27

Libby sneaked one more peek around the crumbling stone wall, willing Mabena to appear as she was supposed to do. It didn’t seem right to be here without her, keeping a lookout for her instead of the tourists she’d been charged with watching for and dissuading from coming up the path through the heather.

Though how she was meant to do that she still wasn’t certain. She’d breathed a sigh of relief when the mist had rolled in thicker instead of burning off. With a bit of luck, it would keep holiday-goers inside for a few hours.

“Stop fretting.” Bram slid an arm around her shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “Moon is fine. No doubt she’s just whiling the day away with her beau.”

Oliver’s brows looked every bit as pinched as hers felt, and had ever since she arrived at his door without his cousin. He finished rolling up his sleeves and bent to pick up the gardener’s shovel he’d brought with him. “I’m inclined to agree with the worry. Casek always tends school business on Saturday mornings and would never miss a day of work.”

Bram lowered his arm. “I know you’re friends, Tremayne—”

“Ha!” Beth strode by them into the center of the ruins, turning a circle with the map held up before her. “If my brother has an enemy, it’s Casek Wearne. They may have declared a truce for Mabena’s sake, but a few days of not threatening to sock each other in the nose does not a friend make.”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “I have missed your optimistic outlook, Elizabeth Grace. Thank you for your vote of confidence in my ability to make peace.”

“I didn’t say it was you I doubted.” She turned another twenty degrees. Looked up. Narrowed her eyes. “What do you think, Ollie? Should we align it this way? It’s one of the only things in sight that could be our ‘north.’” She pointed through an opening that was squared off, through which the tower of Cromwell’s castle came and went through the mist.

Sheridan had a second shovel in his hands and looked as though he’d be happy to start digging absolutely anywhere. “Lovely view. But does it work? I mean, if we make it north? Do any of the walls line up with the lines?”

Libby almost wished Tas-gwyn had recommended they try Cromwell’s castle first. It looked more properly castle-like, positioned on the water’s edge as it was, its main tower bringing stories of princesses and dragons to mind.

She drew her lip between her teeth and reached into her pocket, where she’d stashed the piece of paper she’d read over and again that morning. Beth’s unfinished fairy tale had been niggling at the back of her mind all week. She’d meant to ask her for an explanation first thing, but worry for Mabena had taken over the conversation.

She pulled out her copy now though and glanced at it again.

Once upon a time, there was a princess. She lived on an island of rocks and bones, with no one to keep her company aside from the fairies. All her life she’d danced with them to the tunes they played on their magical pipes, the tunes echoed by deep voices from the rock itself. One day, however, the music stopped.

The princess, concerned for her fay friends, set out to find them, only to discover that every fairy on the island had vanished. Far and wide she searched, high and low. In the treetops she found no friends . . . but there was a house in the boughs she’d never seen before, one made of wood creaking and ancient, bearing the name of the fairy king over its lintel. In the pools she found no friends . . . but there was glinting metal winking up at her from the depths, the very shade of the fairies’ eyes. Not to be tempted, the princess pushed onward. In the forest glens she found a wonder that dazzled her eyes. Trees with fragrant bark peeling in fairy-wing curls. Crocuses with petals like fairy gowns. Purple-spiked flowers like fairy crowns. But none of her friends were there.

She kept on, toward the far-looming mountain from whence it was said that all fairies came. But the closer she drew to the rugged rocks, the heavier her feet grew. And the louder came the voices that used to sing along with the fairies’ pipes. The very bones were singing, inviting her to sing with them. She knew, though, that to give in—to sing that song—would mean becoming naught but bone herself.

So heavy were her feet by the time she climbed up the first rock that she could scarcely go any farther, and the winds blew cold now against her. Shivering, the princess tucked herself into a cleft of the rock and cried for her lost friends.

Still, the voices sang. “Look to the birds,” they chanted over and again. “Look to the birds, Lizza.” The princess tilted back her head and watched an eagle soar overhead. But no help came for her from his widespread wings.

The story was linked to this as much as the poems had been, she was certain. Her current guess was that it included the items from the manifests that she’d been tasked with finding. “Trees with fragrant bark peeling in fairy-wing curls”—that could be cinnamon, a popular spice to be imported. The others could be saffron and turmeric. Saffron came from crocuses. And turmeric was gotten from the root of a plant that was topped with a spiky purple flower.

But parts of it she still hadn’t been able to decipher. And there was no time like the present to clear up the mystery. “Beth? The notes you had in Treasure Island . . .”

Beth’s cheeks went pink as she darted a glance at her brother. “Yes?”

“What was the fairy tale?”

Sheridan spun, eyes gleaming. “Oh, are the fairies involved too? Piping from the cave, perhaps? Yes?”

