Guarding the Spoils (The Wild Randalls - Book 3)

by Boyd, Heather

  That was impossible.

  They shook hands and Turner reached into the carriage and dragged a small figure against his side. George. The boy struggled and although he watched intently, he did not see Elizabeth step from the carriage before it rolled away. Oliver’s attempts at marshaling his patience ended.

  He slammed his fist into the roof to signal he was getting out and threw the door open. “Excuse me,” he said to Eamon.

  He jumped from the carriage quickly, keeping his eye on the building George had been dragged into. Still no sign of Elizabeth and he couldn’t believe she would willingly leave her son in Henry Turner’s company, today of all days. How the devil had they got here so fast anyway? Surely they hadn’t traveled at night?

  “What the devil, Ollie? I thought we were going to be tucked up at the inn for the morning.”

  He glanced up at the coachman. “Wait for me here. I just saw George Turner go into that inn down there with his uncle and that associate of his.”

  The coachman nodded and ordered the grooms down to tend the horses.

  Eamon peered down the laneway, but of course had missed seeing the boy. “That’s impossible. They’re not due to sail for two days.”

  “Impossible or not, I’m certain it’s the boy. I must investigate.”

  Eamon caught his arm. “You knew they were leaving. What’s the problem with an early departure?”

  Oliver shook off his friend’s grip. “Elizabeth wasn’t with them, Eamon. I saw no sign of her luggage on the carriage, either.”

  “Hell’s bells. They’re in trouble, all right.” Eamon patted at the bulge in his coat pocket where he’d stowed his pistol for when they’d been at the docks. “Ready.”

  Oliver had no time to argue that he didn’t require company for this errand. He hurried up the lane and when the tavern came into view, he released the clip on the short blade strapped to his arm. Two bulky ruffians entered before them and he exchanged a long speaking glance with Eamon. “Watch your back.”

  Oliver pushed the door open, hearing the merry tinkle of bells over the noise of the patrons. He paused and scanned the room through thick drifts of pipe smoke. The patrons fell silent one by one, yet Oliver couldn’t see or hear George anywhere. A man behind a slab of wood held up by two barrels squinted at them. “What can I get you, sir?”

  “Information,” Oliver answered, keeping one eye on those standing nearest. A low murmur filled the room as he approached the innkeeper. “I’m looking for a boy, about as high as my chest. Dark hair, blue eyed.”

  The innkeeper spat on the floor. “Ain’t seen anyone of that description come in.”

  The murmurs returned at a louder pitch. “He’s important to me,” Oliver insisted.

  The innkeeper leaned forward and grinned, showing off a toothless smile. “If he’s so important, then how come he’s not with you?”

  “That is what I intend to find out.” Oliver took a coin from his pocket and flicked it onto the battered table. “I’ve been away. He should be with his mother. She’ll be distraught.”

  The innkeeper took the coin and examined it, his eyes brightening. “And if I should have seen him?”

  “Then I’ll pay for any damage caused in his retrieval.”

  Oliver sensed men closing behind him at the mention of payment. He turned, caught one man’s wandering hand near his coat pocket, kicked another in the bollocks, and pressed the tip of his knife against the first fellow’s right wrist. “You really shouldn’t do that until you know where I’ve lived these past years. The things I’ve seen would make a depraved man beg for his mama’s tit to nurse upon. Did you know it’s possible to slice a man’s john from his body and make him eat it before he draws his last breath? I can give everyone a demonstration of how it’s done here and now if you’d like.”

  The innkeeper protested and the thief began to shake. The edge of the blade beaded with bright blood. Oliver eased back so he wouldn’t inflict a deep cut that would hamper the man’s criminal activities. The only man that deserved his anger was Henry Turner if he’d harmed one hair on Elizabeth’s or George’s head.

  Eamon had taken a defensive stance behind him, pistols drawn and at the ready. “We just want the boy,” Eamon said loudly.

  The thief tipped his head toward the rear of the room. “He went in back.”

  Oliver released the would-be thief with a quick shove, but kept the blade ready in his hand. The injured fellow cradled his wrist but had the sense to remain at a distance.

  The patrons shuffled out of the way, granting them access to the rear of the taproom. Not a soul made a sound. He glanced behind and nodded to Eamon.

  He strode to the back room, pulse thundering in his ears, where a closed door greeted them. Oliver listened and heard Henry Turner speaking to someone beyond the wood. The words were indistinct, but he sounded well pleased with himself.

  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?”

  “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.

  Beth checked everywhere and then checked her own room. Her bed was turned back, exactly as she’d left it last night, and nothing else had been disturbed that she could see. Yet when she took two steps forward, she discovered a grubby scrap of paper lying upon her sheets. Trembling, snatched it up and read.

  I’ve no use for a slut who dishonors her family by spreading her legs for Oliver Randall. You’ll never see the boy again.

  Beth stared at the paper as her hand began to shake, blurring the words completely. Her breath came in short, painful gasps and she clutched the bedpost to support herself. How could Henry have come and taken her son without her permission? How dare he?

  Sure that she had only just missed him, Beth strode across the room and wrenched her door open to begin a search, starting with the nearest chambers. At one room she encountered Leopold Randall, half-dressed for the day, the young duke playing at his feet. His eyes widened at her abrupt appearance. “Good God, woman. What the devil are you doing?”

  Beth’s tongue thickened. She couldn’t speak the words out loud. She slammed the door shut on Leopold and the child and continued her search alone.

  In an unoccupied chamber she saw signs that someone had used the bed, disturbing the coverlet and smearing mud upon the once pristine coverlet. She studied the marks. Whoever it had been had made quite a mess. They must have waited here for night to fall and the abbey to grow quiet before taking George. Had no one heard?

  A sob tore from her throat as she retraced her steps, following the path of mud back to George’s room. More mud was scattered on the floor rug beside the bed. From George’s room she followed the small crumbs of dirt as far as she could. At the top of the staircase, the marks grew less apparent, as if they had only passed this way once.