3
“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.
Still kneeling, Miss Bradford observed this procedure critically.
She really did mean well, and certainly had not intended either that he fall in the flood or that the little cat take such a violent dislike to him. Besides, it was the first time he had been fussed over since his mother’s gentle spirit had winged its way heavenward. Repenting his ill humour, Mathieson lowered his voice, leaned towards her, and murmured at his most seductive, “You are very kind, Miss— May I call you … Fiona?” He stroked her long hair which was almost dry and a pretty shade of light brown enlivened by russet highlights where the light from the candles shone on it. His hand rested on her shoulder then drifted lower.
Miss Bradford glanced up, that glowing look in her bright eyes. “Of course you may,” she said, taking his hand and patting it kindly.
He pressed a kiss on her palm, then allowed his lips to slide softly up the inside of her wrist—a sure shiver-getter—while telling her in a hushed and intimate voice that he was indeed a very lucky man tonight.
“Oh, yes,” she agreed. “But your toenails want cutting.”
It was quite the most unkind remark that had ever been made to him in a boudoir. He snatched his hand back and said a curt, “Thank you.” He also curled his toes under.
Oblivious of her offense, Miss Bradford instructed, “Now just sit here quietly, and I will fetch you a hot posset.”
Beyond a vague knowledge that hot possets had to do with illness, he was ignorant, and he asked stiffly what the drink would contain.
“Why, hot milk and wine, of course. And spices.”
“Thank you. But—no.”
She bent over him, patting his shoulder as one might soothe a recalcitrant child. “Poor soul, you are tired. This will help you sleep. Do you pull off your breeches first and I will—”
“Devil you will, miss!”
The deep voice fairly thundered through the caravan.
Mathieson looked up, his nerves twanging a warning.
A large gentleman stood upon the threshold. He held a heavy riding crop. His face was a thundercloud, and it was a familiar face, for this irate individual was the Shakespeare lover from the tap. Evidently, he loved more than Shakespeare. Perhaps he had set up this little lass in her nest, and was irked by an apparent invasion of his territory. Amused, Mathieson drawled, “Tu peux être tranquille, Falstaff. I can—”
“Quite so, Papa,” cried Miss Bradford cheerily untroubled. “For there is nothing to worry about. And you are come home!”
Papa? Mathieson all but reeled. Zounds! Whatever else, the man was undoubtedly a gentleman. If this unorthodox chit was his daughter, then one normally quick-witted soldier of fortune had properly compromised himself with the type of female he knew well enough must be avoided like the plague! A lady of Quality—of marriageable age! ‘My dear God!’ he thought, frantically. ‘I’ve fallen into parson’s mousetrap! I’m ruined!’
“Aye, I’m home!�
� grated the new arrival, his eyes narrowed with rage as he watched Mathieson stand. “And only just in time, ’twould appear! I give you fair warning, sir—you’ll answer to Mervyn Bellamy Bradford for this!”
“And to me, by God!”
Another man had come in. A man as large as Bradford, but some twenty years younger. He had auburn hair, a pair of blue eyes that fairly hurled wrath, and a square chin which was heroically outthrust.
“Oh, now really, Papa,” cried Miss Bradford, stepping in front of her infuriated parent. “Mr. Mathieson is a brave gentleman who came to—”
“To have his head blown off,” snarled the young man, wrenching a long-barrelled pistol from his belt.
This farce, thought Mathieson, had gone on long enough. Entering it, he stood very straight, clutched his blanket about him and lied on two counts, “I am an honourable man, sir. You may be sure I had no designs on your daughter.”
“Ha!” snorted the large young man. “It don’t much look like it!”
“Do be quiet, Freemon,” said Miss Bradford angrily. “Papa, Mr. Mathieson has behaved as a perfect gentleman.”
“Sans apparel,” growled Bradford, pacing forward, lifting his whip.
“Will you listen, Papa?” Miss Bradford held out her hands in appeal. “This gentleman—”
“Took you for some gypsy wench, I’ll be bound,” snorted Torrey murderously. “Alone and unprotected. So he decided to bed you and—”
“No!” cried Miss Bradford in desperation. “Papa! Only listen to—”
Low and grim, Bradford commanded, “Step aside, Fiona.”
