“Here, you bad-tempered, silly-looking, flea-bag,” said Mathieson dulcetly. But when the cat merely yawned, he raised his voice to a squeak and uttered the approved, “Kitty, kitty.”
This address appeared to be more the thing. Picayune got up, wafted her tail high, wandered closer, sniffed, and accepted. Afraid of frightening her, Mathieson remained still, watching her devour the cheese and tidy up with feline fastidiousness. Finding no more crumbs, she looked at him expectantly. “I have no more, Madam Glut,” he informed her. She replied with a friendly “mew.” Very slowly, he reached out to stroke her. She turned her head against his hand in a friendly way, then suddenly gave him a fast swipe with one well-equipped paw and shot into the woods.
“Chat révoltant!” he flung after her, rubbing his scratched hand. He stood, and brushed mud from his knees. It was a very small scratch, but quite typical of the spiteful creature. He should have known better.
Grumpily, he returned his thoughts to more pleasing subjects—such as the unappetizing Freemon Torrey, or that complete toad, Lambert. But with the weird perversity of his mental processes of late, he was seized by guilt. Lord knows, of all men he had no right to judge any other! His own past was so disgraceful that he was unfit to— He pulled himself up short. What the devil ailed him? It was every man for himself in this harsh world, and if he was deceiving a parcel of witless idiots, well and good. Idiots deserved all they were dealt. And he worked hard for the eventual reward. He was bored as hell, but he dutifully played their silly games, acted in their foolish play, pretended to accept their so gullibly offered friendship … “I’ll admit I’m glad to have a fellow of your calibre to help uth …”
He swore, and muttered defiantly, “Dammitall, Roland! Do not be wishing to have been born a good man, for ’tis too late. You cannot keep searching the soul you don’t have! You’re within sight of your goal—your gold. Snatch it with both hands, lucky man, and stop moping about!” He found that he was nudging his toe aimlessly at a tuft of grass, and swung a savage kick at it, which achieved nothing save to startle a moth and get mud all over his glossy boot. In a black rage he stamped deeper into the trees, took up a fallen branch and began to cut viciously at the shrubs he passed.
A splash, followed by a squeal, brought him up short. At no great distance a breathless feminine voice gasped, “You horrid, horrid beast! Now see what you’ve done!” And, interspersed with a succession of thuds, “Vile … besotted … damnable …”
Mathieson was running, his previous anger as nothing to the blazing wrath that now possessed him. By God, but if any man had dared …
He burst through the trees and was on the bank of a stream, where he halted abruptly.
On her hands and knees, red in the face and considerably wet and dishevelled, Fiona looked up at him in patent dismay, blew a curl from her heated forehead, and gasped, “Oh, Lud! I collect you heard me swearing. Well ’tis too late now, and I’m not sorry, so if you must preach at me about propriety—do so, but you shall have to manage in between my oaths and curses!”
Following which erratic speech, she began to pound a cudgel at the sodden lump of white cloth which huddled without visibly aggressive tendencies on a small boulder.
“What—the deuce are you doing?” panted Mathieson. “I thought—some loutish ploughboy was assaulting you!”
Awed, she stopped, and, her cudgel still upraised, looked at him, the cloud clearing from her brow and her stormy eyes beaming once more. “No! Did you? And is that why you raced through the trees like some avenging knight-errant? Oh, how lovely!”
He fought back a laugh. “Lovely, indeed! Not when I came up in time to hear such frightful language! Terms that never should pass a lady’s lips.”
“I know.” Her eyes fell and a dark blush stained her cheeks. “I am very bad.” She peeped up at him, put aside her cudgel and said contritely, “I’m doing the laundry, you see, while Moira and Mrs. Dunnigan prepare our dinner. Only I don’t think I’m very good at it, because ’tis much dirtier now than when I began. Indeed, I wouldn’t blame you at all if you decided I am a sadly faulted pearl and not of ‘great price’ at all.”
“Well, I might,” he warned. But his lips twitched, and there was teasing in the black eyes.
Relieved, she clapped her hands whereupon the garment she had attacked promptly slithered onto the muddy bank once more. With a shriek, she snatched it up, thus splashing suds on her cheek. “The nasty thing has done it again!” And inspecting the new stains, she cried tragically, “Oh—Roly!”
