19

Oliver didn’t slow until he reached the overgrown path that led to the skeletal remains of the cottages, and only then because a spot of orange caught his eye. He stopped, bent, and plucked up the daisy from the path. Cleanly cut, like the ones outside his own garden gate. Beth’s favorites. Had their grandmother cut them for her, thinking to come here and give them to her?

But why? And what would make Mamm-wynn think Beth was here, of all places?

The wind danced around him, laughing in his ears. Why not? it seemed to say. She’d known Beth was gone, after all, was “not where she ought to be.” She’d known Libby needed a necklace and a shawl. Perhaps the Lord had whispered those things to her. And perhaps He’d done so again.

Spotting another too-bright daisy farther along, closer to the cottages, he followed the trail, praying anew with every step. Lord, help me to find her. To find them. Show yourself to Libby.

That last one seemed strangely tied to the others, which made precious little sense. Except that he knew that, even having only known her a few weeks, she loved his grandmother too. And her faith—which was really more stale teaching and a newborn curiosity waiting to bloom into proper faith—might just shrivel and turn cold if it was dealt this blow right now. But he wanted more for her. Wanted her to love the Creator with the same boundless fascination with which she loved His creation. Wanted her to trust Him as she had so quickly come to trust Oliver.

Another shock of color that didn’t belong with the greens and browns and greys of the cottages stole his attention—a deep scarlet, too big to be a flower, too solid to be a patch of them. But the very color of Mamm-wynn’s favorite shawl. He flew toward it, blinking until the shape was close enough to be more than a blur of color. To be shoulders and back and a precious white-crowned head resting on the earth as if it were a pillow. “Mamm-wynn!”

Unlike his grandfather though, she didn’t stir at hearing his voice or her name. She just lay there on her stomach, face turned away from him, one arm extended—a bouquet of orange, yellow, and pink daisies still clutched in her hand.

No! His soul screamed it, fear pounding at his ears with every burst of his pulse. “Mamm-wynn! Mamm-wynn.”

Still she didn’t move, didn’t answer. But he was there now, dropping to his knees on the flagstone path to one of the cottages, blown over with sand and stray leaves and petals. He reached out, his prayers too desperate for words now, and touched her face. Warm. Her throat—there, her pulse fluttered, faint but present.

“Mamm-wynn.” He said it more quietly now, giving her shoulder a gentle shake. But her eyelids didn’t flutter; her breath didn’t hitch. What was wrong with her? He guessed Tas-gwyn had been struck on the head much like Mabena, given the way he’d been holding it and wincing. But when he set his fingers on a light probing of her skull, he found no bumps or gashes, nothing to indicate a physical assault. Did he dare try to turn her over?

He hadn’t much choice. He couldn’t exactly leave her here. Careful to cradle her head with one hand, he eased her onto her side with the other, then onto her back. Though he held his breath against what he might see, no horrors met his gaze. No injuries visible here either. She simply looked like she was sleeping.

But she never slept so deeply that a voice wouldn’t rouse her.

He leaned over to take a closer look, reaching into his pocket for his watch so he could get an accurate gauge of her pulse. His fingers brushed against paper rather than metal, giving him pause. Had he not put his watch in his pocket when he flew out of his room upon hearing Mrs. Dawe?

Apparently not. He pulled out what was in there—the nub of a pencil and the letter he’d been writing when sleep had abandoned him.

He’d meant it for Beth, though he’d had no idea how he meant to get it to her. It was half angry exhortation to return home at once, half plea to let them help. Full of all the facts that backed up both. That Lady Elizabeth Sinclair had been mistaken for her, that she was paying the price for whatever Beth had involved herself in. That Mabena had been injured last night by an armed man. That they knew Johnnie’s death was linked to it, and that the man had threatened Mamm-wynn.

His gaze flitted up toward the sagging door of the cottage that looked like it might sink into the earth at any moment. His sister wouldn’t be in there. He knew she wouldn’t. But something had convinced Mamm-wynn to come here, whether it be something natural or . . . not. He took the clutch of flowers from her fingers and stood. He hated to leave her there even for a second, but he had a feeling she’d forgive it if it meant possibly finding Beth.

It took a shoulder to shove the door fully open. It dragged against the floor—which inspired him to look behind it and see that there was an arc of cleaner space where someone else had done the same and pushed it wider.

Not necessarily Beth. It could have been anyone. Tourists caught out in the rain, seeking the imperfect shelter of leaky thatch, most likely.

Then his gaze found the rickety, rotting table in front of the window. On which sat a rock. No, not a rock.

A small, water-scarred cannonball.

