Then the irony of it struck him—he’d taught him pirating, for heaven’s sake—and he had to shrug. “Any mention of it in your mother’s story? You didn’t finish writing it out yesterday.”
She shook her head. “According to the story, the prince never returned to the islands. His bride died alone.”
“That’s terrible.” He meant it. It was one of the things he hated about the old tales—they so often ended in death and tragedy and betrayal. Abbie always went on about King Arthur, when she wasn’t rereading Jane Austen, and he’d never understood why—except that Telly was all rapt attention when she did, which urged her on. What was so alluring about a man cuckolded by his own best friend and the woman he loved?
“But it would mean the treasure is still there. And it must be worth finding if both Mucknell and Rupert were trying to direct their wives to it.”
“That’s the spirit.”
She smiled. At him. Again. This was real, true progress. Maybe eight years was conservative. If he could make her forget the trinket box, he might talk her down the aisle in a mere six years.
She had him take the tiller a moment later while she did something with the lead line and her watch, demanding her compass back too. He had only the vaguest idea what she was about and didn’t ask for details. So long as she didn’t wreck them into a sandbar, he was quite happy to let her remain the expert here.
And she seemed happy enough with the course. She took the tiller back and then asked him to tell her more about Prince Rupert. Which, really, was like paying him a compliment, if one squinted just right. She was acknowledging that he knew something she didn’t. And wanted to.
Five years. And, perhaps, a half. Because he’d likely bore her to tears by the time they landed at Gugh.
She kept asking questions, though, so he kept regaling her with all the research he’d uncovered on his ancestor. His early life in the courts of Bohemia, where his father briefly—disastrously—reigned as king, The Hague, and King Charles here in England. His military career, which was well documented and far longer than it should have been. Who in their right mind sent their fourteen-year-old son to war?
But he’d made a reputation for himself during the Civil Wars—both first and second—and fought in Germany and France when England ran out of battles to offer him. He didn’t return here until 1660—ten years after he sailed with Mucknell to Portugal and then the Caribbean.
He showed an interest in art. Science. Mathematics. A true Renaissance man.
The fog thinned as they sailed, though it didn’t dissipate altogether. He could make out the hulking outline of St. Agnes as they approached, and the smaller outline of Gugh beside it.
Tide was in, so the tombolo connecting the two would be underwater. Between that and the fog, they ought to have the island to themselves.
This may be madness, but there was a method to it.
“So, what’s your family connection to him? If he never married—so far as history knows,” she added with a half-smile, “then what’s he doing in a marquess’s lineage?”
“Ah. Well, he’s certainly the most interesting character in it. I come from the dullest family in all of England, I think. But his daughter, Ruperta—illegitimate but recognized—married Emanuel Howe. Who isn’t my direct ancestor, but he’s occupying a branch in the family tree. Same surname, you’ll notice.”
Her half-smile had vanished. And a thunderstorm flashed in her eyes.
That was it—their color. The blue-grey of a storm cloud low on the horizon.
“You mean to tell me you don’t even have any blood in common with the prince, yet you think having the same last name as his daughter’s husband gives you a right to my trinket box?”
Well, bother. This was a bit of a setback. Even ten years was looking rather optimistic just now. “Well, I—that is. I never said I had a right to it. As in, some law of inheritance. But I think I may fairly be called the foremost expert on Prince Rupert at present, and so naturally . . . I’ve quite a collection. A few surviving Prince Rupert’s Drops—those teardrop-shaped glass canisters that explode when—”
“I don’t care about his blighted weapons!” She yanked hard on the tiller, and he had a suspicion it wasn’t because she suddenly remembered a sandbar.
The Naiad responded with a quick turn into a wave, which obeyed what was clearly Beth’s command that it spray him from head to toe with a refreshing dose of the North Atlantic.
He may die of cold if the sun didn’t soon bully its way into the sky, but he was determined not to be tossed fully in the drink and clung tightly to his seat. “That wasn’t very nice.”
“You know what isn’t nice?”
“Something about keeping trinket boxes one paid good money for, I suspect.” They were nearing the smaller of the islands, at least. He only had to cling to the bench for dear life for another minute or two.
Then all he’d have to worry about was her leaving without him and stranding him there.
Well. Tide would go out and he could walk to St. Agnes if it came to that. They liked tourists there. The guidebook said so.
“You are an insufferable prig.”
“But I’m an insufferable prig who believes your hunch about Mucknell and thinks you’re right to continue the search.” He gave her a smile that felt weak even to him. “No? Not enough right now?”
And her scowl was back. “Why should I bother? You’ll just run off with it and leave me empty-handed even if we do find something.”
“Actually, I was imagining a fifty-fifty split. To the devil with the others since they don’t believe us. It’s all ours, I say. Eh?”
Then marry me, and you can call it all yours.
“So, you’re a cheat as well as a thief.”
Perhaps it was time to take a lesson from Ainsley. He buttoned his lips and decided silence may be his best friend right now.
If only he’d adopted that tack a minute sooner.
7
Beth checked her watch. Gauged the density of the fog. Tapped her foot. And decided that if she meant to explore Gugh before other tourists braved the weather and ruined the solitude, it might require leaving Sheridan behind.
If only her parents hadn’t ingrained basic manners into her. “What are you even looking at?”
They’d anchored on the far side of Gugh, in the hopes that none of the locals from St. Agnes would spot her sloop. And though she was familiar enough with the island that she could have started her search anywhere, it had seemed logical to begin at Kittern Hill, since that’s where the Old Man stood. Which had apparently been a mistake. Sheridan had aimed himself directly toward the burial cairn of Obadiah’s Barrow and the nearby standing stone instead of the path leading away from them and had been poking about under some gorse for at least five minutes already.
She’d entertained herself at first by hunting up something to take to Mamm-wynn—a tradition of hers since she was a child. Today she’d selected a pretty little stone in shades of pink and grey, which was now nestled in her pocket. And, that task ticked off, she was ready to begin. Sheridan, on the other hand . . .
“I think—yes, I’m quite certain. Pottery shard. Could be part of a cremation urn.”