Dedicated Villain

by Patricia Veryan

Freemon Torrey threw open the door, jumped out and let down the steps. “What in God’s name … ?” he gasped, his anxious gaze flashing to Fiona. “Not dragoons?”

  My lady said, “We were visited by a pack of vicious yobboes masquerading as country gentlemen. They fancied us to be fair game. I thank heaven you were not here, Moira. Did you post the notices? Is there any word from—” She broke off, staring.

  Torrey was backing down the coach steps, helping a man who swayed and stumbled uncertainly, Moira Torrey adding her young strength to support that wilting figure. A harsh, racking cough sounded.

  Stunned, Mathieson thought, ‘No! Dammitall—no! Not now!’

  Robert MacTavish, his face drawn and haggard, his eyes sunken into black hollows, reeled forward, saying hoarsely, “’Fraid I’m not—” He checked, blinking as he took in the wreckage. His grey eyes flickered from one to the other of the casualties, and then paused, widening in horror.

  Very white, Mathieson sighed faintly, then stood and faced him, head proudly held and sneer marked. “Bonjour, dear my friend.”

  “You!” breathed MacTavish.

  They were all staring, in every face surprise and uncertainty. Well, they’d soon know the whole. Faith, but he might have guessed there was no hope. But—mustn’t whine; that was the way the cards had fallen. Mathieson smiled a mocking smile that did not reach his eyes, and found he could not look at Fiona—that to see revulsion come into her sweet face would be more than he could bear. “I fancy,” he drawled, “you were expecting me, no?”

  Lady Clorinda said, “So you know each other. I’m not very surprised. We’ve had trouble here, as you can see, and—Rob? Dear boy, you look—”

  MacTavish pointed a shaking hand at Mathieson. “He—he’s—” he gasped, but was once more overtaken by that horrendous coughing.

  Mathieson wondered with dreary detachment if his luck had run out altogether; if he could get away from this collection of cripples with his shin throbbing like blazes; and why he had found his love only to lose her so cruelly soon.

  MacTavish regained his breath, looked at him steadily, then suddenly crumpled. There were cries of alarm. Torrey leapt to catch him and ease him to the ground.

  Near exhaustion herself, Lady Clorinda gathered her faculties and hastened to bend over this new victim. “Poor lad, poor lad!” She rested a hand on his brow. “Heavens, but you’re on fire! No, do not try to talk. You must—” She stopped speaking as MacTavish’s eyes closed and his head rolled limply. “Lud,” she murmured, for the first time showing real alarm, “but he is extremely ill!”

  Mathieson limped painfully to MacTavish’s side and looked down at him with commendable distress. “Poor old fellow,” he said. “He does look bad. What is it d’you suppose, ma’am?”

  “To judge by his breathing, I’d say at the very least an inflammation of the lungs. And—at worst …” She straightened again, her eyes fearful. “At worst—the pneumonia! He must be put to bed at once, and someone must ride for an apothecary.”

  Torrey said, “I’ll go. Pauley—give me a hand, here.”

  MacTavish was lifted gently and carried off. Mathieson watched his inert figure sombrely. He admired Rob MacTavish, but—if he died before imparting what he knew of one soldier of fortune with three identities, how much easier it would be …

  Lady Ericson asked, “What was he trying to tell us, Mathieson?”

  From the corner of his eye he could see Fiona holding his boot, her hopeful eyes on his face. “What I should have told you from the start, ma’am,” he answered slowly. “Rob and I are old friends. I followed him up here because I feared he was going to run himself into a bog. He can’t help you now, and—I’m not the man he is. But—in my own fashion, if you’ll trust me, I swear I’ll do everything in my power to help you complete your task in safety.”

  He fully expected them to reject him, even now, but my lady, her eyes dimmed with grateful tears, held out two unsteady little hands to him. Fiona’s smile was blinding, and Japhet was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Of course we trust you, Roland,” said Lady Clorinda fervently. “After all you’ve done for us, how could we fail to do so? We can only thank heaven you were sent to us!”

