22

Oliver breathed in the beloved scent of salt water and breathed out a prayer. Partly for Libby, who he’d sincerely hated to leave when she was in such distress. A little bit for himself and the conversation he didn’t know if he should postpone or find a way to have with Casek Wearne. And mostly for Mamm-wynn, who’d been weighing endlessly on his heart since the moment he stepped out of the house.

And for Beth. Had she found his letter? Would she find it? Would she learn some other way that their grandmother was ill? Tell her, Lord, please. Somehow. Tell her to come home.

His boat bobbed up on the incoming tide, reminding him of the time ticking by while he was here, waiting for Lord Telford to join them. And for Casek to get back. Lord Sheridan had struck up a conversation with a few tourists who had just gotten out of a boat, asking them about Druid cairns and seeming delighted to learn that Tresco was littered with them. Oliver wasn’t sure if Sheridan actually knew the people or if he’d just seized on the first chap he’d seen in gentlemen’s attire.

“Are we ready?”

Oliver turned at Casek’s voice—not quite as snarling as usual. He shook his head. “Telford hasn’t come down yet.” Which probably meant he and Libby were still arguing. His feet itched to take him back up the path to her door to try to reason her brother into letting her remain here. But no, she had to do this herself. And she knew Telford far better than Oliver did. At the very least, they had a few days to convince him.

Casek grunted. “I suppose his lordship has no concept of inconveniencing the likes of us. Or of me. I suppose you aren’t exactly a nobody, O gentleman of Truro Hall.”

Either the mockery wasn’t as heavy in his tone as usual, or all the praying Oliver had been doing over this had built a protective shell around his heart. Or perhaps torn one down.

He sighed. “Actually, I believe he would quite like to inconvenience me, even more than he would you. Because I’m the worst kind of nobody, in his mind. The kind who might think himself somebody, even when he isn’t.”

Casek snorted what might have been a laugh. Maybe.

Oliver set his gaze on him, let it linger. Made it linger, made himself study him as he did everyone else. Made himself try to see him. Not as his rival, not as the man who did everything he could to be a thorn in his side, not as the brother of the man who’d broken Mabena’s heart.

He dragged in a long breath. “I owe you an apology.”

That certainly got Casek’s attention. “Come again?”

It took more effort than it should have to keep his shoulders from rolling forward defensively. But not as much as he’d expected it to take. “Sunday night—you were right. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions as I did. I know very well you would never hurt Mabena. And if you’re right that whatever Beth’s involved in got Johnnie killed . . .” He shook his head, nostrils flaring. “Then we’ll owe everyone a lot more than an apology.”

Something in Casek’s face shifted. Just a bit, but enough that Oliver could glimpse the man beneath the stone mask he usually showed him. “Beth may be stirring up ghost stories for some reason—but she didn’t kill Johnnie. Even if she had something to do with what took him to the caves that night, she didn’t do it.”

Oliver knew that. Still, it was a surprise to hear Casek admit it. He nodded.

Casek folded his arms over his chest. “Why are you doing this? Apologizing, I mean? You never would have before.”

No, and that was something he’d been wrestling with ever since Libby pointed it out. He preached regularly about the need to forgive, to extend grace to one’s neighbor. How could he have been too blind to see where he’d failed at it for so long? He’d always just clung to the “as much as is possible, live in peace with all men” verse, telling himself it wasn’t possible, not with Casek.

But it was. Of course it was. “Because I’ve been wrong. And because it’s high time I admit it. High time we try . . . to be friends.”

Casek winced—actually winced—when he said it. “About twenty years too late for that, isn’t it?”

“I certainly hope not, if you intend to marry my cousin.”

His arms were still crossed, but his fingers flexed. A flash of insecurity that he covered by nodding toward the village, where Telford had finally appeared on the path to the quay. “I may intend it. Doesn’t mean she’ll agree.”

He’d always intended it. Oliver had known it; he’d just never liked it—and when Mabena had chosen Cador instead, he’d assumed Casek’s infatuation would dissipate. It hadn’t though, that was clear. He turned toward the boat. “She’ll agree. She said, apparently, that—” now he winced, at giving utterance to such words—“that you make her fly.”

A miracle happened then. Casek Wearne smiled. Honestly. At him. “Did she, now?”

“So I’m told.”

“Well then.” With a last glance at Telford, Casek fell into step beside him. “You’re going to have a time of it with that one. You know that, right? He’ll be as hard-pressed to accept you as you’ve been to accept me.”

