She turned away from the window. Soon her charge would be up and about, eager to chatter about his dreams of the night before, and curious about his coming lessons. Once, she'd felt the same enthusiasm for the day, before that morning nearly ten years ago.

Suddenly another memory jarred her.

"Are you happy?" The memory of that question speared her, coming as it did in Douglas's voice.

"Unimaginably," she'd answered. She'd been naked, covered only in a blanket and the summer night. But she'd never felt shame with him, never hid herself from his view. Her reward for such courage had been Douglas's kisses all over her body from her ankles to her elbows and delightful places in between.

"We'll always be happy," he said, a promise that sounded so determined that it must surely come true.

"Will we?" she'd teased. She had kissed him for his optimism, and for long moments they'd simply been lost in each other.

They had been so innocent, so enchanted in loving each other, so trusting of the world. Douglas was only a year older than she. Had the last decade changed him? Was he still as determinedly optimistic or had life taught him that it was better to be cautious than hopeful?

The man she'd seen the night before had been startlingly attractive, even more so than the boy. He'd had an aura of power, a commanding presence that might be intimidating to many. But not her. What could any person, circumstance, or occasion do to her that the Comte du Marchand and God had not already done?

She moved to stand in front of the wardrobe. The newest styles were evident in Edinburgh-one had only to stroll along the street to realize that the residents of the city were surprisingly cosmopolitan. But she was a governess and not expected to be fashionable. It was enough that her attire was clean and neat, and didn't attract the attention of Robert Hartley.

Once, she'd required the services of two maids to dress in the morning, but for nine years she'd worn only a plain smock, and she'd gradually become used to the simpler style of garment. The spoiled and somewhat willful girl who'd cozened her father into countless purchases at the modistes and mantua maker was gone. Today, she selected a plain dark green dress, adorned with a simple fringe of lace around the high neck.

She arranged her hair into a simple bun, finished the style by winding a long ivory-handled pin into it. Once, she'd worn her hair loose in full curls that fell to her shoulders. Unless she was to appear at court with her father, it was left unpowdered. When she first arrived at the convent they'd cut her hair to an inch around her scalp, ridding her, they said, of any vanity about her appearance. Over the past two years they'd allowed it to grow, perhaps to cut it as punishment again should she not adhere to some rule.

Studying herself in the mirror, she could see the effect of a troubled night on her appearance. Her gray eyes-fog eyes, Douglas had once teased-looked haunted. Her face was pale, her lips thinned.

She surveyed herself with the critical gaze of Marie-Therese, thinking that the nun could find no fault in her appearance. There was nothing in her dress that was out of place. The apron was spotless and pinned correctly. The three-quarter-length sleeves had a modest row of lace adorning them but nothing that might be considered showy. A matching lace fichu was tucked into her bodice and the stomacher was of the same fabric as her bodice and skirt.

Your outward appearance must match the piety of your soul. The voice belonged to Marie-Therese, who saw nothing good in the young girl sent in disgrace to the convent. It had been the nun's duty to strip all thoughts of licentiousness from her, to reform Jeanne's character.

How foolish to concern herself with how she looked. The only person to see her today would be Davis. If Robert Hartley sought her out, perhaps it was just as well that she appeared haggard and exhausted.

She had only one pair of earrings, a small gold set that had once belonged to a young girl she'd nursed across the Channel. As she put them on, the past flooded through her senses once again.

Douglas was kissing her, making growling sounds in his throat. She giggled and rolled toward him, her hair falling over his face.

"What are you doing?" she asked, tickling him with the ends of her hair.

"Nibbling on you, of course," he said, smiling.

"There are more substantial foods in the basket," she said, pointing to the lunch she'd brought with her. Today they'd escaped to the corner of the garden where no one could see them. The area sloped down to the river, and was secluded with several mature weeping willow trees.

"Nothing is more substantial than what I feel for you, Jeanne," Douglas said solemnly, his blue eyes intent.

The moment was precious to her, one of those memories that had the power to bring a mist of tears to her eyes. In his gaze had been love, permanency, and promise.

Forgive me, my love.

The words trembled on her lips. For the first time in a very long time Jeanne wished there were an altar in her room. She would have knelt and asked forgiveness for her very great sin. Not for loving Douglas or bearing a child but for what had happened next.

The image came to her again, as it did every day, of a very small grave mounded high with rotting leaves and surrounded by trees whose sole purpose seemed to keep out the sunlight. In her memory no birds sang. The wind didn't blow. All she could recall was the sight of that tiny mound and tasting tears. At that moment, she'd died inside.

Until last night, when she'd seen Douglas, she hadn't truly felt alive. Now what she felt was uncomfortably painful and truly frightening.

