Dedicated Villain

by Patricia Veryan

  Panicking, Freemon Torrey rammed home his spurs and fled.

  And the game was up. Without a second’s hesitation, Mathieson’s fist jabbed at the Lancastrian’s jaw. With a faint “Ooof!” the man went down. The Sussex individual made a grab for his coat pocket and his hand emerged clutching a horse pistol. Before he could aim it, Mathieson’s flying boot caught him in the ribs and he hurtled backward. The Londoner whirled about, swinging a lethal right. Mathieson ducked under it, but the Lancastrian was already clambering to his feet, pistol lifting.

  Mathieson flailed the side of his right hand across the Londoner’s middle, and leapt to grab the Lancastrian’s pistol wrenching it upward. The weapon discharged deafeningly. “Hell!” groaned Mathieson, then was sent reeling as the Lancastrian’s left smashed home against the side of his jaw. Gasping for breath, he went to one knee and managed to whistle a brief but shrill summons. Rumpelstiltskin cleared the paddock rope with a beautiful leap and charged to him, teeth bared. The Lancastrian, who had fancied this man hopelessly outnumbered, took to his heels and ran, leaving the Londoner doubled up on the ground, and the Sussex man clutching his ribs and gasping out faint but lurid predictions of Mathieson’s fate.

  From not too far away came shouts and the sounds of horses travelling at speed through the woods. Torrey had ridden eastward. A quick glance in that direction revealed no sign of him. Panting, Mathieson bounded up the steps, and grabbed his saddle. He beat all speed records throwing it across Rump’s back and buckling the girths. Another mad dash for his sword-belt and cloak, then he was down the steps and had vaulted into the saddle.

  The big stallion was at a full gallop before he was halfway across the meadow. Wind whistling through his hair, Mathieson guided the horse over the low fence and into the lane. A shout was followed by the roar of a pistol. Mathieson ducked as two dragoons rode straight at him along the lane. Another shot, from behind this time. He felt the breath of the ball as it whizzed past his ear. The east was clear, but to ride that way would be to lead them after Torrey, who had done his best to help, poor fellow. He touched the spurs lightly to Rump’s sides and the stallion gathered his mighty muscles and was back over the hedge again, galloping due south. At the foot of the slope was a culvert; a tricky jump, but it would likely stop his pursuers until they could find a way around. Mathieson set the chestnut at it, steadying him with hand and voice. They soared into the air and cleared it with a foot to spare, but the far bank was slippery and the horse staggered. Mathieson’s firm grip on the reins held him together, and they were away again, up a rise and over the top. A shout of alarm. An oncoming troop was thrown into hopeless confusion as Rumpelstiltskin charged through them like a bowl through ninepins, scattering them, then galloped on at incredible speed, Mathieson crouching low in the saddle and laughing exultantly. “Bravo, mon ami! Well done!”

  An infuriated bellow followed him. “You two men—see what’s happened at those caravans over there! The rest of you—after him! No shooting! I want the bastard alive!”

  Lambert.

  Mathieson’s smile became grim. Rob MacTavish had been given his three days. Now he must make his own bid for life. But—whatever the outcome, the lieutenant’s wants must not be gratified.

  Rosamond Albritton MacTavish hesitated in the doorway of the book room, her big blue eyes tender as they rested on her husband. MacTavish stood with one hand on the wall, looking out into the rainy gardens. For perhaps the hundredth time since his return she sent up a silent prayer of gratitude. He had come back safe and unhurt. His task was done, for the treasure was safely stored away in the old earthwork under the barn which was all that remained of some long ago version of Blue Vale Farm. She moved to his side and laid her cheek against his sleeve.

  At once, MacTavish turned to smile down at her and take her in his arms. “Well, my madcap bride,” he said. “Are you happy now that I’ve brought you all this company?”

  “I am happy because you are back safely.” She caressed his lean cheek. “But you are not. What is it, Rob? You should be very proud, but—”

  He tugged one fair and glossy ringlet. “What an imagination,” he said with a chuckle. “I was merely thinking that we must plant some Twining Splendour in the garden, and—”

  She gave a little gurgle of laughter, but put her hand over his lips. “Fustian, my bonnie braw laddie! If—Robbie MacTavish! Give heed to your behaviour! We’ve guests in the house!”

