Dante quickly helped Daventry move the sacks to reveal a small cubbyhole no more than three feet high. He dropped to his knees and pushed the wooden panel aside. It was dark outside, hard to see, even darker in the tiny space.
“Beatrice?”
He heard heavy breathing, muffled sobs. He reached into the hole and moved the old sacks. Beatrice lay curled in a ball, trembling to her toes. He touched her.
“No! Get away!”
“It’s Dante, love. Take my hand. Let me help you out of there.”
“Dante?” came her whispered reply.
“You’re safe now. I’m here.”
She moved slightly, raised her head, stretched out a shaky hand.
He pulled her out of the filthy hole, wrapped his arms around her and held her so tight to his chest they both struggled to breathe.
Daventry tapped him gently on the back. “I’ll leave you with Miss Sands while I deal with her uncle. We’ll need to alert the coroner and the local magistrate. I expect we’ll be here for a few hours.”
Beatrice raised her head. “The coroner?”
Dante pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, stroked her tear-stained face. “Your uncle is dead. He fell off the gallery. But he’s got a wound to his shoulder, and the magistrate will want to know why.”
More tears fell, and she pressed her forehead to his chest. “Forgive me, Dante.” She sobbed into his cravat. “I shouldn’t have gone to see Manning without telling you. But Miss Trimble—”
“Hush, love. It doesn’t matter now.” He looked at Daventry. “Manning shot my parents. John Sands was his accomplice. Perhaps you should send Ashwood to fetch Sir Malcolm. If we’re to give lengthy statements, I’d prefer to do it once.”
Daventry nodded. “Ashwood can take Sloane’s carriage. Bower will need to remain here and explain why he shot a man.” He glanced at Beatrice. “Miss Sands might like to visit the miller’s cottage. His wife is making tea.”
“We’ll be along shortly.”
Daventry left them alone.
Dante held Beatrice close. He closed his eyes, said a silent prayer of thanks, and let his love for her consume him until he could contain it no longer.
“Beatrice.”
She looked up at him.
“I’m in love with you.”
She swallowed, blinked back fresh tears. “You are?”
“I’m so in love with you it hurts, hurts to think I might lose—”
She pressed her finger to his lips to silence him. “As we’re bartering for information, know that I’m in love with you, Dante. I’m so in love with you it’s like a bright light burning inside me.”
He felt the light, too, so warm and comforting. It chased away the darkness, brought with it hope and infinite possibilities.
“I told your uncle you were my wife, and I hate lying.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “He cannot hold it against you. Not anymore.”
“But it felt so good to say the words.” He paused, took a second to take a breath, to look back along the rocky path and appreciate how far he’d come. “Marry me. Let me take care of you always.”
She reached up and cupped his nape, pulled his mouth to hers and kissed him so deeply his heart swelled. “Yes,” she whispered against his lips. “I want to be your wife, the mother of your children. I want to take care of you always.”
They held each other for a while, wallowed in a rare moment of happiness.