“Mm.” Oliver shook his head, though she knew well the pleasure in his eyes wasn’t from the promise of a dowry. “And what I saw with you, Telford, was a man who would do anything to protect his sister.”

“And don’t forget it.”

They strolled back in the direction they’d come. Talking. Laughing. Planning. About weddings and families and pirate treasure. About friends and enemies and what the rest of summer might hold.

Libby mostly let the men do the talking. She watched the birds wing their way from treetops to heavens, listened to the night insects as they made their debut.

And could swear that when the wind blew again, she could hear the islands whisper, Elizabeth.

Author’s Note

This story began, interestingly enough, when my copies of The Number of Love arrived. I sat down on the floor with seventy copies stacked around me and all the packing slips at hand for those who had preordered signed copies from my website. I had my purple pen at the ready, and I set about signing, stuffing, and labeling all those orders. As I did, I noticed a trend . . . many of these readers had the same or similar names. By the time I got to the sixth Elizabeth, I thought, Oh, look! Another Elizabeth! And something about those words stuck in my head.

Another Elizabeth . . . Over the course of the next twenty-four hours, a story emerged to match the words. A case of mistaken identity . . . a cranky landlady ready to judge one Elizabeth because of what another had done . . . that first Elizabeth’s things still in the house . . . and that first Elizabeth’s brother showing up at the door, shocked to find some other Elizabeth where his sister ought to be. I ran the idea past my editors, who encouraged me to develop it. So, the next question was where to set this tale of mistaken identity.

My best friend/critique partner and I have long been enamored with what we call “island books,” so I decided it would be fun to set Elizabeth’s tale on an island. I spent quite a while considering and dismissing the various British options—the Channel Islands? Been done. Isle of Man? So small it would be quite limited. Then I discovered—and fell in love with—the Scillies.

I need to thank Richard Larn, a native of the Isles of Scilly and a prolific writer himself, for taking the time to answer my questions about when things like electricity and automobiles reached the islands, as well as reminding me that no one but the Duke of Cornwall owns any land there and only the house of the Lord Proprietor is really worthy of a nobleman. Most of this I found easy work-arounds for . . . and occasionally I said, “Hey, this is fiction!”