Dedicated Villain (48 page)

Freemon Torrey huddled over the small fire, trying not very successfully to warm his hands. He was cold and hungry and wet, and the oilskin he'd draped over his head and shoulders hadn't afforded much protection from the rain which had continued with dreary persistence all night. Above the surrounding trees the skies were beginning to lighten to a gloomy dawn. Lord, but he was tired!

He glanced up as a plate and a tankard of ale were handed to him, and took them with a murmur of thanks. “Where are we?” he asked rather thickly, as he bit into bread and cheese topped by a slice of ham.

Stifling a sigh of weariness, Mathieson sat on the steps of the caravan. “A few miles above Tewkesbury, I think.” He balanced his tankard beside him and stretched out his long legs. “We've done surprisingly well.” He bit into his own breakfast. “Made very good progress last night, considering the weather.”

Torrey grunted and after a minute asked, “Have you seen any sign?”

“No. They're keeping well out of sight.” He smiled faintly. “Brooks Lambert is a damned good officer in some ways. Knows his business.”

“And knows you,” muttered Torrey. “I sometimes think 'tis because of his knowing you that all this trouble came down on us.”

Mathieson was silent. It might very well be truth. If he'd been able to restrain the impulse to taunt old Brooks with his impersonation of Sir “Second” Innings, they might not be in this fix. He stared down at his tankard. A terrible guilt, that because of his rashness his dearest love was now in peril. ‘I wonder if they've reached MacTavish's farm yet,' he thought achingly. ‘I wonder if she's safe; if she is grieving …' Torrey had said something. “Your pardon?”

“I asked about the horses.”

“My apologies. They're right as—Egad, I almost said as rain!”

Torrey met the laughing eyes with inner resentment. Mathieson looked as debonair, as lazily untroubled as though they enjoyed a picnic at Vauxhall Gardens, or strolled along St. James's. One might suppose the man to be made of iron. Did he never tire? Was he never fearful of the terrors the future likely held for them both? These past three days and nights had been one long nightmare; trying to keep all five caravans in line; urging on the horses who balked at the unusual arrangement; knowing that through every minute death hovered about them, that the slightest error would bring the dragoons down upon them. His visions of horrible punishment haunted him waking and sleeping, and the tension was making his nerves tight as a bowstring. An Lambert detected their imposture and they were arrested, they would both be put to the question, no doubt of that. He shuddered, wondering if he would be able to hold firm—if he might fail that ultimate test.

Watching the haggard face, Mathieson knew the man had come near to the end of his endurance. He said quietly, “MacTavish said he must have three days, Torrey. We've given him that. There's no cause for you to go any further. Faith, but there was no cause for you to come at all.”

Torrey's heart gave a great hopeful leap, but he growled, “Much chance you'd have had, leading them off alone.”

“I'll own your help has been invaluable, but—I can manage now.”

Finishing the food, Torrey took up his tankard again. “Damned if I don't think you
want
me to go. Why? To hog all the glory and then present yourself to her as the valiant hero who saved us all?”

Mathieson chuckled. “Is a pleasant picture you paint. I'd not be averse to it.”

“I know that, damn you! 'Tis why I came also! You've not won her yet, Mathieson, and I'll fight you to the finish! She's been promised to me since we were children and—Where are you going?”

“To check on Rump. Get some sleep, you would appear to be in sad need of it.”

Bristling, Torrey sprang up and caught his arm, wrenching him around. “If you think I'm afraid—”

Removing his hand, Mathieson said, “I don't. But you have done your part—more than that. Man, there's no call for both of us to lose our heads! 'Tis your turn to scout the lie of the land. Slip away while you're out this afternoon, and get as far and as fast as you can. So long as you head anywhere but back to her. We can take no chance of your being followed.”

Yearning to seize this chance at life, despising himself because the temptation was so powerful and his nerves so shredded, Torrey snarled, “Why such solicitude for my welfare? You've no love for me. I know that well enough.”

Mathieson shrugged. “Belligerence bores me.” He saw wrath in the fair face and relented. Whatever else, the man had cared enough about Fiona to take this risk for her sake. And it
had
been a great help not to try to carry it off alone. Quite apart from doing his share of the backbreaking load of work, Torrey's presence might very well have helped preserve their desperate illusion for as long as it had lasted. He added in a kinder tone, “But—I'd not see her left without one or other of us.”

For a moment Torrey's eyes searched the handsome countenance he both detested and admired. The guards were gone
from the dark eyes now, and what he read there caused his own to fall. He muttered sullenly, “If you really care for her, why did you let her think—I mean—were any of the things Rob said about you really, er …”

“True? But of course. Some were. Even so, if I come through this with a whole skin, you may believe I'll run you a race to win her. But in case—If things go wrong, that is …” He reddened and said awkwardly, “If you should get back Torrey, and I do not—you must never tell her the part I played in this. Never. I'll have your word on that.”

Torrey frowned at his boots. He bitterly resented the need for such a promise, and evaded, “I suppose you think that if she knew the truth of it she'd hoist you up on some sort of pedestal in her heart, and deny any other suitor for as long as she lives. Or enter a convent or something equally ridiculous.”

Mathieson had seen the worshipful light in Fiona's dear eyes. Torrey had not. He countered, “Have I your word?”

