Dedicated Villain (17 page)

“Oh. Well don't worry, that's quite all right. If you will let me go, I can—”

He stood, pulling her to him, and gazed down into her face. “But you see,” he breathed, “I don't want to let you go …”

“Why? Are you dizzy? In that case you should sit down, and—”

He tilted her chin. She blinked up wonderingly into the velvety dark eyes that were so ineffably tender. A wistful smile curved his sensitive mouth. He really was, she thought, almost unbearably handsome.

For his part, Mathieson was thinking that, however gauche, this chit was quite a pleasant little armful. And her skin was remarkably fine—almost translucent. The way with her mouth was oddly fetching too, and her lips were full and vivid … “Fiona …” he whispered huskily.

She gave a muffled snort, and he started, discovering belatedly that the green eyes danced with merriment, and the dimple beside her mouth was very much in evidence.

“Oh—I
am
sorry,” she gurgled with not the smallest appearance of remorse. “I know I shouldn't laugh, but—really, you do it so well. Much better than when Torrey plays the hero.”

Considerably shaken, he said with a marked diminution of his usual smooth expertise, “So you think I am playing a part.”

“Well, of course, but there is no need, you know, whatever your real reason for wanting to travel with us.”

His eyes narrowed. Was it possible that, of them all, this strange slip of a girl had seen through his deception? “My—
real
reason …?” he echoed softly.

“Oh, pray do not be cross,” she said, twinkling up at him. “It
doesn't matter, you see. Perhaps 'tis something you cannot tell us at this moment.”

“I see.” He drew a deep breath. “Then you do think I have lied to you.”

“Say rather, you are not telling the—the whole truth.” He frowned, and the look that she could not like hardened the dark eyes and tightened his lips to a thin, rather frightening line. “But it doesn't matter,” she reiterated hurriedly. “Whatever your reason, I know you would never harm us, for you are the very soul of honour. Why, I feel safer, only because you travel with us.”

He did not share her feelings. She was more shrewd than he had fancied, and could well be a danger to him. Perchance she was not quite as smitten as he'd supposed. His life might well depend upon his making sure that she was suitably captivated. Easy enough of accomplishment. Smiling his tenderest smile, he drew her closer again and, running the tip of one long finger down beside her ear, said softly, “Is it
so
unbelievable, dear lady, that my reason is simply what I implied?”

“Very unbelievable,” she answered, with a matter-of-fact nod. “I have had my share of beaux, Captain Mathieson, but I am not so henwitted as to believe myself the type of dasher who could attach the heart of such a one as you.”

‘Good God!' he thought, but fought on, murmuring fondly, “What a thing to say! And besides,” he leaned closer to her lips, “you are quite … mistaken …”

He was only a breath away from claiming those lips when she snorted again in a vain effort to muffle her mirth.

Releasing her hurriedly, he stepped back. How in the deuce could a fellow make love to a girl who giggled when he tried to kiss her? “You little imp!” he said, half laughing, half exasperated.

“Yes. I am really dreadful,” she trilled, then bowed her head and folded her hands meekly.

Baffled, Mathieson watched her.

She looked up, her eyes very solemn now and her mouth prim, but with the dimple hovering ominously. “I will behave,” she promised. “Do please go on. 'Tis only that it's—it's so funny to be wooed by a real rake.”

Funny! “The devil! What next will you say? And who told you I am—”

“Grandmama. I am like her, you know, for I do not like swearing.”

“My apologies. I should have said—‘Oh, bother!'”

“Yes. It is not proper to say ‘The devil!' in front of a lady.”

Her eyes danced at him, and he was won to a helpless laugh.

“Grandmama bade me have a care,” advised Fiona. “For she thinks you have wicked eyes, though I find them more—”

“Never mind!” He snatched up his coat and shrugged into it. “Ma'am, I assure you, my intentions are—”

The plump dark girl tripped up the steps and paused in the doorway, looking from one to the other with a questioning smile.

“Come in,” called Fiona gaily. “Captain Mathieson, this lady is Miss Moira Torrey. Freemon's sister, you know. Thank you for coming, Moira, you are just in time to hear Captain Mathieson tell me of his inten—”

“Nothing of the sort, you wretch!” interrupted Mathieson, yearning to spank her.

“Oh,” said Fiona, her eyes wide and innocent. “What a pity. Moira would have so enjoyed it. Are you finished, then?”

He said through his teeth. “Quite finished!” And bowing, retreated in considerable disorder, horribly conscious of the muffled squeals of laughter that followed him.

Descending the caravan steps, he overcame his ire by wondering when he would be able to have a look at the contents of the “treasure chest.”

The last week, thought Fiona, had been both fascinating and worrying, mostly because of the dashing young man who now lounged against the treetrunk beside her, while she painted busily.

The weather had been idyllic for the time of year; golden, glowing days, radiant dawns and sunsets, brisk evenings and chilly nights. They had journeyed ever northward, and there had been much to do, with three performances of the play, scenic pieces to be repaired, and the endless work with harnesses and horses, wheels and axles, cooking and mending and washing and setting up and taking down their camp. But there had been time also for walking or riding together, talk and camaraderie and laughter.

She'd found it highly diverting to watch Mathieson. The poised sophisticate, obviously not accustomed to exert himself to be sociable, had struggled to subdue the boredom that would come into his eyes when Gregor prosed on and on about the politics of the Uprising, or to curtail the cynical curl of his lip when Torrey was aggressive in his loyalty to the Stuart Cause. Mathieson listened politely to Gregor, but he baited Torrey so subtly that his victim was unaware of it and would rave on in
defense of his theories until the helpless laughter of the others would alert him to his own gullibility. At once his hot temper would boil over, whereupon Mathieson would confound him by apologizing so humbly as to leave his victim the choice of either laughing with the rest, or appearing a poor sportsman. Torrey made a show of taking this in good part, but Fiona had noticed a few of the glances he slanted at Mathieson when he thought himself unobserved, and she knew that he both mistrusted and disliked the newcomer.

