Dedicated Villain (22 page)

A full moon hovered above the trees and a soft night wind stirred the meadow grasses. Rump was easy to find in the rope paddock. Mathieson whistled softly and the big stallion woke up and came trotting over to nuzzle him affectionately. He took the rope loop from the fencepost and the stallion thumped through. Mathieson stroked the warm sleek neck and they walked together, the horse patiently watchful, the man with hands thrust into his pockets and head down.

“Do you suppose we have lost Rob MacTavish, Rump?” he murmured thoughtfully. The stallion snorted, and tossed his head. Mathieson said, “You may be right, but I rather think not.
Unless I mistake it, we are even now en route to rendezvous with the gentleman.” He smiled cynically. “That will be a jolly reunion, eh? Perchance the reb will lead us to a real pot of gold.” He thought with a touch of weariness, ‘And an end to my battles.'

From the moment that at the age of nine he had disgraced and bitterly humiliated his father at the hunt, his life seemed to have been a continuing series of battles, among which the brief Parisian interludes with
Maman
shone like bright oases. ‘
Cher Maman
…' And, Gad—how maudlin he grew! Impatient with himself, he said, “Stuff! I've had my loves, you know that, Rump. And friends, too!” The stallion whickered an apparent agreement, but Mathieson was startled by his own words. Friends? What need had he of friends? Much he wanted them!

He kicked at a root, then stared moodily across the moonlit meadow. The piquant face of the Tiny Mite crept into his mind's eye, and he smiled faintly. Rumpelstiltskin nudged him and he strolled on again, muttering, “Zounds, now what maggot has got into my stupid head?”

He seldom thought of women other than to consider how well this one pleased him, or how much that one cost him. Save for Penelope. Penelope, whom he had loved. And knocked down … He bit his lip and clenched his hands, bewildered by this unfamiliar depression of the spirits. Was it remorse that plagued him? Why in hell should he feel remorse? He was a dedicated villain. Always had been! Always would be! He would accept no other path, for he had learned very early in life that to the villains of this world went all the rewards, and to the heroes, the hard knocks. Certainly, he had struck Miss Penelope Montgomery. She'd not only had the poor taste to reject him, but had come at him with a poker during that damnable sword fight with Quentin Chandler. It had been her, or Chandler's sword through him! And when Chandler had beaten him (fair and square, blast him!) he
had
taken the reb's sword in his chest, which could well have finished him. To strike a woman under those circumstances was justifiable. ‘No,
ma mère
?' But he shrank a little, knowing how his beloved mother would have viewed that
deed. It had never troubled him before. Or—seldom. Why must it so haunt him now? Besides, it was becoming ever more apparent that he had not really loved Penelope …

Rumpelstiltskin snorted gustily down his neck. He caressed the soft nose, then sat down against a tree watching unseeingly as the big horse began to crop at the grass. And again, he saw Fiona's face, her eyes fixed on his with that look of awed wonder because she'd fancied him to have ridden to the rescue of the witch. ‘Silly chit,' he thought resentfully. ‘Had she a brain in her head she'd have seen I wanted no part of that fiasco! Devil fly away with her misplaced admiration!' He could console himself with the knowledge that sooner or later, her expression would change; inevitably, her eyes would hold disgust … contempt … That realization brought no consolation at all, but rather a pang so sharp that he swore and his head bowed lower.

‘Our men love once and with a deep and unalterable passion …'

Muffin had said that. Well, he had neither the time nor the inclination to indulge a “deep and unalterable passion”! Besides, the Tiny Mite was not the lady to capture the heart of a man who had been born a century too late; who should have been a real pirate, prowling the Spanish Main; who ever had scorned the virtuous and the virtuous path.

‘Oh, Roly! Will you never admit how splendid you are?'

