Jamie looked to be struggling not to laugh. “And the retribution you’ll enact upon those who devised the same?”
Oliver conceded the point with a nod.
“I think that might be why once they delivered you to my doorstep, your errand lads scampered off with all due haste.”
“I would imagine so,” Oliver agreed, “though it won’t serve them. I believe I advised them before they fled that they shouldn’t rest easily for too long.”
Jamie did laugh then. “Och, Ollie lad, I don’t think they will. Why do you think they’re having women hand things to you?”
“It won’t save them,” Oliver assured him. “But as I prefer my revenge to be very well chilled, they’ll have a few more days of breathing easily before they meet their timely and painful ends.”
Jamie nodded and made himself more comfortable. “I would expect nothing less. Until that happy time arrives, let’s enjoy our drink in silence and count it as meditation.” He shot Oliver a look. “I’ve been charged with setting you off on the right path, if you’re curious. Happy thoughts, though, my lad, not ones of mayhem.”
Oliver raised his mug in as much of an assent as he could muster.
“I’ll make a note that you’ve completed the task once we’ve finished.”
“Good of you, my laird.”
“Magnanimous,” Jamie agreed, “but a bit self-serving. Don’t want to lose a fine traveling companion.”
Oliver supposed that was the second compliment he could consider his that day. He didn’t care what others thought of him as a rule, but he also wasn’t one to discount the good opinion of those whose opinion mattered to him.
And with that happy thought to keep him company, he stared into the fire and forced himself to simply watch it instead of imagining it wrapping itself around a pair of lads who deserved it, namely Peter Wright and Ewan Cameron, they of the maniacal cackling and ribald jokes at his expense as he’d been too fettered to hit them and too stubborn to point out how miserably they would die when he’d managed to free himself.
His boss, Derrick Cameron, and his über-boss, Robert Cameron, he would unfortunately need to allow to breathe a bit longer. They had wives and children to take care of. He wasn’t above torturing them a bit, though, which he would get to as soon as he’d completed the promised record-book of misery and could use it to give them at least a score of vicious papercuts each. He was fairly certain lemon juice would then be the thing to pour into those wounds to cleanse them so they might heal properly.
Jamie drained his cup and looked over. “Pleasant thoughts?”
“Citrusy, actually.”
Jamie grinned. “Interesting choice. I hope they run and hide well.”
“It won’t matter.”
Jamie conceded the point with a nod. “You do have a gift for tracking things.”
“Antiques live in fear,” Oliver agreed modestly.
Jamie laughed a little. “Antiques and several of your comrades, no doubt. But what would you say to putting those skills withboth antiques and nosing about to the test with a little adventure to break up your holiday?”
Oliver considered. “I think I might need to first earn the key to free myself from my ankle monitor.”
“Can’t you cut the bloody thing off yourself?”
“I could, but doing so will send me to the back of the queue.”
“Diabolical.”
“Unoriginal,” Oliver corrected grimly, “and yet so unsurprising.”
“And you’re going to agree to this?”
Oliver shrugged. “I’ve been promised a car at the end of this if I’m good.”
“Which I suspect you could easily buy yourself.”
“I could,” Oliver conceded, “but they didn’t specify what sort. Your son Robert suggested a Bugatti.”
