Dedicated Villain (49 page)

He turned back towards the camp at four o'clock, a package of cold roast beef, a crusty loaf, and some pickles, in his saddlebags, and an escape route charted in his mind.

He was whistling cheerfully as he rode from the trees and started down the hill towards their camp. The whistle died in a gasp. He wrenched his bay to a halt.

Mathieson stood by the fire, talking with three men. Three big men. Torrey's eyes dilated. He didn't like the look of this.

Mathieson didn't like the look of it, either. He'd been harnessing up two of the horses when a voice had given him a friendly hail and he'd turned to find the three behind him. They were roughly dressed and said they were farm labourers, but he doubted that. Their eyes were everywhere, and their accents were too variable. One man, he spotted at once as London bred; another was Sussex born, or he'd eat him; and
the third he guessed to hale from Lancashire or thereabouts. Further, to a chance traveller this would appear to be a gypsy camp and he was quite dark enough to be taken for a gypsy. Those long-suffering people had for centuries been wanderers, denied the right to stay in one place for very long, and usually half starved. Their reputation for thievery caused them to be driven from town and village, and they were more often met with blows than with kindness. Yet these three rough men were all smiles and camaraderie. ‘Dear Brooks has put out a few spies,' he thought, and turned their questions smoothly. His little band, he said, had been so abused of late that they now dared journey only at night, with the result that the rest of his mates were sleeping.

“I heard as ye'd some saucy little fillies what danced right nimble loike,” said the Sussex man slyly. “They be sleeping too, be they?”

“Ar, master,” murmured Mathieson, keeping his eyes humbly lowered. “Tired out, poor girls.”

“You got some nice cattle in that there pen,” said the Londoner. “Where you come by 'em, Mr. Gypsy?”

“Worked for 'em, sir. Worked years, we did. Never got no pay, 'cepting the grys.”

“Soomthin' harsh it be,” put in the Lancastrian, his shrewd eyes on Mathieson's long, well-manicured hands, “the way you poor folks be treated. Happen ye don't get noothin' easy in life, eh, gypsy?”

Mathieson slipped one hand into his pocket and moved back to block the steps as the Londoner made toward the caravan. “We have to fight, sir. All through life,” he said, with a wry smile.

The Londoner checked and eyed him speculatively. “Ain't no cause ter fight
me
, Mr. Gypsy. I jest wanta littel peep. Ain't never seen inside one o' them carryvans.”

“Sir, ye can look all ye wants, after me mort's awake. She'd have me ears did I let a strange man pass his glims over her sleeping.”

He smiled easily, but the Londoner noted that his hand remained in the pocket of his coat. ‘He's got a pop in there,' he thought, and paused, irresolute.

The Lancastrian took a pace to the side. “Mighty quiet, like,” he said, glancing at the other caravans. “Is
everyone
snoozing, mate? Bean't ye got no brats, or dogs? I never see a gypsy camp yet what wasn't—”

“Who's he?” The Londoner was staring up the hill at Torrey. “Hey!” he shouted. “You! Come on dahn here 'fore I—”

Panicking, Freemon Torrey rammed home his spurs and fled.

And the game was up. Without a second's hesitation, Mathieson's fist jabbed at the Lancastrian's jaw. With a faint “Ooof!” the man went down. The Sussex individual made a grab for his coat pocket and his hand emerged clutching a horse pistol. Before he could aim it, Mathieson's flying boot caught him in the ribs and he hurtled backward. The Londoner whirled about, swinging a lethal right. Mathieson ducked under it, but the Lancastrian was already clambering to his feet, pistol lifting.

Mathieson flailed the side of his right hand across the Londoner's middle, and leapt to grab the Lancastrian's pistol wrenching it upward. The weapon discharged deafeningly. “Hell!” groaned Mathieson, then was sent reeling as the Lancastrian's left smashed home against the side of his jaw. Gasping for breath, he went to one knee and managed to whistle a brief but shrill summons. Rumpelstiltskin cleared the paddock rope with a beautiful leap and charged to him, teeth bared. The Lancastrian, who had fancied this man hopelessly outnumbered, took to his heels and ran, leaving the Londoner doubled up on the ground, and the Sussex man clutching his ribs and gasping out faint but lurid predictions of Mathieson's fate.