How was she to bear it?

Chapter 5.

A soft knock announced the presence of Davis. Jeanne forced a smile to her face and opened the door.

Her charge stood in front of her, already dressed, his normally pale face brightened with color.

"Papa has come to join us for breakfast, miss. Are you ready?"

She opened the door farther to reveal Robert Hartley standing there. Her employer smiled amiably at her, the expression revealing too many teeth.

Grabbing her shawl, she walked from the room, carefully skirting Hartley. This situation must be addressed, she realized with a sinking feeling, and soon.

"You're looking very well this morning, Jeanne," Hartley said.

"Thank you, sir," she said, easily maintaining the pose of dutiful employee as they headed for the staircase. Perhaps the Convent of Sacre-Coeur had readied her for a life of servitude. She no longer resented giving obeisance to another person or entity. Instead, she'd discovered that the freedom of her mind was more important than that of her body.

They walked down the stairs and into the dining room now set for breakfast. She neither made eye contact with the footmen nor appeared to notice them, and they studiously ignored her.

"You're not as thin as you were when you first came to us," Hartley said, as a footman pulled out a chair.

She smiled, and sat, thinking that starvation was a cruel diet. The journey from Vallans to the coast, a journey of a few hundred miles, had been a difficult one. There had been days at a time when there hadn' t been anything to eat. But she'd concentrated, not on the privations, but on the ultimate goal-that of leaving France.

Strangely, she no longer felt French. Instead, she felt alienated, a woman without allegiance to any culture but where she lived at the moment. The Scots were just as amenable as any other group.

While they were not an entirely dour people, Jeanne wasn't certain the Scots wholeheartedly embraced the concept of good fortune. They lived almost as if they expected the inevitable tribulations and trials of life but intended to celebrate until the next misfortune arrived. Not a bad philosophy, all in all.

Davis sat, arranged his napkin. Jeanne smiled with approval, and hoped that Hartley would notice his son 's earnest expression.

In a great many ways, the child reminded Jeanne of herself. She, too, had been in awe of her father and had wanted his approval. Yet nothing she could do was ever quite good enough. She'd recited a hundred poems, memorized a dozen speeches. She'd studied the Comte's writings and learned everything she could about the du Marchand name only to please him.

Now she looked at Robert Hartley and wondered if his cruelty was the equal of her father's.

The maid who served them was a young girl freshly imported from the countryside. She was awkward in her movements, as if she'd not yet become accustomed to her duties and the confinement of the Hartley home. The entire house was filled with bric-a-brac on every conceivable surface, as if Mrs. Hartley wanted to demonstrate her husband's wealth by purchasing any number of porcelain items and displaying them solely for the maids to dust. Even this family dining room was not exempt from shepherdesses, urns, and Chinese vases.

Art was cheap in Scotland, as she suspected it was as well in England. Hundreds of people were escaping from France with their possessions in bags or trunks and they used these to finance their new life.

There had been nothing left of Jeanne's past to bring with her.

Davis sat beside her quietly, the child's quiet happiness at having his father present at this meal evident even to Jeanne. To his credit, Hartley spoke to his son often, inquiring as to his studies.

The sun was streaming into the dining room, adding light to the otherwise dark and depressing furniture. Mrs. Hartley, or perhaps her husband, preferred subdued colors, shades that were inviting in candlelight but seemed too oppressive in the daytime.

"I have never seen your guest before last night," she said, toying with her silverware.

Hartley looked startled at her comment. "But then you wouldn't have, would you? My friends do not visit

the nursery."

It was a rebuff, but she only smiled down at her plate. The time had passed for her to be affected by criticism.

"Does he live in Edinburgh?"

Irritation spread across his face as she raised her head and smiled directly at him. He smiled back, nodoubt thinking her effort flirtatious."Why the interest in Douglas MacRae?"She hadn't heard his name spoken aloud in years. Tightening her hand on her cup, Jeanne forced her smile to remain in place. "He reminds me of someone I knew in France," she said softly."You must learn that that life is over, Jeanne. There is nothing in France that you would recognize now."Jeanne knew that better than he, but she kept her smile moored in place and only nodded. Hartley thought himself an arbiter of all manner of things. Such an inflated sense of self was irritating at times and

a decided weakness. A lesson the nuns at Sacre-Coeur had unwittingly taught her.

"He's actually someone with whom I do business," he said, evidently attempting to soften his earlier words.

She smiled, rewarding him for his concession, and he responded with another toothy grin and a glance at her bosom.

"He's a very wealthy young man," Hartley said.

