Dedicated Villain

by Patricia Veryan

  “Do you say,” murmured Mathieson, “that you are aware of Doone’s real identity?”

  Torrey grinned and said tauntingly, “Eager, ain’t you? But your avarice is wasted, Mathieson, for I do not know. In point of fact, Doone’s identity is known to only one of us here! What d’you think of that, master greed?”

  “I think you are a liar, sir.”

  With a cry of rage Torrey lunged for him.

  Mathieson timed it to a nicety, ducked under the flailing fist, and his left came up short and sharp. Torrey shot backward faster than he had advanced and sat down hard.

  Gregor whipped out his dagger and sprang forward.

  As swiftly, Heywood stepped in front of Mathieson and snapped in an unexpectedly commanding voice, “Let be! Torrey earned that.”

  Mathieson lifted both hands slightly in the timeless gesture of surrender. “Your pardon, Lady Clorinda, but a man can take just so much. And I spoke nought but truth. There are now two here who are aware of the valiant Mr. Doone’s real name!”

  There were no comments. Indeed, his words seemed to have turned everyone to stone. It was my lady who broke the silence. “I’ll admit I would liefer believe you are sincere, than be obliged to agree with Torrey. But I’ll not have my people betrayed to the bloody block and axe, nor racked and tortured. If you can prove what you say—you’d best do so. If not—heaven help you, for I’ll not protect you further!”

  Mathieson moved closer and bent to whisper so that she alone could hear.

  She gave a smothered cry and threw a hand to her throat, staring at him wide-eyed.

  “Is it? Oh, is he right?” asked Fiona anxiously.

  My lady pulled herself together. “He is perfectly right.”

  “Is he, by God!” gasped Cuthbert.

  Clambering to his feet, one hand pressed to his reddening jaw, Torrey growled, “He likely discovered it by chance! What difference does it make?”

  “It makes a muckle difference, mon—as ye’d see had ye a single brrrrain in yer head,” said Gregor.

  “Indeed it does!” Lady Clorinda’s eyes were fixed on Mathieson’s face. “Only a handful of us know Doone’s true identity. Lord help you if ever the military discover you know it, for they’d flay you alive, and a man can only hold out against the torture for a time.”

  He said quietly, “Or die, ma’am.”

  Torrey clapped his hands and jeered, “We have indeed found ourselves an actor! If ever I heard such dramatics! He admits that he’s not in sympathy with the Jacobite Cause. Yet he would have us believe he is willing to die rather than betray a man for whom he likely feels no admiration—no allegiance! Fustian!”

  Mathieson eyed Torrey thoughtfully but addressed his reply to Lady Ericson. “I owe no allegiance whatsoever to Doone. But I admire him. And—a gentleman does not break his given word.”

  It was said without bravado, and several murmurs of approval were heard.

  “Very well, Roland,” said my lady with the hint of a smile. “Since you know who Doone is, and have not claimed the reward, I have no alternative but to judge you a friend. Will you tell us now to what extent you are involved with Doone? Or how you came by your knowledge?”

  He had to sternly suppress an urge to laugh. What if he told her the truth? ‘Why, ma’am, I was hired by greedy men to arrange his murder, but unfortunately, my ambush failed …!’ That would wipe away the friendly grins he now saw. By God, but it would! The laugh within him died. Ligun Doone—alias Lord Geoffrey Delavale—had accepted the word of honour of Roland Mathieson to keep his deadly secret. Knowing what manner of man he dealt with, Doone had yet been so unwise as to entrust his life to that dishonoured and discredited individual.

  “Three months back,” Mathieson said slowly, “Doone and I were involved in a little, er—fracas. I discovered his dual identity by chance, and he knew me well enough to rely on my silence.” He met Lady Clorinda’s eyes levelly. “I wish, ma’am, you could see your way clear to do the same and allow me to journey with you.”

  “Why, Mathieson?” demanded Cuthbert, but with a note of respect now in his voice. “Ours is dangerous work.”

