Dedicated Villain (35 page)

“Oh, splendid! He can barely hobble! He's going to disguise himself with pillows and a wig tonight, and play the villain as a fat man. The duel will have to go, which is a pity.” She sighed. “It was such a delight for the ladies to watch him, he looked so splendid as Firebrand, and with that superb physique— But it cannot be helped. We'll be fortunate can he carry off the part of Sir Roger in his present condition.”

“He does better than you may think, dear ma'am.”

There was an odd expression in his eyes, and my lady said worriedly, “I don't mean to offend you, lad. I know you're good friends, but—Rob, how well
do
you know him?”

MacTavish stared at her small hand. “I know he can fight.”

“La, but he can! You've no need to tell me
that
! But—are we right to trust him?”

He looked puzzled. “Have you doubts then? I thought you had accepted his offer to become one of us? That you all but fell on his neck as your saviour, in fact.”

My lady flushed, irked, as she had been irked in the past, by this young Scot's sometimes caustic tongue. Her eyes met his smoulderingly, but she refrained from giving him a setdown. This was not the time. Still, her reply was rather stiff. “I was somewhat overwrought yesterday afternoon. I—” She bit her lip and a sudden vivid memory made her tremble.

Watching her, MacTavish realized with mild surprise that the remarkable woman he had always thought of as being fashioned from Toledo steel, was human after all; not quite as young as she used to be, and very tired. She had drawn her hand away, but he reached out to hold it again. “I wonder you were not fallen down in a fit,” he said sympathetically.

“What a repulsive thought,” she exclaimed glaring at him. “I never had a fit in my life!”

He chuckled. “Aye. I'm a clumsy clod, but—you know what I mean. Jove, but I never cease to marvel that you dainty ladies with your fans and laces and flutterings and megrims can yet
turn to and suffer such privations—such terrors—with a courage and endurance many of us men could scarce equal.”

“More accurately, my lad, that many men could
not
equal! I know my first husband could not have! Faith, but the creature would turn in his grave did he know what I was about! Such impropriety would have purely horrified the sanctimonious pomposity. Do you know why I've done it all, MacTavish? I lived so many years in England you likely consider me a Sassenach. Why do
you
think I've plotted and risked and contrived these past months?”

“For love of Scotland, ma'am. And human kindness. Nothing more.”

Lady Clorinda smiled at him mistily. “Then you'd be wrong, lad. It was for something more. A large something more. Six feet, two inches of gallantry. The proudest, fiercest, most gentle creature I ever knew … All Scot, but a throwback to his Viking ancestors, if ever there was one!” Her pretty green eyes were full of memories and her voice had softened. “Ah, my dear, never underestimate the power of love. My first, and I suppose my greatest love, was denied me, and I was forced to marry a penny-pinching fool. But do not be thinking I've known little of happiness. When I was widowed, I went back to Scotland and married again, and 'tis worth getting old to have lived as the wife of Sir Dugall Ericson … To have been loved by such a one.
That
is why I did it. For my Dugall's dear memory. I came on this journey because I knew there
must
be women in these caravans. Only … I shouldn't have allowed my granddaughters to come, Robbie! God forgive me! I should never have exposed them to—to such fearful risks … !” She put a hand that shook over her eyes and was silent.

MacTavish whispered, “They came because they considered it their duty. Their families were of the Jacobite persuasion. Who would you have selected in place of them, ma'am? Someone else's granddaughters?”

She sniffed and lowered her hand. “You've a hard heart, Robbie MacTavish.”

“Merely a logical one. But I do understand. And I appreciate why you were so grateful to Mathieson. I take it he saved the day.”

“Did he tell you that?”

He blinked. “No! Egad, ma'am, if you doubt the man—”

“You think me ungrateful. I am not, I assure you. But—I may be prejudiced, and I dare not take chances, not with us about to take up the treasure. Tell me honestly now, Rob.
Can
we trust this flamboyant soldier of fortune?”

He said slowly, “Perhaps I also am prejudiced, my lady. He saved Rosamond's life. And mine. I am deep in his debt. But even if I were not, and in spite of his lurid reputation, I'll confess I like Mathieson. And I think we are safe in trusting him. For—er, the time being.”

“Humph,” she said. “So be it. For the time being.”

Mathieson had disgusted himself by sleeping late that morning. Because of the rain, their fires had been lit in the woods and Mrs. Dunnigan, Japhet, and Moira had bustled about, preparing a hasty meal. It was the smell of coffee, and bacon frying which had roused him, but by the time he hobbled to the cooking scene, the other men were already starting to rearrange the caravans. He had encountered Lady Clorinda on her way to check on MacTavish and had a brief chat with her, but there had been no sign of either Fiona or Elizabeth Clandon. Heywood, lingering over his breakfast, had informed him that the girls were still sleeping, and that my lady had given instructions they were not to be disturbed.

Insofar as was possible, my lady also sought to spare the cripples. Gregor was able to drive the lead caravan, but Miss Torrey, well instructed by her brother, took Bradford's place on the seat of the second vehicle, and Japhet replaced Heywood as driver of the fifth caravan.

With both eyes black and puffy and his nose tightly taped, Heywood could barely see, but he sat beside the youth, lending his moral support until they were well along their way and Japhet felt more at home with the horses. He ran ahead to Pauley's caravan then, and having rather precariously negotiated the steps and the back door, groped his way to his bunk and sank down with a faint sigh of relief.

Mathieson lay outstretched on the opposite lower bunk, an arm flung across his eyes. His ankle ached with wearying persistence and he knew that if he was to be in the play at all, he must rest, but it irked him to have to lie here when he longed so to see his love.

