Dedicated Villain

by Patricia Veryan

  Rumpelstiltskin snorted gustily down his neck. He caressed the soft nose, then sat down against a tree watching unseeingly as the big horse began to crop at the grass. And again, he saw Fiona’s face, her eyes fixed on his with that look of awed wonder because she’d fancied him to have ridden to the rescue of the witch. ‘Silly chit,’ he thought resentfully. ‘Had she a brain in her head she’d have seen I wanted no part of that fiasco! Devil fly away with her misplaced admiration!’ He could console himself with the knowledge that sooner or later, her expression would change; inevitably, her eyes would hold disgust … contempt … That realization brought no consolation at all, but rather a pang so sharp that he swore and his head bowed lower.

  ‘Our men love once and with a deep and unalterable passion …’

  Muffin had said that. Well, he had neither the time nor the inclination to indulge a “deep and unalterable passion”! Besides, the Tiny Mite was not the lady to capture the heart of a man who had been born a century too late; who should have been a real pirate, prowling the Spanish Main; who ever had scorned the virtuous and the virtuous path.

  ‘Oh, Roly! Will you never admit how splendid you are?’

  His laughter was short and harsh and held a note that brought the stallion thudding back across the meadow to whuffle anxiously at his ear. Mathieson patted his equine friend, thinking sardonically, ‘I am splendid, all right!’ He could look back over long years of “splendour”! Years of womanizing, fighting, gambling, cheating. “A liar and a blackguard” someone had once named him, and he’d been proud of it. The one thing he never had sought was the reputation of an honourable gentleman. He had sought only to fulfill the expectations so often hurled at him by his nobly born sire. And to enjoy a damned good time in so doing! He’d had a damned good time, hadn’t he? Even if there had been bad moments. Rather many bad moments, come to look back … But there had been the ladies, God bless ’em! A small voice whispered, ‘Not one of whom would have faced a mindless mob to save your worthless neck …’

  ‘The first one brave enough to throw a rock at that most gallant gentleman …’ Mon Dieu, but she had been superb! Resolute, loyal … and small and lovely. And pure, dammitall! Pure. He didn’t want purity! He wanted a hussy. A woman of the world, who knew how to love. Like Sybil—immoral tart that she was!

  And he groaned a curse, because only to think of Mrs. Sybil Montgomery and Fiona in the same breath was a sacrilege …

  A hand was on his shoulder. A kindly voice enquired, “Are you all right, old fellow? Your head, ith it?”

  Heywood, still booted and spurred, was looking at him with obvious concern. Mathieson felt a swift rush of gratitude that his nonsensical aberrations of the mind had been interrupted. It was his head, of course, just as Thaddeus said. Some form of shock, no doubt, and of a certainty he’d had enough of ’em of late: The shock of watching poor old Bill die in his arms, the ridiculous episode with Picayune in the river, the loss of Rump, the rock that had bounced off his skull today. All combining to cause this brief venture into lunacy. He took a deep breath and his drawl was cool as ever when he answered, “Bit of a nuisance, only. And why do you prance about by moonlight, m’lud? Guilty conscience, perchance?”

  Still watching him searchingly, Heywood smiled. “You look like hell, you know.”

  “Thank you, kind sir. As well I should prepare myself.”

  “To hear Fiona tell it, hell will be far from your eventual abode. Gad! Your head really doth trouble you. I offer my arm to our bedchamber, mighty champion of witcheth.”

  Mathieson did not want to go inside. Not just yet. And if he looked bad, Thaddeus did not look so well, either. Not that it mattered how the idiot looked. Still, “Would you object to sitting here and talking for a while?” he asked.

  Heywood selected a root, and sat down. Almost, he seemed relieved.

  Sharing a companionable silence they watched the moon rise higher to etch the wings of an owl that swooped low over the meadow then soared up with some hapless small creature gripped in its talons.

  Heywood murmured, “They look tho noble, and are in fact very cruel.”

  “Present company excepted?”

  “Your fine animal, thertainly.” Heywood smiled, but his smile was sad.

