They found the gravestone marking the final resting place of Josephine Sellar near the wall along the river path. It was plain and similar to a score of others around it, but Wynne watched as Jo studied the markings. A name. A birth. A death.

He wondered what poor soul had been buried there in the place of her mother, and as they stood there, Jo murmured a quiet prayer. As he listened, the thought crossed his mind that someone else may have gone on living, never knowing what had become of their daughter or sister or wife . . . or mother.

In the curate’s cottage, Jo had not mentioned what she suspected to be her connection with the Sellar family. When she said nothing to the old gentleman, Wynne had followed her lead and remained silent. He knew as it stood, she had no proof of anything, only a handful of drawings and a series of possible coincidences. Still, he guessed that Mr. Sellar knew the truth.

Back in the village, she visited with Mrs. Clark while Wynne searched out the curate and compensated him for his time and efforts.

They left Garloch at noon and for a long time Jo sat quietly beside him, her head resting against his shoulder and their fingers entwined. He knew she had a great deal to think about. This journey had been an emotional whirlwind, and they both were feeling its profound effect.

“Did Mrs. Clark tell you more?” he asked. “Anything that you didn’t know?”

“She told me she was living in the village at the time of the flood. She was newly married then,” Jo told him. “It was an awful time, she said. The town was full of folk passing through, seeking some place after being turned out of their homes by the landlords. There was a large encampment along the river. As Mr. Kealy told us, when the flood came, so many people were caught in it and carried off by the waters. It took weeks to find some of them and many were beyond recognition. Families were forced to guess at the identities of the bodies.”

“That doesn’t excuse Graham’s false identification of your mother.”

“No, it doesn’t. Nothing does,” she said, her words tinged with anger. “My mother was his ward. She was his kin, his own sister’s daughter. But he failed her. Perhaps worse than failed her. When she showed up a month later in the Borders, she was frightened. She would not even tell anyone the name of her family in the Highlands. She gave me to a stranger rather than asking her to send me back to her own people.”

Pregnant and alone. Even now, debilitated by a head injury, Charles Barton appeared to care deeply for the young woman he’d lost. But from what Wynne knew of the older man’s history, during that time he’d had a commission in the navy. Questions rose in his mind as to the nature of Barton’s relationship with Josephine Sellar. More to the point, who fathered the woman sitting beside him now? The woman he loved.

“Last week, Graham and Mrs. Barton saw me in that ward, and they both denied any kinship vehemently. Why?” she asked, frustration and ire evident in her voice. “All they needed to say was the same thing I heard from Mrs. Clark and Mr. Seller—that I resemble someone they’d once known. It would have been enough to put me off and bury the truth. So why reject me?”

Because they had something to hide, Wynne thought.

“Men do vile things for money,” he replied. “Graham saw to it years ago that Josephine Sellar was declared dead. In doing so, he took possession of her property and sold it. Right now, he controls the estate at Tilmory Castle. With Charles Barton in an asylum—or dead, as he nearly was when they dumped him at the Abbey—Graham continues to reap the benefits. And then you arrive. What if Charles and Josephine were more than cousins? They were both young when she became his father’s ward. We have no proof that they were married, but what if they were and Graham knows it? You would be the heir to everything.”

“We have no proof of anything,” she said, not denying his assertion. “But what man draws the same woman’s face, day after day after day?”

A man in love, Wynne thought. “According to Mr. Sellar back in Garloch, the farm was to be inherited by your mother. The estate was provisioned to allow for a female heir. Perhaps the same condition exists for Tilmory Castle. Why would Graham worry unless he thought you would inherit once Charles is gone? He has a great deal to lose unless you go back to your life in the south.”

“But I don’t care about Tilmory Castle!” Jo burst out. “Or the money, or any of that. I . . . I’m only trying to find out the truth of what happened to my mother.”

Wynne drew Jo closer to his chest and pressed a kiss on her brow. “I know that, but Graham doesn’t. And I don’t think he’d believe you if you told him.”

They rode in silence for a few moments until she spoke, calm again. “You believe it’s a possibility that Charles Barton and my mother were married.”

“We found nothing in Garloch, but if she married in any of these parishes, we might find some record of it in the offices of the bishop in Aberdeen.”

“Married or not, my mother suffered,” she said fretfully. “What would drive her to leave the Highlands?”

“I think Graham and Mrs. Barton need to answer that. She was in their care. But Charles Barton may know something, as well, if he ever improves enough to share it.”

She nestled closer and tucked her head beneath his chin. “Charles Barton. Could he really be my father? And will I ever know for certain?”

Jo’s hand wandered innocently down the front of his coat, and his loins tightened.

“Whatever answers present themselves, you will learn them with me at your side. For that is where I vow to remain . . . except at this particular moment.”

He could wait no longer. Wynne moved swiftly to the seat across from her.

Yesterday, Jo agreed to marry him. Last night, overwhelming passion consumed them. Neither had slept at all. Every time they thought themselves satisfied and spent, it took only a look, a caress, and they were young lovers once again.

She looked at him questioningly.

“Which hand?” he asked, holding out two closed fists.

* * *

Jo was satisfied with what they’d discovered about her mother at Garloch, but she was also disheartened at the lack of prospects for learning anything else. Wynne read her thoughts. He knew what she was feeling. And here he was, trying to cheer her up.

“What are you doing, Captain Melfort?” she asked, smiling.

“Which hand?”

“If you intend to distract me, you’ve already succeeded,” she said, looking into his handsome face.

“Don’t be a coward, Lady Pennington. Pick one.”

Jo traveled back in time to a warm evening in London. To the night they met.

“You’re being more formal than the last time, Captain,” she drawled, biting her lip as she studied her options. “The right hand.”

