For a moment, she thought he meant to strike her or give her a taste of that high kick he’d knocked Sheridan flat with back in July. But instead he spat out a few words that singed her ears and stormed back out. The door slammed a moment later, though whether he pulled it shut or Senara sent it home after him, she didn’t know.
Her shoulders sagged the moment he was gone. “Theo. Your collection!”
“It’s all right,” his lips said, while his eyes looked mournfully on the book splayed open on the floor, its binding looking a good deal worse for the wear. “Necessary. Only a few things—blast it all.” He scooped up the book and caressed its now-detached spine. “What sort of monster treats a book that way?”
“An odious one.” She wasn’t sure why that earned her so quick a smile, but she wasn’t about to question it. She moved to his side, covered his hand with her own, and rested her cheek against his shoulder. “I know what will cheer you up, though. Just as soon as we know he’s left Tresco.”
Sheridan chuckled. “You know, Beth. You do know how to sweet-talk a fellow.”
Sheridan stepped back out of St. Nicholas’s without adequate words to put to the wonder in his heart. It was . . . they’d . . . and then there was . . . He settled for a sigh, one that he first gathered in slowly and then let out long and patiently.
He’d searched for many treasures in his life. Found plenty, though the world, much like Nigel Scofield, didn’t always agree with him on that. But never one like this.
Senara’s key had worked the lock, and the decrepit chest had opened under Oliver’s hand with a creak of rusted hinges. The next bit had been like a scene from some adventure novel, or one of Gibson’s tales. Gold coins gleaming. Silver winking. A few jewels even sparkling their hello.
They’d all looked at it for a moment, silence filling the church. And then Sheridan had closed the lid again and tugged Beth outside with him.
They’d actually found pirate treasure. Honest-to-goodness, indisputable treasure that would earn the gasps of appreciation from anyone, layman or expert. They’d followed a mad set of clues to the exact location and dug up a veritable hoard.
So, why was part of him disappointed that it hadn’t just been lead shot or rocks or other rubbish?
Ah, right. Because it meant they weren’t finished with Scofield. They’d have to report it all to Dorrien-Smith and Prince George—which Abbie would probably do before the day was out, knowing her—and the Scofields would get wind of it. Perhaps legally and publicly there was nothing they could do. But he had a feeling neither the earl nor his son would let it end at that.
Beth squeezed his hand and led him out onto the street, past the national school with its now-quiet yard, given that it was summer holidays, and down the hill, in the direction away from her house. “Are you all right?”
“Perfectly.” He looked down at her. Smiled. Because there she was, at his side. Her fingers in his. Looking up at him with what he hadn’t dared hope he’d get from her for a decade or two. Love. “How couldn’t I be? I have you.”
She smiled and shook her head. “And silver and gold worth a fortune.”
“Mm. Your eyes. Your hair. A whole future ahead of us.”
Bumping their arms together, she laughed. “Right. I’m so worth spending a lifetime trying to acquire.”
“Well, yes. I thought it would require a decade, at least, if you recall. To win you, I mean. Or to convince you to try to win me. And I would have spent it in that pursuit most gladly.” He still couldn’t quite believe it hadn’t been necessary. “Not that I’m arguing, mind you. With the quicker time frame.”
“I should hope not.” She lifted her chin and gave him that adorably haughty look she’d slapped him with regularly back at the start. And then drifted to a halt and looked down at the scene rolling out before them.
A village road, weaving its way down the hill until it tumbled into the sea. Village houses here and there, ending in gardens and flower fields and sheep pastures. A village she’d always called home. Likely always would, in her heart of hearts. Because a rosefinch always knew to come home to nest in the place where it had been born.
Which was fine by him. He lifted her hand and kissed it. And tried to tell his heart to calm itself down. Though that was a losing battle. He knew as he watched her go toe to toe with Scofield that he didn’t want to let another day pass without speaking up. They never knew, after all, what tomorrow held. What dangers and discoveries awaited.
He wanted to face them all with her by his side.
And he had a full arsenal of arguments, now, to convince her. But he knew without a doubt which one was the best. “You know, I’ve been thinking. About the trinket box.”
She lifted her brows and started them down the hill. “Have you? I imagine you’re thinking up a way to steal it from me again, since you have to turn everything else over to the Crown. Even the silverware.”
George would let them keep some of it, like Abbie had said. But that wasn’t the point. “Only if you force me to it. I was thinking that, instead—well, sharing it is clearly the best option. I mean, I know it comes from your family. And it means a great deal to you. But I did become rather attached to it, and I like to think it enjoyed its tenure in my collection, among other items it probably once knew well.”
Her laugh was a dance of elements, fire and wind and rain and the earth they both still carried the scent of. “Did it tell you so?”
He nodded as somberly as he could manage. “Whispered it straight into my ear. So, for its sake, Elizabeth Tremayne, you simply must marry me. You’ve no other choice.”
Her smile was sunshine and crashing waves. “For the sake of the trinket box.”
Well, it sounded silly when she said it like that. So, he quickly added, “And for your grandmother. Because she adores me.”
She tilted her head. “She is a woman of wisdom and taste.”
“And my sisters too. Because they adore you.”
“Marks of their own discernment.” Her eyes twinkled like the moon and stars and the whole heavenly host. “You’re forgetting one very important thing, though, Theo.” She touched a fingertip to his chest. “I think if I’m going to marry you, it had better be for you.”
Was it any wonder he loved her so? “Would you? Because I can’t imagine ever living through a day again without you by my side.”
“That’s good.” She pulled him off the road, onto the bluff overlooking the sea, and wrapped her arms around him. “Because as I’ve said before, dearovim—I don’t intend to ever let you sail away without me.”
There was nothing to do but seal the bargain with a kiss.
Author’s Note
This book may be the most comedic one I’ve ever written, thanks to Sheridan’s wit and delightful manner. But the writing itself endured quite a bit of hardship.
I put the first half of the book down in one lovely week spent on retreat with my best friend and critique partner, Stephanie. And then, a mere four days after returning home, my plans to pick the story back up were put on hold by a medical emergency in my family, when my twelve-year-old son ended up in the PICU with the sudden onset of type 1 diabetes. My next two months were spent not mentally gallivanting around the Isles of Scilly but learning how to manage a disease that Rowyn will have to live with for the rest of his life. A disease that has ruined my sleep and made this non-worrier a paranoid basket case some days. A disease that, had we lived in these days about which I’m writing, would have killed my son. Praise God for the discovery of insulin in the 1920s and its lifesaving abilities for diabetics!