“Hm.” Pursing his lips, Sheridan stepped out into the rain, hoping against hope that it would drill an idea into his head. Given that he’d forsaken his tea, he might require the rain’s help in that department.
As they hurried to the quay and onto the Adelle, he let everything spin through his mind. He was the last one of the three of them to have seen Beth, so if she were in any kind of trouble, perhaps she’d let a clue drop last night. Though when he recalled their conversation, all he could really remember was the way she’d smiled—at him. And even laughed. The way her grey-as-the-storm eyes had flashed with amusement instead of lightning. The graceful lines of her figure he might have admired more than necessary while he was coming up with more rat jokes.
He suddenly felt as though a giant took hold of his heart and squeezed it tight. Nothing could have happened to her in this short amount of time since she had breakfast with Mamm-wynn and Lady Emily . . . could it?
He sank down onto a wet bench, knowing well that they’d get under sail faster if he and Telford stayed out of Tremayne’s way. Which, just now, was fine. He wasn’t quite as adept at prayers as Ainsley or Oliver and preferred to give them his full attention, rather than undergo them while he was doing other tasks. So, he bowed his head against the rain and clamped his eyes shut.
Lord God . . . we don’t know where Beth is. But you do. Keep her safe, protect her if she’s in any danger. And if she’s still safe and well, then just whisper in her ear, as you seem to do in her grandmother’s, that she ought to come home now. Let her know she has us worried.
“What are you doing?”
Telford’s voice, still gravelly from disuse, elbowed its way into his awareness and made Sheridan sigh. “I’m praying.” Shouldn’t it have been obvious? Bowed head, closed eyes, clasped hands?
“Why?”
Sometimes his friend was downright obtuse in the mornings. “Because . . . Beth may be in some sort of danger, if Mamm-wynn is so alarmed.”
“So? Since when does such a thing inspire you to pray?”
With a huff of pure exasperation, he opened his eyes and looked at Telford. “I am not a heathen. I pray!”
Telford’s brows were furrowed. “When? All these years, I’ve not seen it.”
“Because I usually do it in private. Is that so difficult to fathom?” Maybe it was a miscalculation, though. He’d always preferred to undertake such tasks with no eyes watching him. After all, he was no vicar or saintly valet or theologian to make a proper example of it, so he preferred to approach the King of kings without anyone around to tell him he was doing it wrong. But did his best friend really think he just never prayed?
Such a thought would have been amusing even yesterday. Just now, it seemed horrific. If absolutely everyone in his life thought him so faithless, then he was clearly doing something wrong.
He’d have to fix that. Turn over a new leaf in his outward behavior to better reflect his inward life. And yes, all right, work on the inward too. Because that must not be quite as robust as he liked to think if no one could detect it in him. Perhaps he ought to spend a bit more time thinking about God and of what He’d ask of him rather than where he wanted to go for his next dig.
He shut his eyes again. Forgive me, Lord. I don’t think it’s ever occurred to me that I’m failing you by not making faith a more active part of my life—which is ridiculous of me, given that you’ve put Ainsley in my life as an example. Forgive me. And lead us to Beth, please. Help us to find her quickly and, if she needs help, to be able to give it.
He paused, ignoring Telford’s next muttering altogether, barely even registering that the sloop was moving through the water now. And it hasn’t even crossed my mind that I ought to pray about my feelings for Beth either. I suppose I am rustier at this than I thought. Forgive that, too, please, while you’re forgiving me for the rest. No one has ever stirred my heart like this, Lord. I want . . . you know what I want. And you know, as I certainly don’t, how she feels. Take all of it. My heart and hers, our feelings or lack of them. And work your will there. I don’t know if she’s really the one you’d have be the next Lady Sheridan, but . . . but I hope so. You know how I hope so.
“Are you all right, Sheridan?” Tremayne’s voice this time.
Telford snorted. “He’s praying. One would think you’d be able to tell that, Mr. Vicar.”
It probably wouldn’t be righteous of him to shoot out a foot and find Telford’s shin with it, but Sheridan was tempted. Sorely.
“Wise of him. Keep it up, Sher. I’ll add mine to yours, and perhaps the Lord will give us guidance on where we ought to point ourselves. For now, I’m setting a course for St. Mary’s since we know she’d have gone there first.”
Sheridan opened his eyes but kept his head down. At least someone offered simple approval instead of mockery. And St. Mary’s was certainly the logical place to begin. They could knock on Lady Emily’s door and see how long ago Beth had been there. Perhaps they’d even find her there still. If the Lord was going to whisper a warning to Mamm-wynn, why not early enough that they could prevent trouble instead of just finding her in it?
He saw Mamm-wynn’s eyes again, troubled and clouded. Felt the squeeze of her hand as she held his.
Holding hands . . .
The words echoed in his mind, making his brows draw together. That had been her sole reaction when he asked for direction from her. To hold his hand. Though that couldn’t possibly be an answer, could it? It was just an emotional reaction.
Holding hands . . . with St. Agnes.
“Gugh.” His murmur was lost to the drumming of the rain, or at least drew no reaction from either of his companions. Which was fine by him. He had no idea if this thought was inspired by God or just a desperate grasping of his own mind.
But Gugh—it was where they’d last seen Scofield. Why? Why had he been there? Something had taken him to the little hunk of rock off St. Agnes’s shores.
Could the same something bring Scofield back again? Could the question of it have lured Beth back there this morning?
It wasn’t impossible. That didn’t make it likely, but . . . He looked up, toward her brother. “Gugh,” he said again, more loudly this time.
Oliver looked over at him with lifted brows. “She’s already been there and found nothing of interest. What would draw her to it again?”
Though he opened his mouth, Sheridan wasn’t certain what answer to give him. He shrugged and summoned a few words, paltry though they might be. “It’s where he was. That alone would be enough to make her wonder why, wouldn’t it? And if she had a question about it, why not explore a bit while she’s so near, after dropping Lady Emily at St. Mary’s?”
Their captain granted that with a tilt of his head that sent a stream of water onto his slicker-clad shoulder. “As good a theory as any.”
Telford didn’t look quite so convinced. “Really? Your sister would just go off for another random investigation in this weather, without letting anyone know?”
With a laugh, Oliver faced forward again. “If you have to ask, you’ve not spent enough time with her yet, my lord.”
Despite the weight of his worry, Sheridan grinned. He’d never met a young lady so prone to adventure. She was exactly the sort who would be eager to join him on excavations anywhere in the world. She wouldn’t complain about the dry heat in Egypt or the strange food in Greece. She wouldn’t faint at the thought of hiking into the Andes or give a dreadful shiver at the very suggestion of catching sight of the northern lights while he researched something in Iceland. She’d thrill at the chance to see those places, to explore and discover. And rough living for a few weeks at a time wouldn’t deter her a bit. She’d resorted to just that this very summer when she was in hiding, after all, of her own volition.