So In Love Read online

  KAREN RANNEY

  BOOK FIVE OF THE HIGHLAND LORDS

  SO IN LOVE

  To The Fab Four:

  Jeannette Herbage

  Barbara Berryman

  Daniel Gutierrez

  Yvette Ramirez

  For shared experiences, earthy wisdom, joie de vivre,

  for teaching me, and helping me through dark days,

  but most of all, for the gift of laughter.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Jeanne du Marchand knew the precise moment her life shattered.

  Chapter 1

  Douglas MacRae had no idea, when he prepared for the…

  Chapter 2

  Jeanne couldn’t breathe. There was a cold spot next to…

  Chapter 3

  Douglas took leave from his host with less haste than…

  Chapter 4

  In her sleep Jeanne moaned, a slight and almost inaudible…

  Chapter 5

  A soft knock announced the presence of Davis. Jeanne forced…

  Chapter 6

  When she was a child and asked to see her…

  Chapter 7

  Jeanne took Davis’s hand and together they crossed the street,…

  Chapter 8

  Douglas watched Jeanne walk rapidly away, thinking that he was…

  Chapter 9

  Jeanne stood at the window of the schoolroom, looking out…

  Chapter 10

  Jeanne found that it took a special type of courage…

  Chapter 11

  “Come with me,” he said, offering her another choice. He…

  Chapter 12

  The strange surroundings should have disturbed her, but Jeanne slept…

  Chapter 13

  Fluffy streaks of clouds colored pink and gray stretched across…

  Chapter 14

  A fresh-faced maid with a charming, elfish smile nodded at…

  Chapter 15

  Jeanne expected him that night, and waited for him to…

  Chapter 16

  The next morning, Jeanne was awakened by a knock on…

  Chapter 17

  The sky was deep blue and cloudless. The wind came…

  Chapter 18

  Douglas looked around the clan hall, relieved that he’d finally…

  Chapter 19

  The nine years at the Convent of Sacré-Coeur had been…

  Chapter 20

  Douglas scooped his sleeping child into his arms and left…

  Chapter 21

  Jeanne woke in the night to find that Douglas had…

  Chapter 22

  Before a week had passed, Jeanne’s routine as a governess…

  Chapter 23

  “My father thinks you’re very beautiful, Miss du Marchand,” Margaret…

  Chapter 24

  Margaret peered inside the schoolroom. “Cook promised to prepare us…

  Chapter 25

  Douglas had never thought himself a man needing to bolster…

  Chapter 26

  Leith was Edinburgh’s seaport, a bustling scene of both Oceangoing…

  Chapter 27

  Opening the door to his office, Douglas stepped aside, allowing…

  Chapter 28

  Douglas left her, standing and gathering up his clothing…

  Chapter 29

  Jeanne heard Margaret whimper, the sound rousing her from an…

  Chapter 30

  Moving to the windows, Jeanne pulled back the drapes. Dawn…

  Chapter 31

  “What are you going to do?”

  Chapter 32

  “What are you going to do?” Jeanne asked her father.

  Chapter 33

  Lassiter was given the task of turning Talbot over to the…

  Chapter 34

  The only time Jeanne had been aboard a ship was…

  Chapter 35

  Jeanne sat at the table in the captain’s cabin…

  Epilogue

  There was a hush in the priory, but unlike the…

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Other Books by Karen Ranney

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  September 1782

  J eanne du Marchand knew the precise moment her life shattered. She was able to pinpoint the exact words, recall her shocked intake of breath, and feel again the swift and frantic fluttering of her heart.

  However, there was no hint of the events soon to come on that glorious September morning. The cloudless blue sky framed a lovely early autumn day. The breeze, carrying the scents of lavender and roses, filtered into the house from the garden. Even the birds in the aviary were innocent and naïve, singing a paean to a dawn already come and gone.

  Skirts swinging, she made her way down the corridor to her father’s library. One of the footmen pushed open the floor-to-ceiling-high door, and she walked inside, waiting silently for her father to notice her. As a child, she’d often come to the library, at first summoned by her father for some infraction or another. In the last few years he’d sent for her for another reason entirely. She’d begun to think of his questions about her lessons and her retention of them as a game and his smile a prize.

  However, she’d rarely been required to report to her father lately. Nicholas, Comte du Marchand, was a very busy man and Paris itself seemed feverish with activity this autumn. Everywhere she went, Jeanne heard stories of the American war. England was losing, and France, as an ally of the young country, was ecstatic.

  Their Paris home was lovely and the library one of the most beautiful rooms, with its gilt-edged ceiling frescoes and panels depicting scenes from their ancestral chateau of Vallans. The walls were painted a deep coral, a striking backdrop for the portraits of the du Marchand ancestors in their heavy gold frames. Marble columns of pale coral ringed the room, as tall as the ceiling and topped with gold acanthus leaves. A magnificent carpet lay beneath her feet, the pattern of green and gold leaves framing an oval of beige. At the end of the room a swag of coral and navy fabric attached to the ceiling framed an upholstered settee with bolsters at each end. Visitors rarely sat there, however, choosing instead one of the intricately carved chairs near her father’s desk.