His heart thudded, though he wasn’t sure if it was from hope or more dread. He spun around, taking in the entirety of the cottage in one turn. Was that clean spot there evidence that someone had hunkered down here? Was that water in the ancient sink from use or the holes in the thatch?

Had Beth been here?

Probably not. But . . . but maybe so. And if so, this could be his only chance of getting a message to her.

Thinking it worth the gamble, he pulled the note from his pocket as he strode to the table. He added a line about Mamm-wynn, scrawled Beth’s name on the outside of the folded page, put it on the table, and anchored it with the lead. Finishing off the offering with Mamm-wynn’s bouquet, he backed away.

Father, draw her here. Let her find this, I beg you.

With that, he spun on his heel and hurried back outside, careful to wrestle the door mostly shut behind him.

His grandmother still hadn’t budged. As carefully as if she were made of finest porcelain, he gathered her into his arms and began the trek back to Tas-gwyn, Libby, and the boats.

Evening had found them again, somehow. Right now it was stretching through the house with long arms of sunshine that elbowed their way through the windows, but soon those golden rays would go purple and red and dusky. Then would come the grey, then the blue, then the black.

Oliver raked a hand through his hair and stared out at the familiar coastline, the familiar sea, the familiar vista. Such beautiful colors, when they were painted over the land.

Such hideous ones when they marred the flesh of one he loved. Mabena’s face displayed them all today, and Tas-gwyn’s head did too. Only his grandmother had no visible signs of whatever trauma had found her.

Only his grandmother still lay in her bed unconscious, the twelve hours since he found her passing in a blur of visits from neighbors and family and the doctor, who had quietly suggested that she’d suffered some sort of apoplexy. They couldn’t know for sure, but the evidence suggested that her own body had attacked her rather than some outside force, likely caused by her advanced age or the stress of Beth being missing.

Perhaps he could accept that, if not for the other two injuries in his family.

No. No, he could never accept it, not really. Even knowing that she was mortal and so her days were numbered, he couldn’t accept the soft words that said she might never open her eyes again. Might never call him her favorite. Might never laugh that fairy laugh.

He’d been sitting here beside her bed for hours, but he’d promised Mrs. Dawe he would get up by seven o’clock and find something to eat. It was seven now. A few minutes past. But his stomach churned at the very thought of putting food in it. Even so, he leaned over to kiss Mamm-wynn’s ever-soft cheek and then stood. He could use a stretch of his legs, anyway. He’d spotted Libby in the garden a few minutes ago. Perhaps he’d go out there with her. Apologize. With Mabena in bed and Mrs. Dawe and him fussing over Mamm-wynn all day, she’d been the one to welcome neighbor after neighbor who’d come as soon as they heard.

It wasn’t fair to her—she was just a guest here. She shouldn’t have to play hostess. And yet she’d done it without question, without any qualm that he could see. And his neighbors, those who had slipped back here to bring a vase of flowers or put an arm around him, hadn’t seemed to think it odd in the slightest. They’d merely said things like, “I’m glad our lady was on Tresco, at least, to be here now.” And “Our lady said I could slip back for a moment, to give you this.”

He stepped out into the hallway, knowing Mrs. Dawe would take his place within a minute or two—she’d said she’d be in at seven to make sure he kept his word, and she wouldn’t grant him more than a few minutes’ grace on that count. But rather than going directly down the stairs and out into the garden, his feet hitched before a closed door at the end of the corridor.

It had been months since he’d opened it. Because for as many good memories that lived in that room, there were bad ones too that he hadn’t wanted to face. Too many reminders of the last loss to rock their family. Of the years they’d spent fighting an invisible monster eating away at his brother. Of the final battle that Morgan had lost.

His hand found the latch, cool in the shadows of the hallway, and pushed the door open. He didn’t enter, but he leaned into the doorframe. So very weary. In body and mind and soul. So very afraid that soon another room would be empty. First their parents’, then Morgan’s. Mamm-wynn’s next? And what about Beth? Why was she not here, where she ought to be, instead of hiding somewhere?

His eyes slid shut against the evening light streaming through Morgan’s window. He missed his brother with a bone-deep ache. He wanted to talk to him now. To share the worry about Mamm-wynn. About Beth. To glean some of his wisdom. To introduce him to Libby and confess that he’d kissed her, and that he shouldn’t have, and that he wanted to do it again. That he loved the way their neighbors had claimed her as their own. That he wanted to do the same, even though all wisdom said it was far too soon to know if he should, and not likely he could regardless.

She was an earl’s sister. And he . . .

“Was this your brother’s room?”