  Robert Victor MacTavish was a Scot of fine family, reared up to the standards of manners and morals expected of a gentleman, and of high personal courage and integrity. When the Uprising began he joined Charles Stuart at once. He fought well for his Prince until the tragic field of Culloden Moor left him wounded and running for his life. After some desperate doings, and with the help of Ligun Doone and The Committee, he reached France and safety. Within months however, he had turned his back on that haven and returned to perilous England to do all he might to assist his bedevilled countrymen.

  So far as he was aware, he had nothing personally to gain from ensuring that the Jacobite treasure was safely stored so that it might eventually be restored to the original donors. His rather erratic sire was not kindly disposed towards the Stuarts and it was doubtful that he would have made a donation to their Cause. On the other hand, his own enlistment with the Jacobite forces might just possibly have influenced his father to contribute, in which case their name was on the list of donors. The list, therefore, still not safely delivered, was of greater interest to MacTavish than the treasure itself, for should it fall into military hands, all those named were doomed. Others, however, must ensure the delivery of that vital document. MacTavish had accepted the responsibility for retrieving the treasure from the three less than satisfactory locations where it was now stored, and arranging for its shipment to a permanent and safe hiding place. For the better part of eight backbreaking weeks he had bent all his energies towards accomplishing this task.

  At the start of his efforts he had met the English lady destined to become his bride. When Rosamond Albritton had become endangered, he’d married her and taken her to his farm in Wales, where she now awaited his return. He rejoiced that she was safe, but the enforced separation from his love galled him and spurred him on to even greater efforts to complete his task as speedily as may be.

  He had forged ahead untiringly, scouting the three present locations of the treasure; contriving to collect, often in the wee hours of the morning and at hideous personal risk, the clumsy and precious articles so vital to the welfare of so many—and so exceedingly difficult to transport. Many sleepless nights were spent planning these forays, followed by days so fraught with peril he dared not rest.

  One cloudy morning he was dressed in the rags of a poor shepherd, herding a flock of Lincoln sheep (whose thick fleeces hid items that would have guaranteed the removal of his head) when he was stopped and questioned by a troop of dragoons. There were rumours that Jacobites were hereabouts. Had he seen anything of a suspicious nature? He managed to convince them he was comparatively witless and after they had enjoyed themselves by frightening such a bumpkin and scattering his sheep, he was released. It had taken some time for the inexperienced “shepherd” to gather his flock, and in the process he was soaked to the skin by a sudden shower. The sun was brilliant again before he reached his destination, but he’d had three hours of sleep out of the past seventy and was exhausted. Next day he suffered one of his rare colds. Except for the slight limp which the Battle of Culloden Moor had left him, he was a healthy young man and seldom had known illness, and with the cheerful arrogance of youth, had taken his good health for granted. Ignoring the worries and warnings of his friends and fellow-conspirators, he laughed at his indisposition and pushed on doggedly, not acknowledging until he found his skin afire, his head one gigantic throb, and his legs weak as water, that he was a sick man.

  Following his collapse at the campsite, he lay as one dead in the cot Gregor and Japhet had set up in one of the property caravans. Nor did he awaken for the rest of that afternoon, a fact which brought increasing anxiety to the battered troupe and increasing hope to Roland Mathieson.

  The necessary work of cleaning up and repairing went on meanwhile
, the tasks performed painfully but uncomplainingly by the less severely injured among them. Lady Clorinda, worn out, was carried, protesting, to her bed, and fell asleep the instant she was laid down. Mathieson’s ankle was aching with wearying persistence, but it was a relatively minor injury and he insisted on helping along with the other cripples. He had fashioned a makeshift cane from a sturdy branch, and during a particularly busy moment he slipped away and hid his saddle and saddlebags near the paddock, just in case he was obliged to make a dash for freedom. Returning to his labours, his gaze turned often to meet the pair of tired but happy green eyes that turned as often to beam at him, and he made many appeals, if in silence, to his overworked friend, St. Thomas.

