Dedicated Villain (52 page)

“But of course. Trooper—bring Captain—er, Otton a drink of water.”

Mathieson closed his eyes, trying not to sob as each breath scourged him; waiting, praying, for the water.

“When you've told me what I want to know,” purred Lambert and rammed his fist home again.

As the savage moments passed, Trooper Willhays tried to close his ears and blot the scene from his mind. It was dark and stuffy in the old barn; he began to feel sick, and wondered how long it would be before the reb broke. Lord knows, he was a brave man, but—

Lambert said dulcetly, “Trooper. Bring me that lantern.”

His hand trembling, Willhays carried over the lamp. “Careful, sir. That side is nigh red hot.”

“So I see,” smiled Lambert, and turned back to his prisoner.

Willhays looked away quickly, and prayed.

A moment only. Mathieson groaned one choking word and mercifully sank back into unconsciousness.

Lambert shouted, “What was that? What did he say? Dammitall, I didn't hear!”

The trooper thought ragefully, ‘You were too busy laughing, you dirty bastard!' But he answered in a faint but controlled voice, “It was only one word, sir. I don't know what it meant.”

“Well what
was
it, damn your eyes?”

“I think he said—‘Retribution.'”

Lambert swore a flood of gutter oaths. “I thought the scum would break before this. Oh—cut him down, blast him! We'll have to try something else.”

“Sir,” said the trooper, standing on the upended bucket and trying not to see Mathieson's back, “he's getting very weak. If he doesn't have some water, he'll go mad and die, and the colonel—”

Lambert tensed. “What colonel?”

“Fotheringay, sir.”

“
Fotheringay
? He's not up here, you fool. He's hot after a traitor—in Sussex, I think.”

The apothecary had said Colonel Fotheringay had ridden through only yesterday, but Willhays was silent as he eased down Mathieson's limp form, not caring now if his uniform was stained. ‘Dear Lord,' he thought. ‘The poor fellow! Let him die soon. Please let him die soon!'

It was a prayer Mathieson echoed as he drifted back to consciousness, but he did not seem able to die. He had been cut down and was lying outside on grass that was wet and blessedly cool. He could see very little, but it seemed to be late afternoon. A tankard was at his lips and he gulped icy water, well laced with brandy. It stung his cut mouth but eased the hellish thirst. Unfortunately, it also restored him to a full awareness of his misery. Someone was supporting him, and the hands were
kind so that his shrinking preparations to withstand more pain seemed unjustified, at least for the moment.

Lambert's smiling face came into his blurred view. That deep and hated voice enquired solicitiously, “Can you see, dear Roly? Sergeant—do something about his eyes, there.”

A damp rag was applied, and he could see a little better. What were they going to do to him now? He mustn't cry out again. Lambert loved that. But—merciful heaven how terrible was this pain … ‘The Lord is my shepherd …' He clung to what he could remember of that kindly old Psalm.

Lambert purred—“Only look who we've found to keep you company …”

Roland blinked. Oh God! Had they caught Torrey? It was hard to see, but … beyond Lambert's handsome face someone loomed … Only—it wasn't a someone! With a gasp of terror he saw a faintly discernible white blaze, heard the enquiring whinny. ‘Rump!'

Lambert laughed softly. “I shall ask you again, my poor fellow. Where is the list …? Where is the treasure …? Who is Ligun Doone? Spare yourself, Roly … and—your faithful friend, here …”

Mathieson was shuddering with fear. If he didn't answer, they'd hurt Rump … They mustn't hurt dear old Rump! He couldn't bear that! No! He'd have to tell them … he'd have to give in … But … Fiona …
Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!!'

Lambert reached out and shook his arm very gently, but it was not the waves of agony that brought sobs welling up in Mathieson's throat. ‘Rump … oh, Rump …
Je suis … vraiment … désolé!
… So
very
… sorry …!'