  Watching him, Mathieson said, “You may ignore this, an you wish, but—dare I ask if there is … a lady you admire?” And he waited with an oddly keen anxiety for the answer.

  After a moment, Heywood replied quietly, “Am I very obviouth about it?”

  Mathieson scowled at his wistful face. “Yes,” he said, and as Heywood looked up, mildly surprised by such brutal candour, he added, “For how long have you known her?”

  “Five monthth, two weekth, and three dayth—no, four, thinthe ’tith already after midnight.”

  “Gad! If you are that badly smitten, why the devil do you do nothing about it?”

  Heywood shrugged. “I am a fool, but not tho much of a fool that I cannot know there ith no hope for me.” His voice dropped. He murmured softly, “I found a lady who ith too beautiful. Very poor planning. But—when I thaw—her … I wath jolly well flattened. I knew there wath very little chanthe, but I offered … and wath rejected, of courth. Very gently. I tried to look at other ladieth but—for me, I’m afraid, there ith no other lady. Who elth could have that lovely cloud of golden hair … or tho perfect a figure? What other eyeth could thmile in that perfectly adorable way …? And that pretty lilt to her voithe when—” He turned dreaming eyes on his companion, started violently and became red as fire.

  ‘What a sickening display!’ thought Mathieson, scornfully. ‘And the idiot doesn’t even know that her hair isn’t golden, but a rich light brown with little gold glints in it.’ “‘Faint heart,’” he snarled, “‘ne’er won fair lady’!”

  Horribly embarrassed, Heywood stammered, “I th-think my heart ith not faint, but I know I cannot win her. Not very remarkable—all thingth conthidered.” He gave a derisive shrug. “Only natural that a lady would prefer her man be capable of thpeaking her name properly.”

  “Do you mean you have no chance because you lisp? C’est une absurdité! And I think you wrong her. Besides, the women love a title.”

  “Many do, but— Now damn your eyeth! Who told you I am—”

  “A nobleman? You did, you dolt. I called you ‘milord’ several times and you were so accustomed to it you didn’t even notice. Did you join this troupe for the sake of your lady?”

  Heywood nodded. “I can at leatht help her, and her people.”

  “I thought that must be it. I did not fancy you were a Jacobite.”

  “Gad, no! But—I’ve a couple of very good friendth who are. Devil of a coil, to get ’em out of trouble, ain’t it?”

  “If you’re fool enough to try,” sneered Mathieson.

  “Do you hear that, Rump?” said Heywood lightly. “Your friend who will fight a crowd of angry men for the life of a witch, would not bethtir himthelf to help a friend!”

  “I have no friends,” grunted Mathieson, standing and whistling the horse to him again.

  “I wonder whatever led me to believe you were here for that very reathon. You claimed it wath—a compelling one, an I recall.”

  Mathieson turned to face him squarely. “I was mistaken. ’Tis not at all compelling. The lady wants none of me. Do you understand?”

  “No. If that were truth, why would you keep with uth? You’re no more a rebel than am I, and you dithtinctly claimed you’d not bother to help—”

  “Because,” snarled Mathieson, suddenly and irrationally furious, “I mean to steal all the treasure and sail off into the sunset with it! Put that into your next play, you great block, and perchance ’twill be a success!”

  Heywood gave a shout of laughter so that Rumpelstiltskin danced away, eyeing him uneasily. “My public would never pay to thee a tragedy,” he chuckled. “I think you play the proper part in ‘My Lady Dairymaid.’”

  His only response a disgusted profanity, Mathi
eson started back toward the paddock.

  Grinning, Heywood kept pace with him. A few seconds later, he said, “Thpeaking of which …”

  His tone had changed. Mathieson looked at him across Rumpelstiltskin’s back and asked jeeringly, “Well? Do you mean to use some sense and make me into the villain after all?”

  “Our prethent villain would be well pleathed an I did tho.”

  “Aha! So your glum expression has to do with the blithe Mr. Torrey!”