  Mathieson grinned. “I like a lazy outdoor life. Especially …” he glanced again at Fiona, “with such pleasant companions. Besides, I always had a fancy to tread the boards.”

  A laugh went up. My lady declared her own willingness to allow Captain Mathieson to join the group and asked for any nays. There were none, even the bitter-eyed Torrey remaining silent.

  Mr. Heywood pointed out, “I think we owe the gentleman our gratitude.”

  Suddenly, they were all eager to shake his hand and wish him well. It was a novel experience. Pleasant, just for a change, even if it was nonsense. But, in an odd way, disquieting.

  The green caravan was larger than the one Fiona had occupied, and the end section was curtained off, presumably to hold clothing. The bunks were arranged as in Bradford’s vehicle, two on one wall, and a single one on the other. There was also a narrow highboy, and a solitary wooden chair.

  Fiona lit two candles set in wall sconces, and Mathieson was divested of his coat and cravat and required to occupy the chair. My lady had intended to tape a dressing over the shallow cut high on his shoulder, while questioning her patient about his association with Ligun Doone. She had no sooner bathed the wound however, than she was summoned by Cuthbert, and with a speculative look at Mathieson, went out promising to send Moira to help.

  “I think it was unforgivable of them to doubt you so,” said Fiona, gently spreading a salve over the injury. “Tilt your head just a little, please.”

  “You are very kind, ma’am,” he murmured, complying. “It was, after all, only natural for them to be extreme careful. I cannot fault them for mistrusting me. Indeed, they would have been foolish not to have done so.”

  “Then I must be very foolish,” she said, “for I have no doubts of you whatsoever.”

  Rather touched, he watched her as she taped a bandage over the cut. She was concentrating on her task and seemed neither flustered by his scrutiny, nor shy because she ministered to a gentleman in his shirtsleeves. Truly the least affected chit he had ever met. Her hands were incredibly gentle and she had a very graceful way with them, as he’d noticed before. He was reminded with sudden horrible clarity of his treatment at the hands of Madame in that ghastly Flanders hut, and he shuddered involuntarily.

  At once Fiona bent to peer anxiously into his face. “Oh, I am so sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  He smiled. “Not at all.” Straightening, he stayed her busy hands by the simple expedient of holding them. “Miss Fiona … I—hope I did not embarrass you just now.”

  “When?” She frowned, puzzled. “Oh—do you mean when you implied that I was the reason you wished to stay with us?”

  He blinked, rather taken aback by such candour. She was looking at him with cheerful ingenuousness. Amused, he thought, ‘The poor child simply does not know how to go on! Has Bradford taught her nothing of correct female behaviour?’ He lifted her small warm hand to his lips and murmured as he kissed it, “Yes.”

  “Oh. Well don’t worry, that’s quite all right. If you will let me go, I can—”

  He stood, pulling her to him, and gazed down into her face. “But you see,” he breathed, “I don’t want to let you go …”

  “Why? Are you dizzy? In that case you should sit down, and—”

  He tilted her chin. She blinked up wonderingly into the velvety dark eyes that were so ineffably tender. A wistful smile curved his sensitive mouth. He really was, she thought, almost unbearably handsome.

  For his part, Mathieson was thinking that, however gauche, this chit was quite a pleasant little armful. And her skin was remarkably fine—almost translucent. The way with her mouth was oddly fetching too, and her lips were full and vivid … “Fiona …” he whispered huskily.

  She gave a muffled snort, and he started, discovering belatedly that the green eyes danced with merriment, and the dimple beside h
er mouth was very much in evidence.

  “Oh—I am sorry,” she gurgled with not the smallest appearance of remorse. “I know I shouldn’t laugh, but—really, you do it so well. Much better than when Torrey plays the hero.”

  Considerably shaken, he said with a marked diminution of his usual smooth expertise, “So you think I am playing a part.”

  “Well, of course, but there is no need, you know, whatever your real reason for wanting to travel with us.”

  His eyes narrowed. Was it possible that, of them all, this strange slip of a girl had seen through his deception? “My—real reason …?” he echoed softly.

