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Gwendolyn woke the next morning to an empty bed. She sat up, confused. She’d slept deeply.
The room had one narrow window close to the ceiling. Judging by the angle of the light, the day was quite advanced.
Where was Beckett?
The sheets smelled of him. Of them.
From the other room, the inn’s kitchen, she smelled roasting meat. She didn’t hear voices but she knew she was not alone.
She stood, wrapping the counterpane around her body. Her gaze fell on the bed. There was a stain on the sheets. The proof
of her virginity.
Gwendolyn stared at it, thinking it should mean something more. She’d finally gone through this passage of womanhood. And
while the stain concerned her because she was conscious of her host’s bedclothes, she had no regrets.
Or expectations, she realized as she noticed a peg in the wall with his jacket, much the worse for wear, hanging upon it.
There was a light knock on the door, just a scratch really. It opened, and Beckett, dressed in shirt, breeches, and boots, looked in.
He smiled when he found her awake and entered, closing the door behind him. His blue eyes seemed to shine. There was tenderness
to him. He crossed to her and let his fingers comb the tangle of her hair, pushing it over her shoulder.
“How are you?” he asked with genuine concern.
She shot a pointed look to the stain.
His lips twisted into a rueful but unrepentant smile. “Don’t be embarrassed. I shall take care of it.”
Of course he would. He’d always take care of her.
She hooked her hand around his neck. The curled edges of his hair brushed the backs of her fingers as she kissed him. He was
her family now. There was nothing Gwendolyn wouldn’t have done for her sisters, for her brothers in marriage, and for Tweedie,
Dara and Elise’s great-aunt.
However, she belonged with Beckett.
The kiss deepened. The counterpane dropped between them.
Later, lying in bed together, her head resting on her hand on his chest, Gwendolyn looked up at him. “You seem lost in thought.
What are you thinking?”
He stretched as if her question nudged him out of his thoughts. He gave her a quick smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes.
“The whist tournament. Not having it didn’t make sense. Unless Lady Middlebury wished to punish Lady Orpington for bringing
me to Colemore. And Lady Middlebury knew in enough time to arrange for Lady Rabron to be in attendance.”
“But why? Even if she knew you weren’t Mr. Curran, why bring someone from your past?”
“To encourage me to leave... to warn me that the ruse was known.”
“So she wanted you to leave. Well, we were going to do so until she changed her mind about the whist tournament.”
“At some point, she changed her mind about what she wished to do. Agreeing to whist was a way of keeping us there. She knew
Lady Orpington wouldn’t leave if she had a chance for revenge.”
“Lady Middlebury’s mind was not on the game. She was very distracted.” Gwendolyn thought a moment and then said, “Neither
was Lady Orpington’s. Do you believe she betrayed you? Could she have been feeling guilty?”
“I don’t know. She always claimed she and the marchioness were childhood friends. I’m usually a better judge of character.
But I do know that deciding to play whist was a way of keeping us at Colemore so Lady Middlebury could do away with us once
and for all.”
“Instead, we have learned the truth. Will you change your name and become Robert?”
“It doesn’t sound right to me.”
“Or me.” She liked the name Beckett. “London is full of Roberts.” She paused then asked, “What of Chaytor?”
“Next you will ask me if I plan on being the marquess.”
Gwendolyn sat up. He followed suit, his back against the wall behind the bed. “You very well could be,” she said seriously.
He winced at her words.
She understood. “That doesn’t make you comfortable, does it?”
Beckett pulled a strand of her hair through his fingers. He liked touching her, she realized. She liked his touch.
Then he said, “It is possible that all of this has a reasonable explanation.”
“And that Lady Middlebury wished to ship you away to the other side of the world out of the kindness of her heart. She knew
you had a desire to see a penal colony.”
He shook his head with a quiet laugh at her sarcasm. “Does it make a difference to you how all of this plays out? Whether
or not I am the marquess?”
She reached for his hand, lacing her fingers with his. “I’m surprised you ask,” she said.
“I don’t trust easily, Gwendolyn, let alone ‘love.’ It is a new word for me. And yet, you have both my trust and my love.”
“And I value those gifts. I will never abuse them. I love you, Beckett, whomever you may be.”
He drew her to him. She rested her head on his chest, listening to the beat of his heart.
“I can’t prove I was the marquess,” he said quietly. “Winstead is dead.”
This was news to her. She pushed away from him. “How do you know he is dead?”
“He attempted to murder me in London. It had not been my intention to kill him, but it was in my defense.”
A thought struck Gwendolyn. “If she attempted murder once, why did she decide to let you live? Why go to the trouble of transport?”
“That is what I don’t understand,” he confessed. “It is as if she is at cross-purposes.”
“Two different aims,” Gwendolyn agreed.
“Two different people?” he suggested.
They exchanged glances as the possibility of his suggestion took shape. “Who could be her accomplice?” Gwendolyn wondered.
“The marquess? Her son? Lady Orpington? The place could be crawling with murderous characters.”
He grinned at her. “You say that with such delight.”
