Dedicated Villain (10 page)

Mutually enraged, the two men glared at each other.

“Many more, sir,” drawled Mathieson, his voice quivering with passion. “Faith, but my by-blows fairly treble the population! You can tell 'em,” he held out his left hand “by the fingers.”

Now it chanced that down through the centuries certain men of the House of Mathieson were born with a small defect, this being that the middle and third fingers of the left hand were identical in length, instead of only the middle finger being longer than the others. It was such a small flaw that few people had even noticed it, but the duke himself had inherited this peculiarity.

His Grace's breath hissed through his teeth. He stood very still, staring down at his grandson's hand. Then he moved a step closer. Through a long moment of almost unbearable tension Mathieson was sure he was going to be slapped for such impertinence, and he thought, ‘Hit me, you arrogant, opinionated old devil! See if I give one damn!' But in that moment, looking into the cold, proud features of this noble kinsman, he suffered a sharp and contrary pang of remorse.

“You compound insolence, sir,” said Marbury in that same hushed yet awful voice.

Mathieson's head bowed. “Yes. Your pardon, duke.”

“How regrettable it is, that even when we do occasionally meet, 'tis only to quarrel. You may leave now.” Marbury turned away and seated himself at the easel once more, and Beast sank
down beside him and arranged his head comfortably upon the worn boot.

Mathieson said his farewells in a polite, colourless voice and strode off, refusing to allow himself to limp.

The duke's eyes followed the lithe erect figure, noting the slight cavalry swagger to the walk. “What a great pity, Beast,” he murmured sadly, “that Dudley was so very young when that mercenary little Frenchwoman lured him to Paris and broke his heart so that he would not even acknowledge their son. By the time I found Roland, the wretched trollop had thoroughly poisoned the boy's mind 'gainst his family. And how splendid he might have been, instead of so utterly immoral, so lacking a single particle of decency.”

Beast offering nothing more comforting than a snore, Marbury sighed and turned wistfully to the beauteous face on the canvas. “I'm an old fool,” he confessed. “But—just sometimes, you know, I cannot help but think of … what might have been.”

He took up his brush but did not use it, continuing to gaze at the canvas, remembering. A deep voice echoed in his thoughts; ‘one of two living things, your Grace …' A slow smile crept into his eyes. Perhaps, after all, there
was
a faint vestige of affection in that merciless young devil …

“Hmmnn …” murmured the duke, and gently removed his foot from under Beast's heavy head.

After a hearty luncheon Mathieson went somewhat apprehensively into the yard, but there was no sign of his noble grandsire. The old boy had taken himself off. Without a word. Natural enough, and just as well, of course. But he kicked a stone across the cobbles with brooding concentration until Rumpelstiltskin's friendly whicker lifted his spirits. The stallion had been rubbed down, fed and watered, and was well rested,
and in a very few minutes Mathieson was riding out of the yard and into the hills.

Late afternoon found him following a high ridge, still keeping to cover wherever possible, and irritable because he had as yet seen no sign of his quarry. Of course, with the weather as bad as it had been last evening, it
was
possible that he had outdistanced MacTavish. That worry, which came more and more frequently, made him glance back the way he had come, but there was no sign of anyone save for a farm labourer, made small with distance, plodding along behind a plough.

Turning again, Mathieson tensed, every nerve suddenly alert. Down the slope to his right a solitary horse was grazing. A saddled but riderless bay mare, the reins trailing. He guided Rumpelstiltskin into a copse of beeches, whispered a command that he stay, and dismounted. His ankle all but forgotten, he moved swiftly and silently to reconnoitre. There was no sign of a rider. Perhaps MacTavish had left his bride in some safe haven and gone on alone. The Scot had, Mathieson knew, taken a tidy blow on the head last week. Perhaps, in riding, he had exhausted himself and toppled from the saddle. But even if that remotely possible sequence of events had taken place, where was he? Also, MacTavish had an eye for a horse, and this animal was a rawboned mare of poor conformation and advanced years. Of course, MacTavish might have been obliged to hire whatever was available. At all events, decided Mathieson, circling the mare, it behooved him to proceed with caution. Opposite him now was a shallow depression, much overgrown by shrubs and stunted trees. Perhaps MacTavish had spotted him and was lying in wait, musket aimed.

