Guarding the Spoils (The Wild Randalls 3)

Oliver threw the door wide even as Eamon raised his pistol. As soon as they could see the whole of the room, George huddled in the far corner cowering in misery, they moved. Elizabeth wasn’t present. Eamon dispatched Henry’s associate to the far corner and held him there, leaving Oliver to deal with Turner. When he glimpsed the bruise forming on George’s cheek, Oliver rushed Henry, caught him about the throat, lifted him, and slammed his back onto the table standing in the center of the room.

Oliver squeezed Henry’s throat tightly as the man made crabbing motions to escape. “Do something, Fielding,” Turner wheezed.

Oliver didn’t dare look up. He’d trust that Eamon could hold his own until he got the answers he needed. “Where is Elizabeth?”

“Left the slut in the gutter where she belongs,” Turner gasped out, wheezing the words around the constriction of Oliver’s hand. Turner clawed at Oliver, trying to break his grip or injure him enough to release him.

Oliver brought his blade up and laid it on Henry Turner’s cheek, just below his eye, as anger bubbled over. “If Elizabeth has come to harm, I will gut you and throw your innards into the harbor for the fishes to consume.”

Turner’s eyes widened and his legs and arms struggled to get away from the blade about to pierce his skin. “She’s at Romsey. I left her there. Unharmed.”

Relief coursed through him. At least Elizabeth was safe. Oliver eased the blade back a touch, but kept a firm grip on Turner. “I’ll be taking George with me when I leave. You will forget he exists from this moment on.”

“He’s my heir,” Henry spluttered angrily. “My blood.”

Oliver examined the face below him. Henry Turner was dying a slow death at his hands. If Oliver didn’t relent, Turner would pass out before he suffocated. Oliver leaned close to Henry’s ear, relaxing his grip a touch so he wouldn’t lose consciousness. “He’s my son,” he growled. “My blood.”

The lie tumbled easily from his mouth and pride filled him to say at long last what he’d unconsciously wished. George would be his son in truth as soon as he could convince Elizabeth to marry him.

Henry struggled. “That lying, unfaithful whore.”

Oliver pressed the blade against the soft skin beneath Turner’s eye until blood welled. He would not stand for this filth insulting the woman he loved. He watched the blood bead and swell and then fill every pockmark as it slid down Turner’s ugly, pitted skin.

“Don’t,” George begged. “Don’t hurt him too bad.”

“Do you hear that? My boy is wiser than his years.” Oliver dredged up every memory he had of the inmates of Skepington and allowed their rage to feed his expression. “If I killed you, it could be messy and I promise not one soul, not even Fielding, would recognize what was left after I was done with you.”

Color leached from Henry’s face and the scent of urine filled the room. “You’re mad,” he gasped, panting in fright.

Oliver straightened but kept his hand firmly about Turner’s throat. “I’ve stared into the face of madness a thousand times but never seen my own. I’m a Randall. We look after our own, as I’m sure yo

u’ve realized by now.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw George move toward the doorway and the security offered by escape. He held up the blade and examined the bloody tip. “If you follow us, or even look twice at my son again, I’ll hurt you so bad you’ll beg me to slit your throat and end your miserable existence.”

He wiped the blood across Turner’s waistcoat, released his throat, and tossed a coin at Turner’s associate, more money than he’d likely ever had. “For the inconvenience of working for a pitiful coward,” Oliver told him.

Fielding nodded and pressed his back to the wall. “You’ll have no trouble from me, I swear.”

Eamon hurried George from the room as the patrons craned their necks to see what had happened, narrowing the path to freedom. Oliver followed along, judging the mood of the room with each step. The occupants were tense, held against the knife-edge, leaning toward action and spoiling for a good brawl. He reached for the bag of coins he carried beneath his coat, the bulk of his funds for the trip. He tossed it high, slashed at it with his short-bladed knife, letting the coins fall where they might. Money to buy them safe passage out of the inn and beyond.

The patrons and innkeeper scrambled for the coins on the floor instead of impeding him and he walked from the tavern without incident. Ahead, Eamon had forced George into the carriage and the boy waited with his face pressed to the glass. Oliver joined them, re-sheathing his short blade on his arm when he took his seat, quite content with his success.

When he looked up after tugging his coat sleeve back in place, Eamon and George were staring at him, wide-eyed.

“What?”

“Damnation, Oliver,” Eamon whispered, his throat working as he swallowed. “Henry Turner wasn’t the only one who could have soiled their trousers.”

Oliver pursed his lips and then laughed to relieve the tension. “Sorry. I had no time to explain. I’m not mad and I’ve never done any of that before. I read something similar in a book once and thought terrifying threats would work best in such an environment.”

George slumped back into his seat, his chest rising and falling frantically. “You lie very well, sir.”

“I do.” Oliver eased back on the seat and set his heels to the far side, next to the boy. “Have the carriage return to Romsey, Eamon. The boy will be wanting his mother and she him as soon as possible.”

While Eamon shouted up directions to the surly driver, George looked at him oddly, curiosity burning in his eyes. “What you said? Was it all a lie?”

The boy had heard the lie that Oliver was his father. “Every word,” he said. “Your mother is a faithful woman. However, one part could be true if I can convince her of the need. Would that bother you?”