“Foolish child, ’tis not the end of the world. Here—let me help.” He seized one end of the garment, which appeared to be a nightdress, and held it up gingerly. “Gad, it is a trifle grubby, isn’t it! Why were you hitting it?”
“That’s what they do in India, and those places. My Uncle Henry brought back a book of his sketches, and there’s one that distinctly shows ladies smashing away at washing on the banks of the Ganges, so I thought I’d have a try.”
He eyed her dubiously. “I don’t see how you can beat away at the things without getting mud on ’em.”
“Nor do I.” She sighed, then went on brightly, “Unless— perhaps you have to get in! Oh, why did I not think of that!” She began to take off her pattens.
Wrenching his appreciative gaze from her beautifully shaped ankles, he commanded, “Disabuse your mind of that notion, Tiny Mite! Uncle Henry’s sketches or no, you are not going to immerse yourself in the stream! And furthermore—stand up, Miss!—you have soapsuds all over your face!”
She stood obediently and held up her face to be de-soaped. Mathieson wrung out a corner of the nightdress and bent to her. The breeze stirred her hair, and the errant curl flirted down her forehead again. Half laughing, she reached up to push it back.
“No—do not,” he murmured, arresting her hand.
She smiled up at him, and the sunlight cast the shadow of her lashes across her cheekbone and emphasized the pert shape of her little nose.
It seemed to Mathieson that she was wrapped in light—a shimmering creature, more fragile than the finest crystal, her daintiness breathtaking, every line of her lovely self so wondrously perfect. He stood utterly motionless, afraid that if he dared move or speak, or touch her, this enchanted moment would shatter and never again would he know such unspeakable delight.
Looking up at his rapt face, the merriment in her own faded into a new look; a tender awareness that had nothing in it of the child, as he had chosen to call her. He marvelled at the realization that this bewitching creature was a woman. A loving, kind, gentle woman, made the more dear, the more enchanting, because of her lack of affectation, her swiftly changing moods, and the loyalty that bound her to those she loved. Here, surely, was a chance for—
Shock ripped through him. He drew back, and suddenly he was terrified. The garment he held slipped from his unsteady hands and he laughed harshly, avoiding Fiona’s eyes as he took it up and wrung it out.
“Alas, but now I’ve done it, and you’ll be properly vexed. You’ve no right to be slaving like this, little one. And you shall not!” He strode over to the ridiculously ambitious pile of laundry she had brought, and gathered it up while talking rather feverishly. “I’ll have no more of this manual labour by a lady of Quality. We’re to camp here tonight and I gather we will return here after the performance tomorrow, no? There’ll be ample time for some deserving and industrious washerwoman in Sandipool, or however the place is called, to benefit from all this extra custom. Come, Mademoiselle Tiny Mite. I shall endeavour to escort you safely home through the menace of the dandelions and then take these to be properly and professionally cleansed.” And still without meeting her grave eyes, he led the way through the trees and into the meadow.
Five minutes later, Fiona watched him ride out, a large bundle tied to his saddle. With a slow and tender smile she murmured, “Coward!”
11
It was warm and fragrant in the hayloft and Mathieson laughed softly as the gi
rl who lay in his arms uttered a faint whimper and pressed closer against him. Beams of mellow afternoon sunlight slanted through cracks and knotholes in the old wooden walls and illumined her flushed face; a comely face, and a beautiful and tantalizingly well-rounded young body. He’d not dreamed when he’d bowed his head to enter the washerwoman’s small cottage that upon looking up again he would encounter the admiring gaze of so pretty a wench. Having completed the transaction for the laundry, he had enquired as to the whereabouts of a tavern. With coy immediacy, Jenny had offered to show him the way. Her mother’s cottage was a little distance beyond Sandipool, and long before they’d reached the toll road whereon the tavern was located, Jenny was comfortably settled on the saddle in front of Mathieson and he had claimed his first kiss. It had at once become clear that although it was the first embrace they had shared, it was far from being the first she’d known. Her mouth was practiced and eager; her eyes invited; his caresses had won answering caresses, and his suggestion that they find a quiet place to “chat” had resulted in her guiding him to the lonely old barn.