Turnabout? Maybe. The Lord did have the most ironic ways of teaching His children lessons sometimes. “Even harder, I daresay. We’re at least all neighbors. Giving you my blessing won’t mean saying good-bye to my cousin.”

“Not that we need your blessing—but you do have a point.” Casek put on the scowl that he always reserved for tourists. “Blasted incomers. Your lady aside.”

Oliver took the exception as the olive branch it was. “I couldn’t agree more. Though speaking of which—Mrs. Gilligan?”

Casek rolled his eyes. “Anything,” he said in a high-pitched voice meant to be an imitation of the shopkeeper’s, “for the Reverend Mr. Tremayne.”

Good. One less problem that would be thrust in Libby’s lap.

Telford caught up with them half a minute later, his scowl as dark as the thunderheads hunched on the horizon. “I do hope you chaps are decent hands at sailing. I don’t fancy getting caught in that storm.”

Did he seriously just question the sailing abilities of islanders? It was like asking a London cabby if he could find Big Ben. Oliver glanced at Casek, who glanced at him too. They both, under their breath, muttered, “Incomers.” And Casek was probably wondering, just as Oliver was, how well the Earl of Telford could swim.

Mamm-wynn’s eyelids had fluttered open a few times last night. And her fingers, so frail in his, had squeezed his hand now and then. Oliver listed those praises as he knelt in the damp earth of his garden, pulling out weeds and praying for the strength he’d need to get through today. The gladioli were doing well—another praise. And he’d managed to make it twelve hours without saying anything rude to Lord Telford, which was surely a testament to the Lord’s Spirit in him, because he’d thought about twenty different rejoinders last night as Libby’s brother insulted everything he saw with those clever little jabs the nobility were so good at.

“Oh, I see electricity hasn’t been run to the islands yet. I suppose it’s a relief for someone in your position not to worry with all the upgrades.”

“A lovely meal, considering the limited selection available on the islands.”

“Your home is very pleasant, Mr. Tremayne. Cozy. I suppose with such a view, it’s worth tripping over one’s family every time one turns around.”

Oliver tossed another weed onto the stack of them and blinked tired eyes. He was glad he’d convinced Mr. Menna to take his seat in the races this morning—he’d have been a liability. Even so, it felt wrong to be in his garden this time of day on a Wednesday instead of skimming across the water with his best chums. But he’d slept fitfully in the chair by Mamm-wynn’s side most of the night, and by the time he rose, the race was likely all but over. So he’d come out here to wake himself up as pleasantly as possible.

He glanced up to check the sun in lieu of digging out his pocket watch and getting it dirty. Probably around eight o’clock. He’d finish here and then clean up, and with a bit of luck, he’d miss his guests in the breakfast room. After he finished eating, he’d check on Mamm-wynn again, and by then he should know if Mabena had made the trip or if he should go and fetch them from St. Mary’s. The storm, at least, had blown itself out overnight.

And only the first gusts and droplets had caught them last night—not that Telford had thanked him for it, though Sheridan had made a good-natured exclamation about their providential timing.

The fuchsias weren’t thriving as they should be. Oliver leaned close, examining the stalks, the leaves. Well-eaten by caterpillars, which was no great surprise. He’d fetch some soapy water to spritz on them to deter the insects.

“Well, how nice. Do you always have your morning tea in the dirt? I think I’d rather like that.”

Oliver turned at the voice, glad it was Lord Sheridan who’d just stepped outside and not Lord Telford. His comments last night hadn’t been half as acerbic. And given his way of turning every conversation to the next dig he had planned, Oliver suspected he meant this greeting sincerely too.

He glanced at his teacup to see if anything remained in it. It was as empty as it had been the last time he checked. “Not every morning, but several times a week, yes. Mr. Dawe officially manages the garden, but he’s not as young as he once was, and it’s difficult for him to kneel for so long. And I enjoy it.” Not that he had to defend himself—plenty of gentlemen enjoyed nurturing their own gardens.

Sheridan didn’t seem bent on judging him anyway. He’d meandered over toward the slab of granite in the corner. “Interesting. I was reading about your Abbey Gardens yesterday while we waited for Lady Elizabeth to return. It mentioned a stone that dates from the Druid days, presumably. Are there many such things about?”

“Here and there. Most of the slabs are just thatch anchors.” Not that his roof had thatch. Some Tremayne of generations past had invested in slate. And not that he’d apologize for it if it did.

