Oliver threw himself into the chair before the fire, careless of possible damage to his clothing. Brooding, he held up his glass of brandy up to the firelight and watched the play of light through it.
He was disgusted with himself. How many years had he been part of the Great Game? Generally he was exceptionally good at it. It was hard not to be, given his... special skills. But now? Now his instincts were failing him. That girl in the woods - her actions were highly suspicious. He should have been focused on the interrogation. Instead, he kept getting distracted by the depth of color in her brown eyes. He noticed her pulse beating faster at the base of her throat. He caught his hands wanting to touch her.
She wasn't telling the whole truth about what she had been doing in the woods - he had caught the subtle shifts in her body language as she had denied trespassing on his land. At the same time, it didn't smell like she was lying. Could it be somewhere in between? Could her presence at Radulf Castle be due to an accident that she didn't want to admit to? Then what in the world was she doing sneaking around the back of the inn?
As was his custom, Oliver took a cautious sniff before sampling the amber liquid in his glass. One could never be sure, after all, what sort of local swill might be passing for "brandy" while the boys in the Royal Navy manned their blockade. He sniffed again, this time more deeply, and felt the habitual tightness of his face slowly relax into a smile as he recognized the unmistakable scent of fine French Cognac and understood immediately how it had come to be there. A welcoming gift from old friends. He sipped and savored the slow burn of the Cognac as it warmed a path from his throat to his belly. And as his shoulders drifted back into the comfort of the ancient club chair, Oliver allowed his thoughts to drift back, as well.
August, it had been. High summer. He'd been laying on his back in a great clump of wildflowers - daisies, wood anemones, and self heal - down by the Cove, listening to the buzzing, scratching, and chirping all around him. He'd closed his eyes, as his father had taught him, the better to concentrate and identify the source of each individual sound, each individual smell. "Watching," Father had called it. And in the months that his family had resided at Radulf Castle, Oliver had done little else.
At 12 years old, he'd been a quiet lad. Short, thin, studious, serious, freshly returned to England after years of traveling with his parents on the Continent, and brand new in the neighborhood... not to mention, heir to Radulf Castle with all its wealth and all its secrets. Fortunately, he'd also had a keen understanding of human nature and how it dealt with scrawny, rich, titled, bookish, foreign-sounding newcomers. So when the cacophony of stomping, hooting, and laughing came close enough to drown out the song of the blackbird in the willow tree, he'd sighed and muttered, "Homo sapien. Male." to classify this species of interlopers, and sat up resignedly to see what mischief might be afoot. And the laughter had abruptly stopped.
"Well, well, well. What have we here? Another trespasser?" the largest of the four boys had drawled.
"I'm Oliver. Oliver Preston. From Radulf Castle. And I didn't know I was trespassing."
"Well, 'Oliver, Oliver Preston', we're the Fletchlys," gap-tooth had replied with a grin, folding his arms across his chest. "I'm Jamie, this here's my brother Tom," he jerked his chin at a slightly smaller, ginger-haired boy, with assessing blue eyes. "And that's our cousin Big Frank," he'd continued, with a nod toward the smallest of the lot, a boy carrying a large flour sack, whose pinched face and protruding teeth reminded Oliver of an enormous rodent. "And this is..."
"Digby," Oliver and Jamie had concluded at the same time. A glance showed that Digby's cherubic blond curls had been rumpled into a rat's nest and his face was screwed up tightly, as though he were trying not to cry.
"You know Digby here, do ye?" Jamie had chortled.
"He's my... cousin," Oliver had admitted, watching Digby's face grow even redder with embarrassment.
"Is he now? Why, Digby, you didn't tell us you came to spy on us with your cousin!" Jamie had said, with a hearty slap on Digby's back that had nearly sent Digby sprawling.
