Dedicated Villain (6 page)

He had succeeded with all but the last of his shirt buttons when the laces at his left wrist became caught on the ruby pin in his cravat. His right hand was useless and however he struggled, for some reason he could not detach the pin which seemed to have become inextricably entangled with his ruffles. Fuming, he snarled, “Of all the stupid—”

The door opened, admitting a rush of colder air, and the girl hurried in. A towel was draped over her arm, and she held a tray on which were set a steaming bowl, a sponge, and a cake of soap. “Can you undo your … er …,” she enquired, slightly pink.

He lowered his hand to the buttons of his nether garments and, of necessity his head followed. “Is somewhat difficult,” he admitted, bent double and craning his neck to grin up at her.

“What—on earth …?” she gasped.

He waved his left hand, the laces still securely attached to the ruby pin.

Her laugh was a musical ripple. She was undoubtedly just as cold and almost as uncomfortable as he, yet she could laugh. A pearl among women, this gypsy lass.

“Poor fellow,” she exclaimed, setting the pan on the trunk. “Here—let me!”

He flung out his right hand to ward her off and cried theatrically, “Release my ruffles only, an you will, ma'am. I am not without me pride!” He grinned boyishly. “Besides, I'm afraid you may first have to help me shed my boots.”

Chuckling, she reached up to disentangle ruffles from ruby. It was most fiendishly enmeshed, and soon her lips were slightly parted with concentration, revealing small white teeth and the tip of her tongue. Mud or no mud, she was all female, and Mathieson, not one to miss an opportunity, leaned to her mouth.

She had finished her small task even as he bent however, and went hurrying off to rummage about under a pile of pillows on the lower bunk.

He sighed.

“Poor soul, you are exhausted,” she said with mistaken sympathy.

“Ineffectual, certainly.”

“We'll soon have you feeling cozy.” She shook out another large blanket and held it up, screen-like. “Do you remove your shirt and then wrap this about you.”

“No such thing!” He leaned over the top of the blanket, smiling down into her upturned face. “We have not been so much as introduced and I'll have you know I am one for the proprieties!”

There could scarcely be anything less proper than their present situation and, predictably, that rich trilling laugh rang out again. “Very right,” she said, in her low, husky voice. “Therefore, out of respect for your privacy and my reputation, I shall close my eyes—thus. Now you may proceed, Mr. …?”

“Mathieson. Roland Mathieson.” He took off his shirt, wrapped the blanket around him toga fashion, and sat down on the chair. “I might better have introduced myself as Caesar.”

“And of a certainty, the little one and I almost buried you!” The green eyes opened and twinkled at him. “Put your foot out and I'll pull off your boots.”

Despite all the mud he noted that her gown was of fine India muslin, well cut, and worn over many petticoats; altogether of much better quality than he would have expected of a gypsy girl. His brow wrinkled—come to think of it, she spoke in refined accents, also.

She knelt. “Your foot,” she prompted, looking up at him.

He hesitated. “No, please get up, ma'am! You're cold and wet. Perhaps I can manage.”

He bent and tugged at his boot, trying to spare his right hand. His ankle protested vigorously, his thumb throbbed, and he bit his lip and wished with profane intensity that Sorenson, his invaluable man of all work, was here.

Two small hands gently but firmly detached his grasp. “Just lean back,” she said, “and be quiet.”

“But—”

“I do this for my father all the time, you know.”

She probably did, for whatever her past station in life, certainly she now lived in a caravan. Perhaps she even had admirers who visited her in this leafy glade. He apologized for being such a nuisance and stuck out his leg.

“Nuisance, is it? Have you forgot? I am greatly … indebted to you, Mr. … Mathieson,” she panted, tugging.

“Ow!” gasped Mathieson.

She staggered back and sat down inelegantly, clutching his boot. “I am sorry. But—it's off at all events,” she said cheerfully, clambering to her feet, no more perturbed by her fall than was Mathieson, who'd enjoyed a fine view of ankles and petticoats.