He didn’t jump at her voice. Perhaps he’d heard her step behind him, even though he didn’t recall noticing it. Perhaps he was too tired to react so. Or perhaps he couldn’t be surprised at her appearing at his side because she felt so right there. Oliver opened his eyes and glanced down to find her in the doorway too, leaning a shoulder against the opposite side of the frame. Inches away. Her gaze focused on Morgan’s sanctuary.

“It was, yes.” They’d changed nothing in it. It still had the narrow bed in which he’d spent so much time. The books lining every wall, which had been his window to the rest of the world. The desk whose regular chair had been moved aside so he could wheel himself to it instead. And the wheelchair itself, parked beside the bed.

Her fingers found his and wove through them. “You’re not going to lose her yet.”

He squeezed her fingers, simply because she understood what had brought him here now. “He was sick for so long. It came upon him when he was just a lad, six or seven. I remember him being excited to go to school soon, and then . . . then our whole world changed. He was so ill, and the doctors couldn’t determine the cause. Our parents took him to the mainland once, all the way to London. But it didn’t seem to matter. The doctors could only alleviate the symptoms. He’d get better, but never fully better. And we always knew that each new illness to go round would find him. Eat at him.”

He shook his head, remembering all too well the gaunt cheeks that did nothing to detract from the brightness of his smile. “They expected he wouldn’t live but a few more years. He surprised them all though. He always fought. Always. Because he knew we needed him.”

Libby lifted his hand, wrapped her other around it, and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, knotting him up inside. And unknotting him too. “My father died of consumption,” she said. “It was a long process. Terrible. Some days I wished it would just happen quickly, so he wouldn’t be in such pain. Other days, I was so very thankful for the extra time with him. The quiet moments at his bedside, when we could whisper together. I think I got to know him better in those two years of illness than in all the years before.”

Oliver nodded. “I’ve wondered if I would have been as close to Morgan if he had been healthy. If we would have been such friends if he’d been able to go his own way. I can never know, of course. This was the only Morgan we really knew. The one who was so very aware of how big a gift each day was. The one who loved us so fully, because we were his whole life.” He shook his head. “We didn’t have to be. He was the eldest, the heir. And for a few years there, he was stronger than he’d been before. He could have married—there was a girl who was sweet on him. She’d have said yes in a heartbeat. But he said it would be unfair to her. To give her only a year or two and then loneliness. And to risk . . . to risk having a child with the same infirmities.”

Her fingers tightened around his. “I daresay this girl would have disagreed.”

“Probably, had he ever given her the choice. I could never convince him to approach her. It was while I was at university, and I wasn’t home often. Had I been . . .” Another shake of his head. “She left for the mainland right after his funeral. I see her parents still. They tell me she’s married, is happy. So perhaps Morgan was wise in his stubbornness.”

Or perhaps he’d chosen loneliness not just for Daisy’s sake, but for Oliver’s. He’d always suspected it. “Honestly, I think he felt guilty for all the money we’d spent on treatments over the years. After our parents died, he refused any more, anything beyond routine. He said he didn’t want to squander my inheritance on quacks hawking medicine that wouldn’t work. My inheritance.” He squeezed his eyes shut again, though it only made Morgan’s image all the clearer in his mind. Looking at him with that love. That selflessness. “As if any of that mattered more than having him for one more day, one more week, one more month. I’d have given it all for him. And he should have let me. It was his, not mine.”

“I can understand his thoughts though. He wanted to provide for his family in whatever way he could. He wanted to leave you with a legacy, not debt or resentments. My father—he apologized over and again for his illness’s taking over our lives. As if I would have traded those days with him for a debut Season at the prearranged time.”

She had the right of it. Morgan had been that very way. He tugged their joined hands over so he could take a turn at kissing her knuckles. “I don’t want to lose her, Libby. Not yet. I’m not ready. And I know I’ll never be ready, but . . . but now I’m really not.”

“I’m not either.” A smile trembled its way onto her lips. “I’ve only just found her. I know I haven’t the claim on her that you or your family or the islanders do, but . . . but I want the chance to.”

A corner of his own mouth tugged up in response. And his free hand lifted to rest on her neck, under her ear, without his being aware of giving it the command. “She’s certainly claimed you. I think that gives you every right to claim her back.”

He really ought to drop his hand and step away. But she leaned toward him, and he was helpless to do anything but meet her, lips to lips. Heart to heart. Their fingers untangled, giving him the freedom to slide an arm around her waist, hers wrapping around him.

For those few glorious moments, there was only her and them and this—a primal need to know and be known and belong there with another. There was the simmer in his veins that no one else had ever ignited and the thudding of his heart that said this was right. There was the fog of pleasure that masked, just for a minute, the pain of the last twenty-four hours.