As she’d expected, it was empty. When he extended the left hand in her direction, she saw the right move covertly into the pocket of his coat. This was preposterous, but suddenly she felt young and playful.

“What are you hiding in there?” she cried out, throwing herself into his arms and trying to dig her own hand into his pocket.

“Lady Jo, your impatience astounds me.”

“I’m glad.” She laughed.

“And I’m shocked by your forwardness.”

“Which delights me even more.”

Smiling, he gathered her firmly onto his lap, and she met his gaze, reveling in the heat and masculinity he exuded. She wanted him. She wanted to make love to him right now in this carriage. And from what she felt through the layers of their clothing, he wanted it too.

“After,” he said, reading her mind. He laid his right fist on her lap. “Which hand?”

If he had a rosebud in there, she thought, he was truly a magician. Jo sighed, turned the hand over, and pried open his fingers. There in his palm, an intricately designed gold band gleamed. She looked at him perplexed, but for only a moment. Then her heart soared as she slipped it on.

“I was hoping you’d allow me to put this on your finger when we marry for the first time at the church in Rayneford. The vicar will be officiating.”

“Marry for the first time?” she asked, mystified. They’d already spoken of going to Baronsford, having Wynne’s family meet the Penningtons, and then planning their wedding. She reminded him of that now.

He shook his head. “That will be our second wedding. And we could have a third or fourth as well, if you want,” he told her. “After last night, it became clear to me that there’ll be no waiting. No long engagement. I’m yours as you’re mine. In fact, you told me yourself last night that your younger brother, Gregory, and his wife were wed twice. Do you think I would have you slighted in any way?”

“You’re worrying about my reputation,” she said, feeling her love for this man rise ever higher.

He held her gaze. “I love you, Jo. And I’ll be dashed if I allow anything to jeopardize our future together. Malicious talk, gossip, and lies will never touch us again. We shall forge a bond between us that the world will look on with awe. But if something were to happen to me today, before we marry, I want you—”

She put her fingers to Wynne’s lips. She’d die if something were to happen to him. And she understood what he was saying. After what they’d learned about her mother’s life, she shared his resolve about the future.

“And I love you, Wynne,” she whispered. “We’ll marry twice, but this is the only ring I’ll ever wear.”

* * *

The early afternoon sun slanted through the small window, and the older man’s eyes were fixed on the angular ray of light on the dusty oak floor of the upstairs room in Knockburn Hall.

“Everything will work out, Mr. Barton,” Cuffe told him reassuringly. “The captain is on his way back.”

They were supposed to come last night, he thought. He had no doubt they’d be back today.

He got up and went to a south-facing window. When they first got here, he’d seen men in the distance searching the fields. But he saw no sign of them now.

No one was happy to have the Bartons show up at the Abbey unannounced. Cuffe wondered if the doctor knew his patient was here. Perhaps he even approved. In any event, the men never came close to the Hall. They never got the dogs out of the kennels.

The three boys Cuffe approached wouldn’t say a word. They were to get a shilling apiece from him for their part in this. In the stables he told them he needed their help. Mr. Barton was at the pond with an attendant. They’d fallen on the man like highwaymen and taken him unawares. With a satchel thrown over his head, they’d gagged him, bound him, and dragged him back to the barn while Cuffe led the patient away to Knockburn Hall.

It had taken them a long while to reach their hiding place. The older man had grown winded quickly and needed to sit and rest several times. But he was good about following directions. Cuffe looked across the room at him now.

“We’ll be all right. You’ll be safe here,” he said. Mr. Barton was sitting where Cuffe had put him when they arrived, in the niche of window near the fireplace. “I couldn’t let them take you. Not after I heard them talking. That other asylum, the one in Aberdeen, it’s a bad one. I’ve seen people in the islands who suffered. Hurt for no reason. It’s not right. Spinning and beatings. Putting you in cold water. The captain wouldn’t have let it happen.”

The patient said nothing, and Cuffe wasn’t sure if he understood a word of what was said to him. His eyes remained locked on the rectangle of light on the floor.

“The captain will be back today,” he repeated. “We’re safe here. You and I both. Would you care to take a nap? Make the time pass quicker.”

He wished Mr. Barton would sleep a little. He usually did at this time of day, but the man made no move to lie down.

It was odd to carry on a one-sided conversation. He thought about when he was doing this to the captain. Not answering. Not looking at him. Acting like he didn’t exist, even when the captain was being good to him. Much like Mr. Barton was doing to him now.

Cuffe thought guiltily how much trouble he’d been to his father. His father.

“You’ve probably been wondering why no one has found us,” he said. “I come from Jamaica, you know. I’m a Maroon and we live out where no one can catch us. Not even the soldiers.”

He looked out the window again.

“You know the captain. He’s Dr. McKendry’s partner at the Abbey. The governor. But before that he commanded warships. He’s sailed every ocean. Fought pirates and slavers and Americans. And the French. He’s smart as they come. He’ll know what we should do.”

He’d come soon. And he’d know where they were hiding. Cuffe crossed the room and sat against a wall near the older man.

“My father—the captain, I mean—he can fix anything. Everyone depends on him, even Dr. McKendry. They wouldn’t have tried to take you if he were at the Abbey today. But he’ll be here soon. We’ll be all right.”

Cuffe wished he were here now. His father.

On Thursday they’d ridden together to the village. He liked how the captain had let him choose a horse as his own. And how he’d gone with him to bring food for the old widow in the run-down cottage at the end of the lane. And how the captain came to his room on Friday night and talked to him about Lady Jo.

The captain . . . his father. And perhaps Lady Jo to make a new family. Maybe it wouldn’t be bad to grow up in Scotland.

The touch on his arm startled Cuffe. He turned to see the old man sitting beside him. The eyes were alert, watching him.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Barton?”

“Where is Jo?”