Digby's panic had been visible. "I... I was not spying. I was attempting to conduct a business transaction! Th-th-they asked me to b-buy some c-c-c-cognac! I... You... That is to say... well, everyone knows that you're smugglers..." he gulped. "Er. Blockade runners....I mean to say, merchants. And him! Oliver. Wha... why, he's a distant sort of cousin, don't you know? We... we've barely exchanged 10 words in our lives. And my... my mother won't let them anywhere near the house. They're..." he'd gulped. "They're not really family."
And, Oliver had thought to himself, thank Heaven for that.
"Now, Digby, is that any way to talk about your own flesh and blood?" Tom had asked with a mournful shake of his head and an unholy glimmer of mischief in his eye. "Family's s'posed to stick together, ain't they?"
"I say we have a bit of sport, then, eh? Cousin against cousin! What say you, 'Cousin Ollie?' Are you up for the challenge?" Jamie had asked.
Oliver had wisely remained silent. Digby's panic had ratcheted up a notch.
"See this here? Caught myself an adder this mornin'" said Jamie, gesturing to the sack at Big Frank's feet, which had begun wriggling and hissing, as if on cue. "See that undergrowth over yonder? Full of adders, it is. You ever been bitten by an adder, Ollie?" he'd asked.
"Uh... no, I don't think I... no," Oliver had stammered in reply, wiping suddenly damp palms on his trousers.
"Hmmm. Well, they're poisonous, right enough. And getting bitten? Hurts like a son of a... ahem. But hardly anyone ever dies from an adder bite. So I'm thinkin' what we need to do here is have a wee contest. See which of you can hold yer hand in the sack with this adder for the longest time. The winner can go on home and remember to stay away from our Cove. And the loser can be our... guest for the afternoon and learn his lesson the hard way," he concluded, to appreciative hoots from Tom and Frank. "Unless, of course, you can pay your way free," he said, his eyes traveling over Digby's expensive coat and boots. "Fletchlys are always forgiving when there's a coin or two involved."
Tom had nudged the snake sack with his toe, so the hissing rose to a fever pitch. Oliver had closed his eyes, taken a deep breath to steady himself, and mentally catalogued everything on his person to see if he might have anything with which to buy his freedom. And then suddenly realized... "I'll take the snake."
"What?" Four pairs of eyes had turned to him in surprise.
Oliver had shrugged and smiled widely. "I don't have any money. I'll put my hand in the sack."
Digby's eyes had popped wide. "Do you see? Lunatics! Perhaps mother is right! Maybe every one of them is crazy. I... I'll pay. I have money... in my pocket. I brought it for the cognac... I... Just... Let me go."
And as soon as they'd taken his money, he'd run away faster than Oliver had thought possible.
Jamie had appraised Oliver shrewdly. "So, you'll put your hand in the sack, will you?"
"Absolutely."
Jamie had sighed, deflated, and dropped his hands to his hips. Then grinned suddenly. "How'd ye know?"
And Oliver had grinned in reply. "The hissing. Adders hardly ever hiss like that. What you've got there is a natrix natrix. Common water snake."
Jamie had shaken his head, still grinning, and Tom had hooted, "You're right! And it's going to end up in my little sister's bed!"
"Alright then, young Ollie. Off with you," Jamie had said, as he and his family had walked on toward the Cove.
And Oliver... he'd been curiously disappointed to be dismissed, and no longer interested in listening to the birds.
But then... "Ollie!" Tom had called. "The lads at the Cove will never believe it. Will you come on with us and tell 'em about the snake?"
And Ollie had smiled and hurried to catch up. And had spent the rest of that glorious summer, and the next, and the next, running tame along the Cove with the Fletchlys and their gang of smugglers... er, merchants. And had added to his knowledge of human nature by learning what it meant to be included and liked and trusted.
In the end, he had let Tom down, betrayed that trust... and Tom had...Tom had....
The popping of the logs in the grate called him back to the present time and place. He inhaled sharply and set the brandy snifter on the rosewood sidetable with a decisive click, filled with a sudden rage and grief that shivered through him till he howled with the pain of it. Tom Fletchly was dead, and Oliver would make damn certain that Tom's killer was brought to justice, no matter how much the brown-eyed chit tempted him. After all, he thought wryly, had great experience controlling his... animal instincts.