“There's not the need. Fiona has far too much sense to indulge such dramatics only because you and Miss Clandon staged that silly attempted assault.” His lip curled. He added sneeringly, “You must have enjoyed mauling the girl and tearing her gown. What did you tell her? That it was necessary so as to convince everyone, even the old lady?”

It had not been necessary for Mathieson to lay one hand on Elizabeth Clandon. That brave young lady had ripped her own gown even as she wept with pity for him. And before she started screaming, she'd kissed him on the cheek and said she prayed this horrid scene would prove to have been for nought—that he would come back safely and claim the girl he was going to such lengths to protect.

There was no point in trying to convince Torrey of that. Nor did he give a damn what the man thought of him. He repeated wearily, “Your word?”

“Oh, very well, if you must have your high flights! I fancy you know I'd be the last to tell her of your latest piece of acting, when—” He jumped visibly as a twig snapped nearby, and
springing up exclaimed in a voice that shook, “God! Are they that close, do you—”

Standing also, Mathieson hissed, “Keep your voice down, you dolt! I'm going to look around. Make it appear you are speaking to someone inside this caravan as you pass!” He went striding off to where they'd fashioned their clumsy paddock.

Nerves quivering, Torrey glared after him resentfully, but followed instructions, pausing at the rear door of the caravan and engaging in a low-voiced “chat” with the invisible occupants before he slouched on towards the vehicle where was his bed.

Mathieson reached the paddock to find Rumpelstiltskin in a skittish mood. The big stallion, ears erect, had been gazing off into the trees, but came dancing over when his master whistled. The gloom was lightening; while he gave the chestnut his carrot, Mathieson's eyes darted about, his ears straining for the slightest whisper of sound. He saw nothing, heard nothing, and went slowly back to the caravans. It had likely been only a hare or some nocturnal creature going home. If Lambert was quite sure he had his victims neatly trapped, he'd not risk the game by coming too close, which was precisely what he had counted on when he'd proposed this scheme. He settled down on the steps again, gazing into the fire, but listening intently.

No untoward sound disturbed the early morning stillness, and after a while his thoughts wandered, for he was very tired. Torrey couldn't last much longer. The strain had quite obviously pared him down to the bone. Small wonder. Three days and nights of backbreaking effort, of striving to give the impression there were twelve of them with the caravans instead of only two, was enough to wring out any man. He'd kept his promise to Rob MacTavish and could end it now, but he wanted to give Rob a small extra time—just in case of an accident, or a breakdown, or something of the sort. Tonight should suffice. But more than that he dared not do. Lambert was nobody's fool; already, he might be suspicious.

His head started to nod. He stood and stretched, then strolled to the second caravan and put his head in at the door. This was the
vehicle Fiona had occupied on the northward journey. He could still catch a whiff of her fragrance. He closed his eyes and breathed it in, smiling. “Goodnight,
ma belle
,” he called, and wondered what she was thinking now. Hopefully, she was sleeping peacefully, thinking nothing at all. Her bright little face came into his mind's eye as he last had seen it, anguished and pale, believing him to have attempted to violate her cousin. That ghastly scene had been one that would haunt him for as long as he lived. It had been all he could do to keep his eyes from her distraught face, to maintain a defiant demeanour while knowing how her dear heart must be breaking. But it was for her sake he had done it. If he didn't come through this, she must not spend a lifetime mourning him. She must be free to make her life with someone else. Torrey loved her—he'd proved that. He would be good to her, and in time she would forget the man to whom she had given her heart, and who had turned out to be—his mouth twisted wryly—such a dedicated villain.

But, God willing, it wouldn't come to that. He and Torrey would get clear in time, and he would find her again. Perhaps, then, my lady might look more kindly upon his hopes. Muffin, God love his crustiness, might find it in him to forgive his erring and unwanted grandson—even as Lady Clorinda had stipulated.

And when all was said and done, it was worthwhile, however it turned out. The only thing that mattered was that his adored Tiny Mite should be spared the horror of arrest, questioning, and execution. The very thought turned his bones to
blancmange
and awoke such nightmarish visions that he terminated his “conversation” hurriedly and made his way to his own bunk.

Torrey shifted in the saddle and looked about him hollow-eyed. As tired as he was, for a long time he'd found sleep denied him. The slightest sound had sent him jumping up, ears straining desperately, his heart hammering with dread. When
he'd finally fallen into a troubled slumber he'd dreamed Lambert had caught him and that he'd been tied to a stake while dragoons with bayonetted muskets danced around thrusting the razor-sharp bayonets at him until he screamed aloud with the pain of it. He'd awoken, weak and sweating, to find Mathieson's hand clamped over his mouth. He had felt sick and shamed, but there had been no contempt in the dark eyes, and all the man had said was that he had some soup heated and it was time to ride out.

It had stopped raining, but the day was cloudy and cold. Still, he'd been almost glad to escape. As usual, he'd seen no trace of redcoats on his journey, and the knowledge that this was their last day—that after dark tonight they would both slip away, heartened him immeasurably. Their plan was to leave the campfire burning, and the caravans in their usual places so that the dragoons would be lulled into thinking they were going to buy ale, or dinner, and that the rest of their little band expected their return. If worst came to worst, they would be armed, and mounted on fast horses so they'd have a good hope of winning free. At least, this damnable pretence would be done with!