Dedicated Villain (2 page)

‘'Tis very obvious,' thought Fiona Bradford, burying her face in Torrey's lace-edged cravat, ‘that a girl can know a gentle, well bred-up boy all her life and know him not at all!' She drew back her foot. It was a tiny foot, encased in a very high-heeled sandal, and she dealt her admirer a swift kick with it. Unhappily this resulted in more damage to her toes than to Mr. Torrey's shin. She emitted a wail of frustration and her struggles were further hampered by the need to hop on one foot.

“Let—me—
go
!” she panted, pushing at him furiously.

A large young man was Mr. Freemon Torrey, with a husky physique, thickly waving auburn hair now well powdered, and a fine pair of blue eyes that blazed with ardour. Not a few young ladies sighed over him and found him extreme good to look at, but Mr. Torrey had given his heart long since, and his devotion remained undimmed despite occasional brief dalliances into easier fields and the fact that his lady refused to admit she returned his affections.

“Sweeting,” he said, his voice low-pitched with desire, “you know how dearly I love you.” He seized her chin with one hand and forced it up as he smiled down into her bewitching, if enraged
little face. “'Tis Francis's fondest wish that you should become my wife, and—” his fervent utterance terminated in a yelp as his beloved demonstrated the depth of her feelings by sinking her teeth into his hand.

“I'm sorry,” gasped Fiona, succeeding in wrenching herself free and running back a few paces. She blew at a curl that had become dishevelled and was hanging over one eye. “Oh! Now my hair is all come down! Really, Torrey, you have
no
right, absolutely
none
, to—” She broke off, groped under the wide sash tied about her tiny waist, and a small knife glittered menacingly in her hand. “Oh no you don't!”

Angered, he had started forward, but the knife gave him pause. He stared in astonishment, then said indignantly, “Biting is not bad enough! You must resort to knives as well! A pretty way for a lady to behave, 'pon my word!”

“You know perfectly well that I never have had time to learn how to be a lady. Francis gave me this knife whilst we was in Spain, and since you have been bosom bows all your lives, you can apprehend he taught me how to use it! And furthermore, Freemon Torrey,” she gave her bodice a little straightening tug, “it may be his wish that I wed you, but could my dear brother have seen you mauling me just now, he'd likely have tossed you into the river and warned you never to darken our door again!”

Nursing his smarting hand, he frowned, but it was a glorious afternoon and Miss Bradford presented a delectable sight as she stood there on the bank of the Avon, the soft breeze flirting with the great skirts of her primrose taffety gown, the warm autumn sunlight sparkling on the water behind her and drawing golden gleams from her tumbled light brown curls. She could not really be termed a beauty, for she was neither tall nor blessed with a straight, Grecian nose or a rosebud mouth. In point of fact, she stood just over fifty-nine inches in her stockinged feet (wherefore she wore high heels). Her nose was very small and uptilted at the end, and her upper lip was a touch too short although, all things considered, it was a vivid and most enticing little mouth. Her eyes were light green and rather narrow,
and she had a determined chin, both of which features Mr. Torrey found regrettable, but the eyes seemed always to hold a lurking smile, and the dimple that had a mischievous way of peeping beside her lower lip, more than compensated for the firm chin.

She was scowling at him, but his own frown had faded into an indulgent smile. Her hair had indeed come down. The thick ringlets were a loose but lovely mass on her creamy shoulders, and he had succeeded in disturbing the laces that foamed about her bodice so that the sweet swelling curves of her ample bosom were more evident than usual. The obliging breeze billowed her skirts again affording him a glimpse of a pair of shapely ankles. Sighing, Mr. Torrey said with patience but a sad lack of diplomacy, “I admire your morals, dearest girl, but you have been of marriageable age these four years and more and …”

Fiona's eyes flashed fire. “I am just past one and twenty,” she exclaimed indignantly.

“Exactly so. And I have waited long enough. 'Tis high time we were wed and setting up our nursery. You know your papa endorses Francis's wishes. He has given me every encouragement and only today remarked that we would deal very well together.”

This was a telling stroke, for Fiona was devoted to her erratic parent and the brother who two months earlier had barely escaped England with his head and now dwelt in France. “Perhaps,” she said with pronounced acerbity, “papa misunderstood your meaning and fancied you to be referring to the cards!”