Jenny was a hot-blooded young creature, and Mathieson, no less so, was delighted by her lack of any pretended shyness. Her low-swooping blouse had but three buttons which were soon unfastened. His expert attentions to the loveliness thus bared had brought her eager fingers to divest him of his shirt, since his coat had already been thrown aside. Now, he bent to her again, his teasing half-closed eyes roving her with the glow of desire that had prompted her little eager cry.
A rustling in the nearby straw. A cat trilled a greeting.
Mathieson tensed and his head jerked up. A small tabby wandered toward them, tail jauntily high-held.
“Come on, come on … me lovely lover …” urged Jenny huskily.
He stared at the cat. Impatient, the girl seized his hand and held it to her breast. With an effort, Mathieson tore his attention from the tabby and bent, smilingly to Jenny. The cat uttered another enquiring trill and came closer. Mathieson swore under his breath.
Jenny saw a frown replace the passion in those incredible black eyes. Irritated, she cried, “Get away! Dirty old mog! Get away and leave us be!” She had kicked off her shoes and now snatched one and flung it at the tabby, who fled with a yowl and a flash of grey stripes.
But it was done. It was no use. He didn’t want this chit, however buxom—however willing. He desired her—but even his desire had not been so fully kindled that he was unable to draw back. He felt soiled and vulgar and wretchedly stupid, and he sat up, still frowning, and began to shrug into his shirt.
“Here!” cried Jenny, indignant. “What you a-doing of, melor’? Bean’t I good enough, then?”
His eyes softening, he touched her cheek. “You are adorable. Only— Here, mon petit chou …” He pressed a gold sovereign into her willing hand. “Buy something pretty to grace your pretty self.”
She sniffed, and flirted her shoulder at him as she restored her blouse, but ceased her angry mutterings when he swooped from behind her and kissed the back of her neck. Swinging around, she threw herself into his arms, and he kissed her once more, but differently. Trembling, she lay against him, then she sighed and sat up and began to button her blouse. “You love some fine lady, does ye? Aye—I see it in your eyes. I know that look, though most gentlemen don’t care. Ah, well … she be one of the lucky ones.”
Mathieson’s eyes became bleak, and his mouth twisted, but Jenny was busied with slipping on her shoes and did not see. With a flutter of petticoats she ran to the ladder and clambered rapidly down it.
“You can find your own way to the tavern,” she called, “seein’s ye don’t want me!”
Watching her ruefully, Mathieson bowed low. When he straightened she was standing in the open doorway, looking back at him, a shapely but faceless silhouette against the brightness of the golden afternoon. “I do hopes as she be worthy of ye,” she called, then ran from sight.
Mathieson discussed this with Rumpelstiltskin, man to man as it were, while he guided the stallion at a canter towards the tavern Jenny had suggested.
“Do you know, Rump, I really begin to think my moral values are being undermined by all these damnable heroes I’ve been consorting with of late! Either that, or my mind is failing! Jenny probably thought so, too.” He frowned. “More likely she thought I was unable to— Sapristi!” He drew rein and as Rump danced in a frustrated circle, his indignant gaze flew back across the tranquil meadow. “Of all the stupid dolts! I must be demented to so risk my reputation!”
Ten minutes later, seated on a wooden settle under a tall ash tree, Mathieson was still musing over his downfall. ‘I do hopes as how she be worthy …’ He waved away a bee who was interested in the contents of his tankard, then followed its flight until he lost it among the leaves. His gaze travelled higher. The sky was deeply blue, the clouds tinged with mellow gold. ‘You did this, Thomas,’ he thought. ‘You sent that confounded tabby to remind me of—of a lot of silly foolishness. And for what purpose? You know how worthy is Mademoiselle Fiona. And you most certainly know what I am! So what point is there in showing me what I cannot have … ?’ He took up his tankard and muttered, “You won this time. I hope you’re satisfied!”
“Well, I ain’t,” growled a harsh and vaguely familiar voice.
Mathieson started and blinked dazzled eyes at the roughly dressed man who stood beside him, coarse features scowling, and resentment in every line of his big frame.
“Sacré nom de nom!” drawled Mathieson, astonished. “I thought you were dead!”
“No thanks ter you I ain’t,” grumbled Ben Hessell. But, knowing this individual, he did not presume to sit on the opposite settle until Mathieson waved an inviting hand and called up another tankard.
