Dedicated Villain (18 page)

She chuckled in that soft little ripple of sound he found remarkably attractive, and pointed out that they all worked hard. Mrs. Dunnigan did a great deal, but had her hands full caring for the ladies and helping with the cooking, and Japhet worked endless hours helping Cuthbert or anyone else who needed his services. “Besides,” she added with a marked lack of sympathy, “to the newest member of any group falls the most onerous tasks.”

“I believe you, Miss Kindliness,” he said mournfully. “Your papa has also required that I practice my part in the play.”

“Oh dear. Do you find
that
an onerous task, Sir Lazylump?”

“Not—entirely. There are one or two scenes that are—er, bearable.” She gave a squeak of indignation. His mouth twitched; he added blandly, “In fact, those are the parts I think need more rehearsal. I'm sure you will be more than willing to oblige your father by going over them with me.”

She glanced at him under her lashes, well aware of both the gleam in his eyes and the fact that her cheeks were becoming heated. “Which scenes?”

“Well now, let me see … Ah, yes. There's the one at the beginning—”

“Scene One,” she corrected.

“So you guessed, clever child!”

Of course she'd guessed! She would have wagered her garter that he would pounce on
that
particular scene! But—“No, I didn't,” she denied, blushing. “I was merely providing you with the proper terms.”

“Realizing that my own—terms—are quite improper?” ‘And
there,' he thought, ‘goes that intriguing little dash of dimples again, and how very daintily she blushes!'

“But of course,” she agreed provocatively. “Now what is the difficulty about Scene One?”

“It's that part where brave Captain Jack Firebrand declares himself to Beautiful Dairymaid Barbara and sweeps her into a passionate embrace.”

‘Naughty rascal!' thought Fiona. “But Jack is not Captain Firebrand at that time,” she demurred, “and does not become so until after he is betrayed and sold into slavery.”

“Later becoming the dashing scourge of the Spanish Main! Yo and ho!”

She looked up at him rather ruefully. “You think it a very bad play, do you? I suppose it
is
rather simple.”

He could not like to see that downcast expression on her face, and he said quickly, “It has been my experience, Tiny Mite, that some very bad plays have been written by famous men who forgot how to be simple and tried merely to be clever, thereby boring everyone in their audience save for those who are impressed by the incomprehensible. Heywood's play is not intended to be profound. It is instead jolly good fun, and I think country folk and probably a lot of city folk will enjoy it enormously and leave the hall with a smile rather than a sigh. Not so ill an effect in these difficult times.” Considerably surprised by this flow of volubility, he added, “None of which has anything to do with you and I rehearsing the scenes in which I need—ah, assistance.”

“Is very true that you lack expertise,” she agreed, her eyes downcast.

He looked very hard at her, then said grittily, “
Merci mademoiselle.
Now, as I recollect, we are in the withdrawing room and I seize you—”

“Well, do not,” she interjected hastily, waving her paintbrush at him as he prepared to stand up. “Let us try a—er, less tiresome scene.”

“Tiresome!”

“I mean one not so—active.”

“Oh. Well, the other part that I do not seem to have learned properly is the scene in Act Two in which I have escaped and must sail away and leave you.”

“Hmmnn. You mean where you bid Miss Barbara farewell and vow your undying love?”

“While pressing her to my heart, and—”

Her brush faltered. Over it, she looked at him in mild surprise. “I do not recall that you do that.”

“You see? You too need practice. Now put down those silly paints and we can—”

The dimples flickered enchantingly. “No, really. I must finish this.”

Mathieson groaned and lay back again. “‘Woman's at best a contradiction still!' Though I demean myself to supplicate in an ungainly sprawl at your pretty feet, you will not aid me!”

She chuckled, but, watching all the lean unconscious grace of him, wondered if it was possible for him to be ungainly.

“Hasten, fair but heartless artist,” he sighed. “I await your pleasure.”