  Heywood seized Rumpelstiltskin’s mane and drew him to a halt. “You would do well not to treat it lightly, Roland. He ith the type to brood over a grudge. You made him look a fool before the lady he hopeth to wed; you have taken hith part in the play; and Lady Clorinda ith fond of you, but don’t like him above half—which he ith well aware of. You are a threat to him and he can be a dangerouth man. Have a care.”

  “Pish! I could cut him into gobbets in five minutes! Less.”

  “Aye—in a fair fight.” Not one to glibly slander another, Heywood paused, then added guiltily, “I am a cad to impugn hith reputation.”

  Mathieson stood very still. Not looking at his companion, he asked, “Do you believe that Torrey dislikes me so much he would strike from ambush, or pay an assassin?”

  “You find that unlikely. Natural enough that you would, for any honourable gentleman would draw back from that kind of cowardly, underhanded—”

  “You fail to give the devil his due, Thaddeus. If Torrey chooses the cowardly and dishonourable way, he’ll find me no stranger to such tactics, I do assure you. Still, I thank you for the warning. Good night.” With the big horse pacing gracefully beside him, he stalked away, his eyes angry and his mouth bitter.

  Puzzled, Thaddeus Heywood looked after him. Then he shook his head, murmured, “Cawker!” and, smiling, strolled towards the caravan.

  “All these years I have dreamed of finding you again,” declared Captain Firebrand, lifting Miss Barbara’s hand to his lips.

  She swayed to him, and said tenderly, “Much has happened since we parted, Jack. I am changed from the—”

  “Louder, Fiona,” called Bradford, from the edge of the sunlit clearing they had chosen for this rehearsal.

  “I am changed from the simple milkmaid you once knew,” she declared in a carrying voice.

  Firebrand said ardently, “You are the loveliest and purest milkmaid in all Sussex, and—”

  “Shropshire!” shouted Torrey, adding an audible, “Stupid oaf.”

  Mathieson frowned and referred to the sheets in his hand. “But, it distinctly says—”

  “We change it depending upon which county we are in,” explained Fiona, helpfully.

  “Oh.” He smiled down at her. “Then tomorrow you will be the loveliest and purest milkmaid in all Cheshire.”

  “Brilliant,” snorted Torrey.

  Mathieson bowed. “Thank you. I am glad to see that you are not completely lacking in perception Mr. Torrey.”

  Torrey swore under his breath and took a step forward.

  “Devil!” whispered Fiona and added hurriedly, “Yet, only a milkmaid, sir, and not worthy to be the bride of a gentleman of your station.” Mathieson’s laughing gaze still held on Torrey, and she prompted a low-voiced, “Sir Roger …”

  “Sir Roger finds you worthy,” he recited dutifully.

  She hung her head. “Ah, but—but Sir Roger does not seek my hand in marriage.”

  “Which goes to prove how slimily stinking a swine he is,” intoned the dauntless Captain Firebrand.

  “Devil take you, it don’t say that!” Torrey, who was now to portray the villainous Sir Roger, flourished his pages aloft and stamped onto the impromptu stage.

  “Then it should,” said Mathieson, adding politely. “Now do please go away, Sir Roger. You spoil our nice scene.”

  “Yes, but Freemon is perfectly right,” Fiona pointed out, her eyes sparkling. “You are supposed to say—‘Which proves him a wicked man.’”

  “That, too,” said Mathieson agreeably. “But I really think my words are more forceful, Thaddeus.”

  Heywood, sitting on a tree root, grinned broadly. “Very true, dear boy.”

  “Forceful enough to offend every lady in the audience.” Mervyn Bradford’s resonant voice overrode the smothered chuckles of the watching group. “Come now Mathieson, you must stay with the part as writ. Torrey, we’ll have your fight scene after this.” He turned to Mathieson and murmured softly, “And no slips of the fist, else I’ll let Torrey play Firebrand, you rascal!” In a normal tone, he added, “Now try to finish from memory. You take the leading role tonight, and you must be letter-perfect.”

  Torrey gave a contemptuous snort and marched into the trees again. “Damned popinjay,” he growled to Alec Pauley.

