Sebastian waited until they disappeared from sight then followed, maintaining his distance. Seconds later, he heard the innkeeper’s wife directing them out the back door to a garden area. He couldn’t very well follow without being seen, so he made his way to a hidden cove near the stairs to await their safe return.
He wanted to rail at her for taking the slightest chance of not returning immediately to her chamber, lingering at a public venue, but she was just stubborn enough to rail back and dig in her heels. He let out a sigh. At least she’d had sense enough not to go into the public rooms.
She—they—were not his responsibility, and yet they were.
His sense of honor refused otherwise.
~~~
“What are you doing out of bed?” Rebecca asked.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Oliver said. His hands fidgeted. There was tension in his thin frame she didn’t know how to relieve for him.
“What is it, Oliver?”
He shook his head.
“Is Owen having a nightmare?” she asked softly.
“He’s thrashing about. Kicked me in the mouth.” She took his chin and lifted it toward the sconced lighting. Sure enough, his bottom lip was touched with a drop of blood and growing puffy.
“Let’s find the proprietor’s wife. Perhaps she can put together a tincture of yarrow.”
He frowned. “Will it hurt?”
“Certainly not for someone as strapping and brave as you,” she retorted with her nose in the air. She took his hand and, steering clear of the public rooms, found her way to the kitchens. It was a busy sight with at least four individuals bustling about.
The proprietor’s wife spotted them right away and hurried over, drying her hands on the scrap of linen at her waist. “Your Grace, have you finished dinner so soon?”
Oliver straightened. “She’s not—”
Rebecca clamped her hand over his mouth, feeling his hiss against her palm. There was no need to further complicate matters. “I’m sorry for the intrusion, ma’am. Dinner was delicious.”If she’d gotten to eat more than a morsel or two.She tilted Oliver’s face to the light. “We are in need of assistance. My, er, ah, son, hit his lip and I thought you might have a tincture of yarrow we could apply.”
The innkeeper’s wife was able to accommodate them, along with a lot of mother-clucking and cups of tea. She also pointed out the back door to a wooden bench. “’Tis me favorite place to sit after a long day, it ’tis.”
Rebecca led Oliver outside and once seated, she stripped off her glove and applied the poultice gently to his lip. “Why doesn’t Owen speak? I suspect he wasn’t always mute. Am I right?”
Oliver flinched. She couldn’t have said if it was from her finger to his lip or her blunt question. “He talks to me. But… he’s scared, my lady.” His lip quivered and tears shimmered but managed not to fall. “And I’m… I’m scared for him.”
“How does your lip feel?”
He blinked quickly and scrubbed a fist across his nose. “Better. Does your arm hurt?”
“Why would my arm hurt?” She looked down. “Oh. No. It hasn’t hurt for a long time.” She slipped her glove back on.
“What happened?”
A vision of that afternoon skittered through her. It wouldn’t hurt to give him the high-level version. It’s not like he could tell tales. In fact, such tales should be used to provide teaching moments. “Well,” she said slowly, looking back. “A very dear friend was in a heap of trouble.”
“The monster,” he said matter-of-factly. His face turned toward her, frowning.
“Yes. The monster.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“There was a young man who was not behaving very gentlemanly,” she said on an exhale. “She was yelling at him to get”—she barely stopped herself from saying “off”—“away.” She took in a breath, wincing at the memory. “I just reacted. I grabbed a set of reins hanging on the wall and swung. Unfortunately, he grabbed a rake and got in a good hit or two of his own.”
Oliver flinched, and Rebecca slipped an arm around him.