“Thomas,” whispered Mathieson, “are you at work this afternoon?” One could but hope that saints did not slough off their obligations on Sunday afternoons and go fishing (as had been the case in his nightmare), just when they were most needed.

There was a wide stretch of open grassland between himself and the depression, but, taking advantage of the flurryings of
the branches during a sustained wind gust, he ran across the turf and down into the depression. He discovered too late that it was much deeper than it had appeared. The “shrubs” he had seen were in fact the tops of small trees, and the “stunted” trees now appeared as healthy specimens twenty- or thirty-feet tall. He shot down a near vertical slope, but his frantic attempt to hold his balance failed as his game ankle gave out under him, and he tripped and rolled helplessly, crashing into various obstructions until brought up short by a violent collision with some immovable object. The breath knocked out of him, he lay there, hoping dizzily that MacTavish was not advancing on him with sword drawn, and thankful that he did not appear to have broken any bones during his precipitous descent.

Despite the absence of any major discomfort, he was groaning painfully, which was an affront to his pride. His attempt to choke off the sounds, failed. This was puzzling, and he lay there, frowning up into the tossing branches of the tree, wondering if he was more seriously hurt than he realized.

Gradually, his befuddled head cleared and with a return of rational thought it was borne in upon him that the sounds he heard did not emanate from his own throat. He propped himself on one elbow and, peering about, discerned one of the objects with which he had collided. It lay some way up the bank—the huddled figure of a man. The Scot? Mathieson gathered himself together, stumbled to his feet, and reeled to the prone victim.

“Rob? I'd no intent to …” But as he drew nearer his words faltered to a stop. The man was pitiably emaciated; unkempt, unshaven, a living skeleton clad in ragged coat and breeches, his long dark hair tangled about a cadaverous face lit by two blue eyes that blinked from darkly shadowed hollows. From the white lips of this pathetic creature a name was whispered incredulously. “R-Roly …?”

“Good God!” Mathieson dropped to one knee. “Are you … not—” Again, his sentence went unfinished as he stared into
that ravaged face. It
could
not be! The eyes were the same, but—dear heaven! “Bill …?” he breathed, horrified.

A quivering smile dawned. A claw-like hand trembled out to touch his arm. Mathieson was so stunned he could not speak for an instant, but his own strong fingers closed over that feeble clasp. “My … poor fellow!” he faltered. “What on earth …? Were you set upon, or—”

He gestured, impatient with himself. William Bond, whom he last had seen wearing the dashing uniform of a lieutenant of light cavalry, was in terrible straits. Old Bill, to whom he owed more than he could ever repay, without whom he would surely have died three years ago in that ghastly Flanders hut! Bill must have medical attention! And soon! He clambered up. “Hang on, old sportsman. I've some brandy in my saddlebags. I'll—”

Bond gave a feeble wave of the hand. “No … time … Roly, I'm … done … but—”

“No, no!” argued Mathieson, appalled, but kneeling again. “We'll have you to a doctor, and you'll be well in no time! Can you get up if I help?” He slid an arm under his friend and was further dismayed by the ease with which he was able to lift those fragile shoulders. A well-built fellow had been Bond. A sportsman to his fingertips, full of energy and laughter and mischief. What on earth could have happened to him? He was of good family, and, even if he'd lost his entire inheritance, it was hard to conceive that in only three years he could have come to such a tragic pass.

