Dedicated Villain

by Patricia Veryan

  Mathieson eyed his fawning obsequiousness with amused disgust, but handed over a sovereign, and with grateful thanks ringing in his ears, made his way to the stables and the more pleasing company of Rumpelstiltskin.

  Hessell curled his lip and swore at the sovereign, then wandered after Otton’s tall figure and watched him ride out. So the wicked captain still had that fine hack, did he? Funny, but he’d have sworn the stallion had a coupla white stockings. Now there would be something worth the stealing! And the cold-hearted perisher owed it to him, after all! A paltry sovereign! “Muckworm,” he growled. “Much you care if poor Feeney’s dead and buried!” Not but what Feeney had been a perishin’ fool. Still … He wandered moodily across the yard, tucked the sovereign in his waistcoat pocket, drew out the other item that had resided there, and halted, looking down at it.

  The button was silver, embossed with the crest of some proud old family, though which one, he had no idea. Stolen, likely, because Otton had give it to him during that horrid business with Mr. Carruthers. “If you ever have word fer me,” the perisher had said, “show this here ter me man—Sorenson—and he’ll come and get me quick-like.” Well, he’d not had no words fer Captin No-Good Otton fer a coupla months and more. Hessell turned the button, wondering how much it would bring in a pawnshop. He only half considered that possibility, for it seemed to him that there was something sniffy going on. You could’a knocked him dahn with a feather when he’d seen that murdering Captin Lambert yestiday. Ex-captin, that is. He chuckled. Jolly good that they’d taken him dahn a peg or two. Serve the bastard right.

  A thought struck him forcefully, and he scowled, grappling with it. From what Otton had said, him and Lambert wasn’t friends no more. But that there Otton had closed his choppers mighty quick over something. They was up to no good, that was sure, and likely in it together, same as last time. There might be a shilling or two come outta this yet. Meanwhile, it wouldn’t hurt ter keep a eye on the almighty Lambert. Them Quality coves thought they was better’n everybody. Well, they’d find out they didn’t fool Benjamin F. Hessell! He returned the button to his pocket with care. You couldn’t never tell when a thing like this might come in handy …

  Rumpelstiltskin wanted to gallop, and Mathieson let him have his head, the peaceful countryside blurring past as the stallion shot through drowsy meadows, thundered along lanes guarded by fragrant hedgerows, and slowed at last as they came to the hill where was the camp.

  Mathieson patted Rumpelstiltskin’s damp neck. “Brought me home fast, you rascal. Were you afraid I’d go back after the buxom Jenny?” He consulted the beautifully enamelled watch he had bought to reward himself after the business with the Alderman’s lady and her misplaced pomander. “Woe is me, Rump! Half past four o’clock, and I quite forgot to gather the firewood! I’ll be in deep dis—” His light words faded.

  The faint sounds he had heard all the way up the hill were clearer now. The laughter became loud and the shouts raucous and unfamiliar. Listening intently, he drew Rumpelstiltskin to a halt. Someone had arrived. Someone important, to judge from all the hilarity. MacTavish?

  A girl screamed then. He thought, ‘Fiona!’ And the stallion who seldom felt a spur, reared to a hard jab and was away like a bolt of lightning.

  Crouched low in the saddle as they burst into the clearing, Mathieson received a series of impressions that flashed with incredible speed across his mind. Cuthbert, sprawling beside the fire and trying feebly to get up, despite the efforts of a burly youth in a purple coat with one pocket torn off, who repeatedly kicked him down again; Heywood, sagging in the grip of two men whose garments proclaimed them “gentlemen,” while another of their kind aimed a fist at his already bloodied face; Elizabeth Clandon, crouching at bay, her back to a tree, both her little hands clutching a long sword while another Buck howled with glee and dodged her desperate but clumsy lunges; Mervyn Bradford, dead or unconscious, lying huddled atop the steps of his caravan; and a wild fight raging between Pauley, Gregor, and two more intruders. All this was noted and filed away. His frantically searching eyes found and held to one figure. Her hair streaming about her shoulders, a sleeve of her gown ripped away, Fiona sent her little knife darting at the great lout whose laughter ceased as he grabbed her flying wrist. “Let be,” he commanded merrily, holding her captive while with his free hand he began to tear the rest of her gown off. “Don’t want t’hit ya, m’pretty, but you and me—”