Mathieson moved the girl to one side. “I have not harmed your daughter in any way. But if you mean to strike me, sir, ’tis only fair to tell you I’ve not the least intention of permitting you to do so.”
“We’ll see that,” jeered Torrey, coming up beside Bradford.
“We’ll also see a lot more of Mr. Mathieson, is he obliged to drop his blanket so as to defend himself,” pointed out Miss Bradford. “In which case I shall be properly compromised!”
Mathieson grinned at this logical summation and promptly sneezed.
“Here,” said Bradford, peering at him narrow-eyed. “I know you! You’re the young puppy made a mock of me in the tap. And now you’ve ruined m’daughter!” His arm flew up.
The girl flung herself at her sire, reaching up to grasp his wrist and crying urgently, “He helped me save Picayune, sir, and threw himself into the river to do so! I could do no less than bring him here—surely you see that? Surely, you do not doubt me, my dear one?”
“What stuff,” said Torrey with derision. “As if a man would risk drowning for the sake of a miserable alley cat!”
Bradford was looking into his daughter’s face uncertainly, but at this he rounded on the younger man. “Do you dare to name Fiona a liar, Freemon Torrey?” he thundered.
“I assure you, the lady speaks truth,” said Mathieson. “I am all too aware that I do not appear heroic, which is perfectly logical since I am very far from being so.” His lips quirked. “I might better admit that ‘my cue is villainous melancholy.’ Especially in this unfortunate costume.”
An appreciative twinkle came into Bradford’s eyes.
Fiona released her father’s wrist and turned to beam at the accused.
Torrey glared and pointed out acidly that no true gentleman would disrobe in front of an unwed lady of Quality, no matter what the circumstances.
Bradford looked at Mathieson thoughtfully.
“Mr. Torrey,” said Mathieson, in the soft drawl that would have warned many who knew him, “I think you and I should discuss this matter at some future date.”
“Not too distant, I trust,” snapped Torrey. “Mr. Bradford, ’tis evident to me—”
“Enough!” Bradford threw the whip down and said impatiently, “I’ll believe my daughter, Freemon, and I’ll thank you to keep a still tongue in your head about this!” He advanced on Mathieson, scanning his features intently. “What have you to say in the matter, sir?”
“I put it to you, Mr. Bradford,” said Mathieson ruefully, “do I look like a man engaged in an affaire de coeur?”
Bradford blinked from the bare feet to the blanket, to the tousled black locks, and gave a throaty laugh. “Begad but y’don’t. Blest if ever I saw a less romantical fellow!”
“Exactly so, Papa,” agreed Miss Bradford, demurely.
Mathieson was unable to decide whether he had won, or lost.
“That blasted cat,” grunted Bradford, sitting on the edge of the bunk in his caravan and watching Mathieson who was sprawled sleepily in the lower bunk opposite, from which Torrey had been pre-empted. “Well, I’m obliged t’you, not to refine on it. My girl is quite capable of having clung to the treetrunk until both were swept away!”
Mathieson was finding it difficult to keep his eyes open. “I’ll own I was somewhat surprised,” he murmured, “that a lady of Quality should be out here, all alone, on such a night.”
“Aye, I’ll admit that was nobody’s fault but my own.” Bradford’s fine face reddened, but his gaze did not falter. “Fiona is very dear to my heart, whatever you may think. I left Freemon here to guard her!”
Freemon Torrey, who Mathieson now knew to be a lifelong friend of the Bradfords, was sitting cross-legged on the floor, and at once declared with gruff resentment, “She ran me off, sir. As I told you. We quarrelled over—nothing really. You know how—how unreasonable Fiona can be at times … I was enraged, and—left her, God forgive me! I own ’twas bad, but you know I mean to marry her and would never do anything to harm her. Truly, I thought Mrs. Dunnigan and Japhet would arrive at any moment, not—” his eyes flashed to Mathieson. He growled, “You may be sure ’twill never happen again!”
“One would hope not,” said Mathieson with pious insincerity.
