J eanne sat at the table in the captain's cabin of the Ian MacRae, her elbows placed on the wooden surface, the palms of her hands pressed against her eyes. Not because they hurt, but because she didn't want to see the woman in front of her. Or envision the sights she so calmly described.

It was her own fault. She'd asked Mary to tell her about those early days when Margaret had been found. Although Jeanne didn't want to hear of the abuse her daughter had suffered, of the terrible sores on her body, of the months of careful nursing that it had taken to save her life, she didn't halt Mary's soft words. She was grateful for one thing-that her father was now enduring a celestial judgment.

"Douglas spent the first three years of Margaret's life hovering over her," Mary said, smiling at the memory. "I finally told him that he was going to give Margaret an exaggerated view of her own importance. Or make the child fearful, which was just as bad. At first he wouldn't let her go anywhere without him. I've never seen anyone so miserable the first time she remained at Gilmuir without him."

She poured more tea and pushed the cup across the table to Jeanne.

"Margaret was six and having the time of her life, but Douglas imagined every single horror that could happen. Colds, lightning strikes, influenza." She gently laughed. "He's much better lately. The years have proven to him that Margaret is a survivor."

She smiled again and Jeanne was struck by how beautiful the expression was on Mary's face. It lit up her eyes and imparted a sense of profound joy.

"It's your turn now," Mary said. "Tell me what happened to you."

She told Mary the entire story, from the moment she'd been called into her father's library until the day before when they'd despaired of finding Margaret. Certain details, such as sharing Douglas's bed, were omitted, but Jeanne didn't doubt that Mary could piece together that part of the tale as well.

Jeanne stood and walked to the rear of the cabin. A row of windows stretching the width of the space

revealed the firth and, beyond, the fortress of Gilmuir. "I've never loved anyone but Douglas," Jeannesaid softly. "I can't imagine ever loving anyone else.""And you paid dearly for that emotion."Jeanne nodded only once.A moment later she felt Mary's hand on her shoulder and glanced at the older woman. "You cannot erase those years, my dear, but you can build on them. Incorporate the good memories into the person

you've become. Learn something from those experiences and then put the bad memories away.""I have so much to thank you for," Jeanne said, turning and holding both of Mary's hands in her own. "Thank you for saving my daughter."

Mary only smiled and led Jeanne to another window.

There, standing at the bow of the ship, was Douglas, and beside him, Margaret.

A buoyancy began in Jeanne's toes and swept upward to settle in the middle of her stomach. Everything

that she ever wanted in her entire life, every sort of happiness, was encapsulated in the two people in front of her.

"It's time," Mary said.Jeanne nodded, leaving the comfort of the captain's cabin and making her way to the front of the ship.Each footfall made a smart tapping noise against the solid wooden deck. Two sailors, as if sensing aconfrontation, glanced at her and then picked up their buckets and left, tipping their hats to her in analmost salute.

Before Jeanne reached them, Margaret turned, releasing her father's hand.She stared intently up at Jeanne. "Papa used to tell me a story about my mother. Was it true?"Jeanne glanced at Douglas, uncertain."It's mostly true," he answered."Are you my mother, Miss du Marchand?"Jeanne nodded, overwhelmed. Words wouldn't come, but they must. How did she explain to Margaret what had happened?"Yes, I am." It was the first time, she realized with shock, that she acknowledged it publicly."And you're not an angel," Margaret said.That acerbic comment surprised a smile from Jeanne."I can guarantee you that I'm not.""Then where have you been?"Jeanne suddenly knew what she had to say.

She turned and walked some distance away and sat on a ledge next to the railing. She didn't beckon Margaret closer, only waited. The child stared at her solemnly for several moments before walking slowly toward Jeanne.

Before her daughter could speak, Jeanne began. "I've already told you that my mother died when I was young."

Margaret nodded cautiously."I've always cherished the one thing that she left for me." Jeanne withdrew the locket from around herneck. Douglas had had it repaired and had given it to her before they had boarded the Ian MacRae. "It'snot a very pretty necklace," she said. "But it held a secret in our family, the Somerville ruby." She openedit now and showed Margaret the stone.

"My life would have been easier if she'd told me about the secret," Jeanne said. "But perhaps she hadher reasons.""Just like you and Papa?" Margaret asked.