  In that shocked split second, Mathieson saw her little face, white and distorted with fear and rage. A roaring came into his ears. The scene before him blurred oddly around the edges. He must have cried out, for the big lout turned enquiringly as he launched himself from the saddle. A jarring impact, shouts, blows that were as nothing, the joy of feeling his fists thud home once, twice, three times against that dissipated, flabby young face. They were up and then down again. Fiona’s voice shrieked, “Look out!” He rolled aside, seized the boot that had barely grazed his ribs and heaved—seemingly not very hard, yet his attacker howled and soared from view. Wild, crazed laughter that he suspected might be his own. He was on his feet once more, a face before him, slowly turning purple. Another shock drove him to his knees; boots were all about him. Heywood’s breathless yell, “Hang on … dear old boy!” In the brief respite he managed to whistle for Rump. Came a thunder of hooves. The boots scattered. A shock that hurt this time, vaguely, distantly. A man screamed. He was up again. Two of the Bucks, less elegant now and much more grim, ran at him, both holding cudgels that looked like chair legs. Alec was beside him with a roared, “Yoicks!” and briefly, they fought side by side. Mathieson downed his man, but his gaze sought for and found the inexpressible swine who had touched her, who had dared tear her gown. The lout was reeling away. With a snarl, he raced in pursuit. The lout turned a bloodied, scared face, and drew a pistol. Mathieson launched himself, as he’d learned in France, kicking out savagely, and the lout screamed and hurtled back, dropping his pistol. He had him by the throat once more. The filthy, stinking animal would not touch her again, by God! He’d never molest any other helpless …

  “Stop! Mathieson! Stop! Good Lord! Get him off, he’ll kill the block!”

  Hands were tearing at him.

  “Roly—let be, you maniac!”

  Enraged, he hung on, cursing them.

  “Roly! Roly—please don’t kill the beast! Please …”

  Fiona. He relaxed his grip, and the lout lay very still beneath him. He reeled to his feet, and she was there, reaching out to him. His arm went about her. He panted frantically, “You’re all … right? They didn’t hurt you?”

  There was dirt on her face, and a scratch on her chin, but her eyes were like stars. “I’m all right,” she said in a scratchy voice.

  He felt dazed and weak with relief, and with a muffled sob crushed her against him.

  “I knew you’d come,” she whispered. “I knew you’d come!”

  He drew back, smiling down at her. And despite the tangled hair, the dirty little face, the scratched chin, her green eyes blazed with happiness and pride. Pride in him. There was no one else now; the clearing ceased to be. They were alone in a shimmering magical silence. Once more that sense of fragile perfection touched him. Once more he stood on the brink of something rare and beautiful and so dear as to touch his very soul. This was all he needed. This was of greater value than any gold ever minted, any jewels ever set. This was the most splendid prize life offered. And it was his for the asking. Only this time, he knew how much he wanted it. He knew that she loved him; and that he would never let her go …

  “It appears,” said Lady Ericson, standing by the steps of the caravan and bathing the cut on the back of her son’s bowed head, “that two of them were in the audience last night and were much taken with our betrayed dairymaid. Try to sit still, Bradford. They went on to a bachelor party, drank for most of the night, and by this morning were properly in their cups and halfway to being convinced we carry the Jacobite treasure.”

  Cu
thbert sprawled on the bench beside the table they had righted, his right arm stretched out on the top. Watching Fiona and Gregor apply makeshift splints to the big man’s broken wrist, Mathieson muttered, “Très magnifique! So they brought their friends along to help them find it, I collect.”

  “And caught us properly napping, mon,” said Gregor painfully.