  He grinned and kissed the top of her golden head. “Then do not be speaking with that pseudo-Scots accent, you little varmint! You know it drives me wild! As for our guests—what d’you think of ’em?”

  “I think they’re splendid. I adore Mr. Bradford and that marvellously theatrical manner. My lady frightens me a little, though she must have been a great beauty at one time, do not you think?”

  “She was. And still is a lovely wee creature, no?”

  “Yes. And I am very glad to meet Lord Thaddeus again and to see him so happy with that beautiful girl. Will she wed him, do you think?”

  “Aye, I do. Another hapless bachelor shackled into—”

  His wife shut off that wicked remark by the simple expedient of standing on tiptoe and covering his lips with her own.

  “Shameless hussy,” he murmured, after a few delightful minutes. “And what have you done with our guests?”

  “That nice Scots boy has taken Miss Torrey for a ride about the farm. My lady is having a nap, and I believe Lord Briley and his lady are exploring the buttery. Gregor and young Japhet, are down at the stables.”

  “And—Miss Bradford?”

  It was idly said, but her eyes flew to his face. “Perhaps resting, too. I know her papa and Cuthbert both are snoring in the blue sitting room. They all are so tired, poor creatures. But—dearest, I never saw such sorrow as I find in that child’s eyes if I catch her unawares.”

  “Child,” he scoffed. “She’s much of an age with you, matronly one.”

  “Pish! She is an innocent. A veritable babe. And do not change the subject, sirrah! I would swear Lady Clorinda is also deeply distressed, but—poor Miss Bradford! I vow at times it hurts me to meet her glance. Rob, tell me. Why does she grieve so? Has someone she cares for—died, perchance?”

  Startled, he exclaimed, “God! I pray not! Whatever makes you say such a thing? Not your woman’s intuition again?”

  He had actually paled. Shocked by his vehemence, she stared at him, then took him by the hand and led him to the deep cushioned seat in the bay window. “Sit down, Lieutenant Robert Victor MacTavish,” she commanded sternly. “And—tell me.”

  Her husband looked at her, frowning. “I cannot, love. At least—not without you give me your word of honour to keep the secret.”

  “Oh, delicious!” She clapped her hands. “Yes, I promise. Is it an affaire de coeur?” Seeing his sombre expression, her own changed to anxiety. They sat side by side and she asked, “Not a tragedy, Robbie? She is too young to know—” An idea struck her. “Rob—how were you able to get away? You told me you were fairly trapped, but then eluded the dragoons. Is—Miss Bradford’s grief in some way connected with your escape?”

  MacTavish sighed. “You’ll remember that rascal, Roland Fairleigh …?”

  She nodded, searching his troubled face anxiously. “We owe him our lives. How could I ever forget—Rob! Did he follow us? Was he—”

  “If ye’ll close your pretty lips for a bare instant, madam wife—I’ll tell you.”

  Rosamond closed her lips.

  Five minutes later she sat pale and silent, her head turned from him, staring at the rain splattered window.

  MacTavish took her hand. It was very cold, and he held it tightly.

  In a shaken voice, his bride said, “So—again, I have him to thank for your precious life …” She blinked at him through a film of tears. “If Lambert takes him—”

  He put his hand over her trembling lips. “Dinna think aboot it, lassie.”

  “I—cannot help it. You are t
hinking about it! I doubt you think of anything else! Oh, Rob, is there any chance for him? Any chance at all?”

  “Perhaps. He has Torrey to back him. That might help.”

  “Why did Torrey go with him? Were they good friends?”

  “Torrey hates him, I think. He’s fair crazed for Miss Bradford, you see. Has been for years, I gather. I fancy he volunteered to help so as to convince the lass—or himself perhaps—that he’s as good a man as his rival. Still, it took courage, love. I—rather think, if things get verra bad, Roly will see he gets clear. Somehow.”

  “And—that poor child sits up there, her heart breaking, never dreaming the truth.” She turned on him, flushed with anger. “Oh! ’Tis infamous!”

  He blinked at her. “But—do ye no ken, sweetheart? Roly did but think tae ensure she’ll no waste her life grieving for him. ’Twas for her own protection he—”

  Rosamond jumped up and stamped her foot at him. “Men!” she said and turning to the door, stopped with a gasp.