“You will wait a shorter time an you allow me to concentrate.”

“I shall be dumb.” He closed his eyes. “Wake me when your masterpiece is a
fait accompli.
”

“Wretch!” She began to paint again. In a short while the palm tree was complete. She surveyed it with her head held on one side. “How does that look, Ro—Captain Mathieson?”

He snored loudly, but when she advanced on him, paintbrush poised, he opened one eye, then sat up quickly. “Evil child! What were your intentions, I wonder?”

“To paint the end of your nose bright green, Master Tease!”

“One masterpiece a day, Tiny Mite. Now—I am ready to view your progress … Turn it this way a little.” He leaned back on his hands, crossed his long legs, and inspected the “palm tree.” “Jolly good,” he said admiringly. “But—where's its head?”

She fixed him with a stern stare. “Where is—what's head?”

“Grammar! Grammar! And besides,” he pursed his lips, “I didn't think they dwelt on desert islands. Are you sure they do?”

“I am sure you are an odious man,” Fiona informed him, not mincing words. “An you think my work so funny, try if you can do better!”

“I did not say 'twas funny. I merely asked if peacocks dwell on—”

“It is—
not
—a peacock! 'Tis a palm tree, as you know perfectly well, horrid creature!”

“Oh.” He looked searchingly at the palm tree. “Well—now that you tell me, of course, I—”

With a squeal of indignation, she snatched up her painty rag and threw it at him. “Wretch! Evil—
actor
!”

“Oho!” he laughed, catching the rag. “The ultimate insult!”

“You are jealous! You know you could not make so fine a—”

“Stunted little weed—”

“Is
not
stunted! I stood on tiptoe to paint it, and—”

“Small wonder it looks stunted! Now if you but had a few more inches to you; say twenty or so—”

He dodged the paintbrush in the nick of time and as Fiona began to stalk away, he called, still chuckling, “Come now, Tiny Mite. Do not be a poor sportsman. You never mean to abandon me here? Suppose your great love comes upon me? I shall be most foully done to death and none to give me aid!”

She turned at this, disclosing a frown but eyes full of merriment. “I can hear your teeth chattering. But you may rest easy. Freemon will likely not return until dinner time. Now farewell, I've to help Grandmama.”

“But you promised to read over those scenes with me.”

“I did no such thing! Besides, 'tis more important that this be done. Do you try
your
skills at palm trees. The scenery must be dry by tomorrow in time for your debut as our Stupendously Dashing Hero.”

Feigning indignation, he started up.

Fiona laughed and danced away.

Grinning, Mathieson settled back to watch the breeze billow her skirts and ruffle the soft brown ringlets tied behind her head with a broad riband of peach velvet. She was a cheerful little soul, he thought musingly, as full of mischief as she could stare, which was as well, for a lesser girl must have been crushed by fear of the danger which hung over them all. Not that she was so naive as to be unaware of their peril. Far from it. During this past week he'd learned much of Miss Fiona Bradford, as he had learned much of all the troupe members, and he knew that behind her cheerful light-heartedness there dwelt courage and resourcefulness and a deep devotion to her family.

It had not been as gruesome a period as he'd feared. For one thing, he was glad to be away from Town for a change. For another, he found the play amusing and enjoyed both watching the others at their rehearsals and the performances he had seen. As for his companions, well, they were a foolish lot, beyond doubting, but he was finding them less insufferable than he'd anticipated.

For instance, aside from his ridiculous and unending political speeches, Gregor was an expert musician and it had been quite interesting one evening when he'd discoursed knowledgeably and at length upon the origins of the bagpipes and the old Scots and Gaelic melodies. When referring to his family history, Gregor's saturnine features would become touched by sorrow and although he said little on that particular subject, one gained an impression of a tragic past that might well account for his gloomy attitude.