  His eyes grim, Mathieson scanned the disaster that had been their camp. The cooking pots lay on the ground, the contents scattered. Two of the set pieces had been pointlessly kicked apart. The “pirate’s treasure” littered the ground. The lid of the chest had been ripped off. Costumes had been flung from the property caravan and trampled in the mud. Of more importance was the human toll. Bradford had a badly cut head and Lady Ericson suspected a concussion; Cuthbert’s wrist was broken, and both men would require the attention of an apothecary. Heywood’s nose had been thought to be broken, and although he now claimed it felt “perfectly fine,” he had taken a brutal beating and was obviously barely able to function. What would surely be an horrendous bruise was already starting to discolour the right side of Gregor’s face from cheekbone to chin. Pauley, who had now gone to check on the horses, had suffered the least damage, in the form of a badly bruised arm that had been dealt a heavy blow with a cudgel.

  Mathieson was so inflamed with suppressed rage that his own various cuts and bruises were annoyances relegated to the background of his awareness. His voice harsh, he said, “We were napping in more ways than one!”

  Lady Clorinda straightened her back wearily, and glanced at him. She looked pale and haggard, and the buoyant sparkle was gone from her eyes.

  In a kinder tone he asked, “Were you hurt at all, ma’am?”

  “They pushed me into the caravan when Bradford tried to stop them from taking the ‘treasure chest.’” She was obviously shaken, but she was a brave woman, and there was only the faintest tremor to her voice. “When they hit him, he fell ’gainst the door, so I couldn’t get out.”

  “Papa was wonderful,” said Fiona, with a glowing look at her father.

  “Not very,” groaned Bradford, lifting his battered head with one hand and blinking blearily about. “They made short work … of me, I regret to say.”

  “You did well, Mervyn.” My lady patted his shoulder in a rare display of affection. “When I heard you fall, I thought—for a minute I thought—” Her voice shook now, and she was unable to continue.

  “Why … Mama,” said Bradford, looking up at her wonderingly.

  Perched on the remains of a broken chair, Heywood held a gruesome handkerchief to his nose with one hand, while Miss Clandon bandaged the broken knuckles of the other. He commented rather shakily, “We’re a fine bunch … of protectorth. Had you not come, Mathieson …”

  “‘Come’ is it?” Cuthbert’s voice was strained, but he made a gallant attempt to smile. “He did not come, man! He exploded among us like a thunderbolt hurled from the right fist of Zeus! Mathieson—I’ve seen some fighting men, but when I’m able … I’d like to shake your hand.”

  “I claim that prrrivilege now,” said Pauley, grinning as he hastened to join them. “Our horses are all present and correct, at least.” He shook Mathieson’s hand warmly, then said, “Och, sorry mon. Bruised, is it? I canna wonder! Never in all my days hae I seen such a firrre-eater! Mon, ye were in six places at once! And had we nae drrragged ye frae that clod—”

  “You’d have throttled the life out of him,” finished Heywood.

  Still frowning, Mathieson said, “I think you did the world no favour by stopping me. Though—God knows we should have seen that something like this would come and been prepared for it.”

  He spoke as a committed member of the little group and Fiona paused in her bandaging and looked at him, her heart in her eyes. Meeting that revealing glance, Mathieson’s own heart sang. How dauntless she was, his little love; most ladies having suffered such a terrifying experience would have fallen into hysterics, or fainted away. Miss Fiona Bradford pushed her own shock and ill-usage aside, and, shaken but inextinguishable, helped others.

  “My fault,” sighed Lady Clorinda, applying sticking plaster to Bradford’s drooping head. “You are perfectly right, Mathieson. We should have guards posted at all times, but we have been lucky, so I grew careless—lulled by the peace of this place, and the fact that it was bright daylight. Inexcusable.”

  Wrenching his eyes from Fiona, Mathieson said, “There are seven full-grown and halfway intelligent men in this group, ma’am. Not one of us had the sense to remember that the world abounds with crude clods who would be enticed by the beauty of our ladies, and lusting after what they thought to be … the real—treasure.” He knew that his voice had faltered on the last few words, and that Fiona watched him curiously, and he wondered with a dimming of his new-found joy if she even suspected that he, too, had lusted after their treasure … That he was here under false pretenses.

  “We can thank God that nothing worrrse came tae us,” said Gregor.

  Her voice quivering on a sob and her lovely eyes tearful, Elizabeth said, “Amen tae that!”