  Pauley, whose bowed legs provided Torrey with much amusement, had no love for the man. “A fine actor, for all that,” he said, his hazel eyes amused. “Especially in that final love scene with Miss Bradford. Do ye no agree, Miss Moira?”

  The dark girl said shyly, “He does make it seem so real. In my scene with him, where I cut the ropes and free him and he kisses me on the cheek …” She sighed. “Oh, he does it passing well.”

  “Does he so?” muttered Pauley, a frown chasing the smile from his eyes.

  Torrey gave an exclamation of impatience. “Much you know of it, Miss Innocence! But I’ll tell you this—clever Captain Mathieson may succeed in fooling all you silly females, but he don’t fool me! And he’d best not take advantage of his role to molest either you or Fiona!”

  “Molest!” gasped his sister, dismayed. “But I promise you, Freemon—”

  “Quiet!” shouted Bradford irritably. “May I beg, dear my daughter, that you continue? ‘No matter what …’”

  Torrey glowered his resentment but was silent. Alec looked at him with a curl of the lip, then caught Moira’s anxious eye and forgot his dislike of her brother.

  “No matter what may chance,” said the much tried milkmaid, “no matter how long we must be apart—I shall never forget you, Captain Jack.” And she whispered provocatively, “Nor your crumpets!”

  Firebrand stepped closer and took her hand in his. “Why do you speak as in farewell? I shall be gone two days—no more. My dearest girl …” he slipped an arm about her slender waist. She lifted her hand to his shoulder and gazed up at him. And there was no teasing in her green eyes now—only a deep tenderness. The faint aroma of her perfume was in Mathieson’s nostrils; such a clean, sweet fragrance. The simple dairymaid’s cap framed her little face … her mouth surely was formed for kissing. “I do so—love you,” he said huskily.

  “Then why not share your emotions with your audience?” howled Bradford, incensed. “With luck, they’ll hear you in the front row!” He glared at his silent mother and snarled, “One would think they shared a secret!”

  “And I—you,” responded the pretty milkmaid with yearning softness. “Until death, and beyond … my dearest, dear …”

  “Oh dear, oh dear!” whispered Lady Clorinda.

  “Lord! Lord! Lord!” raged Bradford. “You’re not just talking to him! Here—let me show—No! You DO NOT kiss her, damn your eyes!”

  Mathieson blinked at him innocently and, very aware of Miss Fiona’s rosy blush, said, “Good gracious, did I mistake it? It says—‘they embrace,’ so I thought—”

  “Devil you did!” Infuriated, Torrey again rushed forward, fists clenched, but was seized and held back by Heywood and Cuthbert.

  “What a fuss,” drawled Mathieson. “We are only acting, are we not, Miss Bradford? Your pardon an I offended.”

  Her pulses racing madly, Fiona stammered, “Why—no—I mean, yes, of course. That is—well, it does say that, Papa.”

  “It don’t say he is to kiss you!”

  “Dammitall, I’ll not have you pawing my betrothed!” raged Torrey, struggling to free himself.

  “I am not your betrothed!” said Fiona indignantly.

  “You will please to keep quie
t, miss,” interposed Lady Ericson, her voice cold. “Captain Mathieson, I allowed you to journey with us because you said you wished to be of help.”

  “That’s exactly what you said,” bellowed Bradford. “We all heard you!”

  My lady gave him an irritated glance. “’Tis not helpful to cause bad feelings between our people, and I warn you, young man, I’ll not tolerate it.”

  “No more shall I!” said Bradford grandly. “Give you some personal instruction so you will understand the directions, and—”

  With acid disdain my lady interpolated, “Nonsense, Bradford! Mathieson knew perfectly well what was implied by Mr. Heywood’s directions. He chose to take advantage of the situation.”

  “But, Grandmama—” began Fiona. My lady’s eyes turned to her, and she quailed into silence.

  Mathieson said quietly, “You are perfectly right, ma’am. The temptation was—extreme, but I had no right. I apologize.”

  “As you should. No, Fiona! Take yourself to your caravan. Do you speak again you’ll stay there for the rest of the day—rehearsal or no!”