  The books her father personally vetted were located on the second floor of this chamber, a space accessible by a staircase located at each end of the room. Normally, he sent Robert, his secretary, to fetch a volume while he remained seated behind the most dominant feature in the room, a massive desk crafted of mahogany and carved with a relief of grapes and flowers, each symbol a reminder of Vallans.

  Paris might provide both cultural and political interests, but Vallans was the birthplace of the du Marchands, a fact her father never allowed anyone to forget.

  Jeanne remained where she was, patiently waiting, arms behind her, bearing erect, shoulders straight, a posture she’d learned from repeated corrections when she was a child.

  Her father finally glanced up and put his quill down slowly. His look wasn’t the fond one he normally gave her. Nor was there any hint of pride in this glance. He crooked one finger in her direction and she knew, suddenly, why she was here. Moving to stand in front of the desk, she fingered the locket her mother had given her and willed herself to calm.

  Justine must have told him.

  She’d long suspected that their housekeeper was her father’s mistress. Even if they did not currently share a bed, Justine went to him with every concern, and it was obvious that she possessed a great deal of power. There wasn’t much that occurred in either their Paris home or at Vallans that escaped Justine.

  Justine must have discovered from her maid that Jeanne was becoming ill in the morning, and that her dresses were begi
nning to fit too snugly.

  “Is it true, daughter?” He stared fixedly at her midsection. “Are you with child?”

  “Yes, Father,” she said, feeling a tremor in her stomach that, thankfully, wasn’t conveyed in her voice. She’d thought to hide her condition until Douglas could address him and plans could be made for their wedding.

  “You are certain?” He lifted his gaze to hers.

  “I am.” She smiled. Even her father at his most furious could not dampen her joy.

  “Then you have shamed the name of du Marchand.”

  His voice sounded so disinterested that he might have been commenting to a stranger about the weather. If she had been wiser, she would have been wary of the look in his eyes. Gone was the fond affection and in its place a distance she’d never before seen, as if he’d simply stopped feeling anything for her at all.

  He looked down at the papers in front of him as if dismissing her. She knew better than to leave, however, until he gave her permission.

  “Douglas and I will marry, Father.”

  Her quiet comment drew a sharp look from her father’s secretary, a man who’d been present during most of her meetings with her only living parent. Robert shook his head almost imperceptibly, but she only smiled at him, used to getting her own way.

  Her father’s eyes, the exact shade of gray as hers, looked up disinterestedly.

  “We’ll marry,” she said, taking another step toward the desk. “I love him, Father. Douglas comes from a good family, at least the equal of the du Marchands.” She was buoyant with joy and no doubt foolish with it. But he must be made to see.

  “You have shamed the du Marchand name,” he said again.

  It was true that she’d disobeyed countless rules in order to meet with Douglas almost every day for the last three months. She’d gone behind her chaperone’s back, pretended appointments that had not existed, friends who’d not been in Paris. She’d twisted the truth until it looked like a braid. But she’d told herself that a lie for a good reason was acceptable. After they married, however, there would be no more falsehoods, no shame.

  “We cannot be the first couple to have anticipated our wedding, Father,” she said, smiling. “No one will know, especially if we marry soon.”

  She couldn’t help but feel that God Himself had forgiven her even if her family priest had not. At confession, Father Haton had promised dire consequences in retaliation for her behavior with Douglas, but hell seemed so far away, especially when Douglas was near.

  Now all she must do is convince her father.

  He threw the quill he was using down on his desk, uncaring that it splattered droplets of ink across his documents.

  “Your lover has left France, Jeanne. He’s had his fill of you.”

  The shock she experienced was only momentary, banished by disbelief.

  “It’s not true,” she said, and this time her father’s secretary, sitting beside the desk, blanched. She should have taken her cue from him. As the minutes ticked by, her father remained silent, leaving her to feel the full brunt of his words.

  “It’s not true,” she said again, shaking her head. “Douglas couldn’t have left. He would have let me know.” They were planning on meeting just this afternoon. Today she was going to tell him she was with child.

  “Oh, he’s gone, Jeanne,” he said, his thin lips pursed in a smile. Opening a drawer, he extracted a letter and handed it to her. It was the note she’d given her maid to take to Douglas.

  She felt sick. Her hands were frozen but she reached out to take the letter, gripping it tightly so that she wouldn’t drop it. Resolutely, she took a deep breath and looked at her father.

  “There’s a good reason he isn’t here,” she said. “But I know he’ll return.”

  Her father stood and rounded the desk, coming to stand in front of her. A tall man with broad shoulders, he was a very imposing figure in oratory and an even more daunting personage this morning. But she could not afford to be cowed, not when her future was at stake.

  “When he comes back, we’ll marry, Father. There’ll be no shame to the du Marchand name.”