Jeanne nodded, wondering how Margaret had developed her perceptiveness."We didn't mean to hurt you," she said. "Do you believe that?" Before Margaret could answer, shedraped the locket over the little girl's head.

She bent her head and studied it intently. "Is it mine?"Jeanne nodded. "I can't explain everything, Margaret. All I can tell you is that I've always loved you.""You have?" She fingered the locket, seemed to consider the matter, and asked one more question. "Is the ruby mine, too?"Jeanne smiled. "Yes, it's yours."Margaret sighed heavily. "It's a very nice present, Miss du Marchand, but I like getting a mother better."

She narrowed her eyes and stared at her. "Are you very certain you are?"Jeanne nodded."Do I have any brothers or sisters?""Not yet," Douglas said, coming to her side.Jeanne glanced up at him and he returned her look solemnly. Margaret surprised her, however, by reaching out and hugging her. This time Jeanne didn't try to hide her tears."You mustn't cry," Margaret said, drawing back concerned."I'm just happy."Margaret looked doubtful about that answer and glanced at her father, who smiled down at her. "Why don't you go tell Aunt Mary that I need to send a message to Gilmuir?"The little girl didn't look the least pleased to be sent on an errand but, after studying her father's face,evidently decided against rebellion.

Before she left them, though, she asked another question of her mother. "Will you continue to be my governess, then?" she asked, frowning. "It doesn't seem entirely proper."

"Margaret." Douglas shook his head at her.

She sighed and reluctantly made her way to the captain's cabin, leaving Jeanne alone with Douglas.

He turned and faced the firth, arms crossed in front of him, affecting an intense scrutiny of the water and the far horizon where the sea met the sky. She waited for him to speak, and when he did, it was softly.

"It took an instant to find you, an hour to love you, a week to know that I couldn't live without you. It took ten years to realize that I'd never be able to forget you." He faced her. "Will it take a lifetime to convince you that I love you?"

She shook her head.

"I love you with all my heart," he said. "With my soul, quite possibly. You occupy too much of my mind. My present is indelibly woven around you, as was my past."

His hands fell to his sides. Jeanne had the strangest feeling that he stood there unguarded waiting for her to repudiate him. But he was Douglas, her youthful lover and forever friend, the man who occupied her thoughts, and the father of her child. Her love.

"Marry me, Jeanne. Be part of my future."

She studied him, grateful for this instant in time. She would never forget his look at this moment, just as she had never forgotten the memories of Paris. Now those recollections were forever freed of their sadness, of their tinge of grief.

Did she have the courage of that girl? She smiled, thinking that she did, and more. She'd been tested and strengthened by what had happened to her. She could survive without Douglas, but life with him would be so much richer and more complete. In the end, it wasn't courage that made her stand and go to him, but a feeling that doing so was simply right.

Winding her arms around his neck, she stood on tiptoe to brush a soft kiss against his lips. "Yes, I'l marry you. I love you, Douglas. I always have, sometimes to my detriment, mostly to my blessing. Do you think that's how love is?"

"I think, perhaps, that we have the rest of our lives to study it," he said, pulling her closer to him.

Epilogue.

There was a hush in the priory, but unlike the last ceremony to be held here, there was no grief in evidence, and no sound of muffled tears.

The time of the ceremony had been chosen with care in order to show the stained-glass windows at their best. Now shafts of jewel like light colored gold, scarlet, emerald, and indigo illuminated the faces of the congregation, danced upon the altar, and pooled around the couple standing with hands linked at the front of the priory.

The magnificence of the scene would cause some of the worshipers in the Scottish Reformed Church to say it was reminiscent of popery. But should that comment have been made to anyone at Gilmuir he would have demurred and said that it was only history he witnessed and nothing more.

Generations of MacRaes had stood in this same spot over the centuries. The room itself, one of the largest at Gilmuir, had been rebuilt, but only as it had once been. The arches had been restored, the slate floor replaced. While it was true that the shape of the priory had been altered, that was only done to allow for the passage through the secret staircase.

Although this holy place had been rebuilt with the past in mind, the ceremony held here was very much one of the future. The whole of the clan was here, if not in physical form, then in spirit.

Jeanne Catherine Alexis du Marchand was marrying Douglas Allen MacRae. Standing behind them was their daughter, Margaret, a look of irritation flitting over her face as she caught sight of her nemesis behind a pillar. She frowned at him, while Cameron only grinned back at her.

