Guarding the Spoils (The Wild Randalls 3)

Beth loosened his grip so she could breathe. “Which friend would that be?”

“Oliver Randall,” he said, smiling from ear to ear.

A lump formed in her throat. “Dearest, he may not return for a very long time. He has lots of plans for his journey. I don’t know when we will see him again.”

George threw himself out of her bed. “But he will come back. There’s something he has to do when the duke comes of age.”

“Oh, George, that’s a tremendously long time away.”

“Doesn’t matter, he promised to write to us. He wants to know that you are happy. I’ll tell him everything in my letters. He’ll be happy that we remained here.”

When George bounced out of her room and his room grew dark, Beth followed to the door and peered into the shadows. If only she had George’s faith in Oliver’s return she could convince herself that one day she would be happy. She tucked him into bed, kissed his brow, and returned to her own room.

But sleep wouldn’t come. She lay awake for hours, staring up at the canopy, willing herself not to cry. Frustrated, she flung off the bedclothes. She crept to her son’s room to check he was deeply asleep and then padded down the hall to Oliver’s bedchamber. She let herself in and shivered. Gone a day and the room was already so empty and cold, as if he’d been a figment of her imagination.

She entered his bedchamber and lay down on his pillows, drawing a deep breath of his lingering scent, her heart breaking with the loss all over again. At least here, she could cry all night without disturbing her son’s rest. She’d get her tears from her system and face tomorrow’s ugly confrontation with Henry with a calmer soul.

Chapter Twenty-Five

SEAGULS SQUAWKED HIGH overhead on ship mastheads, flightless because there was not enough wind even for them to soar away from England. “Sorry, sirs, but the wind and tide are against us this morning.”

“Damnation.” Oliver cursed as he stared out at the still waters of Portsmouth Harbor and beyond where nothing moved—no ship with a sail, at least. “How long?”

“There’s no telling about the wind. P’raps it’s better to wait a few hours.” The captain scowled at the calm waters in disgust, lifted his eyes to an unmoving flag at the top of the Jezebel’s mast, and muttered, “It’s the devil’s luck today. I can send word to your inn should you rather come aboard later.”

Eamon nodded enthusiastically. “Will two in the afternoon be a fair time to return?”

The captain beamed. “That’ll be grand, sirs. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a man to see about filling an empty corner of my hold. May as well take on what I can for the crossing.”

He touched his cap and turned back the way he came.

Eamon started chuckling. “I don’t think he’s disappointed at all about the delay. The cargo hold was only half full I heard a seaman say.”

Oliver ground his teeth at the weather’s contrariness. All he wanted was to be onboard and headed for clear open water, but if there was no wind to move the ship along, that wish wouldn’t be granted any time soon. He may as well stay on dry land until the weather changed.

He glanced at Eamon and noticed the direction of his gaze. “I suppose you want to visit the tavern while we wait.”

Eamon grinned. “See, ten years kept apart and you can still read my mind.”

Oliver looked about him. The docks were rather rough, even at this hour, and more than one fellow had sized them up as they’d stood near the duke’s fine carriage. “Not here. We’ll return to the inn and you can imbibe there until time to board.”

“And the luggage?”

Oliver glanced up at the

sailors idly leaning against the railings above. He didn’t trust them not to sail away with their possessions stowed in the hold. “Our luggage will go back to the inn with us.”

Eamon quickly gestured for the Romsey grooms to reload their belongings for the return trip to the inn. With one last look at the Jezebel, Oliver climbed into the carriage, disappointed by the unexpected delay to what should have been a fine morning. The carriage lurched forward and he kept his face to the window, soaking up the strangeness of the port town and the new faces he saw. He’d come to Portsmouth once before as a boy. The place had changed and grown considerably from what he remembered of it then.

“Perhaps it’s a sign,” Oliver muttered.

Eamon slued around to stare at him. “What was that?”

Oliver shrugged. “I considered sending you back to Romsey when we reached the inn last night but hesitated. However, given the lengths required to haul you from your bed and the wind being against us, I believe it right that we should part ways.”

Eamon gaped. “Now see here a moment. If anyone was supposed to be a bad omen, it’s certainly not me.” He folded his arms over his chest. “The nerve of trying to be rid of me. You’d be bored without my scintillating company.”

Oliver laughed suddenly, amused by Eamon’s protests. “You spent the whole of yesterday’s journey fast asleep.”