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Looking at the cottage through the trees, an unexpected foreboding fell over Beck. He had an impulse to turn back.

But Gwendolyn was already making her way toward the cottage. She reached the clearing and looked back at him with a smile.

“We found it,” she said happily. And then she tilted her head as if listening. “Do you hear singing?”

“I don’t.” He was surprised how hoarse his voice was.

“I don’t either. Come, Beckett, let’s explore.”

He was relieved her good humor had returned. She’d been very quiet the last leg of their ride in spite of his promise to see

she came to no harm. And he’d meant those words. In fact, riding beside her, he realized how deeply he’d intended them...

and he began to allow himself to consider that perhaps, he could trust her? That she was honest with him about her feelings?

That he could allow the spark between them to grow?

His sense of unease lifted. He did not believe in ghosts. Or in allowing his imagination to run rampant. He kicked his horse forward.

The cottage was a charming stone building covered with vines and the last blooms of summer roses. Someone tended the place.

Probably one of Colemore’s many gardeners. A path from the front steps led to the riverbank. The water appeared placid and

deep at this particular juncture of the river’s course. A piling with an iron ring attached stuck out of the water as if waiting

to tie up a skiff.

In fact, Beck could imagine the boat. It was white and yellow with oars painted to match. There was a mast in case the boater

wished to use it as a sailboat.

The vision was so fanciful, so vivid, it took him aback...

There had been a boat like that here. He did more than sense it. He knew .

“Shall we go inside?” Gwendolyn asked.

Beck slowly pulled himself from staring at the water to see that she had dismounted, tied her reins on a post there, and waited

by the step. Beyond the corner of the cottage, he could see the line of another road, this one wide enough for vehicles. It

led to the main road through the estate.

And they had taken a cart here. It, too, was yellow and white and was pulled by a chubby gray pony. Everything was yellow

and white, like daisies...

He heard her say those words. They echoed in his ears. Like daisies , and then she would laugh because yellow and white together made her happy.

But who was she?

“Beckett?”

He looked over to Gwendolyn. His horse stamped impatiently beneath him, as if he, too, felt something was not right.

I don’t think we should be here , he wanted to tell Gwendolyn, but he didn’t. Because... she was here.

The marquess wasn’t the only one who heard her.

Gwendolyn looked at the door. The top of it was arched. The wood had been painted white but had grayed with age. She glanced

back at him. “I’m going to look inside.”

She paused as if expecting an answer.

Beck found it hard to speak. He could hear his blood in his veins. He forced himself to breathe deeply. To relax. His reaction

was madness.

And then he realized Gwendolyn was opening the door, and he felt alarmed. “I want to enter first.” His words came out in a rush. She stopped and cocked her head as if concerned.

Beck dismounted. He led his horse to the post by the door. He knotted his reins around the ring beside hers.

His chest was tight, his movements stiff.

“Beckett?” Her voice was a whisper.

He stopped, one foot on the top step.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He gave a curt nod. This uneasiness was ridiculous. He’d faced French cannons. And so he reminded himself repeatedly as he

stepped between her and the door and lifted the latch.

The cottage was unlocked. He pushed the door open, revealing a large sitting room. Morning light streamed through charming lace-covered windows. The pattern fell upon the stone floor. There was an arrangement of wooden chairs with upholstered seats, but the colors weren’t white and yellow, and he realized he hadn’t expected them to be. The blue on the upholstery was faded. The stuffing was loose in a few places. They hadn’t always been this way.

Gwendolyn slipped past him and walked to the center of the room. “I like this. Look at the view of the river. Lovely.” She

moved toward the doorway on the other side of the room—and Beck felt his knees buckle with fear. He needed to stop her, except

he choked on his own breath.

She walked inside. “It’s a music room,” she exclaimed gaily. “You should see this.”

He did not want to see it, even as his feet, as heavy as iron weights, began moving toward that door.

Images rose in his mind. Violent images. Images that didn’t belong to his dream.

The singing woman was screaming at him. Run. Don’t let him catch you.

And yet Gwendolyn was in there.

He put a hand on the doorframe. Common sense told him that all was fine, and yet tension was winding inside of him, tighter

and tighter. He used to go in and out of this room, using the windows along the far wall as doors if he so chose. He’d been small enough

to climb through them easily—

“I could spend my life in this room,” Gwendolyn said, her words cutting through his growing panic. She stood by a pianoforte, basking in the scene out those windows. A sliver of the river could be seen through the far corner. The rest of the view was of the surrounding forest.

Gwendolyn smiled over at him. “It is all lovely and peaceful.”

