Beth let herself grin. It was always amusing to watch him do such things with others. It was a bit less so when she was the one he was subtly bossing, and she didn’t even realize it until she was halfway through whatever he’d got her doing. There were a lot of half-finished projects lurking around the islands as a result.
“And Sheridan, if you . . .” Oliver trailed off as he turned to Lord Sheridan, who had somehow made himself comfortable in one of the hard little desk chairs and was already through two letters, it looked like. Oliver just nodded and turned to Beth. “Are you going to supervise us?”
Stand there like an imbecile, he meant. Do nothing while the others learned something new. She fidgeted at the very suggestion. But what was left for her? She already knew the material, and his divvying up hadn’t left a portion for her anyway.
She ought to have jumped out that window—it was ground floor, it wouldn’t have mattered—and joined Senara.
Or . . . there were still those empty margins of Treasure Island beckoning to her and the story she now believed to be about Prince Rupert begging to be put to paper. “No, I have another task waiting. Excuse me just a moment.”
She had to dash back up to her room to fetch the book, which she’d stashed inside a hatbox that morning, but she was back again in a flash, pencil in hand. Leaving the table to the others, Beth folded herself into one of the comfortable reading chairs in the corner of the room, tucking her shoeless feet up under her and using her knees to shield the book from her brother’s sight. If he saw her writing in his book before she’d presented him with his new copy, he might just toss her out of a window that was not on the ground floor. Her seated position was terribly unladylike, but just now, Beth didn’t care.
Blame it on the month spent in hiding on Samson. The wind and rain and days of unending quiet had taken some of her finish off, she suspected. Returned her, as she could imagine Libby saying, to a state closer to nature.
To how she could imagine that island girl from centuries gone by being. She would have had to be beautiful, to catch a prince’s eye. But not the kind of beauty he could find in the courts of Europe. A wild beauty. Untamed. Like Mabena, maybe—heaven knew half the lads on Tresco had been in love with her growing up. She glanced up, expecting to see her cousin there, but then grinned at her absence. Benna had declared the Tremayne house far too crowded with society—and she had a point. Another few days and Beth might escape to her aunt and uncle’s house too . . . though she still couldn’t imagine darkening the door of the Wearnes’, which was where Mabena had been spending much of her time.
Or maybe the island girl had been like Senara, with that quieter strength that had always said, “You can shake me, storms, but I am made of Tresco granite. I’ll not budge.”
Beth scrawled a few paragraphs into the margins, trying to remember each and every word as Mother had said them. Scrawled them lightly, so that if she remembered something differently later, she and a rubber eraser could put it easily to rights.
And he took to the Scillies, where an island girl waged war on his heart.
She paused a moment. If this was Prince Rupert, then her imaginings hadn’t been so far off. She’d dug up a bit of history about him when she realized her box bore his crest and found a book that had prints of paintings of him, along with descriptions. He was indeed tall—standing at six feet, four inches. His hair, long enough to be fashionable in the seventeenth century, had been black as night. In the painting, he’d worn it curled, but that’s not how it would have been on his ship. He’d have had it tied back, revealing the sharp lines of his face. And in place of the regalia from the artwork, he’d have been in serviceable clothes, captain’s clothes. Pirate’s clothes.
When he first stepped foot on Tresco, would the girl have even realized he was more than the average buccaneer? Had he told her, or waited until he knew she loved him for himself, not just his title? These were the questions Mother’s story had never delved into.
Beth’s pencil hovered over the paper. She wanted to get it down exactly as it had been told her. But perhaps she’d write another version later too. One with her own imaginings thrown in.
For now, Mother’s version.
As a storm blew itself out in the Scillies, the prince sought shelter with a local family. They were island stock, born and bred. Island stock, half-starved and double-stubborn. But gracious to strangers, and they took him in. Offered him what food they had, a bed to rest in. They had two daughters, this fine family. One married already and to another island gone—one at home still, and learning to keep it. The prince took one look at her upon crossing the threshold and fell deep into the throes of love.
“That’s quite a look. Of question, I mean. On your face.”
She flicked her glance to the side, where the voice had come from. And down. Where, inexplicably, Lord Sheridan had settled himself onto the floor beside her chair. He was spreading the letters out before him in a semicircle. Perhaps the table hadn’t offered room enough?
Still. She never would have thought to find the marquess in such a position. It was disarming. Which was probably what convinced her tongue to loosen. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”
The stack of letters still in his fingers fell to the floor. Luckily only three inches. “Oh, ah. Well.” He drew in a breath and angled a look up at her. “Do you?”
She shrugged. “I want to. And it’s part of the story about Prince Rupert and his island miss. It’s part of so many old stories. But the real-life love stories I know—my grandparents, my parents, Mabena and Casek, those two . . .” She nodded to where Oliver and Libby had their heads together at the table. “That sort of love, the kind that goes so deep, takes time to dig in. Perhaps not much. But more than a glance.”
Sheridan nodded, too, looking as though he was actually contemplating the question. “Perhaps love isn’t the word, then. For that first strike, I mean. Infatuation. Attraction. Though, too—there could be a knowing. Yes? The thought, from the first glance, that this is the one for me. Perhaps the deep love has to dig in over time. Chisel itself in. To one’s heart, that is. Or rather, chisel the heart into its shape. But sometimes lightning does strike.”
She nodded. He had a point. “And lightning can do in a heartbeat what it would take a chisel forever to accomplish.” Perhaps it was silly to try to put logic to something as defiant as love at first sight. Perhaps it was silly to hope there was an explanation for it.
He smiled at her. “Just so.”
He was related, if distantly, to the prince. Did they share any features? Perhaps later she’d hold that print of the painting up to him and compare. She had a feeling he’d be game for the experiment. Perhaps Prince Rupert’s smile had been like his. Earnest and bright, its light deceitfully simple.
The island miss would have had no idea what secrets and intrigues he was hiding behind that innocent-looking smile.
She put pencil to margin again.
Though he knew he should not, the prince tended that love and nurtured it, seeking to win his lady’s heart against all logic. But the girl resisted his wooing words. She had no use for a pirate—and less of one for a prince. But as the days and weeks wore on, her heart grew ever warmer toward him. It was not his sweet words that won her. It was not the gifts he pressed into her hands. It was the honor and respect he gave to her parents, the recognition that in order to give to him, they went without. A sacrifice he was determined to repay.