"Is he?"She didn't care about his wealth. Instead, she wanted to know if Douglas was married, if the years hadchanged him, all personal questions she couldn't ask.

If anything, she should fear Douglas. How odd that Hartley, who had the power to make her existence miserable, could not incite the least spark of trepidation in her, while the man she'd adored inspired caution.

Loving Douglas had been the single most rebellious act of her life. Everything she had been, andeverything she had done, and everything that had happened to her began in those three months.Wasn't that enough of a reason to fear him?"We were speaking of the Revolution last night," Hartley said.She glanced over at him, surprised. "Were you?""A terrible circumstance. I cannot help but wonder why you left France, Jeanne. Are you an aristocrat?"

Davis and his father looked at her, waiting for her to speak.

"I've spent the past nine years of my life in a convent," she said quietly, as much of an answer that she was going to give him.

Hartley smiled, a particularly lascivious grin. "Do you miss the religious life?"

She shook her head, thinking that there were few things about it that she would miss. Yet the convent had taught her a new world, one of serenity and timelessness. She'd knelt in the dirt and weeded the garden, a penance that had become a pleasure. She was forbidden to speak, even to the sister who was assigned to watch over her. Instead, she cultivated her friends among the ladybugs and the fat caterpillars. Sometimes, on those rare occasions when she was left alone, she would let one of the bugs crawl to the end of her finger, bringing it up to her nose so that she might address her tiny companion.

"And what are you doing today?" she'd asked one pale green centipede. "Are you racing toward the carrots? You had best not do very much damage or we shall all be in trouble." Carefully, she would lower him to hide behind a frond and hoped that Fate would grant him a longer life than most centipedes were given.

She learned to find serenity within herself. Instead of concentrating on God or her sins during those interminable hours of meditation, she listened to the sound of her breathing. She felt the blood racing through her body and attempted to slow it, measured her heartbeats and calmed them until she'd achieved a curious kind of tranquillity.

How odd that those lessons were of value now. She knew that outwardly she appeared serene, despite the inward chaos of her thoughts.

"What are your plans for this morning, Davis?" Hartley asked, turning to his son.

The child looked first to Jeanne, and at her nod answered his father. "We're going to visit Mama first, sir. Then we have to study about the Romans."

"A very adventuresome morning, indeed." Hartley smiled. "Perhaps after lunch you might spare some time for an audience?" he said to Jeanne. "Around three?"

Unfortunately, she had a very good idea of the topic for this meeting. All during the act of buttering his bread and eating his oatmeal, he'd not ceased staring at her breasts.

Very well, it was time to confront Robert Hartley.

"I just thought I might consult with you on Davis's reading material," he said, smiling his toothy grin. "He cannot be allowed to remain ignorant of the world."

A little ignorance of the world might be a kindness done to the child, a comment Jeanne wisely did not voice.

Captain Manning didn't appear until well after dawn. Douglas was up and addressing his correspondence when the man was announced by Lassiter. He stood at the captain's arrival, waited until his guest was seated, and ordered breakfast to be served in his library.

"Are you still drinking cocoa in the morning, Alan?" he asked.

The older man nodded. "I don't give a whit if it stains my wooden teeth," he admitted.

A tap on the door interrupted them. Douglas called out a greeting and a young maid entered, laden with a large tray filled with a pot, two cups and saucers, and a selection of jams, toast, sausages, and jugged kippers, their tails tied together with a string. Douglas watched as she placed the tray on his desk, and thanked her.

"I need your help," he said.

Alan Manning had been a friend for nearly eight years. In fact, it was Manning who'd brought the news to Gilmuir that the flagship of the MacRae fleet had been lost at sea, knowledge that Douglas still found difficult to accept even seven years later. In his mind, his parents had been rescued and were alive somewhere. As long as they were together, Douglas knew they would survive.

Manning hadn't retired from the sea as Douglas had, but he'd recently married and for that reason had remained in Edinburgh a few weeks longer than normal. In addition, he was considering employment with the MacRaes. By agreeing to sail one of the MacRae vessels, he would forgo a greater portion of wealth at the end of each voyage, but he would also have less risk. A ship was an expensive venture. Each time a sail had to be mended, a mast repaired, or an anchor replaced, the cost was subtracted from the owner 's profits. If a man owned the ship he captained, he could find himself losing a great deal of money if a voyage was plagued with bad weather or a careless crew.

"I need a favor," he said, after handing Manning a cup of his beloved cocoa. "Do you have someone you could spare? Someone you trust, who could also remain discreet?"

Captain Manning didn't say anything, but his eyes were carefully guarded. "I might. Why?"

"I want someone watched. A woman."

Manning remained silent.