Bond's coat fell open then, and Mathieson caught a glimpse of a darkly stained bandage. He ceased his efforts at once. “You're hurt! Whatever—” And he caught his breath to the awareness that there might be a tragically logical explanation for the tattered clothing; the dirty bandages. “
Mon Dieu!
Bill—never say—” He groaned. “You infernal lamebrain! You're involved with those blasted rebels!”

Another faint grin tugged at the pallid lips. “I … am Catholic, Roly. Half Scots. Was out with … with Charlie …”

Stunned, Mathieson stared down at him. Bill? Dear old
Bill—an accursed stupid Jacobite? And, Lord, but he looked as if his life was measured in seconds! A lump rose in his throat. “To hell with that,” he said gruffly. “I'm going after the brandy!”

The thin hand tightened on his arm. “No,” Bond panted. “Desperate. Need—your help. Don't leave … me …”

Mathieson bit his lip and sat down, cradling Bond in his arms, trying to shield him from the wind. “Anything you ask, my pippin,” he said in a voice that very few people had ever heard. “I'll not leave you. Only tell me what you would have me do. Then we must find you a doctor.”

“No—use,” sighed Bond wearily. “Thank God you … came … Sorry to involve—”

“Idiot. D'you think I'll ever forget how you came back for me across enemy lines? D'you think I've forgotten how you hauled me all that way—got me to that clean farm and decent care?”

“Clean! Place was … little better than—than your hovel. 'Sides, you'd've … done … same. This means—frightful risk and—”

“Risk my eye! But for you I'd not have had these three years! Name it, Bill. Do you want me to get you home? Must I take news to your mama?”

The untidy head stirred weakly against his arm. The voice was fainter now. “Letter hidden … must tell friends … where 'tis …”

A letter? Mathieson's thoughts raced. When instructions for a more secure storage of the treasure had been sent down from Scotland, it had been by way of four coded poems, each containing part of the message. The cyphers had been carried by four different couriers, and a desperate race they had run, with the soldiers, the populace, and a crew of bounty hunters hard after them. But the cyphers had all been delivered safely, he knew that much. Only one thing remained—the list of those who had contributed the gold and valuables to the Jacobite Cause. All the couriers had been relentlessly hunted, with large rewards offered for their capture, but the man carrying the list
rated the highest reward and bore the heaviest responsibility. With the uneasy suspicion that poor Bill was the fifth courier, he looked down.

Bond was watching him. “Please, Roly. Life or death to … so many …”

Mathieson said quietly, “The list, is it?”

The pleading eyes widened. “You—know? You—you're one of us … then?”

One of them? It was comical, really it was! How shocked this brave man would be had he the faintest idea of how far from being “one of them” was his good comrade! But Bill did not know, and this was no time for the truth. “No,” he replied smoothly, “I'm no Jacobite. But some of your people are my good friends. Go on, Bill. Where is the confounded—”

Bond's face convulsed suddenly, and he was gasping in anguish. Mathieson gripped a claw-like hand and held it firmly until the frightful paroxysm eased, and Bond lay limp and trembling in his arms. Whether he had fainted or was simply too weak to open his eyes, was hard to tell, but Mathieson had seen that greyish shade of skin often enough that he knew the end was near, so he made no attempt to investigate the wound or to fetch the brandy, but settled his friend as comfortably as was possible, spread his cloak over him, and sat quietly, not moving save to touch the drawn cheek from time to time, to be sure life remained.

The wind blew, the rain started to come down, and the moments slid past, and still he sat there, keeping Bond as warm as he could, and waiting.

It seemed a very long time and his legs were getting numb before the blue eyes opened and blinked up at him. In a stronger voice, Bond said, “Oh, hello, Roly. You're still here. You know about the list, do you?”

Mathieson had seen such a revival before. He bit his lip but it was all he could do to answer calmly. “I expect 'tis the famous list we hear so much about. All the names of those who contributed in response to Charles Stuart's call for funds. And a
proper death warrant for the lot of 'em if that piece of paper falls into military hands. A fine pickle you've got yourself into, my William.”