Dedicated Villain (25 page)

Cuthbert said drily, “I take it introductions are not required.”

“Pardon?” The girl started and blushed scarlet. “Och, no! I am acquainted with his lordship.”

Thaddeus flinched very slightly.

Cuthbert exclaimed, “His—
what
?”

“I am known here ath Mr. Heywood,” explained Thaddeus, his voice still rather hoarse and uncertain. Belatedly, he glanced at the second man and gave a groan of exasperation. “Oh, God! I thought you were thafely out of England, you idiot!”

His outstretched hand was seized in a strong grip. “As you see,” said Robert MacTavish, the smile lingering in his grey eyes, “I'm no illusion. How are you, Thad? You risk your foolish head for us yet again, do you?”

“Foolish indeed!” exclaimed Miss Elizabeth Clandon, her pale face full of anxiety. “Ye've nae right tae run such awful risks, Thaddeus!”

His lordship replied quietly, “I think I have every right, ma'am.”

Her eyes fell and she murmured something flustered and unintelligible.

Heywood forced his attention back to MacTavish. “Rob, you know you are quite mad to be here. Did you bring your lovely bride?”

“Rosamond waits at my home in Wales and as … for—” MacTavish was interrupted by a sustained spell of coughing.

“Jupiter, Rob,” Heywood exclaimed, taking his friend's arm supportively. “You're ill, man!”

“No, no,” denied MacTavish, gasping for breath. “I've had a stupid … cold merely. And now this cough's a—a confounded nuisance, but—”

Miss Clandon, no less concerned, interpolated, “He pushes himself night and day, Thaddeus. Time and again we've warned him, but he'll nae listen.”

“And that's the truth,” grunted Cuthbert. “You're vastly important to us all, MacTavish, and for all our sakes should have a care for your health. Would that your lady wife was here, for she—”

“Would nag and bully me off to my bed, I dinna doot.” MacTavish tried to laugh only to again lapse into the harsh, racking cough.

Heywood gripped his hand. “Now thee here, Rob! Good God! You're afire with fever! I thought you looked poorly but—”

Irritated, MacTavish jerked his hand clear. “Och, away wi' ye! Dinna fash so!” And reverting to impeccable English, he clapped his friend on the shoulder and said apologetically, “You're a good fellow, Thad, but I've neither the time nor the patience to be maudled over. 'Tis a cold—nothing more. Now—the plans are laid and all preparations have been made
for the transfer of—” He was again interrupted, this time by a storm of applause from inside the hall. “One gathers your play has ended.”

Heywood gave a dismayed groan. “Oh, egad! Lady Clorinda will have my head for not being there to hit the cabbage!”

“Hit … the
cabbage
…?” echoed Miss Clandon, astonished.

He laughed. “I have found my true calling, ma'am. I am a cabbage hitter thecond to none! Rob—will you come inthide? I imagine you're eager to talk with everyone.”

“I am. But I think 'twould behoove me to wait till your audience departs. And my news will better be told to all of you at once. Now, tell me how come you to be with the troupe? Do you know who is this dragoon Cuthbert tells me dogs your footsteps?”

Longing to be alone with the lady he worshipped and whom he'd feared he would never see again, Heywood's innate courteousy prevailed. “I learned that Frank Bradford had been out with Charlie and had to run for hith life after Culloden. The Bradfordth are old friendth of my family tho I went to thee if I could help in any way, and they allowed me to join them in thith little—endeavour. Ath to the—”

The doors to the hall swung open and the audience began to surge out chattering happily about the play and the performers.

The three men and the girl edged deeper into the shadows.

Mervyn Bradford lifted his tankard high. “A toast!” he shouted.

“A toast!” echoed the jubilant players, gathered merrily in the stage area of the hall.

A triumphant note in his voice Bradford said, “To the end of the first part of our journey!”

There was an instant's incredulous silence, then his words
were echoed with joyful vigour and the toast was drunk in ale and wine and cider.

