Dedicated Villain (46 page)

“No, of course he doesn't. But …” Fiona hesitated. There had been not the slightest change in Roland's attitude towards her, nor in fact had his manner changed in any respect. Yet these past few days she'd sensed that he was troubled. During one of their all too few moments of privacy she had taxed him with it. They'd been at the paddock, and he had laughed at her, called her a silly little goose, and risked a quick kiss on the
tip of her nose. Before she could say any more he had called Rumpelstiltskin and by means of a hand signal sent the stallion into a frenzy of bucking that had made her laugh and brought Thaddeus and Elizabeth hurrying to see the performance. But she had not been deceived. Roly was worrying and therefore she worried too. “I just feel … I must see him before he leaves,” she finished rather lamely.

“Are you afraid he will be taken during his scouting expeditions? He seems a man who knows what he is about, and Rumpelstiltskin is so very fast, I'd think that unlikely, dear.”

“I know.” Fiona sighed, and thought, ‘but a musket ball can bring down the fastest rider.' Cold fingers shivered down her spine. She said slowly, “I do not think that is what I fear—exactly. I cannot say what it is, Beth. Just … a feeling. I'll not rest easy until I know he is safe home.”

Her resolution was overborne an hour later when she dozed off by the campfire and my lady demanded she go at once to her bed. She obeyed, but somehow managed to stay awake until Moira retired also and much to her relief told her that Mathieson had just ridden in.

“He is all right?” asked Fiona, starting up onto one elbow and blinking at her friend anxiously.

“Quite all right, and looking no more tired than if he'd been napping all afternoon. I'd no chance for a word with him, for the saucy rascal was chattering to Elizabeth and had her in whoops about something. Poor Thaddeus looked quite glum, which is so silly, when we all know where Captain Mathieson's interests lie.”

Fiona smiled and fell peacefully asleep.

Wednesday dawned brisk and bright; perfect weather for travelling. But Mathieson had brought word of a troop of dragoons scouring the countryside to the south, and my lady and MacTavish decreed that they would do well to stay in their quiet haven for a day or two, until the troop had moved on. The decision was a welcome one for the weary travellers. There was harness to be mended, a caravan wheel that was tending to run
hot and would be the better for filing down the axle, and three of the horses needed to be reshod. Accordingly, Pauley and Gregor set forth early in the morning, taking the horses to a blacksmith they had passed a few miles back. Mathieson was judged to have earned a rest, and he declared his intention to give Rumpelstiltskin an overdue currying but otherwise to spend the day “idling.”

This plan delighted Fiona, who at once began to rack her brains for a way to arrange a
tête-à-tête
with the man she loved. Her delight was premature. Despite her efforts, not once during that long frustrating day was she able to have a private moment with Mathieson. Every time she manoeuvred events so as to be able to slip away with him, someone would delay her, or he himself would wander off with Heywood, or Robbie MacTavish in the most provoking way. Twice, he managed to conduct long and apparently amusing conversations with Elizabeth, and Fiona could not but recollect Moira's words of the previous evening. It was foolish, as Moira had said, but she had not exaggerated. Heywood watched Mathieson narrowly, a small frown between his brows and a set to his lips that should have warned both his friend and his lady, but Mathieson seemed either blind or indifferent to these danger signals, and Elizabeth fairly glowed and came perilously close to outright flirting.

By supper time, Fiona was feeling quite capable of scratching the cousin she always had loved so dearly, and when they went to bed she at once pointed out to Beth that Thaddeus Heywood had waited long and faithfully and this was no time to be teasing the poor gentleman. Elizabeth listened gravely, laughed merrily, and hugged her. She was, she said, extreme flattered, but Roland Mathieson had no more interest in her than the man in the moon, and had merely been gratifying her interest in France in general, and Paris in particular. He knew that great city as well as he knew London, and had been so kind as to relate many droll incidents of
le beau monde.
Truly, oh but
truly
there was no cause for dearest Fiona to be jealous.

This somewhat arch remark caused Fiona to sputter with
wrath, and give her cousin a sharp set-down. She was horrified to see tears spilling down Elizabeth's lovely face, whereupon, repenting her hasty temper, she was obliged to kiss and comfort her. This proved to be rather more of a task than she had envisioned. Elizabeth tried to compose herself, but Fiona woke in the night to the sound of muffled weeping, and, remorseful, made a mental vow to handle her cousin much more gently in the future.