  He swung his hand back and struck her, the large crested ring on his finger biting into her skin. She made a sound, a yelp, a startled half scream that was both surprise and pain.

  She took a step back, one hand going to her cheek, the other to her waist as if to protect the tiny child inside her.

  “You whore,” he said softly. “Do you think I’d allow you to marry an Englishman?”

  “He’s Scot,” she said, a comment that earned her another blow.

  Her father’s secretary stood and gathered up some papers, leaving the room. The door made no sound as he closed it hurriedly behind him.

  The joy she felt when entering the room had turned to fear, so quickly that she felt ill. She’d known of her father’s xenophobia, of course, and his dislike for all things that weren’t French despite the fact that he himself had married an English Duke’s daughter. But she’d thought to dissuade him in Douglas’s case. After all, she was his only child, his spoiled darling, and half English herself. If anyone could convince the Comte of anything, she could.

  “Would you be more forgiving of my sin,” she asked rashly, “if my lover had been French?”

  He didn’t strike her again. He only smiled a very curious smile and returned to his chair. The wide expanse of desk acted as an island between them.

  “I had great hopes for you, Jeanne, but you have chosen your own future, it seems.” He began writing again, dismissing her by his actions and his tone.

  “What do you mean?”

  He glanced up. “I am sending you home to Vallans, daughter. In the time allowed you, feel free to contemplate what you’ve lost by your actions. Or spend the time until you give birth dreaming of your absent lover, if you must.” He smiled and dipped his quill into the inkwell again.

  “And after that?” she asked. A drop of blood from the cut on her cheek rolled down her face. She angrily wiped it away, determined he would not see her flinch. “I will not marry a man of your choosing, Father.” He had never made a secret of his desire for a political alliance with her as the prize.

  “You will not have to, Jeanne,” he said coldly. “No man of my acquaintance would have you. He’d want his bride to come unsullied to his bed, not as used as a Paris whore. You’ll be taken to the Convent of Sacré-Coeur,” he announced, standing once again. “To live out the remainder of your days in obedience. If you’re fortunate, perhaps you’ll become a woman of power and influence, but only after you manage to convince the church that you regret your sins.”

  “And my child?” she asked, feeling chilled to the bone. “What will happen to my child?”

  As she watched him smile, she realized that he’d already made plans. The grandson or granddaughter of the Comte du Marchand would simply disappear, an annoyance that would no longer annoy.

  Chapter 1

  June 1792

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  D ouglas MacRae had no idea, when he prepared for the evening, that in one moment ten years would be swept away and he would feel as lost and distraught as a young man. He had no intimation and no foreboding, when leaving his house a few hours earlier, that he might see her.

  He stared at the woman standing in the doorway, limned by the light. An icy coldness encapsulated him, as well as a sensation of being instantly catapulted into some otherworldly place.

  She was supposed to be dead.

  Attired in a dark blue dress with only a hint of white at the collar and cuffs to soften the severe hue, she stood immobile, her face expressionless, holding on to the hand of a little boy. The child, his hair curling in brown ringlets, wore a suit of clothes identical to his father’s down to the lace at his neck and wrists.

  Douglas had two immediate thoughts—that Hartley’s wife was a ghost from his past, and that she wasn’t, evidently, still bedridden as the man had said.

  The little boy rubbed at
his eyes and the woman spoke to him in hushed tones. A gentle smile changed her face, lit her eyes, and softened her lips.

  Suddenly it was two years ago and he was standing in the captain’s cabin of his brother’s ship, a scrap of a handwritten notice in his hand. Hamish had brought the news from France and he’d read it three times before making sense of the words.

  “The Comte du Marchand is dead,” he said aloud, the words not having the weight he expected. “And Vallans is destroyed.”

  “What about his daughter?” his brother had asked.

  “It doesn’t say.” He’d laid the notice down on the table in his brother’s cabin, stunned and disagreeably affected by the realization that Jeanne du Marchand must be dead as well. But it seemed that she wasn’t, was she?

  “Bid your father goodnight,” she said tenderly to the little boy. At the sound of her voice, Douglas was immediately reminded of Paris, a shadowed garden, and the sound of summer.

  The child looked timorously at the man seated next to Douglas.

  “Goodnight, Papa,” he said, not relinquishing Jeanne’s hand. The child didn’t move from his stance by the door. Nor did his host bid him come closer.

  “Goodnight, Davis,” Hartley said, smiling absently at his son. He managed a longer look at Jeanne.

  Her auburn hair was held at the back of her head in a serviceable bun. Over it she wore an arrangement of lace and dark blue ribbon. But it was her face Douglas studied as she stood with eyes downcast, her gaze fixed on the floor.

  A lovely face, one he’d kissed enough times to know the texture of her skin, to measure the distance from the corner of her full lips across her high cheekbones to fluttering eyelashes. He’d traced the line of each winged brow with his fingertips. He’d seen a Roman coin once and the perfection of the profile had reminded him of her.