“Fine.” He waved her words away like he would a fly. “That Willsworth fellow would do then, I suppose. A viscount, isn’t he? Interested in paleontology, which ought to suit you. He would do.”
Heat seared her cheeks. And, even more humiliating, tears flooded her eyes before she could even feel them coming and blink them away. “Are you that eager to be rid of me, Bram?”
“Now, Libby, don’t . . . come now. Here.” He pulled out one of his ever-present handkerchiefs and thrust it at her. “You know well it isn’t that at all. It’s not about getting rid of you. It’s about making certain you’re well cared for.”
But she was well cared for—at Telford Hall, with him and Mama. Why wasn’t that enough? And why, if he was so eager to shove her off on someone else, couldn’t he let her choose someone who would actually like her? Maybe even love her? Was that too much to ask?
A question she didn’t intend to voice. Because, quite frankly, she was a bit terrified of the answer.
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.