He was disgusted with himself. How many years had he been part of the Great Game? Generally he was exceptionally good at it. It was hard not to be, given his... special skills. But now? Now his instincts were failing him. That girl in the woods - her actions were highly suspicious. He should have been focused on the interrogation. Instead, he kept getting distracted by the depth of color in her brown eyes. He noticed her pulse beating faster at the base of her throat. He caught his hands wanting to touch her.
She wasn't telling the whole truth about what she had been doing in the woods - he had caught the subtle shifts in her body language as she had denied trespassing on his land. At the same time, it didn't smell like she was lying. Could it be somewhere in between? Could her presence at Radulf Castle be due to an accident that she didn't want to admit to? Then what in the world was she doing sneaking around the back of the inn?
As was his custom, Oliver took a cautious sniff before sampling the amber liquid in his glass. One could never be sure, after all, what sort of local swill might be passing for "brandy" while the boys in the Royal Navy manned their blockade. He sniffed again, this time more deeply, and felt the habitual tightness of his face slowly relax into a smile as he recognized the unmistakable scent of fine French Cognac and understood immediately how it had come to be there. A welcoming gift from old friends. He sipped and savored the slow burn of the Cognac as it warmed a path from his throat to his belly. And as his shoulders drifted back into the comfort of the ancient club chair, Oliver allowed his thoughts to drift back, as well.
August, it had been. High summer. He'd been laying on his back in a great clump of wildflowers - daisies, wood anemones, and self heal - down by the Cove, listening to the buzzing, scratching, and chirping all around him. He'd closed his eyes, as his father had taught him, the better to concentrate and identify the source of each individual sound, each individual smell. "Watching," Father had called it. And in the months that his family had resided at Radulf Castle, Oliver had done little else.
At 12 years old, he'd been a quiet lad. Short, thin, studious, serious, freshly returned to England after years of traveling with his parents on the Continent, and brand new in the neighborhood... not to mention, heir to Radulf Castle with all its wealth and all its secrets. Fortunately, he'd also had a keen understanding of human nature and how it dealt with scrawny, rich, titled, bookish, foreign-sounding newcomers. So when the cacophony of stomping, hooting, and laughing came close enough to drown out the song of the blackbird in the willow tree, he'd sighed and muttered, "Homo sapien. Male." to classify this species of interlopers, and sat up resignedly to see what mischief might be afoot. And the laughter had abruptly stopped.
"Well, well, well. What have we here? Another trespasser?" the largest of the four boys had drawled.
"I'm Oliver. Oliver Preston. From Radulf Castle. And I didn't know I was trespassing."
"Well, 'Oliver, Oliver Preston', we're the Fletchlys," gap-tooth had replied with a grin, folding his arms across his chest. "I'm Jamie, this here's my brother Tom," he jerked his chin at a slightly smaller, ginger-haired boy, with assessing blue eyes. "And that's our cousin Big Frank," he'd continued, with a nod toward the smallest of the lot, a boy carrying a large flour sack, whose pinched face and protruding teeth reminded Oliver of an enormous rodent. "And this is..."
"Digby," Oliver and Jamie had concluded at the same time. A glance showed that Digby's cherubic blond curls had been rumpled into a rat's nest and his face was screwed up tightly, as though he were trying not to cry.
"You know Digby here, do ye?" Jamie had chortled.
"He's my... cousin," Oliver had admitted, watching Digby's face grow even redder with embarrassment.
"Is he now? Why, Digby, you didn't tell us you came to spy on us with your cousin!" Jamie had said, with a hearty slap on Digby's back that had nearly sent Digby sprawling.
Digby's panic had been visible. "I... I was not spying. I was attempting to conduct a business transaction! Th-th-they asked me to b-buy some c-c-c-cognac! I... You... That is to say... well, everyone knows that you're smugglers..." he gulped. "Er. Blockade runners....I mean to say, merchants. And him! Oliver. Wha... why, he's a distant sort of cousin, don't you know? We... we've barely exchanged 10 words in our lives. And my... my mother won't let them anywhere near the house. They're..." he'd gulped. "They're not really family."
