Dedicated Villain

by Patricia Veryan

  MacTavish whispered, “’Twould have been kinder, Roly, to have struck while I slept.”

  “Yes. But so dashed unsporting, mon cher. You should have a chance, at least.”

  The pale but proud lips curled. “My sword is over there.”

  “Oh, come now. I’m not that generous. Besides, I doubt you could heft it at the moment.” Mathieson sat on the side of the cot, his dagger no longer menacing the Scot’s throat, but held ready. “You look awful, you know,” he commented breezily. “But the apothecary says you don’t have the pneumonia after all, so perchance you won’t die yet. Of that ailment, at least.”

  “More likely of ten inches of steel, eh? How many men have you murdered to get at our gold?”

  “Scores.” Mathieson’s sardonic smile died. He said slowly, “I really don’t want to have to do this, Rob. I’ve sometimes thought that—” He hesitated and added with heightened colour and rare diffidence, “that—under other circumstances, we might have—er, become friends.”

  MacTavish knew he was very close to death and so abandoned his own reserve. “Yes. I’d the same feeling. Beastly luck that you’ve such a bad case of greed.”

  “And that you’re such a damned fanatical heroic idiot!”

  His eyes widening in shock, MacTavish cried furiously, “What a filthy thing to—”

  Mathieson sprang to clap a pillow over his face and force him back down. When the coughing stopped, he removed the pillow. MacTavish lay limp and still. Alarmed, he leaned forward, “Good God! Are you—”

  The pathetic figure convulsed. One hand flailed the dagger from his grasp; the other swung a lethal blow at his chin. He reeled back, swore as his full weight came down on his hurt ankle, and sat down hard. Half out of bed, MacTavish lunged for the fallen dagger, but it was just out of reach, and he sprawled, making flailing and abortive snatches for the weapon.

  “Serves you right,” said Mathieson, indignant. “Of all the putrid tricks!”

  MacTavish’s efforts precipitated him into a most unheroical slide from the cot and he lay there swamped in one of Cuthbert’s nightshirts and groaning curses.

  Watching him, Mathieson laughed breathlessly. “If you knew how silly you look!”

  “I—dinna doot that—a bit. Help me up, will you?”

  Mathieson stood and limped over to haul the Scot back into bed again and throw the blanket over him. MacTavish was panting and his face shone with sweat. He looked longingly at the crate whereon was a water pitcher and a tin mug. Mathieson filled the mug and held it out, then withdrew it. “Promise not to heave it at me.”

  MacTavish grinned, promised, and drank gratefully.

  Retrieving his dagger, Mathieson slipped it into the sheath, then relieved MacTavish of the mug and sat down again.

  “Damn you, Fairleigh,” murmured the sick man wearily. “I don’t believe you came in here to kill me at all.”

  “My apologies. Dreadfully disappointing, I know.”

  “Then why the dagger? I wonder I didn’t suffer a seizure.”

  Mathieson fingered the new red mark on his chin. “Yes, I can tell you’re actually at death’s door and weak as a cat! No—don’t be obtuse, par grâce. Had I written for an appointment and said politely, ‘Rob, can we have a little chat?’ you’d have had me locked up.” He added, aggrieved, “As you did once before! I’ve not been able to look at a toolshed since.”

  MacTavish chuckled. “’Twas a woodshed, not a toolshed. And—” with sudden gravity “—I think I’ve not thanked you for my life, Roly.”

  “And Rosamond’s,” Mathieson pointed out demurely. “Are you thanking me now?”

  “With deepest humility.”

  “So I should think. My cousin’s troopers had been promised a bonus were you and your lady taken. When I saw you lying on that beach, knocked out of time, I could have called Jacob and won myself a very nice reward.”

  “Yes.”

  “As a patriotic Englishman, it was en fait—”

  “Englishman, Roly. Forgive the interruption, but you cloud the illusion.”

  “So I do, by Jove. Thank you. Er—I’ve lost the thread … Oh yes, as a patriotic Englishman, it was in fact— Is that better?”

  “Much.”

  “Good. It was in fact my duty to inform my cousin that you were not on the ship he saw rushing off to France, but were instead stretched out at the base of the cliff, right under his silly nose. I denied him his so longed-for promotion. He’d have my liver out if he knew that, you are aware?”

