Guarding the Spoils (The Wild Randalls 3)

“Only the busy ones that catch mice,” he remarked as he poured tea for everyone, getting their preferences correct even without asking—milk and sugar for George, black for Beth.

Beth arranged herself on the settee, expecting George to sit at her side and tell her about his walk, but he fell on the food, munching without a word. When Oliver took his place at her side, she tried to ignore the sudden flip of her heart. It wouldn’t do to appear too friendly with Oliver while around George. She did not want to add to her son’s mistaken belief that a marriage between herself and Oliver was possible, even for the benefit of travel. She shifted as subtly as she could until they were not so closely situated. Oliver foiled that by reclining and laying his arm across the back of the sofa.

“The papers on the desk, George, might interest you,” Oliver said. “I’ve found a selection that includes events from America that are worth reading.”

George crammed one last piece of cake into his mouth and almost ran to where Oliver sent him, essentially leaving them alone again.

“He’s a bright boy,” Oliver said gently. “I hope he has access to good teachers in your new place.”

“I’m sure Henry will see to his education.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Oliver touched her shoulder, a fleeting brush against her skin that made her far too aware of him. “If you have no objection I should like to send a selection of books from Romsey with you to further his studies until he is settled. I’d also like to provide you with a list of books for later consideration, should you be able to afford them.”

“There is no need to exert yourself on our behalf.” She swiveled to face him. “Do you doubt Henry is as rich as he claims?”

Oliver raked his hand through his hair suddenly, a gesture that was quite unlike him.

“No one is ever honest when it comes to money and he has a temper. Be wary of him, Elizabeth. I should not like any harm to befall you.”

Chapter Thirteen

OLIVER FROWNED IN frustration at the growing pile of discarded goods cluttering his room. Each time he checked his lists and assessed what he would take with him on the journey, the discarded pile grew higher. A spare pocket watch had seemed a useful addition. There was always the likelihood one might be dropped and the other that Eamon would carry stolen. Thievery among travelers was rife and it was a wise precaution to be prepared.

And why not pack one more journal to write his adventures into? He could miss recording an important event if he had to search high and low for paper in some far-flung little town that boasted no market or shops. He tossed the thick book onto the desk and slouched into his chair, disgusted by his procrastination. He’d planned this adventure in his mind a thousand times, but he was still plagued by the nagging feeling that he was missing something. Something vital.

With a growl, he got to his feet. Restlessness had sunk its claws into him since he’d awakened. He should have gone on his adventure the moment he was freed from Skepington. He should not have given way to his brother’s demands to stay at Romsey Abbey beyond a fortnight. But he had succumbed to curiosity about how his siblings might have changed during their separation and had spent many an hour studying them and the women they would marry. From what he could tell, they were smitten creatures with no will left to make decisions on their own.

He strode to the window and stared out at nothing. His mind and body craved excitement. Unfortunately, it was not the activity he’d wanted for the past dozen years. He should not have carried on with Elizabeth in the library or kissed her yesterday. The sense that he’d begun down a path he was unfamiliar with resurfaced, troubling him.

He did not normally importune unwilling women. They either responded to his advances or turned away. Elizabeth had frozen when he’d touched her but when they had kissed, she responded with satisfying enthusiasm. There could be more between them. She was a widow, not a virginal young girl. He could have her warm his bed until he left on his journey, but there were risks involved in that. She could lose favor with the duchess and be turned out. She could end up carrying his child.

He tapped the window frame with the tip of his finger. The risks Elizabeth could face alone if an affair was begun were not small burdens, easily forgotten. When they parted company, her to America, him to parts unknown, he would have no opportunity to learn if there had been consequences after sleeping together.

Perhaps that was the problem. Oliver did not like loose ends left behind.

Elizabeth remained at the edge of his mind, a reminder that once he might have chosen a different path for his life. A path that would likely have been short and abruptly ended given the old duke’s fiendish plans to disperse his family. He was lucky not to have married her when the idea had been voiced by his parents. But he’d stuck to his principles and ignored their rather unsubtle hints, quite possibly sparing Elizabeth from a dangerous connection.

There was no doubt he found Elizabeth attractive and certainly pleasing to touch. Her soft body stirred him beyond normal bounds. But even he knew not to become entangled with certain women. Women who preferred marriage over easy, uncomplicated pleasure should be avoided for their own good. When he looked into Elizabeth’s eyes he saw forever after, not the ruins of Pompeii, before him.

No, Oliver wanted adventure. He wanted to be free to choose his own path.

A timid knock sounded at the door and he swung around, grateful for the disturbance. “Come.”

The small head of George Turner appeared, followed by his fast-growing body. George, too, held a peculiar fascination. Oliver kept making plans for the boy and discarding them the next moment. He would never learn how the boy got on in his life once he left for the New World. And that emptiness stirred his restlessness yet again.

The boy fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve. “Am I disturbing you?”

Oliver shook his head. “Come in. The place is almost livable.”

George looked around curiously and mumbled something so softly that Oliver couldn’t hear. That would never do. “Always speak your mind, lad. I prefer it.”

A wash of color flooded the boy’s cheeks, but he squared his shoulders and looked Oliver in the eye. “This room is bigger than our entire cottage was before we came to live here.”

Oliver winced. He’d not considered overmuch the life Elizabeth and George had lived before. He should not have made his remark sound like a complaint when he had access to so much. Romsey Abbey, with its vast rooms and rich furnishings, must appear excessive when you were unused to such finery always lying within arm’s reach. Everything around him, although Oliver might use them temporarily, belonged to the boy duke playing down the hall, so blissfully ignorant of the hardships of life and the responsibilities that would soon be his.

Like young Edwin, Oliver never paid much attention to his surroundings so long as there were not small creatures sharing the space with him and he was warm and dry. The room was now free of vermin, and the drapes almost entirely replaced to keep out the most persistent of the cold drafts. He’d begun to think the room rather cozy, but a boy used to far less wouldn’t share that view.

“Your uncle might have a large house in America,” Oliver suggested, intending to light the fire of George’s curiosity about the faraway land.