A trap? But how could he have known she’d even be back?
Never mind. No doubt if she hadn’t come on her own, he’d have sent her a message to lure her here. Something to flame her curiosity—or threaten her family. She wouldn’t have been fool enough to come alone in answer—probably—but her own drive had led her here without the need for his creativity.
“That snake.” It was the kindest thing she could think to say about him.
Sheridan rocked back on his heels, frowning. “Does he realize he’s dug out the wrong side of the cairn, I wonder?”
She didn’t get the chance to answer. Oliver and Telford reappeared, their bright faces telling her they’d found something useful even before they held it up.
“Is that a jack?” Sheridan sounded as incredulous as she felt. “The man comes prepared.”
And, therefore, really had no reason at all to leave her here and “fetch help.” As if she’d needed clarification on that.
But as her brother lowered himself into the hole with that precious hunk of metal, Nigel Scofield’s treachery fled her mind entirely.
She wasn’t going to die in this pit after all—news that brought the tears back to her eyes.
18
Sheridan had been sitting in the same position so long that his back and neck screamed at him. He wasn’t about to complain, though. Not when he was ninety-eight percent certain that the only reason Mamm-wynn had set up Beth’s sickbed down here in the drawing room was so that he could take a shift at her side without bending the rules of propriety. He didn’t believe for a moment that it was so that she didn’t have to go up and down the stairs to tend to her. And he was beyond grateful to have been entrusted with even a sliver of the vigil.
Not that she needed a vigil, per se. She was, praise the Lord God Almighty, in no danger of dying on them. Though by the time they’d gotten her home again, into a hot bath, and then looked over by the doctor, she’d been completely exhausted and had promptly fallen asleep. As she’d remained for the last three hours while he sat here hunched over at her side, praying like he’d never prayed before.
He could have lost her. Had Mamm-wynn not sent them looking before she had any “real” reason to worry . . . had they not decided to follow his hunch and go to Gugh . . . had they chased after the Naiad instead of continuing on their route . . . she could have died in that pit. By the time they’d jacked the slab up enough to ease her out from under it, the water had deepened another inch with runoff and rain. Another hour of this pounding torrent, and she’d have drowned.
He could have lost her, and he’d never even had the chance to beg her to beg him for a second chance. To come up with a way to convince her to marry him. Marry me before one of us gets trapped in a Druid burial chamber, will you?
Probably not the romantic proposal a girl like her had dreamt of.
Prayers had seemed a better recourse than going over and again in his mind how she’d looked down there, covered in mud, only half visible beneath the granite, desperation on her face. It wasn’t a sight he would ever forget—nor a fear that would let go of his heart.
She could have died there, and they wouldn’t even have known it for days. And for what? Pirate treasure? It wasn’t worth it. Nothing was worth it, no excavation or discovery or expedition.
He’d always known his chosen pursuits came with a few risks. But somehow natural ones—cave-ins or slips or tropical diseases—felt different. But knowing that a person had caused this, had done it deliberately, had done it out of greed or spite . . . entirely different. Mr. Scofield was seriously pushing the bounds of Sheridan’s cheerful nature just now, igniting all sorts of dreams of burying him—figuratively, of course. His reputation. Not literally.
Why would anyone think to do it literally? What must be broken in his soul to have left Beth there like that?
Ainsley would probably say he ought to pray for the blighter’s soul, if he thought it broken. So, he’d tried to. Experimentally. And discovered within about ten seconds that his furious heart had gone from “draw him to your truth” to “and smite him with a taste of his own medicine.”
He’d have to work on that when his anger had cooled a bit.
For now, he soothed himself by reaching again for her hand where it rested against the cushion of the sofa she slept on. He had no right to take her fingers in his. But she’d held fast to him during the entire jacking procedure and then all through the sail back to Tresco, so he couldn’t think she’d mind terribly. That is, she’d clearly just needed something to cling to—and now he needed the same. She wouldn’t begrudge him that, would she?
Well, Beth of four weeks ago certainly would have. But Beth of last night, when she’d laughed and smiled at him, wouldn’t. Probably.
And the feel of her fingers in his, reassuringly warm and alive, eased a bit of the tension in his chest. Earlier, they’d been frigid. Slick with mud and rain. Now, they were yet again the hands of a lady, with dirt scrubbed out from under nails that were neatly trimmed.
Would it be pressing his luck to lift her hand to his lips and kiss it? Probably. Especially when she wasn’t awake to slap him if so. Hardly fair of him. Best to content himself with the liberty already taken and marvel at how small her hand was compared to his. He wasn’t exactly a towering giant of a man or anything, but her fingertips barely reached his second knuckle if he aligned the bottoms of their palms.
He’d never really considered himself the nurturing sort—his sisters were so much older, and he’d never taken in every stray dog like Telford pretended he didn’t do but always did. So why did seeing Beth Tremayne like this, bruised and battered and overcome with exhaustion, make him want to take care of her? Protect her? Champion her? She wasn’t the sort who needed a champion, generally speaking. She’d proven she could take care of herself.
Still. He wanted to help her achieve her goals. Watch her back, if nothing else. Ward off broken-souled antiquities hunters, at the least.
Not that he’d done a stellar job of scaring Scofield off in the past, the mere thought of which made his nose ache. He scowled down at their fingers. Maybe he should take up that ka-rot-whatever-it-was that Nigel Scofield had mastered, just in case they ever had another encounter like that. Or he could learn something even more impressive. Deadly. Surely there was some fighting method out there that would render one’s opponent unconscious by the sheer force of one’s will. Or a single finger expertly placed. Or—
“That is the most ferocious scowl I’ve ever seen you wear.” Beth’s voice emerged as a whisper, scratchy and faint.
His gaze flew to her face, where her eyes were open to half-mast. Her fingers flexed against his but didn’t pull away, so he held them a little more tightly. “Contemplating which new form of combat I should take up to render that snake utterly useless next time we meet. There’s probably some ancient Aztec method I could learn. Or Ethiopian—they’re fierce warriors, I hear.”
Her lips curved up a bit in the corners. “You mean the Druids don’t have any methods you could learn?”
“Well, possibly. But I’ve yet to meet one who could teach me.” Now that she was awake and it was fair, he risked raising her hand to his lips and pressing his lips to its back. She didn’t slap him—though maybe she was just still too weak and tired. “I wish I’d been there. I would have traded places with you.”