‘So that,' thought Mathieson, watching Fiona over the rim of his tankard, ‘was the reason for the surprise party. We have reached our destination; the treasure must be very near at hand!' Cuthbert had probably ridden out to notify some key Jacobite figure (MacTavish, very likely) that they were here at last. Which meant also that the threat to Roland Fairleigh Mathieson grew more deadly with every second that passed. The time had come for the villain of the piece to fold his tent and steal softly away to where he might watch the plotters without risk to himself. He set his tankard down and began to drift towards the back door, only to hesitate, frowning. That clod Torrey was pestering Fiona again, and she looked troubled. Damn the fellow!

“I have been patient for years,” Freemon Torrey was murmuring. “My dearest girl, you know how much I care for you, but if you won't have me, do not I beg, throw yourself away upon Mathieson. No—never be angry. I say it only because I deplore his kind of man, and it worries me to see you falling into his trap.”

Fiona tapped her foot and said coolly, “If Captain Mathieson has set a trap, Freemon, it must be a very poor one, because I continue to escape it.”

“Do you?” Seizing her hand he declared, “I've marked how he hangs about you. You are so sweet, so innocent—you don't realize what he has in mind for you.”

Irritated, she pulled her hand away. “Then since you seem to read his mind so well, perhaps you should tell me of my intended fate.”

“Now you're angry.” He sighed heavily. “How do I offend, that you must be so unkind? I long only to care for and protect you. To keep you safe from harm for as long as I live.”

Fiona's eyes softened. He really did look crushed, and they had been friends for so many years. Perhaps she
was
being unkind. Surely, the greatest of compliments was to be loved; to be
desired as a wife, and offered the lifelong devotion of an honourable gentleman. She said repentantly, “Am I unkind, Freemon? I'm very sorry if that is the case. You've always been a good friend to us, and I am indeed honoured that you want to make me your wife.”

“More than anything in the world,” he said ardently.

His blue eyes were fixed on her face and held a look she longed to see in another pair of eyes. The awareness of that longing scourged her so that she began to feel a monster. “I wish I could give you the answer you want,” she said falteringly, staring at the small cake she held. “But—the thing is—”

“Oh, you need not tell me,” he interrupted, at once firing up. “I know I have been very cleverly replaced in your affections by that posturing mountebank! I warn you, Fiona—he will bring you only sorrow!”

His opinion was shared by others, she knew. Grandmama, Papa, even the poor woman they had saved from the ducking stool, Mrs. Shadwell, had warned her against Roland. Shaken, she responded with what dignity she could muster, “You are quite mistaken. Captain Mathieson has never even hinted that he has a
tendre
for me.”

“I do not doubt that! 'Tis not his way! He is too clever, and you so innocently gullible as to be deceived by his Frenchified charm! Well, never say I did not warn you! Keep on as you are going, my girl, and between your flirting and his cunning lechery he will bring shame and disgrace your way!”

“How
dare
you say such things! I have not—”

Her attempt to move away was foiled. Mr. Torrey had drunk deep of the wine and caution was drowned. He seized her wrist and said in a voice harsh with anger, “I think I know a rogue when I see one, and he is a rogue and a charlatan if ever—”

“Did someone call me?”

The quietly cynical drawl brought a sigh of relief from Fiona, but heightened the blaze in Torrey's somewhat bloodshot eyes. “I called you just what you are,” he declared thickly.

“Indeed?” Mathieson regarded him with a bored smile. “I bow to your perception, but do you think it wise? Lady Clorinda warned us only today that we—”

“I've another warning for you! Stay away from my betrothed, or you—”

“But of course I will keep away from the poor girl,” smiled Mathieson. “Only point her out, and—”

“Damn you!” Maddened, Torrey whipped out his sword and lunged fiercely.

Fiona screamed. Alarmed shouts rang out. Quick as a cat Mathieson flung himself sideways. Even so, the sword whispered across his arm.