“I told you I could be helpful with your investigation,” she reminded him confidently.
“And you have been.” He leaned over to kiss her brow. Outside the door of their haven, she heard voices. It was the world.
She wasn’t ready to face it. He’d heard them, too, because he said, “But now, we need to dress. There is work to be done.”
She nodded. “You are right. We must return to Colemore.” She started from the bed, but Beckett caught her wrist. She paused,
one foot on the floor.
He met her eye. “Gwendolyn, I’ll return to Colemore. I’m sending you back to London.”
“Why?”
“I want you safe.”
“I am safe.” She stood. “I’m with you.”
“And I almost had you transported to Australia. We were lucky to escape.”
“Because I was there,” she pointed out. “Because I helped you.”
“If anything happened to you, your sisters would flay me alive.” He put his legs over the edge of the bed and reached for
his breeches on the floor. “Nor would I be able to live with myself.”
She pushed her heavy hair back over her shoulders. “You need my help. You are outnumbered at Colemore.”
“Not completely.” He had risen and begun fastening his buttons. “I have a man there. I’ve already sent a messenger. He’ll
be ready.” He picked up his shirt from the floor and started sorting it to put over his head. She grabbed ahold of the garment
before he could.
“Will you stop?” she demanded. “You and one man can’t go against all the family and servants of Colemore.”
“We can. Wagner and I are wily. We will be fine. What I don’t need is you as a distraction. They’ve already used you against
me. We are lucky to have escaped.” He released his hold on her hand and tugged his shirt over his head.
Gwendolyn frowned, aware that he was right. They had trapped him using her.
He began putting on his boots.
She pictured the three graves in St. Albion’s cemetery. Her imagination quickly pictured the small one being expanded to contain
him. Her chest tightened.
Gwendolyn sat next to him, heedless of her nakedness in the face of his dressing. “Beckett, I won’t go to London. I’ll stay here and not interfere. It will be hard. I’ll be pacing the floor, but I need to be close in case—” She stopped. She’d been about to push again that he might require her assistance, and she knew he would disagree.
He shifted his attention to her. His leather-covered thigh rested along her naked one. “I want you out of this.” He wasn’t
angry, just firm. “I must handle this myself, Gwendolyn.”
“What if they discover you are on the estate?”
“They will know I’m there. I sent a message requesting a meeting.”
Gwendolyn rocked back. “Why would you do that? If you can’t prove the title was robbed from you, and you don’t sound as if
you want it—”
He nodded. “I don’t need them or their money.”
“—then why are you telling them you are coming? Why even return?”
“For justice, Gwendolyn. I want the truth, whether I take action or not. We won’t be safe until it is laid to rest. If what we suspect is true, that they have murdered for the title and all that it
entails, they will do anything to keep power. They already have.”
He was right.
She rose and reached for her dress and petticoats. They were folded on the footrail. Beckett must have put them there. “I
don’t want to be shuffled back to London.” She faced him. “I’m not afraid to face them with you, Beckett.”
“I know. However, I need to know you are safe. I won’t let harm come to you, and they know that.” His expression was bleak. She was not going to change his mind. She shouldn’t because he was right. Her presence would in terfere. That didn’t mean she was happy about leaving.
“You are a stubborn, stubborn man.”
“Then we are well-matched.”
She almost laughed, but the sound couldn’t slip past the sudden tightness in her throat. If she was completely honest, she
did fear that Beckett might forget he loved her. That what they shared was merely one bubble in time, and he’d move on. Like her father had.
The thought startled her. She tried to push it away, but it returned, stronger than before.
John Lanscarr had always been an absent father. He would sweep into his daughters’ lives with presents and a smidgeon of attention
before just as quickly leaving again. She and her sisters had lived for those visits. They had believed they were a sign that
their father did care for his motherless daughters.
But in the end, they had learned he didn’t. It was that simple. He had other pursuits, another family, and daughters were
unimportant.
At the time of this revelation, Gwendolyn had thought she’d handled it all very well. She’d accepted the facts and carried
on... but that wasn’t exactly true. Learning that he had just abandoned them had been one more betrayal in a lifetime of
them. Perhaps his absence was the reason she’d kept her distance from men in general—until Beckett. The truth was, trust wasn’t
easy for her either.
His brows came together. He seemed to be trying to read her mind. “I will come—” he started.
Gwendolyn stopped him, raising a hand to cut him off. “Don’t. No promises.” She looked at the bunched material of her clothing she held, preparing to dress. If something happened to him... ?
But that was out of her control. She had to let him be the man he was.
“I have faith in you, Beckett Steele. I’m not certain even a bullet could stop you.”
“Some have tried.” He tapped his head where a French bullet had found him.
“Is that supposed to be humorous?” Her words came out sharper than she’d intended. Her impulse was to reach for him, to fall
into his arms and fiercely hold him close. Instead, she began dressing.
She didn’t know what she would do if the Middleburys harmed him. There was no other for her, and there never would be. She felt a strange kinship
with her mother, who had died waiting for her love to return. Oh, yes, John Lanscarr had fobbed her off as well. However,
Beckett was a far better man than her gambler father.
