Karen Ranney brings us another emotionally intense and passionate story in the fifth book of the nationally bestselling Highland Lord series, in which Douglas MacRae must overcome a dark betrayal in order to regain a love once lost.

June 1792
Edinburgh, Scotland...

Douglas MacRae had no idea, when he prepared forthe evening, that in one moment ten years would beswept awayand he would feel as lost and distraught as ayoung man. He had no intimation and no foreboding,when leaving his house a few hours earlier, that he mightsee her.

He stared at the woman standing in the doorway, limnedby the light. An icy coldness encapsulated him, as well as asensation of being instantly catapulted into some otherworldlyplace.

She was supposed to be dead.

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

Douglas had two immediate thoughts -- that Hartley'swife 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 tohim in hushed tones. A gentle smile changed her face, lither eyes, and softened her lips.

Suddenly it was two years ago and he was standing inthe captain's cabin of his brother's ship, a scrap of a handwrittennotice in his hand. Hamish had brought the newsfrom France and he'd read it three times before makingsense of the words.

"The Comte du Marchand is dead," he said aloud, thewords not having the weight he expected. "And Vallans isdestroyed."

"What about his daughter?" his brother had asked.

"It doesn't say." He'd laid the notice down on the tablein his brother's cabin, stunned and disagreeably affectedby the realization that Jeanne du Marchand must be deadas well. But it seemed that she wasn't, was she?

"Bid your father goodnight," she said tenderly to thelittle boy. At the sound of her voice, Douglas was immediately remindedof Paris, a shadowed garden, and thesound of summer.

The child looked timorously at the man seated next toDouglas.

"Goodnight, Papa," he said, not relinquishing Jeanne'shand. 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 athis son. He managed a longer look at Jeanne.

Her auburn hair was held at the back of her head in a serviceablebun. Over it she wore an arrangement of lace anddark blue ribbon. But it was her face Douglas studied asshe 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 cornerof her full lips across her high cheekbones to flutteringeyelashes. He'd traced the line of each winged brow withhis fingertips. He'd seen a Roman coin once and the perfectionof the profile had reminded him of her.

Thick spectacles now shielded her soft gray eyes, ashade that reminded him of fog and storms, and smokefrom a peak fire. A voice from his memory, a laughingteasing taunt, whispered in his ear.

"I fear that I'm vain, Douglas. I could see you better if Iwore them, but they are so ugly."

"Nothing you could do," he'd said, "could ever make youless beautiful in my eyes, Jeanne." His own voice had beenladen with lust and youthful exuberance. But he had been inlove, so desperately in love that he didn't see her as lessthan perfect.

She'd linked her arms around his neck and kissed himsweetly, gently.

"Then I shall always think myself beautiful, my dearestDouglas. Even if I must squint at you."

Now Jeanne's gaze traveled over him disinterestedly.Abruptly, her eyes widened as she seemed to still, herfaint smile freezing in place, one hand splayed at herside.

The least she could do was appear afraid.

But perhaps she

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.