Pauley was as sunny-natured as Gregor was morose; open and uncomplicated, the product of a well-to-do family of shipbuilders. The large house where he had been born had been burned down during the Uprising, but instead of bewailing the fate that had destroyed his home, he was only grateful that his family was safe and well, and had cheerful expectancies of rebuilding their fortune once the treasure was distributed. Unfortunate, thought Mathieson, that he was in for a disappointment
on that score, but his ebullient spirit would doubtless sustain him.

The boy, Japhet, was a confounded pest and deserved to be sent off with a flea in his ear. But he was very young. And perhaps because of his own bitter youth, Mathieson had not yet been able to bring himself to give the boy the setdown he warranted. Besides, his mother was my lady's trusted abigail, and was grateful to him for bearing with the lad. It might well be a matter of boredom invested against the possibility of some future profitable return.

He had been unable to learn much from Cuthbert. The big man was taciturn and unwilling to be friendly. He was devoted to Lady Clorinda, and that devotion appeared to extend to the Bradfords, but he said little, and to his credit seldom participated in the long-winded political discussions that would develop around the campfire in the evenings.

Mathieson was more than ever of the opinion that Freemon Torrey was not the mate for Miss Fiona. Torrey was all unrestrained impulse, fire and fury, and although it was clear he worshipped the chit, she'd be little better off as his wife than she was as the daughter of Mr. Mervyn Bradford. Worse, in fact! Bradford was as irresponsible as any stripling, true, but full of fun besides, and despite his theatrical manner there was a warmth and an underlying kindness to the man.

A much finer candidate for Fiona's hand, in Mathieson's opinion, was Thaddeus Heywood. He had in fact already dropped several hints in Heywood's ear, pointing out Miss Fiona's many attributes, and in turn had suggested to the girl that Heywood was a splendid fellow. There was a mystery somewhere in Heywood's background, but Mathieson thought he knew what it was. He had noted a slowness to respond when Heywood was called by his surname, and, suspicious, he'd experimented with the casual use of “my lord” as a form of address. Heywood had responded with immediacy and no trace either of surprise or of consciousness of the title. Very likely he was a peer using an assumed name. Further, unlike Freemon
Torrey and Gregor, Heywood had little to say of the pros and cons of the Rebellion, wherefore it was doubtful that he was a Jacobite at all. Far more probably, he was one of those kind-hearted but ill-advised individuals who felt obliged to help the hounded fugitives and their unfortunate families. A failing, admittedly, but by and large he was a nice fellow, just the kind to make his chosen lady a devoted husband, and not go wandering off into little dalliances on the side. By God, but he'd better not do so! Mathieson scowled. She was a sweet little chit and if she had a fondness for his lordship, he'd damned well better be good to her, or—

He sprang to his feet.
Nom de Dieu
, but this was an irritating subject! Be curst if he would have any more of it! He stamped over to the set piece and gingerly removed a fly which had committed suicide on Miss Fiona's “palm tree.”

“Torrey doesn't like it.” My lady turned the pages of the play and set the chair to rocking slowly. “But your papa feels we must make the change just in case Captain Lake should come up with us again, and I agree. Besides, I've a notion young Mathieson will excel in the role of Firebrand—he's a swashbuckler if ever there was one, eh?”

“Hmmnn,” said Fiona, standing in the open doorway of the caravan and watching the distant Mathieson busily at work on the piece of scenery.

“Torrey says he will seek to take advantage of you on stage,” my lady went on. “You must tell me at once an he does so. I've no intent for you to be made uncomfortable. As it is, for Torrey to have to watch Mathieson making love to you will likely cause more bad blood between them.”

“What?” said Fiona, turning with a shocked little gasp.

My lady shook her head reproachfully. “I doubt you heard a single word.” She set the play on the table and came to stand
beside her granddaughter. “What is it that so fascinates—Oh.” She frowned. “I see. Never form a
tendre
for that one, child. He's a pretty rogue, but a rogue for all that, and has broke more hearts than—”