Dedicated Villain (41 page)

Mathieson tensed, his gaze darting to Fiona who at once turned to him, her face paling.

Lady Clorinda's fine eyes widened with shock.

Bradford gave a start. “Dee! Good God!”

“
Cross the sands of Dee
?” gasped Pauley, the colour draining from his pleasant face. “Och awie, mon! Ye're sick in y'r brrrainbox!”

Gregor shook his head. “The Dee Estuary? Whisht! Not a chance, laddie! We'd be visible fer miles. 'Tis all marsh and mud when the tide's oot y'ken, and the flood tide comes in like a typhoon! I wish I'd a grrroat fer all the poor souls ha' gone oot there thinking they'd time enough tae get back safe, and drowned fer their folly!”

“Besides which,” muttered Cuthbert, “there's a storm blowing up.”

Mathieson, who was a poor sailor and dreaded sea voyages, had only recently suffered through a rough Channel crossing, and his heart thudded. He was in full agreement when Pauley asked, “Rob, could not we keep on overland and meet the ship at some sheltered cove on the Welsh coast?”

“No, for two reasons. Firstly, the country is very wild and with few passable lanes. The caravans now carry heavy loads and 'twould be well-nigh impossible to manoeuvre them over such rough terrain. Secondly, we are running out of time. Each day we're on the road increases our risk—especially now that we carry such a priceless cargo.” MacTavish looked around the circle of faces and saw dismay. He said gently, “I do not say this will be easy, my friends, but we'd have small chance of conveying the treasure overland without being discovered.”

Bradford declared, “I'm willing enough to dare the fangs of
fate, Rob. But how do you propose to drive our caravans, or our horses for that matter, across what Gregor has described as ‘marsh and mud'?”

“Aye,” said Gregor, nodding bodingly. “'Tis a muckle mess, laddie!”

“I'll show you.” MacTavish got up and found a fallen branch. The rest of them gathered around as he used it to draw a crude map in the damp ground. “Now—here we are,” he dug a hole and drew a line above it, “and here's the river. Over here to the northwest of us is the estuary. Another three miles and there's Flint, with Holywell about four miles farther along. Now, all the way to that point are mud banks and marshes, just as Gregor told you, lying between us and the deep channel of the river. Even when the tide is all the way out we wouldn't be able to get the caravans across. Up here to the northwest however, the mud gives way to sand and shale and will offer a better surface.”

“And are there no more marshes?” asked Torrey, frowning.

MacTavish gave a wry grin. “Er—well, there are, but there's a way through them.”

My lady said, “And you know that way, Rob?”

“Alas, ma'am, I must own I've never so much as seen the estuary, but the captain of our vessel has taken on a local fisherman who knows every inch of the shore and has arranged for markers to be put up—likely they're up now, waiting for us. We'll be able to follow them through the marsh onto the sands and then drive straight out to the boat.”

Mathieson drawled, “One assumes the ladies stay clear of all these desperate doings?”

“The ladies remain on shore in the red coach,” confirmed MacTavish.

“Do I mithtake it,” asked Heywood in his mild fashion, “or ith our little jaunt going to be a clothe run thing?”

MacTavish nodded grimly. “A very close run thing. We've to make an exact rendezvous. I think the military do not suspect we'd attempt to sail from the Dee, but even so, we dare not
hang about in full view very obviously waiting for a boat to come. No more can the boat wait long for us.”

“Surely 'twill be a tricky course for the captain,” said my lady. “Has he negotiated the estuary before this?”

“No, ma'am. But if you picture a schooner sailing to our rescue, pray disabuse your mind of such a scene. Our captain is a Jacobite gentleman, and his craft a big sailing barge. He'll have other rebs aboard to help us, and he's a skilled man who knows the tricky coast betwixt here and the south of England. The local man will pilot him into the estuary, and they'll wait as long as they dare. But our friend has said he will try it once, and once only.”

Torrey muttered, “In effect, we've to wait till the last minute, make a mad dash across the sands on the falling tide, unload the caravans in broad daylight, and be safely back on land again before the flood tide drowns us all!”

“Not—quite,” said MacTavish. “Firstly, we'll only have about a half-mile dash. Also, we've had a special ramp built which is on the barge, ready to be lowered from the deck. With luck, we'll be able to drive the caravans right on board, and then unharness the teams and ride them back to land. When the barge reaches its destination in the south, there will be others of our people ready to take charge of the caravans, so
our
task ends here.”

Gregor pursed up his lips and exchanged a dubious look with Pauley.

“Wager you a pony we do it,” said Heywood with his bright grin.

Torrey looked eager to take the wager, but said nothing.

“Whisht!” snorted Gregor.

Fiona's heart was beating very fast. She turned to Mathieson, but his gaze was on the lowering heavens. Her own thoughts at this moment were less with the threatening weather than with Robbie MacTavish's final remark. “… our task ends here.” It was almost done then, this strange, terrible, wonderful interlude that had so changed her life. God willing, Roland would
be able to ask Grandmama for permission to pay her his addresses. Mrs. Roland Mathieson … The thought was so delicious it caused goosebumps to break out on her skin, and she wondered that Roly did not feel her gaze on him. He looked so remote, so stern. As it should be of course, for all his concentration must be on the task before him. She forced her eyes from his beloved face and looked upward also. Lud, but the sky looked threatening. But it would go well. It
must
go well. Surely, Fate could not be so unkind … She shut off that line of thought hastily. Everything would be all right. By this time tomorrow their task would be done, and they would all be safely en route home.