  “I am aware.”

  “Furthermore, I could have lost my head for that piece of—of Christian charity.”

  “Rosamond said you told her you’d sworn an oath not to betray any of us.”

  Mathieson asked quickly, “Do you believe that?”

  “I—er … I would never doubt my wife.”

  “No more you should. She’s a lovely little creature. Quite a—” Mathieson’s eyes reflected a sudden tenderness that had nothing to do with Rosamond Albritton MacTavish, “—a pearl beyond price.” He smoothed his coat sleeve and went on idly, “Speaking of which—what value would you place on her life?”

  In the small following stillness, each man knew that the small truce was done and the gauntlet thrown.

  “There is no comparable sum,” replied MacTavish, a touch of acid in his hoarse whisper. “Had you hoped for one-third of the treasure, perchance? Or is that too conservative a figure?”

  Mathieson’s hand, loosely clasping his knee, tightened. He stared at his knuckles, then looked into the Scot’s grey eyes and did not lower his own in spite of the unutterable contempt he saw there. “Suppose I swore that I am not here for your damned gold?”

  “Suppose—what? After you’ve tracked and hounded and hunted us since first you learned of the existence of Prince Charlie’s treasure? After you’ve brutalized our couriers and manhandled their ladies in an effort to force the cyphers from them!”

  Mathieson’s head bowed at this, and it seemed to MacTavish that he shrank. “I didn’t mean to hit Miss Montgomery so hard,” he muttered. “But Chandler was coming at me with his blasted sword and—” He pulled back his shoulders and said irritably, “Hell, what’s done is done. I’ll not weasel out of the responsibility for what I’ve been. I bluffed my way in here for one purpose only—to get at the gold. I admit it. If anyone had told me I would find something that—that meant more to me than gold or jewels—or my own life …” He shook his head sombrely. “I’d have laughed at them.”

  MacTavish said rather brutally, “So should I.”

  Mathieson glared at him, then muttered, “I only ask … Rob—I swear I won’t touch a groat—not a farthing of it!”

  “Splendid. When do you leave?”

  Mathieson gritted his teeth. “I don’t. I cannot! I must stay. I must see you all safely done with—”

  MacTavish laughed until the tears crept down his cheeks and he was overcome by more coughing. Wiping his eyes, he moaned, “They say—laughter is—is the best medicine … And I believe it! If you—” A hand was clapped over his mouth. Mathieson’s black eyes, narrowed and deadly, blazed down at him.

  “Damn you! I should have killed you when first I came in! Listen to me!”

  Impressed by the power of his personality, and baffled by his apparent sincerity, MacTavish lay mute, watching that grim face.

  “I’ll give you something to really laugh at.” Mathieson smoothed the pillow and straightened up again, loathing what he meant to do, but sufficiently desperate to resort to it. “Have you heard of my family?”

  “Which one? You’ve so many names, I—”

  “Otton is assumed. It was necessary after a—ah, certain indiscretion concerning the wife of a London Alderman. My real name is Roland Fairleigh Mathieson. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “No. Oh, I’ve heard of some Mathiesons, of course. The duke who helped Tony Farrar is—Good God! Marbury? You—you’re not—?”

  Mathieson bowed gr
acefully.

  “Why—why then, you must be his—”

  “His grandson. The infamous bastard. Then you’ve doubtless also heard of the splendid gentleman who was my sire?”

  MacTavish nodded, and wrinkled his brow. “I think I saw Lord Fairleigh once when we all came to London to spend Christmas with relations. An exceedingly well-favoured man, and very popular. Yes—I remember that he was killed the following year and that my aunt was much grieved. A hunting accident, wasn’t it?”

  “Fortunately.”

  MacTavish’s eyes widened predictably, and Mathieson smiled his cynical smile and went on. “When I was nine years old, I displeased that—‘very popular’ gentleman. Worse, I humiliated him. And he was an aristocrat who held himself very much up, and had done the noble thing by owning me to be his bastard and giving me his name—if nothing else. I disgraced that name, and him, in front of all his friends. The cream of the county aristocracy. And being the gentlemen they were, they sniggered behind their hands. He, poor fellow, was mortified. He never forgave me or ceased to punish me for it.”