  Shortly after six o’clock Torrey returned with an apothecary he had found on the outskirts of Chester. The squat, dour Mr. Harpe had come such a distance much against his better judgment, as he lost no time in telling them. His irritation was considerably dispersed when Fiona and Elizabeth exerted their charms on him. He was horrified to learn of the attack on the camp, and wasted several minutes in a loud harangue on the morals and behaviour of today’s youth. Mending his own manners, he then insisted on resetting Cuthbert’s arm, much to the ire of that staunch individual who was left sweating, and swearing he’d felt better before he’d had the benefit of the apothecary’s skill. Bradford was pronounced to be suffering a mild concussion which would take its own time to cease being a nuisance, the sufferer’s ironic thanks for this inestimable verdict, following as it did a painful examination, passing completely over Harte’s head. Heywood’s nose was indeed broken, and he endured stoically while Harte set the damaged article, taped a piece of sticking plaster over it, and warned that Mr. Heywood would likely have two black eyes by morning. MacTavish was then inspected and the apothecary hemmed and hawed and observed gloomily that the man should be dead but appeared to have weathered the worst of the illness and with proper rest and care might survive. He delighted everyone by advising that it was not the pneumonia, but an inflammation of the lungs complicated by severe exhaustion. He left a bottle of medicine to alleviate the cough and help the patient sleep, and continued to the next case, this being Gregor.

  Mathieson refused Harte’s attention, exclaimed with the others over the good news about MacTavish, and knew he must act swiftly.

  Supper was a simple meal of cold meats, cheeses, and fruit accompanied by hot muffins prepared by Mrs. Dunnigan. A sorry, silent, and exhausted group of Thespians partook sparingly of the food before dragging themselves to their respective bunks.

  Despite her objections that he would hurt his ankle, Mathieson limped beside Fiona to her caravan. Now, at last, he was able to snatch a few words with her, but after waiting so long for the chance, he found himself oddly tongue-tied.

  “Are you feeling dreadfully, Roly?” she asked in a weary little voice, adding with a trace of her indomitable humour, “I think I may call you that … now. Mayn’t I?”

  He yearned to kiss her and hold her close, but had to content himself with placing one hand over the small hand that rested on his arm. “I am feeling perfectly well, I thank you. And you may call me …” His words died away. He stood at the foot of the steps, gazing down into her upturned face, wondering if he would ever again hear her call him anything at all. And what she would think of him, if he was unable to deal with MacTavish in time and had to make a run for it.

  “Are you afraid for Robbie MacTavish?” Fiona asked, watching him anxiously.

  “As a matter of fact, I was remembering something I read in school. By Jean de la Bruyere, I think. I can recall but one phrase—‘Most men make use of the first part of their lives to render the last part miserable.’” His smile was tinged with bitterness. “I never knew till now—how true that is.”

  Fiona turned her hand to clasp his, and said stoutly, “If you used the first part of your life so as to become the man you are now, Roland Mathieson, then I think you contrived very well indeed.”

  He glanced around swiftly. Heywood and Elizabeth stood beside the fire still. Mrs. Dunnigan and Japhet were piling dirty dishes into a large pan, and Freemon Torrey, who was to stand the first two watches, had gone to his caravan to load his pistol. Mathieson lifted Fiona’s hand to his lips and held it there for a long, intense moment. Then, he said, “You won’t believe me when I tell you the truth of myself. But—if anything should happen— No—don’t be afraid, I expect all will be well. But—just in case, will you remember something? I have never loved—till now. There is nothing I would not do to win my love. But if I lose her, I will never love any other.”

  Fiona’s heart gave a great painful leap. She was being told the man of her dreams loved her! This dear, gallant, fearless, handsome gentleman loved her! More—he was pledging his lifelong devotion.

  “Oh … Roly!” she squeaked and hurled herself into his arms.

  Staggering on his weakened leg Mathieson almost fell. He might have known, he thought, startled and struggling to keep his balance, that this tempestuous little creature would not shyly yield him her hand to kiss. Or sway gently to his ardent embrace as any well-instructed lady of Quality would do. “You are supposed to at least appear shrinkingly timid and overcome by my exceeding improper declaration,” he said with a breathless laugh.

  “Stuff!” cried Fiona, muffled but ecstatic as she hugged him harder.