The next day it was MacTavish who rode in while they were at breakfast to report the military was thick to the south and they dare not move. The conspirators eyed one another uneasily. Fiona, who had helped prepare the meal of gammon rashers, fresh farm eggs, and newly baked muffins, was plagued by foreboding as she carried a well-laden plate to Mathieson.

He sprang up at once and took the plate with a flourish. “Never look so troubled, Tiny Mite,” he murmured under cover of a surge of anxious comment. “Perchance you can contrive to come to the paddock this afternoon.” His eyes twinkled at her. “'Tis past time my saddle was polished.”

Her heart gave a little leap, and she nodded, happiness banishing her anxiety over the message the Scot had brought.

When the meal was finished and the dishes washed and put away, Mrs. Dunnigan and Japhet began to prepare runner beans for luncheon. Today, this could be a proper meal rather than the hasty fare they were obliged to serve when they were travelling at speed. Faces were concerned rather than pleased however. They all longed to finish their task as quickly as possible. That one day had been lost had been a vexation, but also a welcome rest. That another day must pass with no progress being made was worrying. The weather held unseasonably fine, but autumn's rich brush had painted the trees with gold and rust and scarlet, and already the leaves were beginning to drift down. Winter could break upon them at any time now, and there was still over a hundred miles to be covered before they would approach their destination. A hundred miles of well-patrolled country and the constant risk of seizure and arrest.

Fiona was summoned by her grandmother to help repair the hem of a skirt which had been accidentally stepped on. My lady was in a strange mood, variously bright and sombre, her usually unflagging energy showing signs of dissipating; and Fiona went out of her way to seem confident of a happy resolution to their problems. “We'll be safe home within a week or two, dear Grandmama,” she said gaily. “And then we will set to work to redecorate your suite, for you will stay with us—no? At least until after the holidays?”

My lady loved her Scottish home, but she acquiesced in this, and the two spent a pleasant hour sewing together and planning the new curtains and colours for the suite Lady Clorinda occupied whenever she was in Wiltshire. Cuthbert, who was actually my lady's steward and major domo, must also be thought of in connection with these plans, but it was not until his name was mentioned that Fiona realized she'd not seen the big man for two days.

“One might suspect you to have had your mind on other matters, child,” said my lady dryly.

“Yes, but—” A pang of fear struck. Fiona asked, “Wherever has he gone? Dear ma'am, is something more wrong than we have been told? I've a sense of—”

A shrill cry that was almost a scream interrupted her. Even as she and Lady Clorinda started up exchanging alarmed glances, angry shouts rang out followed by the unmistakable sounds of a scuffle.

With a heightening sense of disaster, Fiona ran outside and down the steps.

Everyone seemed to have congregated at the edge of the trees. Her father and Rob MacTavish were hurrying to join the little crowd, and Fiona, her heart in her mouth, followed. Elizabeth, her long golden curls hanging in loose disarray about her shoulders, stood weeping in Moira's arms. Heywood was attacking Mathieson like a wild man, but Mathieson seemed more amused than irked as he ducked and dodged, calling to Heywood to “let be,” and not be “such a silly makebait.”

“You thlippery damned libertine,” roared Heywood, livid with rage. “There'th no woman thafe … within a mile of you!”

Her heart as if pierced by a lance of ice, Fiona was suddenly incapable of speech or movement, and stood as one turned to stone, watching in mute shock.

Her father came up behind Heywood, grasped his arms and held him strongly, disregarding his impassioned demands to be released.

MacTavish said a curt, “Quiet, Thad! What is all this? Have we not sufficient to worry about that we must now quarrel among ourselves?”

“'Tis Mathieson's doing, I'll be bound,” said my lady tartly. She held out her arms and Elizabeth flew into them, sobbing incoherently. “Tell us what happened my sweet child.”

Mathieson drawled, “‘A storm in a teapot', ma'am, I assure you.”

With a growl of rage, Heywood wrenched free, bounded forward, and lashed out. Mathieson avoided the blow, and struck back at once. Heywood was sent reeling and went down hard.

Gregor ran to kneel beside and prop the dazed man, glaring up at Mathieson, who gave a sardonic shrug.