  “Oh, pray do not be cross,” she said, twinkling up at him. “It doesn’t matter, you see. Perhaps ’tis something you cannot tell us at this moment.”

  “I see.” He drew a deep breath. “Then you do think I have lied to you.”

  “Say rather, you are not telling the—the whole truth.” He frowned, and the look that she could not like hardened the dark eyes and tightened his lips to a thin, rather frightening line. “But it doesn’t matter,” she reiterated hurriedly. “Whatever your reason, I know you would never harm us, for you are the very soul of honour. Why, I feel safer, only because you travel with us.”

  He did not share her feelings. She was more shrewd than he had fancied, and could well be a danger to him. Perchance she was not quite as smitten as he’d supposed. His life might well depend upon his making sure that she was suitably captivated. Easy enough of accomplishment. Smiling his tenderest smile, he drew her closer again and, running the tip of one long finger down beside her ear, said softly, “Is it so unbelievable, dear lady, that my reason is simply what I implied?”

  “Very unbelievable,” she answered, with a matter-of-fact nod. “I have had my share of beaux, Captain Mathieson, but I am not so henwitted as to believe myself the type of dasher who could attach the heart of such a one as you.”

  ‘Good God!’ he thought, but fought on, murmuring fondly, “What a thing to say! And besides,” he leaned closer to her lips, “you are quite … mistaken …”

  He was only a breath away from claiming those lips when she snorted again in a vain effort to muffle her mirth.

  Releasing her hurriedly, he stepped back. How in the deuce could a fellow make love to a girl who giggled when he tried to kiss her? “You little imp!” he said, half laughing, half exasperated.

  “Yes. I am really dreadful,” she trilled, then bowed her head and folded her hands meekly.

  Baffled, Mathieson watched her.

  She looked up, her eyes very solemn now and her mouth prim, but with the dimple hovering ominously. “I will behave,” she promised. “Do please go on. ’Tis only that it’s—it’s so funny to be wooed by a real rake.”

  Funny! “The devil! What next will you say? And who told you I am—”

  “Grandmama. I am like her, you know, for I do not like swearing.”

  “My apologies. I should have said—‘Oh, bother!’”

  “Yes. It is not proper to say ‘The devil!’ in front of a lady.”

  Her eyes danced at him, and he was won to a helpless laugh.

  “Grandmama bade me have a care,” advised Fiona. “For she thinks you have wicked eyes, though I find them more—”

  “Never mind!” He snatched up his coat and shrugged into it. “Ma’am, I assure you, my intentions are—”

  The plump dark girl tripped up the steps and paused in the doorway, looking from one to the other with a questioning smile.

  “Come in,” called Fiona gaily. “Captain Mathieson, this lady is Miss Moira Torrey. Freemon’s sister, you know. Thank you for coming, Moira, you are just in time to hear Captain Mathieson tell me of his inten—”

  “Nothing of the sort, you wretch!” interrupted Mathieson, yearning to spank her.

  “Oh,” said Fiona, her eyes wide and innocent. “What a pity. Moira would have so enjoyed it. Are you finished, then?”

  He said through his teeth. “Quite finished!” And bowing, retreated in considerable disorder, horribly conscious of the muffled squeals of laughter that followed him.

  Descending the caravan steps, he overcame his ire by wondering when he would be able to have a look at the contents of the “treasure chest.”

  7

  The last week, thought Fiona, had been both fascinating and worrying, mostly because of the dashing young man who now lounged against the treetrunk beside her, while she painted busily.

  The weather had been idyllic for the time of year; golden, glowing days, radiant dawns and sunsets, brisk evenings and chilly nights. They had journeyed ever northward, and there had been much to do, with three performances of the play, scenic pieces to be repaired, and the endless work with harnesses and horses, wheels and axles, cooking and mending and washing and setting up and taking down their camp. But there had been time also for walking or riding together, talk and camaraderie and laughter.