  Fiona walked in. She was a different girl to the pale silent creature Rosamond had first met. The little head was held high now; a militant gleam lit the green eyes, and her small hands were clenched at her sides.

  Apparently completely unaware of Rosamond’s presence, she walked straight to MacTavish who had sprung up at her coming. “I have thought and thought, Robbie,” she said. “And I know that I have been a great gaby, because ’tis all wrong. Whatever he has done, whatever he may have been, Roland vowed to mend his ways, and he is not the man to break a vow. He loves me. No—” one hand lifted imperiously. “There is no use to deny it and tell me he is a libertine. He may once have been a rake. He will not be so again. I am perfectly sure I have his heart. I was very weary, and so shocked and hurt that my silly head was not working, perhaps. But it is working now. I want the truth, Robbie MacTavish. Where is Roland?”

  His face commendably blank, MacTavish said coolly, “Ma’am, I’ve not the remotest notion.”

  “I see. You have been sworn to secrecy.” From the corner of her eye, Fiona caught a glimpse of Rosamond, who had crept closer and watched the scene, entranced.

  “Your pardon, ma’am.” Fiona held out her hand. “I collect I did not talk to you. My—my behaviour at times leaves much to be desired, so you will forgive an I come straight to the point. Are you also sworn to secrecy?”

  Rosamond ignored her husband’s warning frown. “Yes,” she said, with a very kind smile.

  MacTavish groaned and looked helplessly at the ceiling.

  “I see,” said Fiona. “Then—if you cannot tell me, I shall have to guess and—” she bit her lip, trembling, then went on bravely. “If I guess correctly, you need say nothing at all, so you will not be breaking your promise, will you?” She blinked and dashed tears away with an impatient hand. “I’m not going to cry, for I have not the time. But—you see, I remembered that Roly once told me about an officer who had a fear of covered bridges. I only wish I’d—recollected sooner. It was Lieutenant Lambert, of course. And Roland told you of it. And—and if he planned that business, then … Oh, I beg of you—tell me. Is—is Roland driving one of those caravans?”

  MacTavish said, “Miss Bradford, truly I am sorry, but—” He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  Blinking rapidly, Fiona knew he would not cooperate—not even to this extent. Anguished, she turned to his lovely young wife and in a voice that broke pathetically, repeated her question.

  Mrs. Robert MacTavish folded her pretty hands, looked at the ceiling, and said not a word.

  A pale sun broke through the clouds in late afternoon, but the wind was cold. It had drizzled all day and Mathieson was soaked to the skin. Poor Rump was wheezing again. As he stroked the foam splattered neck, he could feel the stallion trembling. He glanced back into the valley. No sign of Lambert now, but each time he’d thought to have lost the troop, they appeared again. They, of course, had access to fresh horses, whereas his only choice was to ride Rumpelstiltskin to death. For two days and nights they’d been hard on his heels. The military was out down here, all right. He’d had to detour many times when he’d all but run into stray patrols. The detours had cost him dear, and he’d been shocked earlier in the afternoon to hear gunfire and find dragoons streaking after him from a narrow valley. Rump had been tired then, and he’d had to push him unmercifully, poor brave fellow.

  As often as he dared, he’d stopped and dismounted, allowing the great horse to rest while he watched the slopes around him, pistol ready. As soon as Rump’s painful, sobbing breaths eased a little, and the powerful legs ceased to tremble, he’d walked the stallion, explaining the situation, apologizing for this cruel treatment. And the worst of it was that Rump had never failed him. Even in the most racking of moments the glazed eyes rested on him with love, the muzzle would heave up and the velvety lips would caress his neck as if in forgiveness.

  Shivering, he slid from the saddle again and staggered. He was so tired he could sleep standing here, leaning against the stirrup. Mustn’t do that. Mon Dieu, no! But he’d had only a few hours sleep since they’d left the others on the covered bridge. Poor Rump was near exhaustion again, his head hanging low. Dear old fellow—what other horse could have stood such a gruelling pace for so long? This last hill had been steep, but he’d taken it gallantly, God bless his hooves and hocks. Mathieson stroked the bowed neck and told the stallion how splendid he was, and once again, when some measure of normalcy was regained, he walked beside the horse, his red-rimmed eyes ever watchful. He had avoided Cheltenham, had been obliged to swing east at Gloucester, and now he’d not the faintest notion of where they were. And, Lord, but he was so hungry he ached with it.

