Guarding the Spoils (The Wild Randalls 3)

“No, sir.” The boy’s eyes glowed with happiness. “I’d like that very much.” When he grinned, he grabbed for his cheek, wincing at the pain.

“Coming or going,” the coachman shouted back as he cracked the whip over the horses. “Make up your bloody mind.”

Oliver drew the boy to the empty space beside him and examined the damage done to his face. A bruise had formed that caused pain even when touched lightly. “When did this happen?”

“Last night. Someone came into my room while I was sleeping. I called out, but mama never heard or came. I thought they must have had her too, but she wasn’t there when they pushed me into the carriage. They drove all through the night.”

Oliver brushed the boy’s hair from his eyes, taking note of the rest of him. He was wearing mismatched clothes and his eyes were not clear or bright. “Have you slept or eaten since then?”

“A bit. But I’m not hungry. I don’t think I could ever close my eyes again to sleep.”

“You can and you will. You’re safe now. Lie down over there. Eamon, move out of the way so the boy can stretch out,” he instructed, warming to the task of taking care of another. “I’ll wake you at the first inn we stop at once we are beyond Portsmouth’s environs, George. I promise.”

George glanced at Eamon nervously. “If you say I must.”

Oliver removed his coat and covered George with it when he’d gotten comfortable. “Use that for warmth, lad, and get some rest. We’ll be home again before you know it and your mother will want a full accounting of your disappearance. Better to be alert for her questions.”

“Thank you, sir.”

George nestled beneath his coat and after perhaps a bare mile he grew still as sleep claimed him. Oliver rubbed his tired eyes. He hadn’t slept in several days now, himself, yet he wouldn’t succumb until he had delivered the boy to Elizabeth. She would be frantic by this hour.

Eamon nudged him in the ribs, nodding to where George slept. “Now that, Ollie, was the smartest thing you’ve ever done, rescuing him from Turner. I’m proud of you.”

“I’m not,” Oliver replied. “I should have seen the danger and taken steps.”

Eamon snorted. “You were there before it was too late, so why berate yourself.”

“Elizabeth.”

“She has your family about her for support. When they discover him missing, they’ll likely be in pursuit. We may encounter them on the road back directly.”

Oliver brightened. If Elizabeth pursued George, then her suffering would be lessened by the reduction of time. She could have her George back in her arms sooner than he could deliver him to Romsey. That thought made him smile.

“So, when are you to make an honest woman out of Beth Turner? I hear there are as many rules for dallying with a widow as there are for flirting with an upstairs maid.”

Oliver looked at the boy across from him. “I’m not sure. She’ll have had a fright at losing George. She won’t think of anything but him when we see her.”

Eamon settled himself more comfortably. “Well, don’t leave it another dozen years or someone else will have her.”

Anger curled inside Oliver at the idea of anyone touching his Elizabeth beyond a dance or rendering assistance to help her out of a carriage. He’d made enough mistakes already without missing what he should have seen before. He would wait a dozen years if he had to, but he was sure he wouldn’t like it.

Eamon started to laugh. “Steady on, old man. Uncurl your fists. I’ve no interest in her beyond seeing the two of you leg-shackled.”

Oliver eased his hands open, astounded by the sharp bite of jealousy and possessiveness that had filled him. Is this what it was to be in love? Always anxious, always certain another man was lurking in wait for the woman you adored? After George’s abduction, he was certain he could never let them out of his sight again. He shook his head at the confusion that filled him. He was going to botch any proposal, but he would convince her in the end, even if it took another twelve years of blundering.

Chapter Twenty-Six

A WOMAN IS only as foolish as the love that leads her astray. Beth sat up in Oliver’s bed as sunlight streamed through the curtains, warning her that she’d slept well beyond her usual rising hour. What had she been thinking last night when, sleepless, she’d wandered the halls of the abbey and, instead of returning to her own room, had fallen into Oliver’s just so she could breathe his scent?

She dived out of the bed, straightened it quickly so no one could tell it had been slept in, and hurried to put on her robe. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be caught parading around the halls in her nightgown.

With one last look at Oliver’s abandoned possessions, she crept as quietly as she could along the halls until she reached her own room. Once there, she let out a relieved breath and ran her fingers through her tangled hair. There was so much to do and decide. She had to be ready and prepared to face Henry and tell him they would not be traveling with him to America. She had to consider exactly what she would do with her life now that they would stay. Beth didn’t want to be a burden on the Randalls. She would earn her way somehow.

She eased the door open and peered at the dimly lighted bed. The sheets were already turned back, signifying that her son was up. She moved to the window

and flung the curtains wide. The morning was distinctly pretty, gardens waiting for the warmth of the day to bring out their best.

When she turned around, she gasped at the sight confronting her. Her son’s room had been ransacked; his luggage was gone.