From not too far away came shouts and the sounds of horses travelling at speed through the woods. Torrey had ridden eastward. A quick glance in that direction revealed no sign of him. Panting, Mathieson bounded up the steps, and grabbed his saddle. He beat all speed records throwing it across Rump's back
and buckling the girths. Another mad dash for his sword-belt and cloak, then he was down the steps and had vaulted into the saddle.

The big stallion was at a full gallop before he was halfway across the meadow. Wind whistling through his hair, Mathieson guided the horse over the low fence and into the lane. A shout was followed by the roar of a pistol. Mathieson ducked as two dragoons rode straight at him along the lane. Another shot, from behind this time. He felt the breath of the ball as it whizzed past his ear. The east was clear, but to ride that way would be to lead them after Torrey, who had done his best to help, poor fellow. He touched the spurs lightly to Rump's sides and the stallion gathered his mighty muscles and was back over the hedge again, galloping due south. At the foot of the slope was a culvert; a tricky jump, but it would likely stop his pursuers until they could find a way around. Mathieson set the chestnut at it, steadying him with hand and voice. They soared into the air and cleared it with a foot to spare, but the far bank was slippery and the horse staggered. Mathieson's firm grip on the reins held him together, and they were away again, up a rise and over the top. A shout of alarm. An oncoming troop was thrown into hopeless confusion as Rumpelstiltskin charged through them like a bowl through ninepins, scattering them, then galloped on at incredible speed, Mathieson crouching low in the saddle and laughing exultantly. “Bravo,
mon ami!
Well done!”

An infuriated bellow followed him. “You two men—see what's happened at those caravans over there! The rest of you—after him! No shooting! I want the bastard alive!”

Lambert.

Mathieson's smile became grim. Rob MacTavish had been given his three days. Now he must make his own bid for life. But—whatever the outcome, the lieutenant's wants must not be gratified.

Rosamond Albritton MacTavish hesitated in the doorway of the book room, her big blue eyes tender as they rested on her husband. MacTavish stood with one hand on the wall, looking out into the rainy gardens. For perhaps the hundredth time since his return she sent up a silent prayer of gratitude. He had come back safe and unhurt. His task was done, for the treasure was safely stored away in the old earthwork under the barn which was all that remained of some long ago version of Blue Vale Farm. She moved to his side and laid her cheek against his sleeve.

At once, MacTavish turned to smile down at her and take her in his arms. “Well, my madcap bride,” he said. “Are you happy now that I've brought you all this company?”

“
I
am happy because you are back safely.” She caressed his lean cheek. “But
you
are not. What is it, Rob? You should be very proud, but—”

He tugged one fair and glossy ringlet. “What an imagination,” he said with a chuckle. “I was merely thinking that we must plant some Twining Splendour in the garden, and—”

She gave a little gurgle of laughter, but put her hand over his lips. “Fustian, my bonnie braw laddie! If—Robbie
MacTavish!
Give heed to your behaviour! We've guests in the house!”

He grinned and kissed the top of her golden head. “Then do not be speaking with that pseudo-Scots accent, you little varmint! You know it drives me wild! As for our guests—what d'you think of 'em?”

“I think they're splendid. I adore Mr. Bradford and that marvellously theatrical manner. My lady frightens me a little, though she must have been a great beauty at one time, do not you think?”

“She was. And still is a lovely wee creature, no?”

“Yes. And I am very glad to meet Lord Thaddeus again and
to see him so happy with that beautiful girl. Will she wed him, do you think?”

“Aye, I do. Another hapless bachelor shackled into—”

His wife shut off that wicked remark by the simple expedient of standing on tiptoe and covering his lips with her own.

“Shameless hussy,” he murmured, after a few delightful minutes. “And what have you done with our guests?”

“That nice Scots boy has taken Miss Torrey for a ride about the farm. My lady is having a nap, and I believe Lord Briley and his lady are exploring the buttery. Gregor and young Japhet, are down at the stables.”