His laughter was short and harsh and held a note that brought the stallion thudding back across the meadow to whuffle anxiously at his ear. Mathieson patted his equine friend, thinking sardonically, ‘I am splendid, all right!' He could look back over long years of “splendour”! Years of womanizing, fighting, gambling, cheating. “A liar and a blackguard” someone had once named him, and he'd been proud of it. The one thing he never had sought was the reputation of an honourable gentleman. He had sought only to fulfill the expectations so often hurled at him by his nobly born sire. And to enjoy a damned good time in so doing! He'd
had
a damned good time, hadn't he? Even if there had been bad moments. Rather many bad
moments, come to look back … But there had been the ladies, God bless 'em! A small voice whispered, ‘Not one of whom would have faced a mindless mob to save your worthless neck …'

‘The first one brave enough to throw a rock at that most gallant gentleman …'
Mon Dieu
, but she had been superb! Resolute, loyal … and small and lovely. And pure, dammitall! Pure. He didn't want purity! He wanted a hussy. A woman of the world, who knew how to love. Like Sybil—immoral tart that she was!

And he groaned a curse, because only to think of Mrs. Sybil Montgomery and Fiona in the same breath was a sacrilege …

A hand was on his shoulder. A kindly voice enquired, “Are you all right, old fellow? Your head, ith it?”

Heywood, still booted and spurred, was looking at him with obvious concern. Mathieson felt a swift rush of gratitude that his nonsensical aberrations of the mind had been interrupted. It was his head, of course, just as Thaddeus said. Some form of shock, no doubt, and of a certainty he'd had enough of 'em of late: The shock of watching poor old Bill die in his arms, the ridiculous episode with Picayune in the river, the loss of Rump, the rock that had bounced off his skull today. All combining to cause this brief venture into lunacy. He took a deep breath and his drawl was cool as ever when he answered, “Bit of a nuisance, only. And why do you prance about by moonlight, m'lud? Guilty conscience, perchance?”

Still watching him searchingly, Heywood smiled. “You look like hell, you know.”

“Thank you, kind sir. As well I should prepare myself.”

“To hear Fiona tell it, hell will be far from your eventual abode. Gad! Your head really doth trouble you. I offer my arm to our bedchamber, mighty champion of witcheth.”

Mathieson did not want to go inside. Not just yet. And if he looked bad, Thaddeus did not look so well, either. Not that it mattered how the idiot looked. Still, “Would you object to sitting here and talking for a while?” he asked.

Heywood selected a root, and sat down. Almost, he seemed relieved.

Sharing a companionable silence they watched the moon rise higher to etch the wings of an owl that swooped low over the meadow then soared up with some hapless small creature gripped in its talons.

Heywood murmured, “They look tho noble, and are in fact very cruel.”

“Present company excepted?”

“Your fine animal, thertainly.” Heywood smiled, but his smile was sad.

Watching him, Mathieson said, “You may ignore this, an you wish, but—dare I ask if there is … a lady you admire?” And he waited with an oddly keen anxiety for the answer.

After a moment, Heywood replied quietly, “Am I very obviouth about it?”

Mathieson scowled at his wistful face. “Yes,” he said, and as Heywood looked up, mildly surprised by such brutal candour, he added, “For how long have you known her?”

“Five monthth, two weekth, and three dayth—no, four, thinthe 'tith already after midnight.”

“Gad! If you are
that
badly smitten, why the devil do you do nothing about it?”

Heywood shrugged. “I am a fool, but not tho much of a fool that I cannot know there ith no hope for me.” His voice dropped. He murmured softly, “I found a lady who ith too beautiful. Very poor planning. But—when I thaw—
her
… I wath jolly well flattened. I knew there wath very little chanthe, but I offered … and wath rejected, of courth. Very gently. I tried to look at other ladieth but—for me, I'm afraid, there
ith
no other lady. Who elth could have that lovely cloud of golden hair … or tho perfect a figure? What other eyeth could thmile in that perfectly adorable way …? And that pretty lilt to her voithe when—” He turned dreaming eyes on his companion, started violently and became red as fire.

