there."

She shook her head and held up one hand. Revelations would destroy her. The past was part of her, but

the weakest, flimsiest part. She was held together with wishes and hopes and the barest breeze would shatter her. The last memory of them together should not be one of her weeping to him, begging him to understand.

"She told me you were with child."

It was beginning, the endless questions, the look of contempt, and the horror.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, wishing that there was another entity other than God to whom

she might pray. The God of Sacre-Coeur was alternately vengeful and inattentive, flicking a finger in her direction as if to punish her for even being alive. She'd begun to think of him as a celestial Comte du Marchand, with powdered hair and a shiny golden suit sewn of sunbeams.

She opened her eyes and forced a smile to her face. "Are you so angry at me because I wouldn't let youinto my bed?" she demanded, turning on him. "Is that what this is all about?"She strode toward him, and her smile broadened.His expression altered, his frown changing to surprise."Very well, come tonight." Halting a few feet from him, she smiled, deliberately taunting him. "Or now.

Here." Turning, she glanced at the expanse of his desk.

Walking toward it, she began untying the ribbons of her bonnet. She tossed it to a chair on the other side of the room and watched, uncaring, when it fell to the floor. She pushed his blotter out of the way and sat on the edge of his desk. Never moving her eyes from his, she began unfastening her bodice with both hands.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked. His tone was harsh, his voice raspy. She had succeeded in disconcerting him but she'd also deflected his questions.

"Readying myself for you, of course. Do you require that I remove all my clothes, Douglas, or should I just tip up my skirts? I like it when you kiss my breasts. But please don't rip my chemise. I only have one."

"Stop it, Jeanne."

"Stop?" she asked, feigning dismay. Her fingers didn't hesitate, however, opening her bodice until she separated the fabric, revealing her stays and below it her threadbare chemise. She felt daring and wicked, and thoroughly brazen. When she was a girl she had delighted in loving him, had done so in the bright light of morning. What she was experiencing now was less bravado than an almost desperate wish to forestall his questions.