“Will somebody be so good as to tell us what happened here?” MacTavish's fine face was grim, and when Mathieson began to answer, he flung up a silencing hand and nodded instead to Japhet.

The boy looked miserable and said reluctantly, “Miss Elizabeth had gone with Captain Mathieson to watch Rump dance. I saw them go over to the paddock. Then—Miss Elizabeth came running back, crying and—er, well, sort of—” his young face became scarlet “—er, tidying her frock.”

“The devil,” muttered Bradford, fixing Mathieson with a disgusted frown.

“I thought Heywood was your friend,” said my lady accusingly.

“You are right to—to uthe the patht tenth, ma'am,” Heywood gasped. “You'll meet me for thith, Mathie—”

“Certainly not,” snapped Lady Clorinda.

Gregor said incredulously, “But ma'am—Mathieson
strrruck
him! I dinna see how they can fail tae—”

“There will be no duelling,” put in MacTavish.

Mathieson smiled. “I knew you'd see reason, Rob. There's no call for all these heroics. 'Twas a simple matter of—”

“Of your forcing your unwelcome attentions on a lady,” said MacTavish, stern and relentless. “I might have known 'twould come to this. You force my hand, you fool.”

“What a needless conflummeration,” sighed Mathieson, bored. “I am quite willing to overlook poor Thad's hysteria. I had no intention to offend. Miss Clandon did not seem averse to me, but—”

“Damned lying rake!” cried Heywood, struggling to his feet.

My lady said angrily, “I'll not have my granddaughter insulted, Rob!”

“Of course not, ma'am,” said MacTavish, looking weary. “The fault is mine. I knew what he was, but—”

Mathieson's dark eyes became narrow and deadly. “Have a care, Rob,” he murmured.

Winking away stinging tears, Fiona looked in anguished bewilderment to MacTavish's grim face.

“What does he mean?” demanded my lady sharply. “And why should you blame yourself?”

“I lied to all of you,” said MacTavish. “I knew this rogue by another name, and I knew
of
him as—”

“Don't be a fool!” cried Mathieson ringingly. “Merely because I stole a kiss, you would risk—”

“Be silent,” thundered Bradford, supporting Heywood's unsteady figure.

Mathieson scowled, threw up his hands in a gesture of irked resignation, and sauntered a few paces from them.

His face stern and pale MacTavish said, “I told you all that
Mathieson helped me—that he saved my dear wife and me from sure disaster. That much, at least, is truth. What I did not tell you was that he came to me on the night of my somewhat dramatic arrival, and told me he had served in the Low Countries with one William Bond …”

Lady Clorinda gave a gasp of shock. “Not—not
our
Will?” she stammered.

MacTavish nodded. “Our Will, ma'am. The same Will Bond who was our fifth courier. And who carried the list of donors!”

Bradford, pale and horrified, asked, “Why do you use always the past tense, Rob? Never say the poor lad is … is …”

“He's dead, sir.”

There were concerted exclamations of dismay. In their alarm they pressed in closer around MacTavish. Only two of those present watched Mathieson. After one swift glance he avoided the anguished eyes of the white-faced girl, and, ignoring the youth who stared with such bitter but silent disillusionment, he stalked away.

“How? When?” asked Gregor. “Are ye main sure, Robbie?”

“I'm afraid so. 'Twould seem the poor lad was shot, and too far spent to recover. He died in the hills …”

William Bond had been a long-time friend of Alec Pauley, and the young man turned away, his head bowed with grief. My lady gave a little sob and her handkerchief fluttered to her eyes.

“Alone?” asked Torrey sharply. “How d'you know, then?”

“Because he was not alone. Just before he died, Will was found by an old friend and—”

“Mathieson?” asked Bradford.

MacTavish nodded. “Will believed him to be an honourable gentleman, and entrusted him with the list.”

“My God in heaven,” gasped Pauley, turning a drawn face. “Then we must—”

MacTavish held up a hand for quiet. “Let me finish, please. That is why I lied to you. Mathieson came to me with a bargain. I could have the list provided I allowed him to stay with us until we collected the treasure and that I say nothing of his
past. That's why I kept it so secret that my fellows were going to switch caravans. Mathieson demands one-third of the gold and safe-conduct, else we never will see the list and he'll—”