At last, she had to admit that her heart was his. But alas, she was nearly too late! For the prince must sail off soon, in search of the treasure to restore his kingdom. One night but a week before he was set to sail, she confessed her love under the light of a full moon. And the prince, in a rapture, fell to one knee, begging her to become his bride then and there.
It was foolish—for what king would accept an island miss as his daughter? But love demanded nothing less than this. And so they found the island priest and they had an island wedding, and for one blissful week, they were simply an island man with his island wife.
But then came the day when the prince must sail again. He clasped his bride to his chest and kissed her farewell, half hoping she would beg him to stay. But our new princess knew that her island, beloved but bare, was no kingdom for her love. She knew he must leave her for a while. Strong as the granite, brave as the wind, she bade him Godspeed.
And into her hands he pressed one last gift.
Beth paused again, a smile playing over her lips. This had always been her favorite part of the story. When Mother got to this part, Beth would bounce up and down, the wonder of it too great to hold inside. “The box!” she’d cry. “The box!” And she’d run from wherever she was to her mother’s room, grab the trinket box from the dressing table, and run back to her laughing mama with the treasure clasped to her chest.
A wooden box, once filled with naught but a prince’s trinkets. Filled now with a prince’s treasure. Not that she opened it then to see. Nay, in that moment, the only treasure she cared for was the love in his eyes. She needed nothing more, she said to him. But he bade her take what he had to give, to care for herself while he was gone. And he promised that the box held the key to her future, and that he would return to her as fast as sea and sail allowed.
“The key to your future.”
Beth jumped a bit at Sheridan’s mumble, looked over. Fully expecting to find that he had risen to his knees and was peering over at what she’d just written. She wouldn’t put it past him.
But he still sat cross-legged on the floor, hunched over the letters.
Beth closed Treasure Island over her pencil. “What was that?”
Sheridan tapped a finger to a page. And then to another. And another. “A phrase. Keeps reappearing. Mucknell to his wife, over and again. Much like—there’s the one at the end. That we’ve already sorted. The ‘look to the birds’ bit that helped us know how to read the map to the silverware, but this . . . you’ve noticed it?” He looked up, green eyes like twin flames of excitement.
Beth shook her head, her pulse skyrocketing half in anticipation and half in dread. Had she really missed a vital clue after all the times she’d read through those letters? Or was he just reading into it something that wasn’t really there? “What does it say?”
He turned back to the old pages. “This first one—they’re still in order—he says, ‘I know you disapprove, my love, but this is the key to your future.’ And then in this one.” He picked up another page. “‘I know sometimes it must seem that the key to your future is just out of reach.’ And then here again . . .” He replaced that page and reached for a third. “‘I am sorry it has been so long that I’ve been away. But remember that I’ve left you with the key to your future.’ Is it me? Or does that sound like a thing?”
“It does, yes.” And she’d noticed that during her own readings, too, and assumed he was referring to something he’d entrusted to her care that she could sell, or even an action she could take. But now her own words, Mother’s words, were still fresh in her mind, and she had to wonder if it was that straightforward. “That’s odd, though.”
“What?”
She reopened the book and stared at her scribbles. “In this story my mother used to tell about the pirate prince, there’s the same phrase.” She looked up again and saw that the others were listening now too—except for Lord Telford, who’d taken the chair in the opposite corner and sat with a book open, eyes intent on it, and a finger resting at his mouth. Libby’s cat, which Beth hadn’t even realized was in the house today, was curled up on his shoulder.
“Really.” Now Sheridan did push to his knees and try to look over her shoulder at the book.
And now she let him, even indicating the line. “But this is the prince—Prince Rupert—to his island bride.”
“Prince Rupert didn’t marry,” he muttered, eyes already on her writing. “Kept a string of mistresses.”
She’d read the history books just as he had. Though she had to admit the statement sounded a bit different when it was spoken by a man two inches away instead of in neat, orderly black text on a page.
Princes and brides and mistresses. Illegitimate offspring that he at least acknowledged and left his estate to. It didn’t seem quite proper to discuss it with a marquess hanging over her chair.
But it was the story. “Perhaps he had those mistresses because he did marry, but he left her here in the Scillies. He never came back for her, but he must have acknowledged the vow enough that he didn’t do something as low as take a second wife and pretend the first didn’t exist.”
Sheridan frowned. “Certainly the same phrase. What are the chances that both Prince Rupert and Admiral Mucknell spoke to their wives about ‘the key to their future’?”
From his place at the table, Oliver cleared his throat. Apology was etched on his face. “Not to put a damper on whatever it is you’re thinking, but I don’t recall that part of Mother’s story about the prince. I daresay it’s far more likely that Beth has put it in because she’s read all those letters so many times. She must have picked up on the phrase without realizing it and inserted it into her account.”
Her shoulders went stiff as boulders. “I did not.”
“It’s not an accusation, Beth. We all do such things without knowing it.”
Her brother’s attempt to mollify her only made her that much more certain. “You didn’t hear the story as many times as I did. She told it the same each and every time, word for word, and I’m telling you that this phrase was in there.”
Libby looked from Beth to Oliver, clearly not enjoying the argument. “Perhaps it was. But even if so, it can’t be anything but an interesting coincidence, can it? It’s still just a story your mother told you.”
Beth shook her head with energy enough that a flying curl caught on Sheridan’s jacket and she had to smooth it back to her own head. “She heard it from her mother, and her grandmother before that. I daresay she took the words straight from their mouths, just as I’ve done.”
“It isn’t far-fetched.” Sheridan rested his arms on the chair, not seeming to notice how he crowded her. “Oral traditions are—well, rather sacred really. Often preserved with more care, even. Than written accounts, I mean. It’s quite possible that this story as Beth has written it is exactly, word for word, what was first told, oh, centuries ago. Two and a half, perhaps.”
Miss Tremayne, he ought to be calling her. Were they in London, he’d never have dreamed of using her nickname so freely.
But they were on the islands, where everyone called her Beth. And at the moment, she nearly liked him, so she let it slide. “Exactly. Which means it’s no coincidence. It means that Mucknell and Rupert both used the phrase to their wives before they left together for the Caribbean.”