He slanted a hard look at her and turned back to his paper. “You clearly need an education on how this publishing business works. I may slide some jewelry onto the table as a bargaining piece, but the box is mine.”
She muttered, “Unapologetic thief.” But the jewelry idea stuck. Rupert would have had jewelry too. Even when in exile, he likely carried more wealth in the hilt of his sword or on his pinky finger than any islander would have earned in a lifetime. After all, he’d had a trinket box with him. Chances were good it had been filled with trinkets. Cuff links. Rings. Gemstone brooches.
Her gaze moved back to Sheridan’s. “What do you suppose was in that box when he gave it to Briallen? Jewelry?”
Sheridan tilted his head. “Possible, but it would have been more difficult for her to liquidate and use, if his intent in giving it was to provide for her. Coins are more likely.”
But stories were less likely to be written about coins. “Rats.”
“No, rats are far less likely. He was in love with her, remember?”
She laughed again and leaned back in her chair. “So, you’ll pay me for the stories in jewels, will you?” It was dangerous, flirting with him like this—it must be, to get her heart hammering as it was.
His glance flicked up, tangled with hers, and then returned to the papers he held. “Any you like. What’s your fancy? My vault at the castle is positively bursting with choices. Though—really, it’s unfair of you.”
Her brows shot up. “What is?”
“That you haven’t eyes the color of a jewel, so that I can wax poetical about how this or that set would match them. But I haven’t any storm-cloud jewels to offer.”
She clucked her tongue. “Well, that’s a deal-breaker, isn’t it? If you’ve none to match my eyes, I’m afraid I can’t accept them as payment. You’ll have to give me the trinket box instead.”
“You drive a hard bargain. I suppose I’ll have to commission a chemist somewhere to develop me a new jewel. A silver diamond, we’ll call it. Or—what do you think? A Beth diamond?”
It seemed she couldn’t be in his company without laughing every minute or two. “I’m certain that would be immensely popular. You really know how to give gifts.”
“Better than a prince in your estimation, clearly. I wouldn’t give you rats, though you thought Rupert would have.” He sent her a wink and turned a page in his notebook, jotting something down.
“Ha.” She shook her head. Did nothing ever nonplus him? “What if I wanted a rat? For a pet.”
His brows rose, though his eyes sparkled more with amusement than surprise. “Rats are not pets. If they were, they’d follow Telly around like he was the Pied Piper, like all the cats and dogs. Parrots. Horses. He has a veritable menagerie trailing him most days.”
It was all she could do to tamp down her grin. “I’ve yet to see parrots following him.”
“Because all the pirates in the islands are long dead, that’s all. Were they here with their Pollys, Telly would have one on each shoulder.”
She chuckled at the image, though her mind wandered back to her imaginings of the black-haired prince presenting his island lass with a parting gift. The trinket box was special . . . but still it seemed terribly impersonal to stuff it with nothing but money. “Not even a necklace or ring, you don’t think? To Briallen, I mean?”
“Anything’s possible. Why, have you some ancient family heirloom of a jewel you think may be linked to the story?” He sat up straighter, looking ready to go investigate her jewelry box then and there.
Funny how it made her grin now instead of wanting to slap at him. “No. But someone else could. We could go knocking door-to-door, asking other families.”
He checked his pocket watch. “Probably bad form to start that just now.”
“Probably,” she agreed on a laugh. It turned into a yawn. “No mentions of anything like that in Mother’s stories?” She glanced down at the page she held but couldn’t even convince her eyes to focus on the words.
“Not that I’ve seen. Though one never knows when discovery will leap off the page.” He motioned to the small stack of them in her hands.
It was true. But she hadn’t realized how tired her eyes were. At the moment, she didn’t trust them to note anything of interest, seeing how Mother’s script blurred before her. “I think I’d better come at it fresh in the morning, actually.” She stood, casting a tired gaze over the table as she returned her pages to it. Usually, Senara came in to tidy up after them at the end of the day, but the chaos of papers said that their organizer had not been in this evening. Odd—but she must have been distracted with Mabena’s announcement. Which meant all the letters of Mucknell were still strewn across the surface, along with Mother’s stories. Or, at least, the ones she’d sent copies of to the Scofields. She’d been hoping something would jump out at her as to what they’d seen in them to propel Nigel to Gugh.
No luck, though. And if not earlier, when her mind and eyes were fresh, she certainly couldn’t hope to find anything now in those water-stained pages. She smiled at Sheridan instead. “Good night, my lord.”
“So soon?” He looked up from his page, disappointment there instead of a smile. “But I had at least four more good rat jokes brewing. You’ll miss them all if you leave now.”
She slipped out of the room as she’d entered it. On a laugh.
No, Sheridan really wasn’t so bad. In fact, she’d rather come to depend on seeing that grin of his every day.
She tucked her own grin away in the corner of her mouth and turned for the stairs. What would he do if she flirted first? Or did something as audacious as kiss him? The thought sent a flood of heat through her. Maybe one of these days she’d have to find out.
She darted a look over her shoulder, to where she knew he sat behind the walls. Poring over texts, making notes, thinking up jokes just to earn a smile from her.
Maybe someday soon.
Sheridan gave up on reading shortly after Beth abandoned him, cruel creature that she was. He’d been primed for an all-night session, but she’d utterly destroyed his desire for hours spent with text and paper simply by walking into the room and smiling at him. Laughing. Sitting close enough that he caught a whiff of her soap.
And her hair had been down. That ought to be illegal. Even after nearly a month under the same roof, this was the first time he’d seen it spilling down her back like waves of sunlight, and all he could think of as he stared blindly at the page resting against his knee was sliding his hand through that sunlight, anchoring her head, and kissing her senseless.
He tossed the handwritten version of Tristan and Isolde’s tragic tale onto the table and strode from the room, down the corridor, and then out into the back garden. Perhaps he’d be able to return to tales of love-potion victims after a breath or two of fresh air.
“Ha,” he said to the stars that twinkled down at him. Maybe he’d been struck with a love potion. Maybe that was why he’d been so consumed with thoughts of Miss Elizabeth Tremayne ever since she first collided with him in the entryway.
Well. If so, at least he’d have a better end of it than poor Tristan. Beth wasn’t betrothed to his uncle.