‘What a sickening display!' thought Mathieson, scornfully.
‘And the idiot doesn't even know that her hair isn't golden, but a rich light brown with little gold glints in it.' “‘Faint heart,'” he snarled, “‘ne'er won fair lady'!”

Horribly embarrassed, Heywood stammered, “I th-think my heart ith not faint, but I know I cannot win her. Not very remarkable—all thingth conthidered.” He gave a derisive shrug. “Only natural that a lady would prefer her man be capable of thpeaking her name properly.”

“Do you mean you have no chance because you lisp?
C'est une absurdité!
And I think you wrong her. Besides, the women love a title.”

“Many do, but— Now damn your eyeth! Who told you I am—”

“A nobleman? You did, you dolt. I called you ‘milord' several times and you were so accustomed to it you didn't even notice. Did you join this troupe for the sake of your lady?”

Heywood nodded. “I can at leatht help her, and her people.”

“I thought that must be it. I did not fancy you were a Jacobite.”

“Gad, no! But—I've a couple of very good friendth who are. Devil of a coil, to get 'em out of trouble, ain't it?”

“If you're fool enough to try,” sneered Mathieson.

“Do you hear that, Rump?” said Heywood lightly. “Your friend who will fight a crowd of angry men for the life of a witch, would not bethtir himthelf to help a friend!”

“I have no friends,” grunted Mathieson, standing and whistling the horse to him again.

“I wonder whatever led me to believe you were here for that very reathon. You claimed it wath—a compelling one, an I recall.”

Mathieson turned to face him squarely. “I was mistaken. 'Tis not at all compelling. The lady wants none of me. Do you understand?”

“No. If that were truth, why would you keep with uth? You're no more a rebel than am I, and you dithtinctly claimed you'd not bother to help—”

“Because,” snarled Mathieson, suddenly and irrationally furious, “I mean to steal all the treasure and sail off into the sunset with it! Put
that
into your next play, you great block, and perchance 'twill be a success!”

Heywood gave a shout of laughter so that Rumpelstiltskin danced away, eyeing him uneasily. “My public would never pay to thee a tragedy,” he chuckled. “I think you play the proper part in ‘My Lady Dairymaid.'”

His only response a disgusted profanity, Mathieson started back toward the paddock.

Grinning, Heywood kept pace with him. A few seconds later, he said, “Thpeaking of which …”

His tone had changed. Mathieson looked at him across Rumpelstiltskin's back and asked jeeringly, “Well? Do you mean to use some sense and make me into the villain after all?”

“Our prethent villain would be well pleathed an I did tho.”

“Aha! So your glum expression has to do with the blithe Mr. Torrey!”

Heywood seized Rumpelstiltskin's mane and drew him to a halt. “You would do well not to treat it lightly, Roland. He ith the type to brood over a grudge. You made him look a fool before the lady he hopeth to wed; you have taken hith part in the play; and Lady Clorinda ith fond of you, but don't like
him
above half—which he ith well aware of. You are a threat to him and he can be a dangerouth man. Have a care.”

“Pish! I could cut him into gobbets in five minutes! Less.”

“Aye—in a fair fight.” Not one to glibly slander another, Heywood paused, then added guiltily, “I am a cad to impugn hith reputation.”

Mathieson stood very still. Not looking at his companion, he asked, “Do you believe that Torrey dislikes me so much he would strike from ambush, or pay an assassin?”

“You find that unlikely. Natural enough that you would, for any honourable gentleman would draw back from that kind of cowardly, underhanded—”

“You fail to give the devil his due, Thaddeus. If Torrey
chooses the cowardly and dishonourable way, he'll find me no stranger to such tactics, I do assure you. Still, I thank you for the warning. Good night.” With the big horse pacing gracefully beside him, he stalked away, his eyes angry and his mouth bitter.

Puzzled, Thaddeus Heywood looked after him. Then he shook his head, murmured, “Cawker!” and, smiling, strolled towards the caravan.