Page 62 of It Happened in the Highlands
“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.