Well he knew that his house here was small—that even Truro Hall was small by Sheridan’s or Telford’s standards. Just as he knew that chaps of their ilk usually used the word cottage to describe a small mansion, not the holiday cottages on the islands, which they were more likely to call hovels. But he loved this house. Its every stone, its every tapestry, its every stick of furniture meant home. And as Telford had insulted it all last night, Oliver had bitten back all those clever retorts he’d wanted to make and comforted himself with that knowledge.

This was home. He wasn’t ashamed of it. And if his guests couldn’t appreciate that, then it was their own lack, not his.

“I’ve long wanted to come to the Scillies, you know,” Sheridan said. “Beautiful. Even more beautiful than the pictures I’ve seen. And, of course, the history. I’ve always been intrigued by it. By the islands’ role in England’s history, that is.”

Oliver smiled, pulled out one last weed, and gathered the pile of them together. “They are rich in history, for certain. Pirates, exiled princes—you name it, we’ve hosted it.” He stood and walked the weeds to the compost pile in the corner.

“Have you any books on local lore? And would you mind if I borrowed them, if so? Not that I’d take them when we go, of course. While we’re here, I mean.” Hands in his trouser pockets, Sheridan turned to him again, his smile cloudless.

Oliver returned it easily, glad he’d brought home all of the volumes Beth had apparently borrowed. “You’re welcome to whatever I can find. And if it’s local lore you’re after, I ought to introduce you to my grandfather. He could tell you tales you’d never find in a book.” He chuckled. “Some may even have a kernel of truth in them. Though I wouldn’t wager anything on that.”

Sheridan’s face lit. “Jolly good of you. That would be just the way to pass a few days.” His lips twitched, though he didn’t come right out and smile as he said, “I suspect we’ll be here longer than Telly thinks. I’ve always—if we’re being honest—found his sister to be rather hardheaded.”

“Have you?” Oliver frowned, though he directed it at his dirty hands rather than his companion. He clapped off what soil he could and then fetched his utilitarian teacup—Mrs. Dawe never let him take the fine china outside, of course. He wanted to ask how well Sheridan knew Libby. And why he’d say she was stubborn when Oliver had found her to be anything but. At least about things that mattered. Why, she was the sweetest, most gentle-natured lady he’d ever met.

Sheridan breathed a laugh. “We argued for an hour at Christmas over where I was excavating. She insisted I was destroying the habitat of something-or-another. As if the relics in the earth know what’s nested above them.”

“Ah.” Oliver smiled too. That he could well imagine her getting up enough of a bother over to argue about. “Yes, that does sound like the lady, now that you mention it.”

“She’s a good sort though!” The words all but exploded from Sheridan’s lips, and his cheeks went a bit pink too. “Not saying she isn’t. Of course. A bit of stubbornness can be a good thing and all. She’ll make a fine wife. I’m only saying—I mean, Telly, that’s all. He’s underestimated her this time, I think.”

Did the man always qualify every sentence like that? A rather odd mannerism for someone of his stature. Usually marquesses owned their opinions and shared them without such worry that their every sentence would be taken the wrong way.

Maybe it was the effect of the too-confident Telford?

No. No, that wasn’t it at all. Oliver smiled to let him know he hadn’t been offended on Libby’s behalf. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but there was a layer beneath the equivocating one. He could glimpse it; he just couldn’t see it clearly quite yet. “We brothers are all the time underestimating our sisters, I’m afraid.” He certainly hadn’t expected his to disappear for so long—or to have uncovered any hints of Mucknell’s treasure, come to think of it.

Sheridan meandered toward the door with him, hands still in his pockets. “Mine practically raised me. I’ve two, one thirteen years my elder and the other fifteen years. We’ve never had a very typical sibling relationship, I fear, given that they were more mothers to me. Our parents both passed away when I was only four, you see.”

“How very sad. I’m so sorry to hear of your loss—though glad you had sisters who stepped into that role for you.”

Sheridan’s smile was easy—no doubt he didn’t even remember those days. “We got on well enough. You’ve a sister too, then? Not living at home? Elder or younger?”

“Younger. She’s . . . on holiday. Though I expect her back any day now.” Please, Lord. He led the way inside, ducking into the kitchen to wash his hands. He expected Sheridan to have continued toward the dining room, but he was waiting in the corridor when Oliver emerged again, studying one of Mamm-wynn’s drawings that they’d framed and hung on the wall. It was a labeled watercolor of an Echium plant. It was really no wonder she and Libby got along so well.

