She didn’t answer. She didn’t even look at him. Her gaze was fixed on his mother’s headstone. “The angel has arrived,” she said, moving past him to stare up at the sculpted face. “Just like Mama said.”
Daniel opened his mouth to speak, but words failed him as he tried to make sense of her words. He struggled to think straight due to the shock, and pleasure, of seeing Miriam Sinclair again. At the same time, a spark of fury lit a fire in his veins as he studied the girl more closely. Her appearance was unkempt and bedraggled, and not just a result of the rain dripping from the ends of her hair and off her chin. Where was her bonnet? Where was her coat?And what the bloody hell are those marks on her face?Two of them, they looked like faded bruises, one on her cheek and one on the line of her jaw. Bruises caused by what?
Daniel could hardly bear to confront his suspicions. Gritting his teeth, he glanced down, seeking calm, his gaze drawn to a cloth bag laying on the ground nearby. The evidence seemed to tell the story of a girl on the run, driven from her home by fear and desperation. Either that, or she had been cast out.
A gasp from Miss Sinclair drew his attention. “Alice,” she said, staring at the inscription on the base of the angel. “You’re hismother?”
“Miss Sinclair, look at me, please.” Daniel placed his hand on her back and cursed inwardly when she flinched. “Forgive me,” he said, as she turned to him. “I didn’t mean to frighten…”
And there it was. His dream realized in almost every detail. The unknown woman, hair loosely tied back, a pale face set with wide dark eyes, her pleas for his protection unspoken, yet clearly heard. There were a few differences. First, there had been no rain in his dream, and second, there had been no marks on the woman’s face. Frowning, he touched the faded bruise on Miss Sinclair’s cheek. “Who did this to you?”
Her gaze remained locked with his. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she replied, and glanced over her shoulder at the angel. “Did you do this, Mr. Barton? Is it your work?”
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s magnificent.”
“Thank you.”
“And was it you who put those flowers on Mama’s grave?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I am grateful to you,” she replied. “I’m so glad you’re here, sir. There are things I must tell you. Things about you and me. Aboutus.”
Daniel heard the expectation in her voice, as if she knew of his dreams and her part in them. “Things aboutus?”
“Yes.” She bent to retrieve the cloth bag. “I know what you’re probably thinking. That I’m a good candidate for the asylum and that you need to make your excuses and leave, and I don’t blame you in the least.”
Daniel shook his head. “Actually, that is not at all what I—”
“But, if I may, I’d like to explain how we are connected. For we are connected, Mr. Barton. I swear it.” She swiped the rain from her eyes. “And if, once you’ve heard me, you still wish to make your excuses and leave, I shall make no further attempt to dissuade you, I promise.”
Daniel didn’t need any encouragement. He knew Miss Sinclair had the answers he sought, and that what he was about to hear would solve the mystery of his dreams. Wincing, he looked up at the sky. “I will hear you on one condition, Miss Sinclair,” he replied, “and that is, we continue this conversation beneath the shelter of a roof.”
*
Miriam shivered asshe settled onto the cold, stone bench beneath the cemetery’s chapel arches. “Here,” Mr. Barton said, removing his wet coat and placing it around her shoulders. “It’s still dry on the inside.”
She regarded the man who appeared to have been chosen to protect her. It was a strange kind of insanity to be consideringsuch things, yet she clung to a sliver of hope. Her mother had spoken and so, it seemed, had Daniel Barton’s mother, Alice.
“Thank you.” she said, flinching when he tucked the coat behind her.
Frowning, he straightened, but continued to look down at her, his silent scrutiny causing Miriam to lower her gaze.
“Answer me honestly, Miss Sinclair,” he said, at last. “Are those bruises on your face the only ones? Or are there more of them, hidden beneath your clothes?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” she replied, fighting tears of relief as the residual warmth of his coat enveloped her.
“Answer me.”
“Maybe a few more.”
Mr. Barton muttered something inaudible, then, “What did he use?”
Miriam drew a shaky breath. “Sir?”
“What caused those bruises?”