  That unconventional response made him fairly ache with love for her. “My wild, wonderful little Mite,” he murmured, and made an attempt to kiss her, but her face was pressed so close against his cravat that he could not find her lips. With a groan of frustration, he freed one hand and groping for her chin, tilted it upward. He kissed her then with a hunger that left her weak and shivering, but with a great effort he restrained himself from kissing her as he longed to do. She was too trusting, too innocent for those kisses. Whispering his love, he trailed his lips down her cheek, over her closed eyelids, around her ear.

  Fiona lay limp and blissfully happy in his arms. Surely, no maid had ever been kissed like this? Surely, no maid had ever—She frowned, and whipped her head up so suddenly that Mathieson, who had been about to kiss her eyebrow, gave a yelp and jerked back, clutching his mouth.

  “What do you mean—you expect all will be well?” she demanded. “You are telling me something. Warning me of something. What is it?”

  He was exploring his lip gingerly. “You little fiend—you nigh knocked my tooth out!”

  “You brought it on yourself with your ominous statements! Roland Mathieson—what did you mean? Tell me!”

  He seized her by the shoulders and shook her fondly. “I told you several things. Can you not recall the others?”

  “It is because I recall the others that I must know the threat to them. Roly—”

  He touched her cheek. A lingering touch and a return of that smile of such gentleness, such complete devotion. “It was but a silly piece of drama to enhance my declaration to you, as becomes a Great Actor!” He dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. “Pay me no heed, little dairymaid, save to remember that—I love you, and always will. Now—good night, my very dear.”

  He was gone before she could say another word. She gazed after him, torn between quivering bliss and a vague apprehension. But as she turned and wandered slowly back to her own caravan, she was remembering that last instant before she had thrown herself so wantonly into his arms. She could see his face as it had been at that precious moment. The smile, the mockery, the lazy boredom had been quite gone from the dark eyes, but gone also was the tenderness she had seen there when he had kissed her hand. That dear expression had been replaced by a grimness; a look of such icy and ruthless determination that the memory of it now frightened her.

  ‘There is nothing I would not do to win my love …’

  Had that been a piece of drama too … ?

  Troubled, she slipped quietly up the caravan steps.

  At three o’clock it was cold in the clearing. From the coach came the slow and regular grind
of Cuthbert’s snores; a log shifted on the dying fire, and distantly, an owl hooted.

  Despite his ankle, Mathieson moved soundlessly, not the crack of a twig or the rattle of a pebble disturbing the comparative silence. Like a dark shadow he crept up the steps of the second property caravan. He eased the door open, froze into immobility when a faint creak sounded, and resumed again when there was no sign of anyone coming to investigate. A single candle burned steadily in a hurricane shade. Mathieson closed the door, and trod silently to the bed.

  MacTavish lay on his back and his sleep was uneasy. The fair hair was tangled and disordered about the flushed face, his head tossed restlessly and he muttered something unintelligible. Mathieson stood utterly still. A fluid movement then, and the jambiya dagger slid easily from its sheath. Another soundless step. ‘Poor old Rob,’ he thought. ‘I really am sorry, but …’ And, dagger poised, he prepared to finish this desperate and unfortunate business.

  12

  The instincts of the hunted awoke Robert MacTavish to a throbbing head, burning heat, a gravelly chest, and a sense of strangeness and danger. Even in illness his was a quick mind. The bewilderment of finding himself lying in an unfamiliar place was banished by the sight of the blurred shape that leaned above him. His hands tightened on the blanket but his immediate and instinctive attempt to sit up brought a small sharp pain at his throat. At once he lay still, and as his vision cleared said hoarsely, “So good of you to call.”

  Mathieson gave him full marks for courage and when the coughing stopped, murmured, “Whisper. Don’t talk. An your hacking wakes someone I shall have to finish this quicker than I would choose.”

  The tired grey eyes met the cold black ones without wavering, but the Scot had seen the dagger, and for a brief instant, despair brushed him with her icy fingers.

  “You are thinking of Rosamond,” Mathieson said, correctly interpreting that briefly shadowed expression. “Keep on thinking of her.”