“Gwendolyn?”
She didn’t answer, keeping her back to him. What more could be said? She tied the tapes of her petticoats.
He waited a moment and then left the room to fetch fresh water. Without comment, she used it to do what she could to make
herself presentable. She braided her hair and fashioned it into a knot at the nape of her neck. There was no piece of glass
to check her appearance.
Finally she made herself face him. “You ask for me to believe in you, to do as you ask.”
“I do.”
She hesitated, not liking the choices. “Fine. I’ll leave. But don’t you dare let them kill you.”
“They won’t.”
She pressed her lips together, biting back any retort. Her gaze fell on where his finely tailored riding jacket was torn at
the shoulder seams. The material was the worse for wear after the previous night’s adventures. She could make him a bit more
presentable. “Ask Mr. Stimson for a needle and thread and I’ll repair your jacket.”
“We don’t have the time,” Beckett answered.
“It won’t take me three minutes. Besides, do you have my transport to London arranged?”
He released his frustration in a heavy sigh. “Yes, a vehicle is waiting.”
“Of course you planned ahead. You are Beckett Steele.” She didn’t mean to sound bitter, so she held up three fingers. “Three
minutes,” she promised.
Beckett removed his jacket. He handed it to her and left the room. He returned shortly with thread and a needle. The thread
color didn’t match the jacket, but beggars could not be choosers. She knew how to hide stitches.
Gwendolyn set to work mending the jacket while he went off to see to other matters. This was something he would let her do, and it seemed insignificant considering what he faced. As she sewed, she thought of the things she should tell him. For one, Dara would be furious if she returned without a proper chaperone.
Then again, both of her sisters would be thankful to know that he was removing Gwendolyn from a dangerous situation.
Beckett appeared in the doorway just as she’d finished. She offered his jacket. He put it on. “Well done,” he said.
She nodded. His praise would have mattered more if he wasn’t sending her away. She looked up at him. “I’d still feel better
if I was there to protect you.”
Beckett’s smile was gentle, his gaze full of love. “I know. Now come, Gwendolyn.”
She glanced around the room that for a heartbeat of time had been heaven. She gave him her hand.
In the kitchen, old Charles was busy at work. However, he had prepared bread and ham wrapped in a clean rag along with a jug
of sweet cider for her trip.
There was a group of women in the main room gossiping around a table as she and Beckett left. Mr. Stimson called out his farewell.
The day was remarkably clear after last night’s rain. Gwendolyn was charmed at how quaint the village was. The cottages were
small but the gardens very tidy. They had been fortunate in stumbling into it last night.
A ramshackle post chaise stood waiting for her. The horse was not slick or particularly well fed. The postillion appeared
to be a farmer’s lad.
“I’m sorry. This is the best I could manage,” Beckett said.
“It’s fine,” Gwendolyn said. She ran a hand over the repair seam at one shoulder of his jacket. His neckcloth had disappeared at some point during their adventure. “Please—” She paused, almost overcome. She forced herself to finish. “Take care.”
“I will.” He caught her gloveless hand and gave it a kiss. “This will be over soon. I will come as soon as I’m able to your
sister’s house.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
He gathered her in his arms and swept her into a deep, promising kiss. And she didn’t care who saw them.
Beckett helped her into the vehicle. “Have faith, Gwendolyn.”
She nodded, and then, because protracted goodbyes would only make her seem needy and burdensome, she sat back on the hard,
cracked leather bench of the coach.
The postillion hopped on the horse. “Keep the shades down,” Beckett warned her.
“There won’t be any dust after last night’s rain,” she argued. Besides, this vehicle didn’t have anything as fine as shades.
Instead, the windows were covered with an unrolled flap of leather. It would make the inside of the coach as dark as Hades...
something that might fit her mood.
He shook his head, but he was smiling. She waved an assurance, and she and the driver left.
They were only three hours from London. Perhaps four. The trip with Lady Orpington had seemed forever because they’d had to stop for Magpie. Gwendolyn didn’t wish to stop. She wanted to curl into a ball and let time speed by until Beckett came for her.
She ate the sandwich. She was actually very hungry. She even drank most of the cider.
To her frustration, with a single horse drawing the vehicle, they did not travel fast, and the driver was not in a hurry.
At some point, she dozed. She’d agreed to keep the flaps drawn as Beckett had asked, and so she did. However, not having open
windows meant the post chaise was a touch too warm. Between the closeness and not having much sleep, a nap was an easy choice.
She came awake to find the vehicle had stopped moving. She heard male voices. She had thought she was dreaming them.
Gwendolyn wasn’t.
She peeked out around the leather shade. Two armed riders had stopped her carriage. One was giving the driver a coin while
another moved toward her door.
And Gwendolyn knew she was about to be kidnapped again. She reached for the door on the opposite side of the post chaise.
It jerked open on its own.
Standing there in riding clothes was the Middlebury butler. She had to think to remember his name. Nathaniel.
“Please come with us, Miss Lanscarr,” he said.