  Heywood stood, his face very stern, and put his arms around her, and she clung to him weeping softly.

  Mathieson felt sick and had to turn away. While Fiona had been menaced, while she had fought those brutes with such intrepid courage, he had been romping in the hay with a village strumpet! He thought, ‘Mon Dieu! What if I had stayed with Jenny?’ and was obliged to walk rather blindly towards the paddock.

  Her bandaging done, Fiona left Cuthbert and hurried after Mathieson. Somewhere deep inside she was still trembling with the shock and horror of this terrible afternoon, but stronger than shock or horror was gratitude, and stronger than gratitude another emotion she dared not recognize but that clamoured to be acknowledged. She had thought herself destined for the ultimate in brutality—and had prayed he would come. And he had come. Truly, this peerless young man was her knight in shining armour. Perhaps his sojourn with them would be a brief one, no more than a bright flame in the unrolling pattern of her life, but he was here now, and the “now” must be all she could be concerned with. The “after” need not be thought of today. Tomorrow, perhaps. Or the next day. But not today.

  She came up with him just before he started to limp into the trees, and touched his arm lightly. He spun to face her, and the brooding look in his eyes lightened to a tender glow.

  She fought the need to throw her arms about his neck and managed to speak calmly. “Have you managed to hurt that ankle again, Captain Firebrand?”

  “I’ve a notion old Rump accidentally trampled me,” he said with a wry grin. “Nothing vital, I think. I must go and have a look at the rascal.”

  She took his sleeve in a firm grip. “He can wait a few minutes, sir. Pauley has attended to that particular rascal. Now I shall attend to the other.”

  “But—”

  She shook one finger under his nose. “No buts. Wait here!” She left him and ran to Gregor.

  Her proprietory manner was causing Mathieson’s heart to pound with delight. More prosaically, he was suddenly rather tired, and sat gratefully enough on the chair the girl and Gregor hauled over.

  The Scot grinned at him and went back to Cuthbert. Fiona knelt and began to pull off Mathieson’s boot.

  “Hey!” he gasped.

  Her beaming look flashed at him. “Never fear. I do not mean to inspect your toenails this time.”

  He chuckled, then was gripping hard at the side of the chair and swearing under his breath as she had to tug harder. They both gave a sigh of relief when the boot came away. “Such a price you pay for your heroics,” she murmured. “Though I fancy you will have an excuse, as usual.”

  He watched the top of her untidy head as she gently rolled down his stocking. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Then allow me to assist with your scenario. Now, let me see … You will probably say that you really did not gallop to my—our rescue this afternoon. ’Twas purely accidental.
A bee chanced to sting Rumpelstiltskin on his—er—self, and he went mad and hurled you at that great beast who was—” her voice shook a little “—attacking me, and— Oh, Roly! What an ugly bruise!”

  He peered at his ankle. A lurid abrasion low on his shin was already much swollen and beginning to purple.

  “You must own I am at the very least a—er, colourful fellow,” he said whimsically.

  She looked up and met a pair of eyes as soft as velvet, and a half-smile that seemed to enfold her heart. “Oh—at the very least,” she murmured.

  He reached out and touched her hair in a brief caress that intensified her need to be held close and tight in his embrace. But other eyes watched them; she must be sensible. She forced her attention back to his damaged leg.

  Fighting his own battle, Mathieson said rather hoarsely, “Pray finish your tale—wicked chit that you are. Or are you done with your version of my—ah, heroics?”

  Her fingers on his shin trembled. “I am as done with it as you are done with duelling, sir.”

  “What a ghastly fate! I must have forgot—with whom was I engaged to go out, madam?”

  “With Sir Roger,” she said, her face becoming very serious all at once. “You’ll not be able to play the lead tomorrow, Roly. Not the way Captain Firebrand jumps about.”

  ‘Zounds,’ thought Mathieson. ‘Milady Dairymaid!’

  Wondering how they could possibly restore everything in time for tomorrow’s performance, and how many of them would be fit enough to play their parts, he glanced up. With bizarre incongruity the red carriage rolled magnificently into the clearing, Mrs. Dunnigan beside young Japhet on the box, and both staring in horror at the chaos.