Lambert shook his head regretfully. “What a stubborn fool you are, to be sure. You do but make it hard for everyone. Sergeant,” he added with his pleasant smile. “Put a bullet in the horse's right knee, will you?”

“
No!
” groaned Mathieson, his battered face reflecting a deeper torment than he had yet known, his one visible eye pleading desperately, and his moveable hand clutching feebly at
Lambert's boot. “Please, Brooks … Have … mercy! I implore … I
beg
you! Not—not
him!
”

“But—my dear boy,” explained Lambert reasonably, “
I'm
not responsible for this.
You
are! You've brought it all on yourself, Roly. There now, never look so grieved. You can put an end to this distasteful business. 'Tis so very simple. Just tell me what I want to—” He jerked back, his face convulsing as Mathieson choked out three pithy words which (as Patchett was later to happily relate) described the lieutenant down to the ground. Lambert's powerful fist clenched and flew up, his narrowed eyes glittered with fury, but he took a breath, and with a supreme effort, mastered himself. “Sergeant …” he snarled, “you heard me.
Now!
”

Patchett reached down and drew the long pistol from its holster. He could feel the reb shaking, poor cove. Lor', but it was a fine animal! And only look how it watched Otton—like it fair loved the chap. How the hell was he to cripple that great horse? It would break the reb—little doubt of that … This was the first time he'd groaned in that sobbing way—the first time he'd begged for mercy, 'cept to ask for water. His own hand trembled as he lifted the weapon. He couldn't do it! But—if he didn't, Lambert would ruin him. He'd be discharged with dishonour. And that meant he wouldn't be able to get work anywhere. Kitty and the babe—they'd starve, belike … Gawd! He thought, ‘Sorry, mate! It's a hard cruel world!' And he let Mathieson down and stood, taking careful aim.

With every ounce of his strength, Mathieson dragged himself to one elbow. To breathe now was torment, but he fought the pain and whistled a shrill, steady note.

Rumpelstiltskin whinnied, and reared, hooves flailing the air, sending the trooper who'd held him jumping for his life. Lambert flung himself sideways, tearing at his holster, shouting, “Shoot him, you dolt! Shoot him!”

The stallion went into a bucking spin, his back legs kicked out, and Patchett also was obliged to jump aside, chancing to
collide with Lambert and thus spoiling his aim, so that his shot went wide.

With a thunder of hooves, Rumpelstiltskin was away, a chestnut streak across the yard and into the woods.

“
After him!
” howled Lambert. “You two men as well! If you can't catch him, shoot him down! Let him get away, Sergeant, and by God, I'll break you!”

Paling, the sergeant raced for the nearest horse, mounted with a flying leap, and was off, the corporal and a trooper following.

Lambert rounded on Mathieson, who lay there, a shattered and bloody wreck, but with a quiveringly defiant grin on his torn lips.

Maddened, Lambert's temper snapped and he swung back his boot.

Clifford Augustus Fairleigh Mathieson, Duke of Marbury, elegant in dark blue velvet and silver lace, stood at the window of his study in this, his favourite house, and contemplated the pleasure gardens with their gracefully winding paved walks, benches, and statuary; the tastefully placed trees and shrubs; the glistening sweep of the ornamental water, and the bejewelled sprays of the fountains. He loved Dominer. To a degree, many people shared his affection for the crescent-shaped three-story mansion, for it was one of England's most admired houses. The setting was equally as delightful, Dominer being situated upon a low hill in the beautiful Cotswold country, compassed by lush green valleys and richly wooded higher slopes. It was a joy to the eye at any season of the year, retaining its beauty no matter what the weather. Sometimes, he became lonely in the great house, for he was not one to surround himself with people unless they were friends whose company he really valued. He had been away a great deal this year, however,
and as always Dominer seemed to welcome him. He smiled faintly. It was good to be home.

