She shifted, winced, and settled again. “I wish you’d been there too—though not so that you’d feel as I do now. Just so you could’ve kept me from running into him again at all.”
She didn’t wish him to be in pain? They were making great strides of progress. He might as well send an order for wedding invitations to the printer. “I still can’t believe there’s nothing broken. Though you must be miserable.” Her grandmother had reported that her whole side was black with bruising, and the doctor thought it likely a rib or two was cracked, though not broken fully, so far as he could tell through the swelling.
Still. She’d be forced to rest for a week or two, at least, before she could reasonably expect to go out exploring again. And the shadows under her eyes spoke of severe pain.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked. “To take your mind off the pain? Or relieve it somehow? Fetch some healing waters from Mount Olympus, perhaps? Or, given that I’m really not a pagan, perhaps a relic from some ancient church, guarded by some secret order of the Knights Templar? I know—I’ll track down a mystic physician from—”
Her laugh was weak, but it still brought a smile to his heart, especially when she squeezed his fingers. “I don’t think such a quest would be of any help. But . . . I would certainly appreciate a distraction. Why don’t you tell me about your other adventures? You’ve been all over the world, haven’t you?”
“Well.” Stories—those he could give her. He could tell her every story he’d ever lived and make up a few besides, if she needed him to. “Not all over. I’ve yet to make it to the Americas, either North or South. Or Central, for that matter. But I’ve been all over Europe, especially Scandinavia. Africa—including a memorable trip to Egypt that Ainsley has made me promise we’ll not repeat. Not a desert-loving chap, apparently. And India, of course.”
“Of course.” Her eyes drifted closed again, though a ghost of a smile remained on her lips. “How old were you when you went on your first adventure? And was it a trip designed for exploration and excavation, or was it travel that inspired your interest in archaeology?”
He pulled his chair a few inches closer to the sofa. “Fourteen. And for the purpose. I’d been studying the ancients in school, you see, and an old friend of Abbie’s sent a letter saying she would be touring the ruins of Pompeii that summer and invited us along, and we could even take part in some of the ongoing work if we liked.”
“And you liked.”
“I so liked. There’s nothing to compare it to, is there?” He looked away from her face for a moment to gaze out the window instead. The garden, the sea beyond it, the world beyond that. “There is so much to discover. So many people who have lived before us and left clues behind about what sort of lives they enjoyed. So many stories of tragedy and victory, love and loss, just waiting to be uncovered. Seeing Pompeii like that—have you? I mean, pictures, at least? Fiorelli’s work was absolutely astounding. He realized that some of the voids in the ash were where human bodies had been, so he injected plaster into them. And they were. You can see them now, if you go. These plaster forms of people curled up, defensive. Trying to take cover. Protecting themselves and each other.”
He shook his head, though it was a memory he wasn’t likely to ever forget. Twelve years later, it was still vivid as daybreak in his mind. “I knew that summer that this was what I wanted to do with my time and resources. Resurrect old stories. Rediscover history. Share that history with the world.”
“Find some pirate treasure?” She’d opened her eyes again, and if he wasn’t mistaken, it was teasing that lit them.
He shook his head. “A bit of fun, that. To be sure. I mean, who wouldn’t be interested in pirate treasure? But it’s the discovery I crave, not the gold.”
He nearly jumped—largely from joy, though partly from shock—when she ran her thumb over his knuckle. “And the fame? The credit for the discovery?”
He snorted a laugh. “Hardly. Do you know who’s sent the world rocking with his discoveries of old Druid sites?”
Her brows arched. “No.”
“Exactly. No one does—no one cares that much. And that’s all right. It’s still worth knowing.”
For a long moment, she just looked at him. Steadily, silently. Heavily. Then she shifted again, winced again, and settled back against her pillows with a long, pain-ridden sigh and closed her eyes once more. “Tell me about Pompeii. And then Egypt—and I want details.”
A request surely meant to woo him. And it worked. “I’ll ask your brother to book the church.”
She cracked one eye open. “Pompeii, Sheridan.”
“Really? I thought you’d prefer to marry here on Tresco.” It earned him a laugh, which brought a grin to his lips. And a story. “All right, all right. So, as I said—it was Abbie’s friend who started it all. We had no idea what we were getting into on that first trip. It was Millicent and Abbie, their maids, me, of course—and Ainsley, who had only just been hired. And nearly resigned then and there . . .”
Beth had intended to let his stories lure her back into sleep, but they had the opposite effect. Two hours later, she was sitting up straighter and listening with wide eyes as he described how he’d found a way into a Viking tomb in Holland four years ago after spending a week deciphering some runes he’d found nearby. And how, the moment he realized he was indeed inside it, he rushed back out to go and wake the Dutch professor he’d been working with—a professor who was still excavating in that area even now, and was counted as the leading expert on the subject, thanks in part to that discovery.
Sheridan hadn’t been kidding when he said he wasn’t in it for any glory. He’d made it sound as though the professor was the one who’d done all the deciphering, and all he’d wanted was to bring home a small souvenir from the dig. Which stood in stark contrast to the base motives of fame and fortune that obviously fueled Nigel Scofield.
And watching his face as he recounted the tales of his adventures . . . that was entertainment in itself. He lived his life with a passion she rarely saw in anyone, Scillonian or incomer. A passion she still couldn’t quite believe he was willing to let her share.
She wanted to, though. If any lingering doubts had remained before, the simple act of listening to his stories removed them. This was a man she could imagine exploring her way through life beside. A man she knew she could count on to cherish her, who would always treasure the right things. A man who would seek adventure with her in whatever neighborhood they found themselves, here or the Lake District or Antarctica.
“And, really, that’s what sparked my interest in the Druids. Especially knowing that they were even more present here on British soil than in Scandinavia. I could start an excavation—well, anytime, really. On school holidays. Any season. Whenever Abbie looked away for a moment. You name it.” He chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “Something to be said for that, you know. Convenience, I mean, not dashing away from one’s sister the moment her back is turned. Although there’s something to that, too, at least when one’s sister is Abbie.”