The second boot came off more easily; at least less painfully, and she gave a little crow of triumph. “Excelsior! And I am
Miss Fiona Bradford.” She dropped a swift curtsey, flourishing the boot in her hand, then set it neatly beside its mate. “Now—while you wash, I am going to go across to my father's caravan and change my dress and get some of this mud off. I'll come back in just a few minutes, I promise, and tend your poor hand.”

“Never mind about me. What about the little girl?” He glanced anxiously at the bunk. “She hasn't moved!”

“How very kind you are.” Miss Bradford went over to lift a corner of the blanket carefully. “Oh, she's fast asleep. She'll be all right, never fear. Now—keep warm. I'll be as quick as I can.”

It seemed a rather haphazard attitude to adopt toward a half-drowned child, but women knew more about these things, of course. He waited until Miss Bradford had closed the door behind her, then began clumsily to wash his face and hands. The water was black when he finished, but he felt much restored. The blanket was warm and ample, and with it wrapped around him he was quite cozy and no longer shivering. His head was nodding when Miss Bradford knocked and then came in carrying a steaming pitcher and with a basket over her arm.

“Here I am, at long last!” she cried brightly, then halted, staring.

He had made shift to order his thick black hair, but it was wet from his ablutions and a few strands curled untidily about the features that were so breathtakingly handsome that she felt a twinge of unease.

Mathieson, staring in turn, came clumsily to his feet.

Miss Bradford had changed into a charming but simple gown of light blue. The mud was gone, revealing an oval face that had little claim to classic beauty. Her small nose was slightly uptilted, her upper lip was too short, even if it did curve very sweetly to meet its mate, her candid green eyes were inclined to be narrow, but held such a smiling look, and a dimple lurked beside her firm little chin. Her hair hung in a damp light brown mass about her shoulders. Despite the fact that she was so little,
her figure was prettily rounded, but he was dismayed and muttered, “Good Gad! You're scarce out of the schoolroom!”

For an instant she did not move, standing there clutching the pitcher and gazing up at him. Then she gave a rather strained laugh and hurried to put the pitcher on the floor and pick up the bowl of dirty water. “I'll have you know I am of age, sir! Just,” she amended hurriedly.

Mathieson breathed a silent sigh of relief and sat down again. She was an odd chit, devoid of sophistication or a proper shyness, which was not to be wondered at in a girl who dwelt in a caravan. Still, she had evidently been taught how to speak properly, and there was something about her that intrigued. He determined in fact, to visit her once this business with MacTavish was successfully concluded. It would not hurt, he thought, to lay a little groundwork.

Miss Bradford had gone outside to empty the bowl, and now returned to refill it with fresh water from the pitcher. “Now, mighty Caesar,” she teased, “I have brought bandages in my basket. We will tend your hurts, if you please.”

“But—” he protested, looking to the child.

Miss Bradford did not exactly smile. Rather, her entire face seemed to glow; almost, he thought, as though someone had lit a candle within her. “Of course,” she said softly. “You are so kind, and must think me quite heartless.” She went to bend over the pile of pillows, folded back the blanket and took up the other storm victim.

Mathieson uttered a stunned exclamation.

Miss Bradford held a small, scrawny, tabby cat, its fur all standing up in spikes, and its small pink mouth wide open as it yawned at him.

“What—the—deuce?” snorted Mathieson, momentarily bewildered.

“Do you see, sir, why I so admire you,” said Miss Bradford earnestly. “How many gentlemen would throw themselves into a raging torrent only to save a cat?” She glowed at him. “And not even a purebred!”

“You said,” he pointed out with increasing choler, “'twas a little girl!”