Torrey grinned. “Vixen! He did no such thing, nor were we playing cards for I came to discuss our holiday—until his steward claimed his attention.” He drew a jewelled watch from the pocket of his blue satin waistcoat and glanced at it uneasily. “Three o'clock almost. Gad! I promised him I'd take you only for a short drive. He's likely done with Allard long since and awaiting me. Come, sweeting, and we can make our wedding plans on the way back to the house.”

Fiona levelled her knife in business-like fashion. “Whatever
plans I may have do not include you, Freemon. Be off with you! And you may tell Papa why I sent you packing—if you dare! Go away! I mean it! Go and chatter about your silly holiday—though why two grown men should wish to jaunter about in a caravan like any gypsies, is beyond me!”

It seemed to her that for the briefest instant a grimness came into Torrey's blue eyes. Then he gave her a resigned smile and started towards the light coach that waited up on the road.

He looked well in his dark blue
habit à la française
, the excellent cut of the coat emphasizing the breadth of his powerful shoulders. Watching his manly figure, regret touched Fiona. He was her brother's dearest friend, and Francis probably did hope she would wed him. It would please her to gratify her beloved brother, but unless Papa insisted upon it, she would not wed Freemon. This was not because she hoped to love her husband. Love matches were rare, and Grandmama held they were vulgar. Still, one would wish to have at the least liking and admiration for the man with whom one would spend the rest of one's days. And nights! She did not
dis
like Freemon, of course. They'd been friends forever. But of late she felt uncomfortable in his presence, and his blazing temper and too easily awoken jealousy bored her. She frowned thoughtfully, and wondered why that should be so. By comparison with some of Francis's more colourful companions, Torrey was a paragon of virtue. He'd had his share of
affaires de coeur
of course, but he had remained faithful to her as his choice for a mate. He did not gamble excessively, he was unfailingly good-humoured—even at the breakfast table! His address was good, his manners nice (usually!), and his fortune far from contemptible. As Mrs. Freemon Torrey she would become mistress of Torrey Park—no mean attainment, even if a title was nowhere in the offing. Yet the very thought of becoming his wife, bearing his children, made her say aloud an emphatic “No!” Again—why? He was not a bad man. Most of her friends regarded him as an excellent catch and shook their heads over her resistance. Could it be that she took him for granted? His sire and her papa had been
bosom bows all their lives; Francis and Torrey enjoyed a similar depth of friendship, and she herself was extreme fond of Torrey's younger sister, Moira. Torrey Park was only ten miles away, and both families were in London yearly for the Season. Thus, she had known Freemon all her life. Might that be the difficulty?

She gave an impatient little shrug. If it was, she would soon have a chance to miss him, for he and Papa were bound and determined to sally forth in their caravan to, as Papa put it, “Savour the rural charms of our lovely land.” She would miss dear Papa … especially with Francis now so far away. ‘
Safely
away, thanks to Ligun Doone!' she thought, and sent up a small and silent prayer for the gallant gentleman who had spirited so many Jacobite fugitives from under the very shadow of the axe.

“Are you sure you won't come, Fiona?” Torrey was leaning from the window of the coach, shouting to her.

He'd likely not dare maul her again, not with his coachman and footman within call. But the prospect of his close proximity did not appeal. She shook her head and waved him on, then watched the departing coach rather glumly. It was a glorious day, but it was also unseasonably warm and a long walk back to Blackberry Manor. Furthermore, her toes were bruised. At least she had her wide-brimmed hat to protect her from the bright sun. She took it up from the grassy bank where it had fallen when Torrey became so odiously amorous. Tying the yellow ribands under her chin, she started off.

She had gone less than half a mile when a donkey cart came rattling along the lane and pulled up beside her.

Mr. Allard, her father's gruff steward who had dangled her on his knee when she was a babe and who she knew adored her, drew the donkey to a halt and raised his tricorne respectfully. “'Tis not a coach of state, Miss Fiona, but—an you would care to ride …?”

Already hot and with her toes more uncomfortable than ever, Fiona gave a squeak of gratitude and was duly handed up onto the seat.

