Beck nodded. “When he left me at Faircote, he said that if he ever heard Middlebury’s name pass my lips, he would cut my tongue out. I believed him.”
“But you have said his name freely just now.”
“Because he is dead. I have no fear of him.”
“How did he die?”
Beck wasn’t about to confess he’d killed him. He kept silent.
Gwendolyn waited, watching him as if she could stare him into answering.
She couldn’t.
Finally, she gave a small huff of annoyance before asking, “You never met your father?”
This he could answer, although he secretly enjoyed his small victory. “Never. I lived at the school, stayed at the school, and then went off into the military.” He shrugged. “I didn’t have a desire to meet him either.”
“Because of what this Winstead said?”
“I’m not fond of people who want to cut out my tongue.”
She seemed to actually consider this, and then admitted, “I wouldn’t be either.”
“I’m not surprised,” he murmured.
Her grin was quick. Beck liked watching her eyes sparkle with humor.
Then she sobered. “Why do you wish to confront the marquess now after all of these years?”
“My desire isnotto confront him.”
“Then why infiltrate his home? I mean, you are going under a different name.”
“I believe it safest.”
“And your purpose?”
“I suffered a head injury at the Battle of the Nive.” He didn’t mention he was cited for valor, that his actions had helped to stave off Soult’s men until the Peninsula army could regroup. “The injury led to—” He paused, then said, “Dreams.” Actually, it felt like madness. “Dreams” was a kind way of describing them.
Her expression has softened as if she understood what he had not said. “Go on,” she prompted. “We will not speak of any of this beyond the confines of this coach. Tell me of the dreams.”
Beck shifted his weight. How to explain? “Theymaybe memories,” he said. “I’m not certain. The dream always starts with a beautiful woman, a singing woman. Her song makes me happy.” He looked to Gwendolyn for understanding. “I feel as if I belong with her.”
She nodded.
“But then things change,” he said. “The song turns to screams. I try to reach her. I want to help her, but I can’t, and I’m afraid. Petrified with fear, actually. I keep calling for help, but no one hears me. And someplace in there is Middlebury... or at least a man. I don’t know if it is him.”
“Do you still have these dreams?”
“Not as often once I made up my mind to confront the marquess. It is as if the dream was prodding me on the path I should take.” The dream had also pushed him further into being alone.
Gwendolyn spoke. “I understand the desire to know one’s parent and one’s history. I was about the same age you were when I was sent from the only home I’d known in Barbados to my father in Ireland. My mother had been dead a year or so, and I had dreams, too. I still do. I hardly remember her, but sometimes, I dream that she watches over me. As for families, they are rarely what we expect them to be if we could do the choosing.”
“I’m not looking for a family.”
“Aren’t you? Do you not think the woman in the dream could be your mother? What if she needs you? What if her screams are a warning?”
“What if it is foolishness caused by almost having my head shot off?”