He was still dazzled by the delight of this tremendous change in his life; still awed by the power of it. He felt as if the rest of his existence had been but a prelude to this moment. His mouth twisted wryly. Not an altogether harmonious prelude … But that would change. He would become everything Fiona could wish him to be. He thought with a surge of tenderness, ‘She loves me just as I am … bless her.' But it would not do. She did not
know
what he really was. The very thought brought a clammy sweat to his brow. Someday she might find out the truth, but by that time, with luck, she would be his wife, and he would have proved his love and his unalterable intention to change for the better.

He stirred uneasily. The Bradfords appeared to be in straitened circumstances, so his suit might not be refused on the grounds of Fiona being some sort of heiress. Still, he'd have precious little to offer. He could go back into the army, of course, but he didn't want that kind of life for her. She belonged in a place like Dance … He could envision her there—not as it was now, of course, but as he'd always dreamed of its becoming. It was the only one of the Fairleigh properties where
Maman
had been happy—the widespread Gloucestershire acres to which she'd been taken, believing herself a bride, little knowing that her “husband” had thought they never would be sought for at the decrepit old farmhouse. It was gone
to rack and ruin now, of course, only because Papa had neither known nor cared that he had a lazy and inept steward. Likely Muffin had never bothered with the old place.

The thought of his grandfather caused Mathieson a qualm. It would be curst revolting to have to go whining around Muffin and beg for the allowance he'd turned up his nose at. But it was the most logical procedure; it would allow him to offer Fiona a comfortable life, a nice home, servants. So he must humble his pride.

“You awake, old lad?”

He ignored the cautious enquiry, his mind on the conversation he'd had with my lady this morning. She'd been kind; concerned because he limped and because she'd said he looked tired. He smiled cynically. If she knew
why
he'd looked tired, she'd have had good reason for concern. But after he'd convinced the Scot that he alone knew the whereabouts of the vital list, MacTavish had (however reluctantly) sworn to keep silent about him, and Rob MacTavish was not the man to go back on his word.

He lowered his arm. “Yes,” he said. “Why?”

Heywood, who had been smiling foolishly at the ceiling, started. “Gad! Not the man for a quick reply, are you!”

“One has to prepare oneself to contemplate your glory,” said Mathieson unkindly. “Can you see anything at all?”

“Not much. But—thpeaking of glory …” Between his numerous bruises, a flush appeared and he contrived to look shy and ecstatic at the same time.

Mathieson sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bunk with care, and reached out. “Women,” he sighed, as they shook hands. “Who can ever understand the pretty creatures? Miss Clandon refused you when you gave the appearance of being halfway human. But now that you look like something a wolf spat out—”

“You're jealouth!” said Heywood, grinning rapturously.

“Jealous? I? Why a man would want to confine himself to one woman, when the world fairly swarms with 'em—”

Heywood laughed. “Jealouth ath hell! But you need not feel obliged to with me happy—for I am tho happy, I can hardly bear it!”

“So I see.” Mathieson's smile was tinged with envy, but he said with real sincerity, “And—my dear fellow, I do indeed wish you happy! When did you pop the question?”

“Yethterday. While Beth wath binding my hand.”

“What? In front of everyone? Gad what a clumsy block! I wonder she did not refuse you again. One chooses a moonlit night, Thad, or—”

“There wath a moon the latht time I athked her. Turned me down cold. I vowed to wait for jutht the right moment before I rithked it again. I could tell Beth wath genuinely grieved by my pitiable condition, God love her tender heart, tho I—”

“Struck while the blood was in full flow, eh? Good tactics, I must admit. Have you spoken to Bradford?”

“Well, of courth! I hope I know how to go on!”

“I hope you do, too. So he gave you his blessing, eh? Now what's wrong? Never say the old boy refused to act for his—brother-in-law, is it?”

“Yeth. Ian Clandon. They live near Prethtonpanth. And Bradford wath willing to give hith approval—after I have made application to Lady Clorinda.”

“Well, ask her, you clod. She likes you, and with your prospects she'll likely fall on your neck! What
is
your rank, by the way? Earl? Viscount?” His lips quirked. “Not a lowly baron, I hope?”

“Yeth, damn you!”

“What a pity! Never mind, she might overlook— No!” Laughing, he leaned back. “You would not strike a cripple?”

Heywood swore and sat down again saying dismally, “I'd hoped you might underthtand the bog I'm in. I am truly dethperate.”

“Why? I fancy you'll have to go up to Prestonpans before you can publish the betrothal, but—”

“You blithering idiot,
will
you be quiet! I'll go up there, of
courth, but …” Heywood's unfortunate eyes fell. He muttered, “The—the thought of approaching Lady Clorinda in—in a matter that meanth tho very much … I will make a mull of it, I know! I'll thtand before her like a—a perfect gudgeon, with my horrid lithp … Roly—the lady frightenth me to death!”

“Cannot say I blame you. She scares me, too!”

“That ith pig dribble and you know it! You wrap her 'round your little finger ath you do all the femaleth. And—I wath thinking … well, my lady thinkth the world of you, tho—could you—
would
you put in a good word for me, old lad? I'd—I'd be everlathtingly grateful.”

“Servilité! Infâme!”
exclaimed Mathieson. “Do your own dirty work, you spineless coward! I'll have no part in—”

Heywood looked crushed and held up one hand in acknowledgement of defeat.

Mathieson's indignation eased into a faint smile. He must try to remember not to be a villain. “Oh, very well,” he grumbled. “But don't blame me if she hires me to put a period to you!”