  She’d found it highly diverting to watch Mathieson. The poised sophisticate, obviously not accustomed to exert himself to be sociable, had struggled to subdue the boredom that would come into his eyes when Gregor prosed on and on about the politics of the Uprising, or to curtail the cynical curl of his lip when Torrey was aggressive in his loyalty to the Stuart Cause. Mathieson listened politely to Gregor, but he baited Torrey so subtly that his victim was unaware of it and would rave on in defense of his theories until the helpless laughter of the others would alert him to his own gullibility. At once his hot temper would boil over, whereupon Mathieson would confound him by apologizing so humbly as to leave his victim the choice of either laughing with the rest, or appearing a poor sportsman. Torrey made a show of taking this in good part, but Fiona had noticed a few of the glances he slanted at Mathieson when he thought himself unobserved, and she knew that he both mistrusted and disliked the newcomer.

  At the opposite extreme was Mrs. Dunnigan’s son Japhet. His father, to whom the boy had been devoted, had been severely wounded fighting with the rebel forces at the Battle of Prestonpans, and had died a month later. Refused permission to accompany his mother on this dangerous venture, Japhet had followed anyway, and had proved so persistent in declaring his right to help, that his determination had been rewarded and he’d been allowed to become a member of the little band, assisting Cuthbert with the horses and performing many other tasks about the camp. It was inevitable that Mathieson, with his good looks and devil-may-care self-assurance, a known duellist and a former cavalry officer with several battles behind him, should win the awed admiration of the freckle-faced redhead. By the second day Fiona had begun to fear that the boy, dogging his idol’s footsteps whenever possible, watching him with the eyes of hero worship, might constitute an annoyance. Mathieson however, tempered his sardonic tongue with Japhet and was amazingly patient with him. Mrs. Dunnigan, Lady Clorinda’s devoted and long-time abigail, was grateful for the young gallant’s tolerance and when her awkward and gangly son went into ecstasies because Captain Mathieson had volunteered to teach him some of the finer points of swordplay, the woman could not say enough of good about him.

  The others warmed towards him also, for he had great charm—when he chose to use it. Thaddeus Heywood seemed especially drawn to him and his was such a warm and friendly nature, his ways so unaffected, that the two young men were very soon on a first-name basis and able to insult each other without fear of offense. Grandmama was guardedly pleased with Mathieson, Alec Pauley liked him unreservedly, as did Moira; Papa thought him a splendid fellow and a potentially good actor. Cuthbert and Gregor said nothing, but Fiona sensed they tended to side more with Torrey and distrusted Mathieson.

  Her own relationship with this adventurer was another matter. There was no use denying that she found him much too attractive for her peace of mind, but she was not a fool and kept her guards up. Roland Mathieson was a threat, not because she feared him, but because she feared herself. He sought her company whenever possible, but she told herself it was only to bedevil Torrey who
was already seething with jealousy. If they passed some especially lovely spot, or some pretty foal or animal or object of interest, Mathieson was eager to draw her attention to it, his magnificent black eyes would smile into hers, his voice become so gentle and persuasive that her beseiged heart would quail. She admired him beyond measure; for he was the epitome of gallantry. But she was very sure that this was for him a fleeting episode that he would forget the instant it was over. He was being kind; he scolded her as her dear brother might scold. His eyes said, “let us share this peaceful time—let us be friends.” But his eyes sometimes held a flirtatious gleam that awoke far different feelings, and she gathered her defenses, refusing to allow herself to dream impossible dreams, for she knew he thought of her as a pleasant but rather wayward child—not as a desirable woman.

  They were not to move camp today, for there was a fair nearby where posters could be put up announcing their next performance. There were other things to be attended to also; things connected with their real purpose, about which she asked no questions. It was a glorious morning, and so soon as breakfast was done and the dishes were cleared away Japhet had gone eagerly to the fair, Torrey and Gregor had ridden out somewhere, and Fiona, declining her father’s offer to accompany him, Mrs. Dunnigan, and Heywood to the fair also, had set herself to repaint some of the scenery damaged when rain had found its way through the caravan roof.