Beth tried turning the map upside down. “It was just a story I made up to catalogue my findings. A princess—me—who lived on an island of rock and bones. The rocks of Tresco—and the bones of the Jolly Roger. Mucknell.”

As she’d imagined. “So, the journey in the story was the treasure hunt. The piping and songs represent Piper’s Hole. And each of the things the princess finds are symbols of what you were searching for. But what was the bit at the end? The song about looking toward the birds?”

“Oh.” Beth frowned. “That was just something from those letters. Didn’t you notice? He’d concluded them all with ‘Look to the birds, Lizza.’”

No wonder the fairy tale had been haunting her! How had she not made the connection immediately? “Look to the birds.” Libby met Oliver’s gaze, brows up. And then, together, they turned to the east. Toward St. Martin’s and the birds that flocked there. Had always flocked there, most likely. Because two hundred fifty years wasn’t enough to change the migratory and nesting patterns, not on an island that hadn’t otherwise changed, where the few residents still lived now as they had then. “This is your north.”

Beth didn’t seem to follow their reasoning, given the question in her eyes, but she turned too, and held up the map again. She made an interested-sounding hum. “You know, that squiggle almost looks like a bird. It doesn’t align north to the top of the paper though.”

“Don’t put it past a pirate to write sideways on his map.” Sheridan grinned and turned with the rest of them. “Let’s say it is a bird. So it’s the way to hold the map. How do we know? What we should be facing with it, I mean?”

“St. Martin’s! Of course.” Beth laughed and shoved the map at Sheridan, who took it eagerly. “We’ll assume that square shape at the base is the window that most directly faces St. Martin’s. Here.” She ran to the remains of a window and patted the stone.

“To your right next then.”

Libby trailed behind as Beth led them along the east-facing wall, along what might have once been a rampart before the top levels had fallen in. They turned at the corner, scurried over a low bit of wall, and struck off down the hill. Libby, Oliver, and Bram hurried to catch up.

“Are you ever going to tell us where you found the map, Beth?” Oliver called after his sister.

She made no answer.

“If the key to knowing how to use it was in a letter to his wife, as was the message about treasure from the Canary, with that songbird reference,” Libby mused as she jumped down from the wall with the aid of Oliver’s hand, “then it has to have been somewhere Mrs. Mucknell would have known to find it. Probably not, for instance, in a cave.”

Bram snorted a laugh. “You mean most ladies don’t go climbing about in caves? What a novel concept.”

“You do have a point, Libby,” Oliver said. “Perhaps not in her care exactly, since she never hunted it up herself. But a place she’d have easy access to, if she knew to look for it. The church, maybe. The garrison.”

She came to a halt. “Their house.”

Oliver stopped too, staring at her for a moment with another of course look on his face. And then burst into a run. “Beth! Tas-gwyn’s? So you fetched the letters while we were there!”

His sister wasn’t paying him any heed though. She and Sheridan had arrived at another outcropping of stones whose original purpose Libby couldn’t discern, and they’d fallen to their knees behind it. “Shovel!” she shouted.

Oliver delivered it into Beth’s hands—she certainly didn’t look inclined to move out of the way and let him do the digging for her.

Bram heaved a long breath and leaned against a different piece of wall. “You might as well make yourselves comfortable.” As if to prove it, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a bag of chocolate drops, and held it out to them. “Don’t let their initial excitement fool you. Sheridan can dig for hours—days—not find anything, and still be convinced he’s in the right place, or just a few inches off.”

“Inches make all the difference, you know.” A clod of earth flew up from where Sheridan’s voice came. “Off by one and you find nothing.”

Hours? Days? Libby reached into the sack and pulled out a chocolate. “We don’t have that long.”

“We’ll have as long as we need.” Oliver accepted a chocolate, too, and turned to the sea. “The Lord didn’t bring us all together just so that we’d fail.”

Bram lifted a sardonic brow. “Does he always speak so?”

Libby smiled. “Yes.”

“And you don’t find it off-putting? Or ridiculous?”

“Actually, no. I find it . . . encouraging. And something to emulate.”

She was rewarded with Oliver shooting her a smile.

“There’s something here!” Beth’s voice came more quietly than Libby would have expected, almost reverently.

“Probably a stone.” Bram shook the bag of chocolates and peered inside. He took a full minute, sometimes, picking the perfect one. Though what made one perfect in that moment, she couldn’t say, since he’d end up devouring them all within an hour, each selected with the same ridiculous care.

“Wood, actually.”

Sheridan’s clarification didn’t stir Bram from his study. “An old timber, then. Careful you don’t bring some ancient foundation caving in around you, prodding at its support as you probably are.”