“For shame!” thundered Bradford. “There are ladies present!”

Blind to everything but his jealous hatred, Torrey pressed his attack, shouting, “I've held my temper with you long enough, you slippery scoundrel!”

Mathieson's colichemarde had slid into his hand once more and he parried the following thrust in the nick of time. “You call
me
a scoundrel?” he sneered. “You treacherous cur! I've not yet sunk so low as to stab a man without warning.”

“Desist!” roared Bradford, striding forward and flinging up one arm majestically.

My lady said shrilly, “Let be! Better they should fight it out than always be sniping at each other.”

The swords flashed and rang together. The onlookers drew back to make room and watched eagerly.

Deploring what Torrey had done, Fiona could not wish him dead, but nor did she wish Roland to fall. She gripped her hands together, her heart pounding wildly. An arm slipped about her shoulders and she glanced up to meet her father's eyes. “Disgraceful behaviour,” he muttered. She leaned against him, anxious and frightened, yet thrilled by the desperate conflict.

Torrey fought in the Italian manner, staying mostly with the
tierce
position. Mathieson, an advocate of the French school, preferred
sexte
, relying as always on speed over force. Their demeanour
was as different as their style; Torrey flushed and intent, all power and fury, Mathieson's supple grace bordering on the careless, his taunting smile deepening occasionally into a chuckle that made Torrey grit his teeth with rage.

A shout went up as Mathieson stumbled over a fallen tankard. Torrey ignored the Code of the Duello, and allowing no quarter, thrust hard. Mathieson parried desperately as he fell to one knee, then sprang lightly to his feet again, but it was a near thing. Fiona had thought him doomed and closed her eyes for an instant.

“Lord help us!” whispered Moira. “I pray my brother is not killed!”

Fiona forced her eyes open. Roland was still alive and fighting well.

“No one will be killed,” said my lady. “First blood, gentlemen! Bradford! See to't.”

Mr. Bradford drew his sword obediently and moved forward prepared to strike up the blades of the antagonists should there be a hit.

Somewhat relieved, Fiona looked to Moira. Her friend's face was chalk white, but her head was turned away from the duellists. Following her gaze, Fiona discovered a new menace. Troopers were positioned all along the back of the hall, and Captain Lake stood nearby, arms folded, watching the fight appreciatively. He made Fiona a slight bow and held one finger to his lips in a request for silence.

Turning from him, her eyes flew to her grandmother, but the old lady's attention was fixed upon the swordsmen as another shout of excitement went up. Alarmed, Fiona was in time to witness a furious flurry of flashing blades and ringing steel. Torrey shouted and sprang forward, but Mathieson turned the thrust and chuckled audibly. Inflamed, Torrey launched a powerful thrust over the arm. Mathieson parried with the dangerous
prime parade.
Instead of retreating then, he moved forward, bearing on Torrey's blade. With a shout, Torrey tried to disengage preparatory to a thrust in
carte.
Smiling grimly, Mathieson
counter-disengaged, using the
forte
of his sword to force Torrey's blade upward.

Alec Pauley gasped.

Seizing his arm, Fiona asked tensely, “What? Alec, what is it?”

“I do believe he means tae attempt the disarm! Chancy! Verrra chancy!”

In that same instant, Mathieson moved so fast his actions seemed to blur. His left foot advanced; with his left hand he seized the shell of Torrey's sword in an iron grip. Torrey flung his weight forward and kicked hard, but Mathieson had already thrown the right side of his body back. To Fiona's astonishment, his sword whipped behind him and came around from his left side, his wrist supported on his hip, the point of his blade presented steadily to Torrey's stomach. With his sword still inexorably in Mathieson's grip, and that wicked colichemarde menacing his middle, Torrey panted a groaning curse, relinquished his blade and retired from distance.

A spontaneous roar of applause rang out. Breathless, Mathieson spun about and for the first time, saw the redcoats. An instant, he paused; then, with a flourish of both swords, bowed low.