And, Oliver had thought to himself, thank Heaven for that.
"Now, Digby, is that any way to talk about your own flesh and blood?" Tom had asked with a mournful shake of his head and an unholy glimmer of mischief in his eye. "Family's s'posed to stick together, ain't they?"
"I say we have a bit of sport, then, eh? Cousin against cousin! What say you, 'Cousin Ollie?' Are you up for the challenge?" Jamie had asked.
Oliver had wisely remained silent. Digby's panic had ratcheted up a notch.
"See this here? Caught myself an adder this mornin'" said Jamie, gesturing to the sack at Big Frank's feet, which had begun wriggling and hissing, as if on cue. "See that undergrowth over yonder? Full of adders, it is. You ever been bitten by an adder, Ollie?" he'd asked.
"Uh... no, I don't think I... no," Oliver had stammered in reply, wiping suddenly damp palms on his trousers.
"Hmmm. Well, they're poisonous, right enough. And getting bitten? Hurts like a son of a... ahem. But hardly anyone ever dies from an adder bite. So I'm thinkin' what we need to do here is have a wee contest. See which of you can hold yer hand in the sack with this adder for the longest time. The winner can go on home and remember to stay away from our Cove. And the loser can be our... guest for the afternoon and learn his lesson the hard way," he concluded, to appreciative hoots from Tom and Frank. "Unless, of course, you can pay your way free," he said, his eyes traveling over Digby's expensive coat and boots. "Fletchlys are always forgiving when there's a coin or two involved."
Tom had nudged the snake sack with his toe, so the hissing rose to a fever pitch. Oliver had closed his eyes, taken a deep breath to steady himself, and mentally catalogued everything on his person to see if he might have anything with which to buy his freedom. And then suddenly realized... "I'll take the snake."
"What?" Four pairs of eyes had turned to him in surprise.
Oliver had shrugged and smiled widely. "I don't have any money. I'll put my hand in the sack."
Digby's eyes had popped wide. "Do you see? Lunatics! Perhaps mother is right! Maybe every one of them is crazy. I... I'll pay. I have money... in my pocket. I brought it for the cognac... I... Just... Let me go."
And as soon as they'd taken his money, he'd run away faster than Oliver had thought possible.
Jamie had appraised Oliver shrewdly. "So, you'll put your hand in the sack, will you?"
"Absolutely."
Jamie had sighed, deflated, and dropped his hands to his hips. Then grinned suddenly. "How'd ye know?"
And Oliver had grinned in reply. "The hissing. Adders hardly ever hiss like that. What you've got there is a natrix natrix. Common water snake."
Jamie had shaken his head, still grinning, and Tom had hooted, "You're right! And it's going to end up in my little sister's bed!"
"Alright then, young Ollie. Off with you," Jamie had said, as he and his family had walked on toward the Cove.
And Oliver... he'd been curiously disappointed to be dismissed, and no longer interested in listening to the birds.
But then... "Ollie!" Tom had called. "The lads at the Cove will never believe it. Will you come on with us and tell 'em about the snake?"
And Ollie had smiled and hurried to catch up. And had spent the rest of that glorious summer, and the next, and the next, running tame along the Cove with the Fletchlys and their gang of smugglers... er, merchants. And had added to his knowledge of human nature by learning what it meant to be included and liked and trusted.
In the end, he had let Tom down, betrayed that trust... and Tom had...Tom had....
The popping of the logs in the grate called him back to the present time and place. He inhaled sharply and set the brandy snifter on the rosewood sidetable with a decisive click, filled with a sudden rage and grief that shivered through him till he howled with the pain of it. Tom Fletchly was dead, and Oliver would make damn certain that Tom's killer was brought to justice, no matter how much the brown-eyed chit tempted him. After all, he thought wryly, had great experience controlling his... animal instincts.
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