“It isn’t a timber. The size of the planks is all wrong,” Beth said.

Libby moved closer, her curiosity outweighing any Bram-inspired doubt that they could have possibly found something so quickly.

They’d dug down only about a foot, and the hole was only a few inches wide. Given how they crowded the hole, she couldn’t see much past them, but they were working rather efficiently now—Sheridan loosening the sod with a practiced shovel, picking it up like a square of green carpet, Beth going in underneath and moving the dirt into a neat pile. Soon, enough was visible that Libby could see what Beth had meant about the plank size. This was definitely no ancient timber—it was slender planking, thin, with the wood rotted by soil and moisture enough that the shovels could probably crack it away.

“Look.” Beth breathed the word with awe and rocked back onto her knees so they could peer over her shoulder.

It looked like a crate. One with Mucknell branded across the top.

Libby gripped Oliver’s arm. “It’s actually there. Right there.”

Bram, chocolate now in his mouth, moved to her other side. “Probably filled with nails. Lead shot. Moldy clothing—”

“Do shut up, Telly.” Sheridan scraped more dirt away. “Could break though. If we try to pull it out, I mean. We’d have to excavate all around it. Or . . .” He grinned over at Beth. “Ladies first?”

She shoved the tip of the shovel into the dirt-packed crack between two planks in reply. A splintering sound filled the air, a creak as she levered it. A snap that made Libby wince. What would they do if it were just moisture-eaten clothing or a supply of nails that probably would have been much appreciated at the time but was worthless now? Perhaps, from an archaeological perspective, it would still be interesting.

But she had a feeling Lorne and Scofield weren’t overmuch interested in that sort of archaeology. And she couldn’t be sure the unknown American was either.

When Beth shot to her feet a minute later, though, it wasn’t moldy silk or iron in her hands. It was . . . a fork?

Beth frowned and laughed both when she handed one to each of them. “Silver.”

“Ware,” Sheridan added. “Brilliant. And it’s engraved.”

It was indeed. Which wasn’t unusual. All the silver at home had an ornate T upon each and every handle. But this wasn’t just the usual single letter, nor even a full monogram. A name was etched into the handle, elegant and flourished.

Elizabeth.

She looked up at Beth. Beth looked at her. And they both grinned.

Birds suddenly took wing on the opposite side of the castle, crying out as they flew up into the mist. Libby’s pulse quickened. “Someone’s here.” And she’d abandoned her post at the castle’s entrance. Was it Mabena catching them up? One could hope.

But she couldn’t quite believe it. “Stay down, behind that wall. I’ll get rid of whoever it is.”

She made no objection when Oliver and Bram came with her though. And was doubly glad of their presence when they rounded the second corner and came face to face with Lady Emily, her arm in the iron-looking grip of a man who had to be her brother. They shared the same shade of hair, of eye, of skin. But where Emily looked miserable and frightened, Nigel Scofield met them with a grin that looked absolutely wicked.

“Oh good,” he said. “The Tremaynes. And you’ve finally brought me my silver.”

Oliver kept a silent litany of prayers going upward with every step, and he could tell from the occasional movement of Libby’s lips that she was doing the same. He oughtn’t to have had attention enough to be glad over that, given the circumstances. But he was. Even if things went terribly in the next hour, at least he knew that she’d made peace with her Maker, with the Lover of her soul. The One who called her by name and had led her here, right here and now, to find Him more fully.

Scofield, at least, wasn’t brandishing a weapon at them. He seemed to think when he informed them that his associate had Mabena and Casek held nearby that they’d follow along without a peep.

He was right, of course.

“See how simple it’s going to be?” Scofield shoved his sister off the path and into the sand with so little care that Oliver had to grit his teeth against a rebuke. “You give me that sample, and I’ll return your friends to you. You leave the rest at a prearranged location, and I never bother you again. Tidy as can be. I don’t know why you couldn’t have done it this way to begin with, Elizabeth.”

Libby stepped into the sand without a hitch or a stumble. “I didn’t have it until now.”

“A likely story.”

Where was he taking them? One of the caves, probably. There wasn’t much else on the north end of the island.

“And if you don’t leave the rest for me to take back to civilization, if you think to get the authorities involved, you’ll pay for it. I think I’ll start with that doddering old woman who interfered with my associate just as he was closing in on you the other day, Elizabeth.”

Oliver’s hands curled into fists. “You won’t touch my grandmother.” And what did he mean, she’d interfered? Had she been attacked that day as well? She’d had no knots, no bruising. But they still hadn’t gotten any answer from her on what happened, despite the fact that she’d been awake and chatty this morning. He hadn’t, frankly, thought to press her on it. He’d been too happy to see her alert again, like herself.