“A fine mess you got me inter, Captin Otton,” Hessell went on then, keeping a cautious eye on that deadly right hand. “Jest a quiet little kidnapping, says you. Jest fer a lark, says you. We’re jest a’goin’ ter borrer the lady fer a coupla hours—no more, says you. So what happens? We—”
Mathieson interpolated coolly, “You knew the risks when you took my pay.”
“We didn’t know as how poor Feeney was goin’ ter get scragged stone cold. Nor as how that horrid friend o’yourn would put a pistol ball through me!”
“Friend? Brooks Lambert is no friend of mine! If he ever—” And Mathieson stopped, for the less Hessell knew of his dealings with Lieutenant Lambert, the better.
In a prudently low-voiced continuance of his grievances, Hessell said, “Me and poor o’ Feeney didn’t even know what it was all abaht. We was holding the gal fer ransom, we thought.” He grinned jeeringly, “Fat lot o’ ransom yer got, eh mate?”
Mathieson had gained nothing at all from that little ploy, which had been devised not for ransom money, but to force the hand of a good friend, Meredith Carruthers, who’d been shielding one of the Jacobite couriers. The attempt to acquire the cypher carried by the Jacobite, and to learn from it where Prince Charles Stuart’s treasure was stored, had failed, even as Hessell said, and for a while it had seemed that in the process Mathieson had lost one of his few friends. Later, however, Carruthers had appealed to him for help and (for a price) he had obliged. His assistance had been invaluable to Carruthers, but had also brought demotion to the scheming and ruthless Brooks Lambert. Mathieson had no regrets insofar as Lambert was concerned, but the kidnapping was a black mark against him. The lady had been mauled by his confederates and the reminder made him squirm. His eyes glinted angrily, but he said nothing until the approaching waiter had provided Hessell with a brimming tankard.
“I am not your mate,” he murmured as soon as the man had gone away again. “Wherefore I would advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head.”
Hessell leered ingratiatingly and snatched up the tankard. “I didn’t mean nothin’, sir!” He drank deep and dragged his sleeve across his loose-lipped mouth. “But you gotta admit as it was crool hard. Perishin’ hard on a man with a poor wife and lotsa innercent
babes ter—”
Mathieson sneered, “You rend my heart. One wonders what your poor wife might have thought had she seen you pawing Miss Ramsay!” The malevolent glare Hessell slanted at him brought a scornful shrug. “So you still hold the grudge, do you? Typical! You’ve no cause. I didn’t force you to it. We all took the risk. We lost. ’Tis done and nothing to be gained from brooding over it. Set it down to experience man, and perchance you may learn from it. Meanwhile, tell me what mischief you are about up here.”
“Cor, you gotta nasty tongue, sir,” whined Hessell, injured. “I ain’t up ter nothin’—’cept starving. What I couldn’t do with a good bitta roast beef, or a slice’a ham, mebbe …”
Mathieson grinned his appreciation of the tragic gaze that came his way. “Faith, but you’re a slithery rascal. Very well, I owe you that much.”
The waiter was summoned again; a plate of steaming beef and potatoes was brought forth, and between all too generous mouthfuls Hessell related the sad tale of his slow recovery from the bullet wound Lambert had inflicted. “He only shot me dahn fer fear I’d tell as he was in on it, too,” he muttered indistinctly. “A wicked lot he is and no mistake.”
“As are we all. Which does not explain how you come to be up here.”
“Ar.” Overlooking that unkind aspersion, Hessell conscientiously mopped his plate with a piece of bread. “Well, me old woman’s brother lives in Liverpool, so I’m makin’ me way up there, so fast as ever I can, sir, ter find honest work on the docks.”
“If that’s the truth, which I doubt, it’ll be the first honest work you ever did.”
Hessell gave him an aggrieved look, salvaged the gravy laden piece of bread which was sliding down his greasy waistcoat, and threw it into his mouth more or less accurately.
Mathieson shuddered, and stood hurriedly. “I must be off. I’ve to be in Town by Sunday. Good luck in your search for—er, honest work, Hessell.”
The big man sprang to his feet, wiping his hands on his hat and bowing humbly. “And good luck t’you, too, Captin Otton. Proper kind o’ you to give me what to eat. Generous is what it was. You allus was a generous gent. I—I don’t reckon as you could spare a groat, p’raps? A half-crown, mebbe? Fer old times’ sakes, sir … ?”
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