“Damn you!” Torrey’s fists clenched. “Were you not disabled, sir—”
“Well, he is,” Bradford interpolated irritably. “And furthermore, Torrey, it might well have been another type of man who found my child alone and unprotected! I thank the good Lord a gentleman of Mathieson’s moral calibre came upon her! No thanks to you! Be damned if I’m not of a mind to leave you in this wilderness!”
“You cannot,” sulked Torrey. “You need me to guide you to the—”
“Estate,” put in Bradford hurriedly. He turned to Mathieson. “We journey to the estate of Lord … Tyson, who is—”
“My uncle,” declared Torrey, just as hurriedly.
Mathieson looked curiously from one to the other, then sat up in sudden alarm. “Jupiter! My horse should have been rubbed down half an hour since!”
“Not by you, young fella,” said Bradford. “Not with that hand. Torrey will tend the animal.”
Mathieson frowned. “Thank you, but—no, sir. I shall—”
“You’ll stay where you are. Oh, never fear, m’boy. Torrey’s a block at times, but he’s a good man with horses.”
His smile forced, Torrey muttered something about making amends, and went out.
Mathieson settled down again. “Sir—will he …”
“Never fear. He may feel like pummelling you, but he won’t take it out on your hack, I’ll say that for him. You set a store by that big stallion of yours, eh?”
“Yes. He is one in a million.”
“I see.” For a moment Bradford watched the candlelight flicker on the lean planes of the remarkable face in the opposite bunk. Then, he leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. “I feel the same about my daughter.” He flushed again as he saw Mathieson’s brows lift slightly. “Oh, I know you must think otherwise. And—God help me, ’tis true I’ve been a sorry failure as a father!”
“Is none of my affair, Mr. Bradford. I’d not presume to—”
“I know, I know. But you saved the lass. You’re entitled to an explanation.”
Mathieson was more tired than curious, but he listened resignedly.
“My wife, sir,” said Br
adford, staring at his hands, “was the very loveliest little creature that ever walked upon this green earth. You’ve seen Fiona … how beautiful she is …” He shrugged. “Need I say more?”
‘Considerably,’ thought Mathieson cynically, but he smiled and strove to look sympathetic. “You are a widower, sir?”
“Yes. Since ’39, alas— And I am doomed, for I shall never find the like of my lovely Cassandra.” A sparkle came into the fine brown eyes. He added with a grin, “Besides, with so many lovelies, ’tis far more gratifying not to be confined to one … eh, m’boy?”
Mathieson laughed and became less drowsy. “Couldn’t agree more, Mr. Bradford.”
“Aha! I fancied you were a young rascal and had a thing or two in common with me!” He was still smiling, but now the smile did not reach his eyes. “Good thing Torrey and I arrived—when we did, eh?”
“You’re wondering if you really were in time, are you sir?” Mathieson said gravely, “I’ll be honest. Where l’amour is concerned, I rate myself something of a—skilled artisan. Had I not been covered in mud, been hampered by a twisted thumb and a wrenched ankle, I might well have regarded a pretty girl, alone in a caravan, as a choice delicacy—” He saw Bradford’s eyes narrow and the strong fists clench, and went on levelly, “However—even in that event, sir, I have never yet found it either necessary, desirable, or in any way the business of a gentleman, to force a reluctant girl. I’ll own to being a rascal. I resent being judged a libertine.”
For a long moment the eyes of the two men held steady and stern. Then Bradford nodded. “I’ll accept that, and apologize for my doubts. I’ve never known my girl to lie to me, but—a young fellow with your looks and address … Still, I should’ve— Aye, you may grin, but only wait till you become a father! Gad, what a responsibility!”
“A responsibility I’ve no least desire to take on, thank you, sir! But I can sympathize. To be left alone with children to be reared must be something of a task.”
“Ah. There you have come at the very hub of the wheel! I engaged governesses, of course, and I’ll own my boy …” the light died from Bradford’s face “was no trouble. But—Fiona …” He shrugged. “I’ve tried. I meant her to be properly instructed and chaperoned. But—I have suffered setbacks, Mr. Mathieson. Many cruel buffets of Fate, climaxed by a great financial—disaster’s the only word.”
Dedicated Villain Page 5