  He thought he heard hoofbeats and spun around, snatching for his pistol, but saw no sign of life on the hillside. If capture seemed imminent he must have the courage to put a period to his life. He daren’t fall into Lambert’s hands. He knew too much—too many names, too many details, and he knew where the list was. That Bradford’s name was on that list, he had no doubt. Likely MacTavish’s was; and Boudreaux, and de Villars—so many other good men. And, although he was trying hard to be worthy of his love, he knew his limitations; he was a novice at the hero business and a poor risk for stoical resistance. If he weakened under torture and told Lambert what he would surely ask, he would betray Fiona also—his perfect little lady, who—

  There was no doubt this time! Hoofbeats—coming fast! He spun around. Three troopers were less than half a mile away, and they’d seen him! Cursing, he clambered into the saddle again, and the chase went on.

  An hour later, at dusk, disaster struck. He’d eluded the soldiers and had begun to think himself safe, but it was very obvious now that all through these hills the search was up. A party of civilian hunters burst through some trees almost level with him, and roared their triumph. Desperate, he spurred hard. Rumpelstiltskin obeyed, but he was dazed with exhaustion. Neither he nor Mathieson saw the stream beyond the hedge they jumped, and not until they were in mid-air did Mathieson realize it was too wide, and the far bank too sheer. The stallion strove gallantly, scrabbled at the edge, and fell back. Mathieson kicked his heels from the stirrups. He was hurled into icy water and dragged under. His breath snatched away, he battled to reach the surface, bursting out at last, gulping air. The water was fast and up to his shoulders and it took all his strength to get to where Rump plunged and fought to regain his balance. Mathieson tugged at the reins and somehow managed to guide the horse to a shallow spot. He heard shouting and wild excitement and held Rump’s nostrils, pressing desperately against the overhanging bank. The hunters raced above him to a narrow board bridge, thundered over it, and rushed on, all shouting at the top of their lungs and not one of them thinking to look under the bank.

  In a few minutes Mathieson ventured to peep over the top. They were already lost to view. The light was failing rapidly, and the air ever more chill. Shivering convulsively, he led Rump along, fighting the current, until they came to a l
ow spot in the bank where they could climb out. And then he saw that the stallion was shaking all over and barely able to stand. He was done. Another mile, and he would drop and never get up again. Mathieson’s heart twisted with anguish. He must abandon the gallant animal. No choice. Rump must not go any farther without proper food and a good long rest.

  He led the stallion slowly in amongst some trees, burrowed under the fallen leaves until he found some that were comparatively dry, and rubbed the horse down for the last time. His teeth chattering, he talked to Rump fondly.

  It was a wrenching parting, culminating when he threw his arms around the neck of this beloved friend and hugged him tight, before giving him a stern command to stay. Far off, he could see the flares of torches. Men—many men—coming this way. That party of hunters returning, and with reinforcements, by the look of things. One of them was sure to stop and take care of old Rump. Few men would pass an ailing horse—especially such a horse as this. He delayed long enough to remove the saddle and found it a taxing and wearisome task. Then, repeating his command that the stallion remain, he started off. He heard Rump whinny anxiously. Tears blinded him and a lump was in his throat. “Thomas,” he managed, “Look after the old fool for me.” Hoofbeats again, coming from the west. His heart missed a beat as he saw blurry but unmistakable red uniforms. He took to his heels and ran into the woods.

  At midnight, he was crawling, his lungs on fire, a spear turning remorselessly in his side, but he refused to stop, concentrating on Fiona’s sweet face and what life would offer if only he could win through. Sometime in the night he slept, but started up again to the sound of a ragged drum beat and staggered on.

  Dawn came. He was dizzied and his head felt strange. It must be, he thought dully, because he’d not eaten for so long. He frowned around at the trees that loomed up through the gloom. They looked familiar, especially that oak which had been struck by lightning. Had he been here before? Maledictions! Was he going in circles? He peered at the sky, but the sun was not yet risen, the clouds so thick he could not tell which way was east. Only he could hear the drum—ever louder, and eager excited howls. Lord, was there no end to it? Did they never sleep? They must have found some sign of him. He’d fallen so many times, he’d likely left broken branches to mark his route. Must keep on. Must keep trying.