Scofield just laughed. An ugly, abrasive thing that didn’t deserve the same name as the sound that spilled from Mamm-wynn’s lips, or Libby’s or Beth’s.

He led them directly to the entrance of Piper’s Hole, which had Lady Emily pulling frantically away. “No. I won’t go in there. You can’t make me!”

He let go of her so abruptly she fell backward into the sand. “You are a disgrace to the family name. You know that, don’t you?” He scoffed. “Afraid of a cave.”

Telford crouched down beside her, slipping an arm behind her to help raise her back to her feet in the shifting sand. He murmured something into her ear that Oliver couldn’t hear, and which failed to bring any calm to her face.

Scofield hissed out a curse and turned his hard gaze on Oliver and Libby again. “My sister will be our lookout. The rest of you come with me.” He’d already taken the three pieces of silverware they’d held—a fork, a knife, a spoon. Not that they would have been much use as weapons, but Oliver didn’t much like the sensation that they were utterly defenseless.

Well, not utterly. They had the Lord on their side. And Beth and Sheridan still out there. Perhaps, if they hurried, they’d have time to fetch the constable—though they wouldn’t know for certain where Scofield had taken them.

Scofield gripped Libby’s arm in place of his sister’s, and a growl slipped out before Oliver could stop it.

Scofield sent him a look dripping deadly amusement. “Down, boy. I won’t hurt your sister unless she forces me to. She’s proven herself quite useful.”

Lady Emily’s brow creased. “She isn’t—”

“Going in there? I don’t mind.” Libby craned her neck around to send Lady Emily a smile that said, Keep quiet. Then looked from her back toward where they’d come from, pointedly. “I’ll be all right, Em. I go into the caves all the time.”

Lady Emily nodded, no doubt realizing that her brother’s mistake was playing to their advantage. Oliver still wasn’t certain who he thought Telford was, but he clearly assumed there was only one Elizabeth here. And knew nothing about Sheridan.

“Don’t disappoint me, Emily.” Scofield moved his glare from her to Telford. “And who are you, anyway? One of Tremayne’s friends, I assume.”

Oliver had to give Telford credit—he appeared entirely unruffled by this turn of events and hadn’t missed a single beat. Now he returned the glare even as he said, “Older brother, actually. Morgan.”

Oliver sucked in a breath. On the one hand, it was a smart move—he and Libby certainly looked like siblings, and his clothing marked him of higher status than most of the islanders. If Lady Emily had told him anything about the Tremayne family, though, if he knew Morgan had died two years ago . . .

But Scofield’s sneer looked blessedly ignorant. “The whole happy family, then. Lovely. Now, in we go.”

In they went. Past the place where Oliver had kissed Libby less than a week ago—though it felt a century past, so much had happened in the interim. Over the boulders into the mouth of the cavern, down the drop. Beside the pool—though the boat was missing.

A few candles were burning on the rocks though. Enough to show him a grumpy-looking Mabena and Casek sitting there, hands and feet tied with rope that would be chafing at more than their skin. How had their captor, who stood behind them with that pistol leveled on them again, gotten the best of Casek? Wearne must have fifty pounds on him.

But he wouldn’t have risked Mabena getting hurt in any scuffle.

“Lorne?” Scofield called out. “It’s just me, with the Tremaynes. As planned.”

Lorne? This was Lorne, the man from the cave last Sunday? But that must mean . . .

The man’s face cracked into a nasty grin. “Hello again, luv. Have you brought us what you ought to have this time?”

Us. Oliver glanced from Scofield to Lorne. Not rivals—or not anymore. They were working together. He wasn’t certain if that made them more dangerous or less.

Scofield held up the silverware he’d confiscated. “Engraved with Elizabeth, just as we thought. Mucknell must have kept it for his wife. I wonder if he even knew it had once been the queen’s?”

“Hardly matters if he did or not. The buyers know, which is all that matters. A queen’s own silver, and with the Mucknell lore added to it besides.” Lorne smiled, then narrowed his eyes. “More than a single set, I hope.”

“There’s a crate, she said.” Scofield sent them an arched look. “I’m thinking Permellin Carn will be a fine place for you to take it. Lorne, you can beach your boat there, load it up. If we hurry, we can still make the rendezvous. The Victoria wasn’t in port yet when I left St. Mary’s this morning.”

The Victoria? Some sort of vessel, clearly. But not one owned by a local. If it was a visitor’s, it had to be a large enough craft to have come independently from the mainland. Most likely a yacht.

“What do we do with them?” Lorne motioned with the pistol toward Mabena and Casek. Or perhaps to the group of them at large.