Was it? Beck wasn’t certain. He leaned against the doorframe bombarded by doubts and unnamed fears. Details were emerging—but

not from his dreams. No, these were memories. His memories. It became hard to breathe as he recalled foraging among the leaves, sticks, and pine needles in the woods, creating

buildings and even people out of them while she worked on her music. He could see her there now, bent over the pianoforte.

She spent hours writing and practicing. Day after day. His world had been the wind in the trees and the melodies, the notes,

the rhythms, the sound of her soft laugh of approval when she thought she’d had it right.

When he discovered something truly special, Beck would bring it to her—acorn caps, snails, a chewed-off rabbit leg, all things

he’d scavenged from the forest. She’d made him throw out the bit of rabbit and then had kissed his forehead because he was

so like his father, she’d said, curious and fascinated by everything.

So like your father.

“Are you feeling well?” Gwendolyn asked. She moved toward him, and she walked through the pianoforte, and that was when Beck realized he was imagining it, although it seemed real and solid.

He thought of the black leather folios in the small library, the ones Gwendolyn had noticed. That had been her music, her songs. She’d written them... in this room— she had died in this room .

Suddenly, and with startling clarity, Beck remembered everything.

“The man, he came through the door.” He moved into the room, following the path of the intruder. His body no longer held him

back, but he felt as if he was not himself. He was that small boy who busied himself while his mother worked.

“What man?” Gwendolyn asked.

“Olin Winstead. The marquess’s man.” Yes, it had been Winstead. Beck could see him now. Huge and hulking. Beck hadn’t been

afraid. “I knew him. I liked him. I was playing by the front of the cottage. He picked me up and carried me into the room

with him.”

“You?” She frowned as if she couldn’t picture it.

Beck shook his head. He didn’t have time to explain. The tightness was leaving his chest as what seemed like doors in his

mind sprang open.

“He held me. Mother was at the pianoforte right here.” He framed the space with his hands for Gwendolyn. “She knew something

was wrong. She told him to put me down. She spoke sharply. She could be that way. Not with me but with others. She wanted

to know what Winstead was doing here. She didn’t like him. I could feel her anger. I—I didn’t understand why she was upset.

It was just Winstead.”

Beck walked a pace to the left, then two to the right. He searched the stone floor as if it would help him understand everything.

“What happened next?” Gwendolyn asked.

“He gave me to her. She wrapped her arms around me, but then he put his hands around her throat and began choking her. I thought he was playing at first, and then I realized she was upset. So I yelled for him to let her go. I hit him. I slapped his face. I had to be—what? Four, maybe?” He looked to Gwendolyn. “I have no idea how old I am now, let alone then—but I remember what he did. Gwendolyn, I remember . This is what the dreams were trying to tell me.”

“This doesn’t sound like a dream, Beck. This sounds as if it happened.”

“It did.” He stared at the window and then said, “When I hit him, Winstead looked down at me. I told him to leave my mother be. I was

angry. He had loosened his hold. My actions gave her a chance to bite him so she could break free. I was surprised because

one shouldn’t bite. I had bitten my cousin—” He paused in surprised realization. “I bit Ellisfield and had been punished for

it.”

He moved around to the door, seeing it as it was years ago. His mother had raced to the shelves and started throwing anything

she could get her hands on at Winstead. “She shouted at me to run, to go find help. I didn’t run to the door but out one of

the windows. They were all open. Winstead was a big man. He couldn’t follow me, but he didn’t want me. I heard mother scream.”

His muscles tightened up and down his back. “I should have helped her.” He felt the horror of what he’d failed to do. Tears

welled in his eyes. “Or I should have found someone who could have come to her aid, but I was afraid.”

“What did you do?”

“I hid. I didn’t go for help. He was murdering Mother, and I was shaking so hard my teeth chattered.” He flinched at the realization,

even as he could remember fear paralyzing him. “She was fighting for her life...”

“You were a child,” Gwendolyn said crisply, as if brooking no nonsense.

Beck frowned, puzzled by another hard realization. “I didn’t recognize Winstead when he came to the brothel for me. I didn’t

recall him at all. I feared him, but only because he was big and angry. Gwendolyn, I’ve had no memory of any of this”—he raised

a hand to the right side of his head, to the scar hidden by his hair right above his ear—“until I was wounded.” Carefully

he lowered his hand. “This happened, Gwendolyn. I remember it all now. But how could I have ever forgotten?”

She crossed to him, her voice gentle. “Maybe you didn’t wish to remember it? You were a child .” She said this last as if wishing to impress the knowledge on him. “You didn’t know how to handle it.”

