Ten minutes later, his chances of passing his prey were deteriorating rapidly. The breeze had stiffened into a brisk wind once more; the wispy clouds were gathering into ominous masses that gradually obliterated the moon, and even as Mathieson called down maledictions on England’s unpredictable climate, the rain began again. Cursing, he turned up the collar of his cloak and slowed Rumpelstiltskin, narrowing his eyes to peer through the darkness.
Above the drumming of the rain he could soon detect a deeper sound—rushing water. He was sure they’d left the Severn behind, but likely this was some tributary swollen by the heavy rains. After a while he was able to see the water, a dark flood, roaring along beside him. Rumpelstiltskin snorted uneasily, and Mathieson guided him with care, searching for a bridge. They came upon one at last, a rickety wooden structure. Mathieson dismounted and walked cautiously onto the timbers; the chestnut minced along, his cold nose at his master’s neck. The bridge seemed safe enough, but Mathieson strode over it rapidly, Rumpelstiltskin’s hooves thudding close behind. They were safely across and starting down the incline to level ground when Mathieson checked, listening intently. Almost at once there came another faint cry, startling the chestnut so that he snorted and danced sideways.
“Help! Please … help me!”
A woman, and in distress. Mathieson’s shout elicited the information that she was “down here,” this followed by a breathless request that he “come quickly!”
He left Rump and clambered down the rainswept bank, the roar of the stream sounding ever louder in his ears. But look where he might, he could find no sign of a lady and he was almost to the water’s edge.
“Where the deuce are you?” he roared.
“Here! Are you b-blind?”
The voice came from his feet. Shocked, he discerned a cloaked figure lying face down in the mud and he dropped to one knee beside her. “What—on earth? Did you fall, ma’am? Here—let me help you up.”
“I can’t … get up.” A young voice, and breathless. “I daren’t let go! Please—can you reach it?”
Bewildered, he bent closer. The girl’s arms were stretched straight out before her and he realized belatedly that she was clinging to a dark shape that leapt and swung to the pull of the rushing stream. He leaned down precariously.
“Sir—do be careful! A whole section of the … bank gave way just a minute ago. I—I think this piece is almost gone!”
He glanced down and was aghast. She was perfectly right. The earth he knelt on was melting away before his eyes. Amazed by such unselfish courage, he gasped, “Good God! Is it someone in the water? Jupiter! ’Tis a treetrunk! What—”
“She fell in and managed to cling to it. I—heard her crying and … and came. Oh, have you got a grip on—?” The words ended in a shriek as the bank disintegrated under Mathieson. At one instant he was stretching out to grab the tossing treetrunk; at the next he was up to his neck in icy water that pounded and pulled and tore at him, snatching his breath away, whirling him off his feet, and smashing him hard against the treetrunk that was already providing a precarious haven for another victim of the storm. He clung to it, unable to see who was his companion in adversity, fighting to keep from being torn away, praying that the girl on the bank could hang on just until he could get a purchase on something. Mercifully, his feet found the bottom. He could stand, and he battled the raging current, groping out desperately for dry land. He felt something stable at last—a root exposed by the torrent. With a choked gasp of relief he clutched at it and dragged himself up, somehow managing to haul the treetrunk after him. Other hands came at once to help and, fighting for breath, he was kneeling on firm ground. Soaked, freezing, and feeling as if he’d been battered by two or three unfriendly giants, he spat and spluttered, “Are you—all right?”
“Yes. Oh, yes! And—here she is, poor little girl! Half drowned. Oh, sir—you were splendid! How brave to jump in like that to … save her!” The panting voice sharpened. “What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself?”
“Seem to have—twisted my ankle a trifle,” gasped Mathieson, pulling a slimy weed from his ear. His boots were full of water and when he attempted to pull one off, his right hand began to hurt as fiercely as his twisted ankle. He managed somehow to empty out the water and replace his boots. He hadn’t lost them, at least, and if he’d managed to save a child’s life this night, it just might warrant one bright spot on his page in the heavenly record book. Maman would be pleased, for, Lord knows there were sufficient blots on that particular page! “Never mind about me,” he said nobly. “Is the little girl able to walk? I can’t see …”
“She’ll be all right now. I can manage her. We must take care of—of you, sir. Oh, how c-cold it is, and you’re wet through!” She took his arm. “Up the bank and just a little way into the trees. It’s not too far.”
