She swallowed past a lump of unease. Hearing it verbalized in such terms threw her situation into rather stark relief. It could well be that her enemies were connected well enough politically that injury to her—or worse—might be conveniently swept away. If the carriage incident the other morning was any indication, damage done to her person under the guise of “accident” was most likely her enemy’s preferred scenario. Take her down with an assassin’s bullet, and she would become a martyr. An accident, however, was simply one of life’s tragedies.
Oliver leaned forward, dipping his head to catch her eye. “This is why I am here. I will not let anything happen to you.”
“Oh, I know,” she said, trying to sound light and unconcerned.
He looked pointedly at her knee, which was bouncing again.
She huffed a sigh and leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees and put her fingertips to her temples. “I haven’t time for this, nor energy,” she admitted quietly but then added, “I don’t suppose anybody ever does.”
“I do.”
She looked at him. “You’ve been obliged to set aside your entire workload for this assignment.” When he didn’t respond, she flushed. “The Yard’s top detective has been tasked with playing my nanny.”
“I am not playing nanny.”
“All because my mother made so much noise.” She was hit with a wave of uncomfortable guilt. The man was truly a professional, one of the best to be had, and her situation had effectively rolled over his career. She’d noted it before, but then he had irritated her so much she hadn’t cared.
She sat up, feeling mortified but tamping it down. “Detective, I realize we are late in the proverbial game, but I am willing to be nannied by a lesser officer of the law. Or I shall task my mother with hiring a private security entity, someone who can join me in Edinburgh. I am loath to admit I’ve not been attentive of the toll this assignment takes on your professional, not to mention personal, life.” She meant every word, but the thought of another man sitting across from her in the carriage was distasteful in the extreme.
He shook his head, this time his mouth quirking into a half smile. “The Chief-Inspector and I briefly discussed that notion, Miss O’Shea, and just as quickly set it aside. You would run roughshod”—he held out a hand—“unintentionally, over anyone else. I am familiar not only with your circumstances but with your proclivities for escape and evasion.”
She scowled, fairly certain she should feel offense. “I’ll not evade my own bodyguard. I can put on my best behavior when I wish it.”
He’d been studying the windows again, but he turned his attention to her fully, unblinking. “There will be no changing of the guard, and we needn’t discuss it again.”
She was stunned into silence, which was a rarity. His tone brooked no argument, and she suspected if she tried, he’d either ignore her or, more likely, tie a gag around her mouth. He held her gaze as though anticipating her contradiction. His attitude was rather high-handed, she thought, almost paternal. Well, no, she amended, not paternal. Fraternal? Not that, either. There was nothing familial in the least about the energy that swirled in the confines of the small carriage.
She drew in a quiet breath and slowly released it. “Very well.”
He studied her a fraction longer and then turned his attention back to the outside world.
“You should know, however, that I—”
His flat gaze pinned her to the seat, and she decided, for now, she would allow him the final word. Or scowl, rather.
She looked out the other window and fanned her face with her hand. “Grows warm again,” she murmured. “What is happening in these carriages?”
His movement in her periphery drew her attention back to him as he reached into an inner pocket and withdrew a small, simple fan. It was completely without adornment and nearly child-sized, and he handed it to her wordlessly without removing his gaze from the window.
She stared at the thing in her hand and opened her mouth, but then closed it again and simply flicked the fan open instead. Truth was indeed stranger than fiction. She felt a laugh bubbling up inside, but as her companion didn’t seem inclined to share in her mirth at the moment, she swallowed it back and fanned herself.
She saw out her window that they were nearing the airfield. She ought to have been relieved, but oddly enough, the tight energy that remained in the carriage was intriguing, the warmth less intrusive.
The vehicle rolled to a stop with a hiss of steam, and Oliver exited first, then took her hand as she climbed down. With a small, awkward nod, she folded the fan and returned it to him. He raised one brow and put it back in his inner jacket pocket. She pursed her lips to hold back her smile. His expression didn’t change, but he winked at her and moved around to the back of the carriage to give instructions to the gathering airstrip attendants.
Her heart thumped hard in her chest, and she wordlessly reached back into the carriage for her portmanteau. She saw his hat on the seat and picked it up, noting the smooth sensation of the fabric beneath her fingertips. She examined it, taking in the clean lines and absence of frippery or adornment. It suited the man quite well, she decided as she looked at him directing the transfer of her multitudinous trunks. Two of them were to be shipped directly to the ISRO building in Edinburgh, but before she could comment on it, he had already delivered the information to the attendants,