Beck wanted to push the terror of the memories out of his head. At some point, his hat had tumbled to the floor. He hadn’t

realized it when it happened, but now he didn’t bother to pick it up. Instead, he walked out of the room, that room, shocked by what he now knew... and his own guilt. Why had he not helped his mother? Why had he hidden?

And why had it taken a French bullet to his temple to make him remember?

Now that he did, he wished that bullet had done its job.

Gwendolyn followed him, hovering as if worried.

He moved to the front window that overlooked the calm, deep waters of the river. “He strangled her and threw her into the

river.”

“Did you see the murder?”

“No, but I heard her die. I peeked from where I was hiding. I saw him pick her up. Her arms, her legs, her head dangled loose.

Her hair had come undone. She always had her hair pinned. Then I heard the splash. He came back for me. He knew I hadn’t left.

My hiding place was amongst those junipers at the side of the cottage.”

Beck remembered holding his breath, shocked by what Winstead had done. It had been summer. He and his mother came to the cottage

every day. “She didn’t like Colemore. She and my aunt argued all the time. It was about money. My aunt and uncle wanted more.

Mother refused.”

He had liked to escape to the cottage. He enjoyed riding in the yellow-and-white cart, and sometimes his mother let him take

the reins.

Funny that he could recall the arguments. He remembered his mother talking to him, explaining that his uncle and aunt needed

to live within their means. Her English was excellent, but there was a hint of the country of her birth.

Just as Gwendolyn had the smallest lilt of Ireland in her speech—

“Beck?”

He faced her, glad she was here. The memories, as shocking as they were, were slowly settling into mere facts.

“Winstead lifted me out from my hiding spot. He held me by the scruff of the neck, like a cat does her kittens. I was crying. He asked me if I was scared, and I said I wanted my mother.” He looked back at the water. “He carried me to the river’s edge. Mother’s body was in the water, face down. I reached for her, and Winstead let go of me. I dropped into the river. It’s deep there, just off the shore. The boat was tied up, and I tried to reach for it, but my clothes weighed me down. My hand hit the hull. I dug my nails into the boards, trying to find a hold.”

The sensation of drowning fell over him. He’d tried to kick his legs, to stay up. Winstead had leaned down with one meaty

hand as if to push him under...

“He pulled me out.” This image was very clear. “He grabbed me by the arm I’d stretched out to the boat and yanked me up onto

the shore. He was crying. He said he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t murder me. Then he held me and sobbed while I coughed up

water.”

“Did he say what changed his mind?”

Beck shook his head, and then remembered the words. “I’m not a killer.” He scowled. “Except he killed her, didn’t he? I don’t

remember him hesitating in taking her life. And she was beautiful, Gwendolyn. Just like in the portrait.”

“The portrait?”

“The one in the library.” Tears filled his eyes. Not the tears of a frightened boy but the emotions of a man’s sorrow. Grief filled him, not just for her death, but for all that he had lost. His mother hadn’t been a whore. She hadn’t abandoned him. She’d loved him.

Gwendolyn moved to his side. She placed a hand on his arm. He was glad she was there.

“He told me I had to shut my mouth about what I saw. I had to forget everything or he’d throw me back in the river as he had

my mother. He then gave me to a woman who was on her way to London.”

“Did you know the woman?”

Beck shook his head. “He did, but I don’t think I’d ever seen her before. The woman took me to London, but I was unhappy.

I was grieving and scared. She told me I was too much trouble. She passed me on to Madam. I learned then that I had best be

good because nobody cared about me. No one was left.”

It all fell into place. The turbulence inside him that the cottage had created subsided. What had been dark and heavy took

on purpose. He glanced back at the river with its water reflecting the morning sun. There was the dark green of the grass,

the trees, and the sound of horses impatient to return to the stables.

He’d had a mother... and she had loved him very much.

And someone had her murdered.

“I feel as if something exploded inside of my head.” He gave a short laugh. “That is what a French bullet did.” He turned to her and noticed the marks of tears on her face. “Gwendolyn, I didn’t mean to burden

you.”

She swiped at her cheeks with her gloved hand. “What would have happened if you had been here alone and had those memories? I’m glad I was here.”

“You don’t think I’m mad? What if that was all made up?”

“It’s not.”

“I was too young to remember—”

“Beckett,” she said, grabbing his arm. “I remember when I was about the same age and they put me on a ship for Ireland. My

mother was dead. My grandfather had just died. And I was placed in the hands of a woman from our church who was returning

to Britain. I can tell you what the captain looked like, what the weather was for that day, who was at the pier when I left,

what we ate for meals... it is all burned into my memory because it was that important. I was leaving the only home I knew.