The horses, Mathieson was thinking, would need at least another half hour of rest, and already the wind was rising. To attempt the daring procedure MacTavish had outlined would be difficult in calm weather, but with a storm blowing up, heaven knows what could happen. On the other hand, lowered visibility might protect them from being seen, and at least the threatened sea voyage had not materialized. It would be dangerous, beyond doubting. Still, if they could pull it off, by this time tomorrow he would no longer have to go in dread of Fiona being arrested at any moment. He could see her safely home—wherever that might be—then begin the business of arranging for their future. A new life—a life full of hope and happiness to share with the precious lady he had found, the lady he worshipped.

‘By Jupiter, Thomas,' he thought. ‘I do believe I may have done it right this time! I think I've at last found safe harbour!'

He saw Fiona watching him, and, with a sly wink at her went hurrying off to shave and have a word with Rump.

By the time they left the meadow the light rain had become heavier, and the wind more blustery. MacTavish, in the lead
caravan, set as fast a pace as could be managed with their heavy vehicles, and they bumped and rumbled and rattled along the lanes, mud and puddles beneath them, and the skies above becoming ever more dark. Mathieson had taken over the reins of the second caravan, allowing Heywood to snatch some sleep. They passed scattered dwellings at first, each one proud with white plaster and artistic black half-timbering, but there were few people about on this gloomy morning, and the habitations dwindled until only an occasional fisherman's cottage loomed up through the rain.

The weather continued to deteriorate, and after about an hour, a brilliant flash signalled the beginning of a storm which swept down upon them with increasing fury until it seemed the thunder crashed directly over their heads. There was a short lull, but just as Mathieson was thinking gratefully that the worst was over, he was momentarily deafened by an explosive crack, the acrid smell of brimstone was in his nostrils, and a sullen yellow glare dazzled him. He had his hands full then, as the horses screamed and reared in panic. Of no help at all was a strange and piercing creak, followed by an earth-shaking crash. From the corner of his eye he saw that a lightning bolt had split a big tree on the hill beside them. Half the tree had fallen and flames were licking up the part that still stood. He could hear the neighs and whinnying of terrified horses and even as he battled the reins and called reassurances to his own team, his anxieties were with Fiona.

Ahead, Robbie MacTavish's caravan plunged forward, then rolled away much too fast and rocking wildly.

“Can't I rely on you to keep thingth quiet for jutht a little while?” enquired a plaintive but cool voice in Mathieson's ear.

“Ungrateful wretch,” he responded, with a faint grin. “I very cleverly avoided the lightning bolt.
Whoa!
Down, you confounded
aliéné!
”

MacTavish's caravan had stopped again, but his team sounded thoroughly panicked and the rocking vehicle made it clear there was trouble. Subduing his own animals, Mathieson
tossed the ribbons to Heywood and clambered down. He peered back worriedly along the line of colourful vehicles, now spread untidily across the lane. The red coach in which the ladies were riding appeared to have sustained no damage, and even as he watched, Fiona leaned from the window and waved.

Much relieved, he returned the wave, and answered Heywood's shouted enquiry by relaying that all seemed well with the ladies. It was very clear that all was not well with MacTavish, however, and he ran unevenly to determine the cause, Alec Pauley sprinting along after him.

MacTavish was already at the heads of his team. The big black stallion Mathieson had earlier decided was a bad actor, having been restrained from bolting, had evidently determined to travel sideways. Both front legs were over the pole and the terrified animal was squealing and lunging about frenziedly. MacTavish, looking grim, was attempting to quiet the stallion who in turn tried to bite him.

Mathieson drawled, “Wrong approach, Highland laddie,” and dealt the black a firm rap on the nose. The animal subsided and perched there looking foolish and uncomfortable and trembling violently. “That's right, you great looby,” murmured Mathieson, stroking the foamy nose. “
De mieux en mieux
… easy now. A fine time to teach him to dance, Rob!”

MacTavish's smile was strained. “The devil's in it that we
have
no time,” he muttered, struggling with harness straps. “Alec, we'll use one of the spare animals. Tell Japhet to bring up that big roan mare. Anyone else in trouble back there?”

Pauley said, “Nought tae speak of,” and ran off.

Mathieson helped MacTavish untangle the stallion. The black had succeeded in scraping both his forelegs and every succeeding clap of thunder inspired him with the need to bolt. His terror unnerved the well-behaved bay gelding, and the resultant debacle took up more of their precious time, so that twenty minutes were lost before they were ready to resume their journey.

MacTavish took out his watch and frowned down at it.

Emptying rainwater from his tricorne, Mathieson asked, “Will he wait?”

“For the tide, only.” The Scot replaced his timepiece and began to climb up to the seat again. “It's almost ten o'clock. We've to be there at eleven. We will have an hour at most before the flood tide begins.” He took up the reins, his grey eyes troubled.

“And how far have we to go?”

“About six miles.”

“No difficulty there, friend. Not with these horses.
Bon voyage
!” With a jaunty wave of his hand, Mathieson limped rapidly back to his own vehicle.

MacTavish glanced after him unsmilingly. “Mud permitting,” he said under his breath, and slapped the reins on the horses' backs.