At the opposite extreme was Mrs. Dunnigan's son Japhet. His father, to whom the boy had been devoted, had been severely wounded fighting with the rebel forces at the Battle of Prestonpans, and had died a month later. Refused permission to accompany his mother on this dangerous venture, Japhet had followed anyway, and had proved so persistent in declaring his right to help, that his determination had been rewarded and he'd been allowed to become a member of the little band, assisting Cuthbert with the horses and performing many other tasks about the camp. It was inevitable that Mathieson, with his good looks and devil-may-care self-assurance, a known duellist and a former cavalry officer with several battles behind him, should win the awed admiration of the freckle-faced redhead. By the second day Fiona had begun to fear that the boy, dogging his idol's footsteps whenever possible, watching him with the eyes of hero worship, might constitute an annoyance. Mathieson however, tempered his sardonic tongue with Japhet and was amazingly patient with him. Mrs. Dunnigan, Lady Clorinda's devoted and long-time abigail, was grateful for the young gallant's tolerance and when her awkward and gangly son went into ecstasies because Captain Mathieson had volunteered to teach him some of the finer points of swordplay, the woman could not say enough of good about him.

The others warmed towards him also, for he had great charm—when he chose to use it. Thaddeus Heywood seemed especially drawn to him and his was such a warm and friendly nature, his ways so unaffected, that the two young men were
very soon on a first-name basis and able to insult each other without fear of offense. Grandmama was guardedly pleased with Mathieson, Alec Pauley liked him unreservedly, as did Moira; Papa thought him a splendid fellow and a potentially good actor. Cuthbert and Gregor said nothing, but Fiona sensed they tended to side more with Torrey and distrusted Mathieson.

Her own relationship with this adventurer was another matter. There was no use denying that she found him much too attractive for her peace of mind, but she was not a fool and kept her guards up. Roland Mathieson was a threat, not because she feared him, but because she feared herself. He sought her company whenever possible, but she told herself it was only to bedevil Torrey who was already seething with jealousy. If they passed some especially lovely spot, or some pretty foal or animal or object of interest, Mathieson was eager to draw her attention to it, his magnificent black eyes would smile into hers, his voice become so gentle and persuasive that her beseiged heart would quail. She admired him beyond measure; for he was the epitome of gallantry. But she was very sure that this was for him a fleeting episode that he would forget the instant it was over. He was being kind; he scolded her as her dear brother might scold. His eyes said, “let us share this peaceful time—let us be friends.” But his eyes sometimes held a flirtatious gleam that awoke far different feelings, and she gathered her defenses, refusing to allow herself to dream impossible dreams, for she knew he thought of her as a pleasant but rather wayward child—not as a desirable woman.

They were not to move camp today, for there was a fair nearby where posters could be put up announcing their next performance. There were other things to be attended to also; things connected with their real purpose, about which she asked no questions. It was a glorious morning, and so soon as breakfast was done and the dishes were cleared away Japhet had gone eagerly to the fair, Torrey and Gregor had ridden out somewhere, and Fiona, declining her father's offer to accompany him, Mrs. Dunnigan, and Heywood to the fair also, had
set herself to repaint some of the scenery damaged when rain had found its way through the caravan roof.

“'Tis nigh eleven o'clock,” observed Mathieson, who had been grumbling about all the hard work to which he was subjected. “I was up at dawn. And whilst
you
were still dreaming,
I
had already started the fires and put water on to boil, though such tasks are far beneath my dignity.”

Unmoved, Fiona concentrated upon applying her paintbrush to the palm tree on the large section of the desert island.

Mathieson contemplated her drowsily. For a travelling troupe—especially, so small a troupe—to devote two caravans to scenery, costumes, curtains, properties, et cetera, he thought illogical. At least, the
ostensible
purpose was illogical. Few troupes of strolling players carried set pieces, usually conveying their scene purely by costume and the play itself, or occasionally by utilizing painted sheets or screens that could be unrolled and hung where appropriate. The pieces of scenery hauled about by the Avon Travelling Players were wooden and mounted on wheels to facilitate handling. Each piece was double-sided, with a two-inch space between the sides. He had commented that this caused the pieces to be more cumbersome and that they might better have simply painted both sides of a single piece of plywood, but Bradford explained that when they'd attempted this the scenic pieces tended to bend when hauled about and would not stand properly. “The audiences,” he said solemnly, “were not impressed by a bent pirate ship, and the mood suffered.” There were seven of these set pieces in all; three depicting part of the desert island on one side and the deck of the pirate ship on the other; another three portraying the exterior of the farmhouse, backed by the withdrawing room of the villainous Sir Roger's glooming mansion; and the seventh, a representation of the forward half of a royal frigate, which was attached to a rope and drawn across the stage behind the “palm trees” in the final scene, much to the excitement of their various audiences. When first he had laid eyes on these large pieces it had occurred to Mathieson that the hollow areas between the sides might actually
constitute a hiding place for valuables. His eager and surreptitious investigations had proved only that the “treasure” was indeed brass and glass, and that the hollow centres of the set pieces contained nothing more exciting than air and a few cobwebs.

Fiona having offered no comment upon his grievances, he now informed her with a sigh that she was a hard-hearted woman. “Have you no sympathy for my backbreaking labours?”