Scofield jerked Libby closer to his side. “We’ll take the girl with us all the way to the rendezvous with the Victoria. Insurance. Let the rest of them go so they can get the silver to Permellin Carn—and then they’re free to go afterward.”

Telford surged a step forward. “You said you’d let everyone go if we cooperated.” Perhaps he wasn’t a Tremayne, but he’d have done Morgan proud. He always wished he’d been able to join their adventures like this.

Scofield huffed out a condescending sigh. “No, I said I’d let those two go if you cooperated. Really, Tremayne, you have to learn to listen.”

Lorne frowned. “He’s not Tremayne. It’s the dark-haired one that’s Tremayne.”

Scofield must not have liked being corrected by a mere lackey. He turned his scowl on Lorne. “There are two of them, you imbecile.”

Blast it all. Lorne had been on the islands for weeks—he must know that Morgan wasn’t with them any longer. And when their house of cards came tumbling down, if these two realized there were more players in the game than they thought, it could go very badly very quickly.

They had to act—fast. But though he met Casek’s gaze in that split second, it wasn’t long enough to form a silent plan. Just enough to say they needed one. Still, they’d fought each other enough over the years to be familiar with each other’s moves. If one of them lunged, the other would know what to do. They just needed an opening. A distraction.

A new light appeared behind Lorne, Casek, and Mabena, floating on the water, casting an eerie glow out from the darkness. And a ghostly white apparition manifested itself on the face of the pool. “Unhand her at once!”

Not an apparition—Mamm-wynn. Though he scarcely recognized her in the fierce shadows, he’d know her voice anywhere.

And questions of how she’d gotten there would just have to wait. Her sudden appearance had made Scofield curse and jump away from Libby, and Oliver could feel Telford coil beside him, ready to attack in that direction.

But Scofield wasn’t the one with the weapon. Lorne was, and he didn’t do anything helpful like drop it in shock at Mamm-wynn’s arrival. He took aim at Casek and Mabena. “You’ll not scare me away this time, old woman, no matter what you know that you shouldn’t!”

Oliver hurtled toward them.

“No!” Casek, somehow, had struggled to his feet. He was effectively between Lorne and Mabena, but Lorne had jumped onto another rock, out of Casek’s lunging range. He wouldn’t be able to fight the gun from him.

And a look of utter fury had taken over Lorne’s face.

Time slowed as Oliver drew near, observed, calculated.

Could he reach Lorne before he pulled the trigger? He had to try. Because if he shot Casek, Casek would tumble backward into the pool and, with his arms and legs both bound, sink straight to the bottom. Likely dead before any of them could drag his hulking form back out, especially if Lorne re-aimed.

There was only one thing Oliver could possibly do. He threw himself in front of Casek, still flying at Lorne, praying he’d have enough time to reach him.

Thunder roared through the cave, and lightning flashed. He heard a million screams, a thousand footsteps, felt the sting of a hundred bees in his side as a bullet kissed him. But his arms closed around Lorne and, when Oliver fell toward the water, he dragged the villain with him.

They plunged into the darkness, cold and silky. Lorne thrashed, pushed against him. But it was only fists hitting him, no metallic death. He must have dropped the pistol, either on the rocks or in the water. Which meant Oliver had a fine chance. He shoved Lorne away, downward, and used the momentum to push himself in the opposite direction, toward the faint glow of candlelight flickering on the surface of the pool.

A hand grabbed his ankle, tugged, but Oliver kicked. Not at the hand, but to the side, where Lorne’s head would be. And his boot connected with something, something that made the fingers loosen enough that he could kick away.

Lungs burning, he broke the surface of the water and swam with all his strength away from where Lorne would be, toward the rocks.

Hands grabbed his wrists and hauled him out. It took him a moment of blinking through the water streaming over his face to see it was Libby gripping one, her brother the other. He couldn’t see Scofield anywhere behind them. “Where is he?”

“He kicked Bram in the head somehow and ran.” Libby, eyes frantic, homed directly in on the burning in his side. “You’re bleeding. Mabena, give me your wrap! We can use it as a bandage.”

“Never seen anyone move like that,” her brother muttered, eyes stormy. “They certainly don’t teach that sort of fighting at the clubs.”

A splash and a gasp brought Oliver’s head around, even as his cousin, still hopping out of the ropes that had bound her feet, balled up an old woolen shawl and tossed it their direction.

Lorne had broken the surface. But the murder on his face froze when Mamm-wynn’s boat came closer and the barrel of a hunting rifle pointed directly at him, in the hands of Tas-gwyn. His grandmother held a lantern aloft from her perch on the opposite seat.

Those two might just drive him to insanity. When they weren’t busy saving his life.