  Frowning, and not a little incredulous, MacTavish asked, “He beat you?”

  “That was of no consequence. My real punishment was to be kept from the one person in this world I loved—and whose happiness was, I knew, wrapped up in me. I was instructed very precisely as to what kind of a—thing—I was, and dear Papa saw to it that I was reminded of it with unfailing regularity. I grew up on a great estate, where I was treated with more contempt and far less kindness than the lowliest bootblack.” He paused, his eyes looking back broodingly into the bitter past. “Just to be sure I knew what I was missing, I was sent back to Paris each summer, to be with her for a few days—we never knew for how long—so that we both might suffer the pain of parting again and the dread that the next year’s meeting might be denied.”

  “Your mother?” asked MacTavish gravely.

  “My beautiful, Maman. A lady who never had an unkind thought—never did a bad thing in her saintly life.” Mathieson wandered over to stare down at the candle flame. “Much good it did her! Her health began to fail, and I went in terror that she might die, pining for me, before I could reach her. The summer she became really ill, I was not allowed to go. My valise was packed, the coach was at the door, and then—my father summoned me into his august presence and made me stand at attention while he read me her letters—letters that begged and pleaded … so piteously … that she was ill, and that I be allowed to visit her. Regrettably, he said, he had changed his mind. My Parisian journey could not be made this year. When I flew out at him, he knocked me down and—laughed, and told me what kind of vermin I was.”

  “Jupiter …” whispered MacTavish.

  Mathieson turned, and shrugged, his eyes empty and his smile brittle. “But we can learn from everyone, n’est-ce pas? I began to study him. He was a handsome fellow, as you said, and could be very gracious if it pleased him. He was much admired. Especially by the aristocratic ladies—silly vapid women who are impressed never by character, but only by looks or money. They said he was charming, brave, gallant; a truly great gentleman. I learned how exceeding well mon père enjoyed all the good things of life. And I knew he was a great villain. And I saw ma chère Maman—broken-hearted, abandoned, slowly dying. And I knew she was a saint.” He paused again, one of his slender white hands clenching spasmodically. He said low-voiced, “I laughed and danced for joy when he was killed in that stupid hunting accident! He could not keep me from Maman, anymore! I was free! I stole some money from his strong box, went to Paris, and stayed with her and managed to make her last year a comparatively happy one. When she died, my grandfather brought me back to finish my schooling. He hoped, I think, to turn me into—a gentleman.” He gave a soft, mirthless laugh. “I had already dedicated my life to villainy. I had learned, you see, that the good earn only sorrow and savagery, while to the evil go all the rewards.” He straightened the ruffles at his wrist, and murmured, “But—do you know, Rob, I am inclined to believe that, despite everything he accused me of being, everything he said I would become, as deplorable as I became in truth, I have never yet reached his level of villainy.”

  MacTavish did not know what to say. And because he had for a while been blessed by the love of a gentle mother and had grown up under the guidance of a doting aunt and his wise and kindly father, he was appalled. In a very different voice from that of a few minutes ago, he asked at length, “Why do you tell me all this?”

  Mathieson looked up. He was very pale, and his hands were tight-gripped behind him. “I never thought I would find true happiness in this life. I—don’t say I have found it now. Or that I have any right to it if … I could win it. But I have caught a glimpse of it. I—who judged women by the creatures who adored my father; I—who believed Maman was the only angel who ever walked this earth—have found another angel.”

  With the true Briton’s horror of any display of emotion, MacTavish was nonetheless impressed. Whisht, but it was an intense creature! Only see how the sweat shone at his temples. No play-acting here! The man meant every word, by God! And which lady had won the heart of such a renowned rake—heaven help her? Surely not … “Miss Bradford?” he gasped.

  “You may well be astonished,” sneered Mathieson. “Do you also believe one word I have said?”

  “Aye. But—but …”

  “But the leopard cannot change his spots—is that what you think?”

  “Er—I’m sorry, but—yes.”

  “Well, I mean to try, damn you! I mean to … to somehow … be worthy of her.”

  MacTavish stared at him, baffled. “What is it you want of me?”

  “You owe me, Rob!”

