No poet, no writer could have prepared Gwendolyn for what this kiss meant. If she hadn’t been in love with him before, she would have tumbled into it now. Who knew that patience in a gentleman was so attractive?
And while Beckett might deny being in love with her, this kiss said different.
An impatient horse nickered.
The kiss broke, but Beckett still held her tight.
“Gwendolyn.” His voice was hoarse, as if he struggled with himself.
She held up a stern finger. “If you dare to say I am too good for you—” she threatened.
His lips twisted ruefully as if that was exactly what he’d been about to say. “You’ll what?”
“I shall stomp on the toe of your boot so hard you will hobble around for days. Then every time you take a step, you’ll think of me and how I don’t appreciate nonsense.” She paused. “Don’t spoil what this is,” she whispered.
Beckett nodded. He lifted her hand and pressed his lips against her gloved fingers. Heat flew through the leather, up her arm, right to her heart.
“When this is done,” he promised. “When we have all the answers, we’ll talk.”
She nodded, accepting his plan. “Then let us hurry.”
He helped her mount before swinging up into his own saddle. They followed the cart path and came to the road that led through the estate. Some stable lads were exercising their horses. Beck stopped them and asked if this was the direction to the village.
They nodded and told him it was some two miles down the way, not a far distance. Beck and Gwendolyn set off at a trot.
Gwendolyn suspected it was close to half past nine when they reached the village outskirts. It was built around a Norman church, St. Albion’s. The church was a small one and relatively unremarkable.
They dismounted and tied their horses to apost, then walked up the stone pathway through the graves buried in the churchyard. The narrow front door was open.
Taking Gwendolyn’s hand, Beckett led her into the church. Their footsteps echoed against the stones. The nave was cool and dark. A candle had been lit as if for prayers, but there was no movement, no sign of anyone.
“Hello?” he called.
Silence.
Beckett frowned. “Someone must be here.” He went outside. Gwendolyn followed but stayed in the doorway. From around the corner of the building, she heard Beckett speaking to another man. A beat later, he and a short man with a bald pate and dressed in the clothes of a workman came walking toward her.
“This is Mr. Tucker,” Beckett said. “He is the warden. This is Miss Lanscarr.”
Mr. Tucker blushed when Gwendolyn smiled at him and bobbed a bow. She was a good four inches taller than he was. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tucker.”
“My pleasure, my pleasure,” the man mumbled. He kept his head ducked as if too shy to look up at Gwendolyn.
Beckett took charge. “We are interested in your church registry of births and deaths.”
“You mean the parish record. Yes, it is over here.” Mr. Tucker walked to the front of the church where, off to the side, a stone shelf had been built into the wall. The closed ledger sat on it. “Is there anything in particular you would like to see?”
Beckett hesitated, and she understood. They knew the information they wanted, but how to find it? What date were they looking for? He had told her he did not know his exact age.
“We will be looking for a range of dates,” she said. “We are searching for information on Mr. Curran’s mother.” This was actually true. “We aren’t certain of the details.” Another truth.
“Well, you can look through here.” He opened the registry. “We have listings back to the early 1700s. Births and deaths are in the front. Christenings have a section in the back. If you need an earlier date, Reverend Denburn has that registry in his home.”
“This should do,” Beckett answered.
“Very well. I am trimming around the headstones. I like to keep them neat. Please let me know when you are done.”
“Thank you,” Beckett said, and Mr. Tucker returned to his task.