“I wouldn’t try anything.” Tas-gwyn kept his face gruff, but to Oliver’s ear, his voice had a note of glee in it. He could only imagine the yarns he’d weave about this later. “I’m the vengeful sort, you know, and still owe you for that crack to the head.”

Mamm-wynn’s gaze sought Oliver. “Are you all right, dearovim?”

“I’ll be fine.” The gunshot wound couldn’t be anything serious, not given that he was far more aware of Libby’s citrus scent as she wrapped Mabena’s shawl around him than he was of the pain.

Tas-gwyn jerked his chin toward the rocks. “Out of the water with you, Mr. Lorne. Let’s keep this nice and friendly.”

Lorne looked around, clearly considering his options. But between Tas-gwyn’s hunting rifle and the pistol that Casek had claimed, he apparently decided that trying to make a break for it wouldn’t go well for him. Grumbling, he moved slowly toward the rocks.

“Rescued by grandparents.” Telford moved from a kneel to a crouch, a hand out to help Oliver to his feet. “Sheridan’s never going to let me live this one down.”

Well. There was no one in the world quite like his grandparents. Oliver accepted the help up, wobbling a bit when his head swam at the sudden shift in altitude. Perhaps he was bleeding more than he’d thought.

But Telford steadied him with a hand clasping his arm, and Libby’s came around his waist.

Noise came from outside, and a moment later the constable dropped into view, surveying the situation with a sharp eye. “Everything under control in here? Enyon said he heard noises—and not ghosts either.”

God bless Enyon.

“More or less.” Casek didn’t take his gaze off Lorne for even a second. “One got away. Did you see him?”

“We saw someone running in the opposite direction. Enyon’s chasing him down.”

Lorne snorted. “Good luck. That one’s slippery as an eel.”

“We catch eels all the time.” The constable moved with practiced ease over the rocks toward them, handcuffs at the ready and eyes taking everything in. He frowned at Oliver. “You’re injured?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” Telford rolled his eyes. “He was shot. Saving that one.” He motioned at Casek.

“Really.” The constable looked from Oliver to Casek and back again. “High time you lads learned to get along.”

Libby pressed herself a bit closer to Oliver’s side. And Telford didn’t even scowl at her. Just sighed and said, “I suppose if that’s how you treat your enemies, I’m looking forward to seeing how you behave with your friends. And,” he added quickly when Libby drew in a breath, “I imagine we’ll be taking the rest of the summer here to see it. There won’t be any prying Sheridan away now. Nor Libby. So we’ll see how patient you really are with that ‘as long as you like’ offer of staying with you, Tremayne.”

Libby made the sweetest little squeak. “You mean it? We can stay the rest of the summer?”

“I suppose.”

She abandoned Oliver to dart around him and throw her arms around her brother. Which brought a grin to his lips—and to Telford’s too, though he tried to smother it.

“Well.” Mamm-wynn accepted Mabena’s help out of the boat, onto the rocks. “Perhaps we might continue this conversation in the daylight? It’s a bit chilly in here. And I’m famished.”

No one objected, so the crowd of them made their way up to the entrance and out into the warm sunshine, the mist having vanished as stealthily as it had descended. The constable and Lorne emerged first, and two deputies took him none too gently in hand. Oliver blinked at the onslaught of light when they emerged, glad to spot Beth, Sheridan, and Lady Emily safely on the sand a small distance away.

Not quite as glad to see Enyon jogging back to them, alone. His best friend was waving a hand and shouting, “Ollie! You all right? When I heard a gunshot, I about charged in then and there! But then when that bloke charged out—he was fast! Gave me the slip.”

“I’m all right!” More explanation than that he wasn’t going to shout for the whole island to hear.

Especially since his sister had just spotted their grandmother and had some shouting of her own to do. “Mamm-wynn! What are you doing out of bed? And here, of all places?”

Their grandmother laughed. “Saving the day, of course. I had to. All my favorites were here.”

It only took Oliver a few steps to realize that the adrenaline was ebbing away—and his side was absolutely on fire. He pressed a hand to it, wincing, and looked down to see blood seeping through the shawl.

Telford’s hand gripped his arm again. “Feeling it now, are you, old boy?”

“Perhaps a bit.”

He eased closer. “Well. I don’t imagine it’s life threatening.” He pitched his voice to a whisper too low to be heard by anyone else, given the dozen conversations going on all about them. “Which means you’ll be wanting to propose sooner or later this summer. I won’t object. And I won’t cut her off—emotionally, I mean. I couldn’t. She’s my sister.” He sent a hard glare up the beach in the direction Scofield must have disappeared. “Some of us know what that means.”

