What secrets remain locked within my mind?He wanted to be rid of them because he sensed they held the power to destroy this fragile peace his marriage and inheritance had granted him.
“Is something bothering you, lad?” Patrick lifted a questioning brow as Dylan signaled for yet another drink. “If I had such a pretty lass waiting, I’d be in a considerable bit more of a hurry to get home.”
They were finally alone, since most of the village men had gone home for supper. Only the barkeep, the serving girl, and a few diehard drinkers in the corner remained. Still, Dylan lingered, wondering how to broach the subject of the cave.
“You needn’t worry on that account.” Dylan gave Patrick a satisfied grin at the mere thought of his lovely wife. “Things between Natalia and I are better than they’ve ever been.”
“Good.” Patrick returned the smile. “Glad to hear that. She seems a good sort.”
“Very good. The best.” Dylan took another deep swig of beer, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and gave his companion a considering look. Patrick’s reminder of what waited at home gave him the impetus he needed to get to the point.
“Natalia isn’t the problem. My worries are of an entirely different sort.” He might as well ask the questions that plagued him. Better to know for sure than to wonder.
Patrick frowned and placed his mug on the scarred table where they sat. “Is it something to do with Aldabaran, lad? Is there anything I can do to help?”
Dylan glanced at the few remaining patrons then lowered his voice. “Is there a smugglers’ cave in the cliffs below the keep?”
A neutral mask dropped over Patrick’s face. “Aye. Why do you ask?”
“Ever since I was a child, I’ve had these nightmares.” Dylan gave a self-deprecating smile, embarrassed to admit such a weakness. “At least, I always thought they were nightmares. But last night, I remembered some things, and it occurred to me that perhaps I’ve been reliving something that actually happened.”
Patrick sat back, stroking his chin. “If you’re telling me you don’t remember what happened the night your mother died, I’m not certain I want to remind you, lad.”
The night Mother died.
Dylan closed his eyes as an image flashed through his mind. His mother, standing on the cliffs in the rain…
“Tell me, Patrick. Tell me what happened.”
Patrick shook his head, misery etched in every line of his face. “I don’t know exactly what happened that night. I don’t know what you saw that frightened you so badly. But when the storm was over, Fiona lay dead upon the rocks, and you were nowhere to be found. I always thought you must have seen her jump…”
“I hid in the cave.” Dylan shuddered, overwhelmed by sudden memories of that dark place. He had been so alone. Cold. Afraid. He’d known he’d never see his mother again, and he’d been terrified by what would happen if he gave up the tenuous security of his hiding place.
“It took me three days to find you, lad.” Patrick’s voice broke, and he swallowed convulsively before continuing. “You were curled up in that cave, whimpering like a wild thing. Half starved, nearly frozen to the bone, and you wouldn’t say a word, not one word to me.”
Three days?
“Oh, God.” Dylan buried his face in his hands, remembering. “My father… He was there that night, wasn’t he?”
Patrick was silent a moment, and then laid his hand on Dylan’s shoulder. “Aye. The Earl of Warren arrived unexpectedly that afternoon.”
“He and my mother argued…”
“Do you remember what they argued about, lad?”
Yes.
Dylan lifted his head, stunned by the words that echoed inside his mind. He met Patrick’s eyes—his piercing, blue-gray gaze—and all the pieces fell into place.
He’d seen eyes that color before. He saw them every time he looked in a mirror.
“They argued about her lowborn lover. About the bastard child she’d tried to pass off as the earl’s legitimate son.” The words were wrenched from somewhere deep inside him, from that dark place where they’d remained hidden all these years.
“Christ.” Patrick released Dylan’s shoulder and then groped for his mug. He took a long deep drink. “I didn’t think he knew, lad.”
“Then it’s true. You’re my father.” What a huge, life-altering thing, to be summed up in so few words.
“Aye, it’s true.” Patrick lifted his hand, as though to touch Dylan again in some way, then apparently thought better of it. “You mustn’t think any less of your mother. She tried to be a good wife to the earl, but nothing she ever did was good enough for him. Summer after summer, she’d arrive with bruises on her face, her lovely spirit nearly broken by his cruelty.”