He was glad he had deeded the mansion to the Aynsworths. Kit and his Leone were the type of young people who held out the best hope for England's future. And heaven knows, poor Kit had known his share of sorrow. He frowned a little. It had not been easy to intercede with His Majesty and win an amnesty for the boy. He rather thought, in point of fact, that he was the one man in Britain could have pulled it off. Only the fact that Kit Aynsworth had such a splendid military record, and had not been personally involved with those confounded Jacobites had convinced King George in his favour.

Marbury pursed well-cut lips and clasped long-fingered hands behind him. It had been a close run thing all right, despite his friendship with the monarch. And, of all things, no sooner had he become deeply involved with Lord Christopher Aynsworth's desperate dilemma, than he'd been obliged to sally to the rescue of young Anthony Farrar. A vicious plot, that, and had almost cost poor Tony his life. He'd suspected there must be some connection to the Jacobite business when he'd seen his scapegrace grandson hanging about Sir Anthony's estate, but he'd not dreamed how deeply, and how dangerously, he'd got himself involved once more. He would have to be careful henceforth—very careful. George was a friend, and had been kind, but kings went knee deep in treachery, and tended to believe the worst, and if a king could have his head cropped at the shoulders certainly a duke was not exempt from such tender mercies. No, there must be no more dealings having the slightest taint of Stuart about them!

His thoughts turned to his errant grandson. How pleasant it would have been to deed this house to Roland. Not that he begrudged the Aynsworths, God bless them! But—to have had a Mathieson here to care for the great house after he was gone … He sighed. Useless dreams. Roland was just as worthless as his sire had said. And Dudley had been a fine judge of worthlessness. Why was it, his Grace wondered rather wearily,
that a man strove so hard to protect his son—to guard him against the trap that had blighted his own life—and the son went from folly to folly until he got himself a bastard born of a cheap, money-grubbing French slut, and then as good as killed himself?

The duke sighed again. Would it have made any difference, he wondered, if he himself had married the girl he'd loved long ago? If they had been blessed with children, would it all have turned out the same, anyway? Had it been preordained that he be forced into marriage with a woman he despised and walk through life unutterably lonely—unutterably despairing? That his only son must break his heart, and his grandson disgrace and befoul the proud name he should have been grateful to bear? For all the blessings of wealth and power, was not the lowliest peasant with a happy family life more blessed than a duke who had no one to—

The door opened softly behind him, and he started to turn, but Beast's head was on his foot and Beast was fast asleep. Wherefore, my lord duke waited until his butler's hauteur hove into view.

“Your Grace,” intoned that rotund magnificence. “Your pardon—'tis most irregular, but—”

The mighty Kildwick was flustered. Astonished, Marbury prompted, “But—?”

“'Tis—Sorenson, your Grace. Captain Roland's man. Begs a—a private
word
, sir!” The pale eyes lowered from the ceiling to rest upon the duke in anguished apology and appeal.

Marbury had long since come to grips with the fact that he was a too sensitive man of small stature in a large, insensitive and remorseless world. The barriers he had built to protect himself were, or so he had fancied, invincible. Now, for no appreciable reason, an invisible hand came over the top of that invisible wall and touched the back of his neck with a finger of ice. He removed his foot from under the somnolent dog with such rapidity that Beast's head thudded to the floor.

“Show him in at once,” said Marbury crisply.

Kildwick looked shocked, but departed.

Both reproachful and bewildered, Beast sat up. His Grace rested a white, beringed hand on the dog's head and apologized, then crossed to the great armchair, limping a little since his foot had gone to sleep. He sat down, drumming his unusually long thin fingers on the rich red velvet of the chair arm, and wondering why he felt so apprehensive. Beast heaved himself to a standing position, staggered over, and sat beside him. He did not at once collapse, and Marbury's sense of something very much amiss, deepened.

The door opened for a second time and the man known simply as Sorenson entered, bowed, and waited just inside. The duke gave a graceful and encouraging gesture. Mr. Sorenson, sleek, urbane, discreet, drifted nearer.