Libby had taken a step away to answer someone’s question about something, but she stepped close again now, smiling up into Oliver’s face. “Are you all right? Does it hurt? We’ll get you to a doctor straightaway.”

He smiled right back at her. “Doesn’t hurt a bit.” How could it? Telford had just handed him the most precious gift in the world. That sort of joy didn’t leave any room for pain.

Libby breathed in deeply of the riot of floral scents on the evening breeze, her gaze feasting on the colors available to it in the Abbey Gardens. Mr. Menna had ushered all the other tourists out an hour ago, but he’d let Oliver and her come in for a stroll, just instructing Oliver to lock the gate when he left.

Her hand was tucked into the crook of his elbow. And pure contentment flowed through her veins. “Do you think they’ll come to an agreement while we’re gone?”

Oliver laughed and led her onto one of the first paths she’d walked here, with Mamm-wynn. They were moving slowly, as a nod to the wound in his side from two days ago. The bullet had only grazed him, but still. It had required stitches, and he probably should have chosen rest over an evening stroll with her, though she was selfishly glad he hadn’t.

“Not a chance,” he said. “I think it infinitely more likely that Beth and Sheridan will come to blows first.”

Libby chuckled too. It seemed that the more they’d pieced together about the silverware—once a gift to Queen Elizabeth, but which had been purchased by a nobleman in the days of Cromwell for his wife, only to be stolen by the pirate for his—the more heated Beth and Sheridan’s arguments became. “Beth does have a point, that the silverware has no connection to Prince Rupert of the Rhine, and so why should he have it for his private collection?”

“And Sheridan has a point, that it shouldn’t be entrusted to a museum, not given the Scofields’ influence in those circles. If what Lady Emily fears about them is true, it may never see a museum display if we were to donate it somewhere. It would end up in the hands of the American willing to pay for it.” Oliver shrugged. “We have time to decide. It’s safe enough for now.”

Safe in the small hidden chamber in Tas-gwyn Gibson’s foundation, where Beth had found the map to begin with. Matching the one on the opposite side where the letters had been stashed. Between the two, there was just enough room to store the silverware.

If there was more to Mucknell’s treasure, it hadn’t been buried in the same spot. But the sheer amount of silver made it a valuable haul, and all the more so when one considered its provenance. More collectors than Sheridan and the American would be willing to pay handsomely for pirate loot once owned by a queen.

“And we have the rest of summer to make our decision.” She leaned into his arm, still not quite capable of taking that in. Bram had relented. They were staying here, both of them. Lorne was safely housed in Tresco’s single jail cell and would be shipped to the Cornwall magistrate soon, and the authorities would be keeping a keen eye out for any yacht called Victoria.

Not that the American who presumably owned it had necessarily done anything wrong, but Scofield could reappear if it did. Thus far no one had reported seeing him, including the ferry operator. But then, he hadn’t taken the ferry here that morning either. According to Lady Emily, he had several friends with yachts and had probably come and gone by himself. There had been a pleasure craft docked at the port in Hugh Town for a few hours the other day, which gave credence to the thought.

“I still can’t believe that telegram Lady Emily received.” Oliver shook his head, eyes troubled. “They can’t have meant it, can they? That she isn’t welcome home until she’s sorted things out with her brother?”

“I can’t imagine so. But she certainly seemed to believe it.” Libby didn’t think she’d ever forget the look in Lady Emily’s eyes either. Filled with tears. Hopeless. Dejected.

But she was among friends, at least. They’d see she was all right.

They walked in silence, comfortable and familiar. So much had already been said over the past two days. So much needed to be said still. But for now, it was heavenly just to listen to the chirping of the birds, the buzz of insects, the breeze running its fingers through the Cornish palms’ fronds. To be walking here with this man she’d dreamed about for years and who so surpassed all she’d ever hoped about him. This man she loved in a way she hadn’t quite thought herself capable of.

The path wound around another grove of trees, and Libby smiled. “This is the way your grandmother and I walked the day we met. I don’t believe I’ve come this way since. There was so much else to explore.”

“You’ll be needing a new notebook soon, I suspect. I did especially love your painting of the lily of the Nile.”

The Agapanthus was to be seen all over the islands, and she loved the purple blooms. “Would you like to know a secret?” She tilted her face up, grinning. “I usually sing ‘L’amour est un oiseau rebelle’ while I’m painting.”

Oh, his smile. She could get lost in it. “Well. Mamm-wynn did try to tell me weeks ago it was one of your favorites. I suppose I should have believed her.”

“Did she?” Odd. But she was beyond asking how at this point when it came to his grandmother. “You should have indeed, then. You ought to know by now that she’s always right.”