“Have you had breakfast yet?” Oliver asked. “Or would you like me to show you to the library?”

“Ah.” Sheridan turned his way again, that easy smile on his lips. “No rush, whatever you like. And feel free to just tell me to entertain myself if you’ve things to do. Telly’s doing that all the time. He seems to think I’ll just follow him about forever unless he dismisses me.” That self-deprecating twitch of his lips. “No idea where he got that impression.”

Oliver chuckled. And it was nice to be able to do so. For all Sheridan’s odd foibles—and his seeming acceptance of the idea that he ought to marry Libby—Oliver liked him. “How about breakfast and then the library? You can browse to your heart’s content while I check that my grandmother is comfortable again.”

Sheridan nodded, but his eyes went curiously serious. Or perhaps not so curiously. “It was good of you. Very. To take us in like this, when you’ve such concerns. You could have just told us to go back to Penzance, Telly’s high-handedness be hanged. And we’d have gone—though don’t tell him I told you so. He likes to come off as more ferocious than he really is. A bit like Abbie’s pug. That’s my sister. Abbie, I mean. Not the pug.”

Oliver laughed again and led the way into the dining room, where Mrs. Dawe had porridge and toast and jam set out, along with a bit of bacon. “I won’t tell. Telford, that is—if ever I meet this Abbie, I may just imply that you told me your sister was a dog.”

They enjoyed a cheery breakfast that only dimmed a little when Telford joined them. Primarily because the man didn’t say a word, not even in response to Sheridan’s stage-whispered explanation that Telly detested mornings that began before ten and rarely spoke a word before eleven.

Suited Oliver just fine.

He was just finishing up when Mrs. Dawe poked her head into the room. “I see the girls coming up the street. Benna must be feeling better.”

“Oh good. Earlier than I dared expect them.” They must have decided to come over early so they could get back before the usual Wednesday-afternoon delivery. He stood and moved toward the front door, opening it to receive the morning breeze even though Mabena and Libby were still a fair way off. They were walking at an encouragingly normal pace, though, which told him Mabena must be feeling more herself. And Libby had a basket looped over her arm whose lid she was holding down, which must contain Darling.

Another figure, running full speed up the incline and bypassing the girls with a greeting he couldn’t hear from here, had him digging his fingers into the door. “Beth?” It looked like Beth, except that Beth never wore trousers as this figure did, not since she was a slip of a girl, anyway. But then, no one else on the islands had hair so fair, and the braid flying out behind her certainly insisted the person was a female.

A moment later, she was close enough to remove all doubt. Oliver stepped outside, not entirely certain whether he meant to greet her with a hug or a rebuke. Or both. “Beth!” Mabena and Libby were speeding to catch up with her, though there was no one who could do so when his sister was determined to be speedy, as she was now.

As she drew near, the worry etching lines into her face told him why. She dashed up the walk, threw herself into his arms, squeezed him tight, and said, “How is she? Tell me I’m not too late.” Then she pulled away again and made for the house.

Oliver pivoted to follow her, knowing Mabena and Libby would join them momentarily. “No, not too late. She seems to be rousing a bit. I hope.”

“Oof!”

Oliver pressed his lips against a grin when he finished his turn to find that his sister had plowed directly into Sheridan, who had trailed him to the door. “We have guests,” he belatedly informed her. “Lord Sheridan, allow me to present my sister, Miss Elizabeth Tremayne.”

“How do you do?” Sheridan steadied Beth with what must be his habitual cheerful smile and slid out of her way.

She shot Oliver a baffled look. “Guests? Now?”

“Your brother’s most gracious. Also, there was the fact that we—or Telly, rather, I like to think I didn’t do it—boxed him into a bit of a corner. Or, no, we boxed Libby. Well, Telly did. And Tremayne here thought to unbox her. Because, as I said. He’s most gracious.”

Beth had turned back to Sheridan during that explanation, if it could be called such. She blinked at him. Gave her next blink to Oliver, which clearly said, Where on earth did you dig this one up? And then, with a shake of her head, she took off again with a muttered, “Do excuse me. I must see my grandmother.”

Testament indeed to her worry. In days past, Beth would have been all too eager to make a good impression on any visiting nobleman—not that they’d ever had many of them in their house, other than an occasional distant relative of Mamm-wynn’s.