Then there was the aching certainty that it was only that. A minute. A moment stolen from time that it would demand back. An impossibility. He broke away with a sigh and rested his forehead against hers. “You should make me stop doing that.” Or better still, he should stop of his own volition.

If he could make himself want to.

“Should I?” Her voice sounded a bit fogged-up still. And made him want to kiss her again, and again.

He resisted, though his fingers protested by flexing against her back. “Libby . . . they’d never approve of me. Your family, I mean. I’m not wealthy enough or titled. I could supply your needs, but nothing more. Not with all we spent on Morgan.” And what was he doing, speaking of such things when he barely knew her?

But no, he knew her. Not in terms of time, perhaps, but in terms of heart. He knew her. At least as well as any society gentleman did after a Season of balls and soirees, and no one would have batted an eye at one of them proposing.

Not that he was proposing. Not that he dared to.

Her fingers curled into his shirt over his heart. Pressed there. “I don’t care about any of that.”

No. She didn’t. And that was why his heart had melded so quickly with hers. “But you care about your family. Their approval matters.”

A truth she couldn’t refute. She sighed, and her shoulders sagged. “You’ll win them over. Just take them by the elbow and you’ll have them charmed in minutes.”

He had a feeling her brother wouldn’t be open to that particular tactic. He made himself ease away, though his stubborn hand refused to break contact entirely. It found hers again and held it tight. “For you, my sweet one, I’ll try anything. But I don’t ever want to cause trouble between you. I know too well how important family is.”

She mustered a smile that looked braver than it should have to be when the subject was something as sweet as the first blush of love.

Not that he was mentioning love quite yet either. Perhaps it was the only word he could think of to describe this certainty inside him, but he knew once he spoke it, gave it that name, it would take on new power. Power that might try to run roughshod over the promise he’d just made her. That would seek its own bond with her above others’.

“A worry for another day,” she said. “Heaven knows today has plenty of its own.”

All the reminder he needed to step back into the corridor, tugging her with him. He left Morgan’s door open, though, in case he needed the solace of those memories later. For now, that stroll through the garden was a good idea. “Do you need to go back to St. Mary’s tonight? I can take you, or Mabena’s father would.”

His aunt and uncle had been among the visitors today, and they’d been none too happy to realize that their daughter had been injured too, and that they hadn’t been informed immediately.

Libby shook her head and fell into step beside him. “I don’t think so. Mabena isn’t fit for it yet, certainly. My only real concern is Darling. I hate to leave him so long—though I think I left enough food for him, and Mabena fashioned him a sandbox for his business. He refused to go outside when we left. He hid under my bed, and I couldn’t lure him out.”

Oliver chuckled. Her kitten had strong opinions, that was for certain. “Perhaps you should bring him with you when you come to Tresco.”

Libby walked with him down the stairs, her brows raised. “On a boat? Cats don’t like the water, do they?”

“Not as a general rule—but how do you suppose they got on the islands to begin with?”

That sweet smile sprang onto her lips. The one that meant she was amused at herself. “Well, I don’t suppose they flew here. Perhaps if I tucked him into a basket?”

“He may meow, but he’d be safe and probably quite happy to be wherever you are.” And if it resulted in her extending her Tuesday evening stays to Wednesday nights too, and perhaps even Thursdays . . . well, who could blame him for removing her primary need to get back to St. Mary’s?

“We’ll have to talk to Mabena and see what she wants to do. If she wants to stay longer in general, someone can simply take me over for Darling and some extra changes of clothes. I only really need to be on St. Mary’s for the Wednesday deliveries for Beth.”

The reminder brought a quick splash of cold water. He’d been half expecting to catch Beth trying to break into the safe and steal back his copy of Treasure Island. He’d changed the combination, just in case she tried it. Anything to delay her longer and improve his chances of catching her. “Perhaps you should distance yourself from that too. Given what Mabena reported Beth said the other night, if no one is there, the items will be left somewhere for her.”

“Exactly. And then we won’t know what they are. It’ll all be up to Beth again.” She hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, clearly waiting to see which direction he would lead them.

He turned them toward the hallway that led to the garden door. “I certainly don’t want my sister to face those men alone, but I can’t let you put yourself in danger for it anymore either. Too many people have already been hurt.”

“And the perpetrators won’t leave me alone now, Oliver—they think I’m Beth. Even if she showed up, they wouldn’t trust her now. They’d think she was the pretender. Like it or not, I’m involved. So we simply need to determine how to solve this mystery, once and for all.”

Simply. Sighing, he led her out into the twilight garden. If only anything about this were simple.