“Mmm. I thought we might put it down to a bluey-hunter, but that does not seem to be the case.”
“Bluey-hunter?”
“A thief who steals lead from the tops of houses. It is common enough around here.” Griffin checked the sturdiness of the window frame. It would hold, though nothing would stop a glass cutter. “I think we would do well to suspect it is the work of the gentleman villain.”
Olivia helped him back inside, closed the window, and set the latch. “We will have to move Nat to another room.”
“Of course. I will depend upon you to arrive at a suitable explanation.”
Nodding absently, Olivia asked, “If it is the gentleman, do you suppose he came for Nat?”
Griffin cupped the side of Olivia’s face. “You know that is unlikely, and while I appreciate your desire to protect him, I think we must apply ourselves to protecting you.”
Chapter Fourteen
Olivia held her candle high and surveyed the floor so she might carefully pick her way through the battlefield. Nat had arranged his regiments so they flanked his bed, guarded his window and door, and stood fast on the edge of his night table. A single misstep would alert him to an intruder—or at least he thought so.
She had promised that she would look in on him, just as she had every night since he’d been moved to the room above the one she and Griffin shared. He’d made the move to his new room obediently, never questioning the necessity of it, but Olivia had seen the flash of alarm in his eyes and had offered her company to ease his fears. The first few evenings she’d stayed with him until he fell deeply asleep. By the fourth night, she was able to ease out of the room shortly after his eyelids began to droop. Now that almost a fortnight had passed, she left after he said his prayers.
The soldiers, though, remained alert to the slightest disturbance.
Olivia reached the bed and gently pulled back the blankets that were covering Nat’s thickly thatched hair. She could make out the narrow furrows where he’d pushed his fingers through his hair in perfect imitation of what he’d seen Griffin do. Her throat grew thick with tender emotion, and she did not resist the urge to put her own imprint upon his tousled head.
Assured that all was well with him, Olivia stepped away from the bed—and onto the raised bayonet of a foot soldier. She was still cursing softly as she limped out of the room.
“A casualty of war?”
Startled, Olivia’s head snapped up. She managed to hold on to her candle, but a fat droplet of hot wax slipped free and spread over her thumb.
Griffin caught her hand, steadied it, then removed the candlestick. “I am most sincerely sorry, Olivia. Are you burned?”
She pulled back her hand and blew on the wax until it was hard enough to peel away. “It is nothing,” she said, showing him the pink blossom on her thumb. “But, really, Griffin, you have a way of simply…appearing. It is disconcerting.”
“And you have a way of simply…disappearing.” He gave her a measuring look. “You said nothing about leaving the faro table.”
“I told Mason.”
“You did not tell me.”
“I was looking in on Nat.”
“You did not tell me.”
Olivia sighed. It was no good telling him she thought the precaution excessive. He did not agree, and in this he would have his way. “I will endeavor to do better. It is not so simple a thing as you would like to believe. I am not accustomed to accounting for my whereabouts.”
“You did just fine when you were confined to your room.”
There was nothing subtle about the threat. “That is unfair, Griffin. I will not be put away.” She held his level gaze and gave no quarter. She would not be moved, and she would not be threatened.
Griffin finally shook his head. “Bloody hell, Olivia, but you define obstinate.”
“I do.” She raised herself on tiptoes and kissed him on the mouth. His own jaw was stubbornly set and softened only marginally as she pressed the kiss. “You know something about defining it yourself,” she whispered. She kissed him again, then set herself back on her heels. “Did you only come here in search of me?”
“You were half the reason.”
“I thought that might be the way of it.” She reached behind her and opened the door. “Have a look yourself and mind the troops.”
She stepped aside and waited for him at the top of the stairs. He was gone for several minutes, longer than was strictly necessary to assure himself of the well-being of a sleeping boy. She imagined him standing at Nat’s bedside much as she had, attending to his breathing, the gentle parting of his lips, looking for some trait in that narrow face that was familiar from the study of his own reflection. When he returned, she sidled close to him and slipped her arm in his. Giving him a light squeeze, she laid her head against his shoulder. “He makes furrows in his hair.”