His laugh was a mere breath, incredulous. “So it would seem.” His fingers settled over hers on his arm, as they so often did. And she wondered if he’d kiss her again. There were hundreds of perfect spots here, and they had the Gardens to themselves. It would be the perfect cap to the last few strange days. “What did you two talk about that first day?”

“Well . . . on this part of the path, she told me a bit of the history of the Betrothal Stone. Or the legend, anyway.” They were only a few steps away from it now, so naturally they stopped. Libby smiled at the memory. “She mentioned that your parents had a story about it, though she didn’t tell it to me.”

“No? Well, that won’t do.” Grinning, Oliver pulled away so he could face her. “It was in the dead of winter, so you’ll have to use your imagination there. Most of the garden was dormant, and a fierce storm had just blown through. All the islanders had been hunkered down for days, but on the solstice, the sun was shining again. So my father seized the opportunity to take my mother for a stroll. She’d always been intrigued by the local legends—”

Libby laughed. “Having met her father, I find that utterly astounding.”

“No doubt.” He set a hand on the slab of granite. It would be warm from the summer sun, but perhaps he was imagining it with a winter chill. “Father had told Mother that he’d read the stone may have had some other ceremonial purpose in the days of the Druids. He said he thought that it was originally aligned to catch the rays of the setting sun on the winter solstice. Which, as you’d expect, was all it took to get her out here at sunset. Even though no one knows where the stone originally stood, she was certain that if she caught the flash of sunset through one of the holes, something would be revealed.”

She couldn’t have held in her smile had she tried. “And I suspect something did.”

“Indeed.” Eyes twinkling, Oliver shifted behind the stone. “While she was busy investigating, Father slipped back here. And at the exact moment when the rays were stretching through the hole, he reached through.” Oliver’s hand came through the small, topmost hole. “And he opened his hand.” Oliver’s fingers uncurled from his palm.

Libby’s smile stilled. Her breath caught. His hand wasn’t empty. There was a ring sitting there in his palm, the main stone a gleaming purple—or green?—with diamond rainbows sparkling from all around it. “Oliver?”

“I’m only an island gentleman, Libby. I have enough of a living to keep you in microscope slides, though I don’t imagine we’ll be able to travel the world. If you marry me, your brother says there will be no money from him. But if you marry me, I will devote my life to bringing joy to all your days. It isn’t a decision you should make lightly or quickly, so don’t feel as though you must—”

“Yes!” She reached into the hole and clutched his hand, trapping the ring between their palms. “I don’t care about the money or the travel or any of the rest. I only need you. The islands. Your family and mine and all our neighbors.”

“My Libby.” He moved his hand under hers, and in the next moment the ring was slipping onto her fourth finger.

She tore her gaze away from his enough to glance at it again. “It’s beautiful.”

“Alexandrite. As rare as you.” Their fingers still entwined in the hole, he leaned over the stone. And kissed her.

She let her eyelids flutter closed and reached up to cup his cheek with her free hand. “I love you, Oliver,” she whispered against his lips.

“And I love you, Elizabeth.”

“And that’s enough kissing until the wedding.” Bram stepped into view farther along the path, near where the small back gate let the Tremaynes in and out so frequently, his gleaming eyes belying his stern tone. He must have known Oliver’s plan, to have positioned himself so nearby. “Which should be planned for quite a while from now. I’m thinking a year’s betrothal. Perhaps two, given how short a courtship you had.”

“Bram, really.” But she didn’t much care how long the betrothal was. A day, a year, a decade—whatever the length, she’d get to pass the time knowing this man loved her. Knowing that she would be his. That she’d found her home, here where the islands knew her name.

Oliver came back around, letting go of her fingers only long enough to step to her side and then catching them in his again.

Her brother stepped to her other side and nudged her into a walk. “Well, we need time to get you a proper trousseau. Sort out how much of your dowry you’ll need and how much we should, perhaps, set up in trust for future children. Because really, I don’t think you could possibly spend it all here.”

Oliver’s brows pinched. “But you said—”

Bram laughed and slung an arm around her shoulders. “Is he always so gullible?”

“No.” She squeezed Oliver’s hand, pulling him along with them. “He always sees straight to a person’s soul.”

“Mm.” Oliver shook his head, though she knew well the pleasure in his eyes wasn’t from the promise of a dowry. “And what I saw with you, Telford, was a man who would do anything to protect his sister.”

“And don’t forget it.”

They strolled back in the direction they’d come. Talking. Laughing. Planning. About weddings and families and pirate treasure. About friends and enemies and what the rest of summer might hold.

Libby mostly let the men do the talking. She watched the birds wing their way from treetops to heavens, listened to the night insects as they made their debut.

And could swear that when the wind blew again, she could hear the islands whisper, Elizabeth.