“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 believein 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. Heknew.
“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 heardhersay 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...shewas 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-coveredwindows. 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.”