Alisdair MacRae recalled when Douglas was born a lifetime ago. As an adolescent he'd been shocked and appalled at the travail of birth, so much so that the two times his darling wife had been brought to bed with a child he'd been awed by her courage.

James MacRae remembered when Douglas had been an angry seventeen-year-old, desperate to return to France, and longing for the woman he was now marrying a decade later.

Hamish had witnessed Douglas's emergence into manhood, and had sailed with him for three years. He wasn't surprised at either the success his brother had become or the strength of character he possessed.

Brendan remembered Douglas as a younger brother, when he'd been annoying and mischievous. He sent a cautionary glance toward his two older sons, who immediately subsided and stared straight ahead, afraid of further angering their father.

Mary MacRae, standing on Scottish soil for the first time in more than ten years, witnessed the marriage with a feeling of rightness and completion. She had given her life to healing, but she knew sometimes that wounds were never truly mended until the heart was engaged. She witnessed the glance between Douglas and Jeanne, feeling almost like a usurper seeing such tenderness. Tears came to her eyes and at that moment Hamish turned his head, looking down at her. She smiled to reassure him, but he only looked puzzled. In the quiet moment, she clasped his hand and squeezed it. He responded by bending over and tenderly kissing her.

The wedding finished, the vows exchanged, the bride smiled at the groom and the groom at the bride. The wind blew gently against the priory and the sun blazed even brighter as if in celestial approval. The priory was filled with joy, and if there were tears spilled they dried atop smiles.

Margaret extended her hands to her parents, one on each side.

"Now," she said, very firmly and very loudly, as if addressing both corporeal and spiritual entities, "we're a family."

The five MacRae brothers smiled as one at the little girl so much like Moira MacRae.

A murmur began in the rear of the priory, and carried forward, growing in volume. One by one the members of the convocation raised their right fists in a gesture mimicking that on the clan badge.

The cry, which had been used in war, in battle, in despair and loss, almost shook the building. As it was repeatedly shouted, it subtly changed, becoming an acknowledgment of celebration, a victory over circumstance and time itself.

To the MacRaes! Our family, our strength!

Author's Note.

M ary King's Close, or street, is a real place and the origin of it as depicted in the book is true. Plague victims were, indeed, walled up there, and tours now take place where guides tell of seeing apparitions and hearing the faint echo of long-ago screams.

Edinburgh is a fascinating city whose character can't be adequately conveyed within the covers of a novel. Instead, it has to be felt to be truly appreciated. Like Edinburgh, Paris is rich with the aura of the past. As a teenager, I was fascinated with Montmartre, and used to stand on the steps watching the sunsets over Paris. If there are such things as ghosts among us, they linger in enchanted cities and special locales.

Unfortunately, the treatment Jeanne received at the Convent of Sacre-Coeur is based on truth. Having a child out of wedlock was considered a grievous sin in the eighteenth century, and the child was often sent away to be fostered and forgotten.

The Terror that gripped France actually began about two years after the book ends. But the beginning of the social upheaval started much earlier. People began leaving France with what possessions they could, as if knowing what would happen a few years later.

Spectacles have been around since the thirteenth century. A thousand years earlier than that, glass bowls filled with water were used to magnify print.

Writing the series about the MacRaes and Gilmuir has been a bittersweet labor of love for me. Even after leaving them I want to know what happened. Did Margaret and Cameron repeat history? Did Aislin choose to live at Sherbourne? Did Malcolm ever declare his feelings to Betty? What effect did the French Revolution and the Terror have on Hamish and Mary? I can only imagine all these things, and hope that you will as well.

About the Author.

KAREN RANNEY began writing when she was five. Her first published work was The Maple Leaf, read over the school intercom when she was in the first grade. In addition to wanting to be a violinist (her parents had a special violin crafted for her when she was seven), she wanted to be a lawyer, a teacher, and, most of all, a writer. The violin discarded early, she still admits to a fascination with the law, and she volunteers as a teacher whenever needed. Writing, however, has remained an overwhelming love of hers. She loves to hear from her readers-please write to her at karen@karenranney.com or visit her website at www.karenranney.com.

Karen Ranney lives in Texas.

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Avon Romantic Treasures by Karen Ranney.

SO IN LOVE * TO LOVE A SCOTTISH LORD.

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