I felt lost and frightened, and I will never forget.”

“But I did.”

“No, your mind protected you. It helped you survive. I was traveling toward a family who cared for me. You had nothing.”

He shook his head. “What would have happened if I had run for help...?”

“This Winstead would have caught up with you and wrung your neck to protect himself,” she answered briskly. “The question

is, did he act on his own? You said he was the marquess’s man?”

“I don’t believe the marquess is behind this. After all, at some point, he learned I was alive and sent me to school—”

He broke off, struck by a new realization.

“What?” Gwendolyn asked.

“The current Lord Middlebury is not my father. I’m not a bastard.” This thought was truly novel. He slowly lowered himself to the nearest chair as the implications began to sink in.

Gwendolyn pulled a chair around to sit next to him. She appeared as stunned as he was.

She broke the silence first. “You are the true Marquess of Middlebury. The title was stolen from you.”

This was almost too much for Beck to grasp after years of shame, of feeling unwanted.

Another memory stirred. There had been a portrait in the main house. It was in one of the family rooms. His mother would point

out his father. He was so very proud of his son.

She’d say that to him.

His son... the heir.

Beck shook his head. It was too much. “I’m not certain. What if the murder is my mind playing tricks with me? Or the head

wound has me mixed up inside my brain?”

“What we need is confirmation,” she agreed. “I don’t believe we can ask Lord and Lady Middlebury for this information. Because

if your memories are correct, one or both plotted a murder.”

“But why had they kept me alive? Why did Lord Middlebury send Winstead to put me in a school?”

“Those are excellent questions,” she said. “Especially since everyone thought you were dead.” She sat a moment and then said,

“You also are not Beckett Steele. You have another name.”

He did. Beck searched his mind. “I don’t remember it. I also don’t think I can ask the marquess or anyone at the house party what it is. In fact, we need to keep my identity a secret more than before.”

“Lord Ellisfield referred to his cousin as Robbie.”

Beck scowled, not liking the sound of it. The name didn’t even feel familiar to him... or did it?

Gwendolyn rose to her feet. “There is a place where we can find answers. I believe we need a trip to St. Albion’s.”

“St. Albion’s?”

“It is the village church. One of my dinner companions last night, Reverend Denburn, is the rector there. I’m certain your

birth was recorded in the church register. Shall we go? It can’t be far.” She started moving to the door.

Beck came to his feet. “I believe I should see you back to the house. I don’t want you involved in this.”

“Too late, Beckett,” she replied. “I already am involved. I’m half in love with you, remember? Now, are you coming, or do

I need to go by myself? I’m curious even if you aren’t.”

She marched out the door, ready to do battle—and that was when he fell in love.

It had been coming. It had hovered around him, and he’d kept pushing it away. Ignoring it, calling it by another name—respect,

attraction, lust. It was the reason he’d boldly promised to protect her reputation with his name if it came to that.

But now, he fell into “it,” shoving reservations and excuses aside.

He loved Gwendolyn Lanscarr. And he found the realization both illuminating and terrifying.

The breadth of what he felt for Gwendolyn shook him to his core.

Had he warned Gwendolyn off because he didn’t want her? Nothing could be further from the truth. She had been right in her

claim. There had been a connection between them from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her in that Dublin gaming hell.

And his fascination had grown, even when he didn’t wish to admit it. He’d told himself it was because he’d been rejected by

a woman once, and he did not wish to experience that humiliation again.

Except he knew Gwendolyn’s heart, her courage, her intelligence. Her honesty. She didn’t act thoughtlessly.

She met him as an equal, as if her feelings, her desires... her opinion mattered because he was important to her . He understood that now. Never once had she wavered in her admiration of him... even when he hadn’t admired himself.

And there wasn’t a moment when he’d not been aware of her—the way she tilted her head up to listen to him, the light in her

eyes when he approached, her empathy when memory overtook his sanity. She’d been right there beside him. She’d not questioned

his quest to find his mother or the horror of what he said had happened.

And if a man didn’t value such a woman, if he didn’t open his heart to her, then he was a bloody fool.

Beck was no fool.

He rushed for the door. She was checking the gray’s girth. He was struck anew by her grace, her beauty, but he’d known beautiful women, and none of them had Gwendolyn’s strength of character.

She was a cut above. She was unique. Precious. His.

Beck moved down the steps to her.

“You don’t believe we will be too early to call on St. Albion’s—” she said as if she thought he hadn’t left the cottage yet.

Then, realizing he was there, that he stood close, she turned in surprise—and that is when Beck swept her up in his arms and

kissed her.