“And—Miss Bradford?”

It was idly said, but her eyes flew to his face. “Perhaps resting, too. I know her papa and Cuthbert both are snoring in the blue sitting room. They all are so tired, poor creatures. But—dearest, I never saw such sorrow as I find in that child's eyes if I catch her unawares.”

“Child,” he scoffed. “She's much of an age with you, matronly one.”

“Pish! She is an innocent. A veritable babe. And do not change the subject, sirrah! I would swear Lady Clorinda is also deeply distressed, but—poor Miss Bradford! I vow at times it hurts me to meet her glance. Rob, tell me. Why does she grieve so? Has someone she cares for—died, perchance?”

Startled, he exclaimed, “God! I pray not! Whatever makes you say such a thing? Not your woman's intuition again?”

He had actually paled. Shocked by his vehemence, she stared at him, then took him by the hand and led him to the deep cushioned seat in the bay window. “Sit down, Lieutenant Robert Victor MacTavish,” she commanded sternly. “And—tell me.”

Her husband looked at her, frowning. “I cannot, love. At least—not without you give me your word of honour to keep the secret.”

“Oh, delicious!” She clapped her hands. “Yes, I promise. Is it an
affaire de coeur
?” Seeing his sombre expression, her own
changed to anxiety. They sat side by side and she asked, “Not a tragedy, Robbie? She is too young to know—” An idea struck her. “Rob—how
were
you able to get away? You told me you were fairly trapped, but then eluded the dragoons. Is—Miss Bradford's grief in some way connected with your escape?”

MacTavish sighed. “You'll remember that rascal, Roland Fairleigh …?”

She nodded, searching his troubled face anxiously. “We owe him our lives. How could I ever forget—Rob! Did he follow us? Was he—”

“If ye'll close your pretty lips for a bare instant, madam wife—I'll tell you.”

Rosamond closed her lips.

Five minutes later she sat pale and silent, her head turned from him, staring at the rain splattered window.

MacTavish took her hand. It was very cold, and he held it tightly.

In a shaken voice, his bride said, “So—again, I have him to thank for your precious life …” She blinked at him through a film of tears. “If Lambert takes him—”

He put his hand over her trembling lips. “Dinna think aboot it, lassie.”

“I—cannot help it.
You
are thinking about it! I doubt you think of anything else! Oh, Rob, is there any chance for him? Any chance at all?”

“Perhaps. He has Torrey to back him. That might help.”

“Why did Torrey go with him? Were they good friends?”

“Torrey hates him, I think. He's fair crazed for Miss Bradford, you see. Has been for years, I gather. I fancy he volunteered to help so as to convince the lass—or himself perhaps—that he's as good a man as his rival. Still, it took courage, love. I—rather think, if things get verra bad, Roly will see he gets clear. Somehow.”

“And—that poor child sits up there, her heart breaking, never dreaming the truth.” She turned on him, flushed with anger. “Oh! 'Tis infamous!”

He blinked at her. “But—do ye no ken, sweetheart? Roly did but think tae ensure she'll no waste her life grieving for him. 'Twas for her own protection he—”

Rosamond jumped up and stamped her foot at him. “Men!” she said and turning to the door, stopped with a gasp.

Fiona walked in. She was a different girl to the pale silent creature Rosamond had first met. The little head was held high now; a militant gleam lit the green eyes, and her small hands were clenched at her sides.

Apparently completely unaware of Rosamond's presence, she walked straight to MacTavish who had sprung up at her coming. “I have thought and thought, Robbie,” she said. “And I know that I have been a great gaby, because 'tis all wrong. Whatever he has done, whatever he may have been, Roland vowed to mend his ways, and he is not the man to break a vow. He loves me. No—” one hand lifted imperiously. “There is no use to deny it and tell me he is a libertine. He may
once
have been a rake. He will not be so again. I am perfectly sure I have his heart. I was very weary, and so shocked and hurt that my silly head was not working, perhaps. But it is working now. I want the truth, Robbie MacTavish. Where is Roland?”