Allard drove to a wider part in the tree-shaded lane and turned the cart deftly. “I saw Mr. Torrey come home,” he said noncommittally. “Thought you was with him, miss.”

“I was.”

The steward's rather small brown eyes flickered to her grim little face and were lit by a spark of amusement. Young Torrey was fairly panting for the girl, but had picked the wrong one to play off his Romeo airs on. Still, she looked dishevelled as well as vexed, which infuriated him. He said impulsively, “If you ever need a—er, helping hand, Miss Fiona. I mean—seeing as Mr. Francis is away, and your papa … er …”

“Regards Mr. Torrey as a second son?” she supplied with a rueful sigh.

The steward had never been very communicative. He looked embarrassed now, but nodded, then said, “I hope you will forgive if I speak out of turn, miss.”

Her heart warmed, she laid her mittened hand on his arm. “You do not. I am most grateful for your interest, Mr. Allard.”

The touch of her hand quite broke down his reserve. He faced her squarely. “Some of us do worry a bit. You—well, you should have a chaperone, or—”

“Or a governess!” She laughed merrily. “Poor souls—they tried so hard to make a lady of me!”

“And did a very nice job of it, if I may be so bold. 'Specially seeing as you was so often drug—I mean travelling about Europe with the master. 'Tis just—well, your papa might not always see what— That is, your being a young lady now, and—” He checked with a gasp of shock as a small but razor-sharp blade flashed under his nose.

“I am armed, you see,” said Fiona with a giggle. “And Mr. Francis taught me how to use it, if I have to, which God forbid. So you must not worry for my sake, my friend.”

Her friend! The steward's loyal heart soared. What a very dear young lady she was, to be sure. “Showed it to him, did you, miss?” he said, grinning broadly.

Fiona nodded. “Mr. Allard,” she said thoughtfully, replacing
the knife in its leather sheath. “If you were my papa—just supposing, you know—would you look upon Mr. Torrey as—as a second son …?”

Allard's mouth set into a hard line. “No, miss,” he said with emphasis. “I would not!”

Blackberry Manor was a large square, grey brick house of the Tudor style. Mr. Mervyn Bradford had seen fit to Italianize it with much ornamentation on the exterior and great elaborately carved mantelpieces and ceilings inside. Francis Bradford endorsed these “beautifications” as enthusiastically as his sister deplored them, but she had to admit he was probably right, for the “improvements” had caused much local comment and several neighbours had expressed the intention of bringing their own properties “up to style.”

Having no wish to encounter Freemon Torrey again, Fiona entered the house by a rear door. She felt dispirited as she made her way along the cool hall, taking off her hat and attempting to tidy her hair. The ornate gilt mirror that hung opposite the large dining parlour showed her a flushed face and a shockingly disarranged bodice. The hat had crushed her hair on top, and the fallen curls were tangled and untidy. “Frightful Fiona,” she advised her reflection.

An instant later she heard her father's voice from the book-room she had just passed. “… seeking me, Freemon, but we must not be interrupted again! Come.”

He sounded stern and Fiona felt a pang of anxiety. Papa had been quite shattered when Freemon's father, his closest friend, had died very suddenly a little over a year ago. Less than a month later her brother had gone rushing off to fight for Bonnie Prince Charlie. Mervyn Bradford had long despised the House of Hanover, so it was no surprise that his son should have enlisted in the ranks of the Scots rebels. Papa had hidden his
worries under his customary carefree manner, but Fiona knew how deep those worries had been. They had both been frantic last April when word had come of the shocking Scots defeat on Culloden Moor, and the subsequent brutal hunting down and slaughter of Jacobite fugitives. Her brother had fortunately had the foresight to volunteer under an assumed name, so they had been protected from the dreadful reprisals taken against families of known Jacobites, but for months they'd been unable to discover whether Francis was alive or dead. With typical rashness, Papa had determined to go in search of his son, and several times it had been all that Fiona could do to dissuade him from so dangerous and forlorn an endeavour. Then, tales had begun to drift down to the Southland about a mysterious individual named Ligun Doone, who had set himself to rescue as many as possible of the hapless fugitives. It was a ray of hope, but long weeks had passed before Torrey had brought word that Francis had indeed been helped by Mr. Doone and was at last safely in France.