Perhaps whatever she’d gotten herself involved in this summer had rubbed away a bit of that yearning for that Something Else.

Oliver cleared his throat, three different cords tugging at him. He wanted to follow Beth, greet the girls, and get Sheridan tucked safely away in the library and didn’t know which to do first. It might be a bit obvious if he shoved Sheridan down the corridor with the front door still hanging open, so he decided to wait. He’d give Beth a moment with their grandmother before following her, and then he would explain everything to her. For now, he held the door open for Benna and Libby, who were at the gate already, and sighed a bit when he saw Casek Wearne alter his trajectory toward them as well. He was still in his rowing clothes, coming up the hill at a jog. Must have spotted Mabena.

Oliver was apparently going to have a houseful this morning.

His cousin’s eyes were blessedly clear of pain. And Libby’s full of it, though more the emotional sort than physical. She smiled at him, but the smile stiffened and faded when she glanced past him and presumably spotted Sheridan.

Though Oliver of a Week Ago would have taken a bit too much pleasure in closing the door before Casek could reach it, Oliver of Today left it wide as he welcomed the girls inside. “You have a shadow, Benna.” He nodded toward Casek, noting the way her cheeks flushed when she noticed him.

It barely even made him sigh. He was making progress.

His fingers found Libby’s elbow of their own volition, and he smiled down at her. “I suspect that isn’t a picnic in the basket.” A woeful meow was his answer, making him chuckle. He tapped a finger in greeting upon the wooden lid. “Good morning, Darling. We’ll let you out once the door is closed, and you can come and meet Mamm-wynn.”

Mabena didn’t seem to know whether to step back outside or dash down the hallway. “Beth?”

“She’s gone to see her.”

“How is she? Mamm-wynn?” Libby leaned a bit closer to him as she asked—something he might not have noticed had he not been keenly aware of Lord Sheridan standing half a step away and her brother lurking in the dining room.

He ought to let go of her arm, probably. But couldn’t convince his fingers to obey. So instead he led her a few more steps into the entryway so they could make room for Casek. “She stirred a bit overnight. Opened her eyes a few times.”

Libby frowned at him. “Did you get any sleep at all?”

“Here and there.”

Her frown only deepened. “Oliver, you mustn’t—”

“Oliver?” Lord Telford’s voice, gruff and surly, intruded upon them.

Sheridan spun to face his friend with an overly bright look of surprise. “He speaks! And it’s before nine! Note it on the calendar, Lady Elizabeth.”

Libby just let out a long breath. “Good morning, Bram.”

“Remains to be seen.” Scowling and clutching his teacup as if it contained the very elixir of life, Telford stepped into the hallway and motioned at Oliver and Libby. “You’ll not call him that.”

Oliver wasn’t certain at first if she’d drop her eyes or roll them. She surprised him entirely by ignoring her brother’s directive altogether and turning her gaze back on Oliver. “You need your rest, or you’ll be no good to her. Don’t neglect your own health.”

“I won’t. I promise. Especially now that Beth’s home—I imagine she’ll take a shift tonight.” Because if his sister thought she was going to blow in like the wind, spend a few minutes with Mamm-wynn, and then vanish again, she was in for a surprise. He’d bar every door and window if he must, but she wasn’t leaving until he had some explanations and their grandmother was back on her feet.

Behind him, he heard Mabena asking how the race had gone, and then the closing of the door. Casek, obviously not shut out, laughed. “You ought to bow out more often, Tremayne. My lads routed yours rather handily.”

Since facing Casek was no worse than the continued glare of Telford, Oliver turned to the newest addition. “I do hope you didn’t gloat in front of Mr. Menna.”

“Saved it for you.” And he was smiling again. Genuinely. No doubt because he was standing so near Mabena, but still. “Besides, it wasn’t Mr. Menna’s fault. Enyon looked fit to fall over.” His gaze flicked to Sheridan and Telford and back again. “Must have been fairies or goblins in Piper’s Hole keeping him up again.” He said it with a straight face.

And with a flash in his eyes that Oliver had no trouble deciphering. It wasn’t fairies or goblins they needed to watch out for in the sea cave—but whoever had attacked them there before could well still be lurking about. He nodded. “I’ll have to pay him a visit later. For now, allow me to show you to the library, Lord Sheridan.” With a bit of luck, Telford would follow, and the rest of them could slip out to the garden, where Beth could join them.

He didn’t intend to wait much longer for the answers he needed.