Since it was quite close by, Mathieson did not suggest that the girl ride Rumpelstiltskin, who came snorting up to follow them. With each stride however, Mathieson discovered new aches and pains and it seemed a miserable age before he glimpsed a light through the trees. ‘A very small house,’ he thought, but then realized it was not a house at all. ‘A caravan, by Jupiter! Are they gypsies, then?’
“Here we are,” said the girl, a faceless shape in the darkness as she climbed some steps. “Do come in.”
His teeth were chattering, but he hesitated. “M-my horse—”
“Will be quite all right for a few minutes, if you tether him on that side, out of the wind.” She opened the door and became a dark silhouette against the warm inside glow, her hood close about her face, her cloak protectively covering the child she carried.
Mathieson limped around to the side protected by the wide-spreading branches of a tree. He unsaddled Rump with a good deal of difficulty and a great many oaths, found a comparatively dry piece of sacking, and gave the chestnut a cursory rubdown with his left hand, promising to come and do it properly in a few minutes, and wondering if he could manage such a feat.
“Do hurry, sir! You must be frozen!”
He responded to that urgent call and made his painful way to the steps once more. The girl had removed her cloak, and stood waiting for him. She ran to take his arm, advising him to lean on her as he negotiated the steps. He contrived to do so. She was very short, but she was young, and he thought glumly that if she was also comely and lived alone in her little caravan, he might soon have made them both warm, save that fate had been so unkind as to disable him. She pushed the door open and, sighing regretfully, he glanced at her, only to recoil instinctively.
From head to toe, she was mud. It streaked down her forehead, covered her face, and sullied her pale green gown. Her hood must have been of little protection, for her hair was soaked and had plastered itself in wet strands around the oval face and hung in a lank straggle about her shoulders. She might as well have been wearing a mask, for all he could really distinguish were her eyes, which were a rather odd shape, somewhat narrow and slightly uptilted at the corners, but of a clear light green. They twinkled at him now, and she said rather illogically, “Oh dear, you are a mess! Poor man! And—alas, I’ve no fire to warm you, for the rain put mine out. I have saved hot water though, thank goodness.” She went to the rear of the caravan, calling over her shoulder, “You must take off your clothes at once!”
Mathieson could have wept. A golden opportunity, ruined! That it truly was ruined became more evident when he started to unbutton his cloak. His right thumb was swelling and so painful he could scarcely endure to move it. He fumbled with his left hand, stifling the curse that rose to his lips, but the girl must have been watching because at once she was standing directly before him again, peering up with anxious if bizarre solicitude into his face.
“What is it? Why do you just stand there shivering instead of taking off your clothes?”
She was a bold lass, if nothing else. Confound the luck! But the humour of it all struck him, and he held out his hand saying ruefully, “’Fraid I’ll have to disappoint
you tonight, my pretty.”
“Oh, dear!” She touched his thumb with one feather-light finger. “What a pity. Is it dislocated, do you think? My brother did that once, and it was exceeding painful until Papa re-set it.”
“A sprain, more likely, and a confounded nuisance.” He added with a suggestive wink, “Tonight, especially.”
She nodded. “I should probably bandage it so you do not use it for a while, but first we must have your garments off, they’re fairly dripping mud!”
“So are yours,” he pointed out. “I can manage. Do you tend to yourself and the little one.” He glanced about. “Where is she?”
“Under there.” She indicated a blanket lying in a bundle on the upper of two narrow bunks attached to the left wall of the caravan. “She’s warmer now, poor mite. I’ll fetch some hot water and be back in a minute.” And she was gone with a whirl of petticoats and a slam of the door.
Mathieson had never been inside a caravan before and as he shivered and swore his way out of cloak and coat, he was intrigued to find things cramped but very neat and orderly. A straight-backed wooden chair with a brightly embroidered cushioned seat stood in the far corner, which would be the front end were they moving. A tall narrow cupboard was bolted to the wall beside it, and on the left wall were the two bunks. Several books and periodicals were piled on a small shelf enclosed by a guard rail, and a large brass-bound trunk did double duty as a table. Strings of onions and a rope basket of vegetables hung from the ceiling. The remaining wall space was home to a small mirror and innumerable pots, pans, cooking implements, and extra candles, all very precisely disposed. And the unmistakable imprint of feminity was evidenced by the immaculate red and white cloth that was spread on the trunk, the little vase of flowers that stood there, the occasional water-colours nailed up amid the pots and pans, and the faint aroma of powders and perfumes that pervaded the air.
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, reveali
ng 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.
Dedicated Villain Page 4