“She is a little girl cat, and—Oh! You never really thought—” For a moment she looked dismayed, then she laughed softly. “Oh, but you are funning, of course. As if I would have left a child untended after so frightful an experience!” She raised her hand as Mathieson attempted an impassioned denunciation. “No, 'tis no use disclaiming. It was the bravest thing I ever saw. Especially since many gentlemen do not particularly care for cats.”

“You may number me among them,” he said icily.

“Oh, yes. And next you will be saying you did not risk your life for her sake.” She held the purring kitten to her throat, bending her head above it, then raised twinkling eyes to meet
Mathieson's scowl. “Come now, stop your teasing and make her acquaintance, sir.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell this deceitful chit exactly what he thought of having been so diabolically used. Especially since his ankle hurt vilely, and his sword hand was out of commission just when he might have to face MacTavish's steel—did he ever come up with the blasted Scot! But then he noticed that the revolting little cat was held against a particularly delectable bosom, and it came to him that he was not playing his cards well.

He summoned his whimsical smile. “As you say, ma'am,” he murmured, and swinging the end of his blanket over his shoulder with a jaunty flourish, he advanced.

The cat blinked at him.

Mathieson's eyes however were upon a different target, and he reached out eagerly.

The cat spat and clawed the approaching hand. Mathieson jerked back.

“Oh, dear!” said Miss Bradford, her lips twitching suspiciously. “What a naughty girl! A fine way to show your gratitude, Picayune!”

Mathieson had another name for that treacherous little feline, but he gritted his teeth and suggested gently that Miss Bradford might know of another way to repay him.

“Of course I do, dear sir,” said she with a melting look, and dropped the small cat upon the cushions. “Come here.”

He brightened and limped closer.

Miss Bradford giggled, “Oh, you
are
a sight to see! Pray sit down.”

Fuming, he glared at her.

She threw a hand across her mouth but over it her eyes danced with merriment. That sparkling look was hard to resist and his vexation faded. With a reluctant grin, he said, “Lost my dignity, have I? I'm not surprised. Wretched girl!”

“I know! I am! I am! But—is it not hard to change what we
are? I do try, I assure you, but Papa despairs of me, alas! Come—sit here like a good boy, and I will do as best I can.”

He might have made another attempt at flirtation, but he was tired and his sensibilities were ruffled, so he sat down, feeling decidedly hardly done by.

Miss Bradford poured hot water into the bowl and sprinkled yellow powder into it.

“What's that stuff?” enquired Mathieson, without enthusiasm.

“Mustard. You were very wet, dear sir. I cannot have you catching a cold on top of all else.”

She stood before him, holding the bowl and trying not very successfully to look grave. He likely did present a ludicrous picture, wrapped in his blanket and without his boots. Small wonder he had failed to entice her, and the more fool he, for having attempted it! He resigned himself and prepared to inhale the wretched vapours, only to be attacked by a gargantuan sneeze.

“There!” she said. “You see?”

He mopped an end of the blanket at his eyes, then gave a gasp as Miss Bradford knelt and seized his leg. Perhaps he was not so ludicrous after all! “What are you about, naughty chit?” he enquired hopefully.

“You cannot put your foot in with your stockings on, foolish creature!”

Put his foot in …? Of all the revolting suggestions! “I have not the remotest intention—” he began, starting up.

His intentions were foiled. Miss Bradford had already been so immodest as to roll down one of his stockings and she gave a tug at his undamaged ankle in the same instant that he attempted to stand. Caught off balance, he fell back into the chair and sneezed violently once more. Momentarily, he was helpless and quite unable to foil the two small hands which firmly grasped his foot and popped it into near boiling water.

With a howl, Mathieson whipped it out again.

“Too hot?” She clicked her tongue and poured some cold
water into the bowl while her patient eyed her smoulderingly. She tested the water with her elbow, pulling up the frill of her chemise sleeve and bending over the bowl in a no-nonsense fashion. From this angle Mathieson had an excellent view of her bosom which was so delicious that he was absorbed and raised no objection when she requested that he replace his feet in the bowl.