  “Aye. As you’ve reminded me!”

  Mathieson’s intense pallor was tinged by a slight flush. “My apologies. I am—desperate, you see. We were attacked today, or were you too far gone to notice?” A little muscle began to twitch beside his mouth. He said harshly, “That peerless innocent—that trusting beautiful little creature would have been beaten and shamed and—and raped, had I not chanced to arrive! Oh, never curl your lip, devil take you! I don’t claim to have saved them all, single-handed! I balanced the odds is all. Which has nothing to say to the matter.” He limped closer to the bed again and bent lower in a sudden and unexpected pleading that shook MacTavish more than any brutality would have done. “Rob—don’t you understand? She should not be here! You know what the military would do if they came up with us. You know what would become of her! Mon Dieu! The very thought—” His face twisted betrayingly; he gave an oddly wild gesture and wrenched away again. “Once more, I must apologize,” he said, recovering himself after a hushed moment, and standing very straight and stiff. “You will recollect I am a half-breed, and sometimes I slip into the abyss and become porté à l’émotion and—very French. Horribly embarrassing for the British side of me. And for you. Much more comfortable when I appear as a—a base but rather amusing rogue, eh?”

  “When I get up,” said MacTavish wrathfully, “I’m going to poke you on the beak, Fairleigh—”

  “Mathieson this time, don’t forget.”

  “Mathieson, then. What the devil makes you think you’re the first man ever to have loved a woman? How the hell d’you think I felt when your damnable cousin was hard on our heels with his troop, and that confounded ship sailed off and left Rosamond?”

  “W-Well then,” stammered Mathieson eagerly, “if you understand—”

  “I’m to believe you mean to play the game like an honest man, for once in your life? I’m to keep my mouth closed to all my friends who have risked their lives countless times for our Cause? I’m not to tell them what you did to Quentin Chandler? That you were paid to ambush and kill Geoff Delavale and damn near succeeded? That you drove poor Meredith Carruthers half out of his mind badgering at him to give up the cypher Lascelles carried? That you came slithering around Rosamond and her family, and—” scowling at the bowed dark head, his voice softened “—and wo
und up saving our lives, blast you?” He was far from insensitive, and sensing what these revelations had cost the other man, he said earnestly, “If ’twas my life only, as God be my judge, I’d leave it in your hands. After what you’ve done for me personally, even if you sold me to the block, I’d not count the debt paid. But—mon, d’ye no see? Wi’ the past tae be considered— Y’r reputation … ! I canna keep quiet!” He recovered his accent and said with stern dignity, “No, Mathieson. I’m sorrier than I can say, but—there is far too much against you to justify taking such a risk. This is a desperate business, and these faithful people have sacrificed much. They must be told the whole. ’Twould be to betray them all, else! I’ve absolutely no choice in the matter.” And anticipating the desperate appeal that would follow, he added hurriedly, “Nor, I might add, would have Lady Ericson.”

  Mathieson drew a deep breath. His eyes became glittering and hard, his mouth a thin, ruthless line. He stepped very close to the bed. “I see,” he said coldly. “Well, I’m sorry. I tried to not have it come to this.”

  The Scot tensed, and vowing to sell his life as dearly as possible, said, “It’s to be death for me then, is it?”

  “Not at all.”

  Mathieson smiled, and dealt his trump card.

  By morning the weather had changed with a vengeance; a cold wind came out of the east bringing with it a steady drizzling rain that pattered at the caravan roofs, reduced the lane to a sea of mud, and made Lady Ericson’s fingers ache with the rheumatism she would never admit to. She betrayed no sign of this however, as she sat beside the cot in the lurching, jolting caravan, and watched MacTavish’s pale face incredulously. “Lad—are you sure?”

  “Quite sure,” came his harsh whisper.

  “But—the danger! And with you so ill …”

  He smiled and patted the hand that clasped his own. “I whisper only because it helps to keep me from coughing. I feel rather astonishingly improved compared to this time yesterday.”

  “Thank God for that! But I fancy your improvement is largely due to the good sleep you’ve had. The first in weeks, I’ll be bound, eh? Do you start rushing and tearing about, planning and organizing and using your own energy to bolster everyone else’s—It still could turn to the pneumonia, Rob.”