Dedicated Villain (33 page)

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.

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.”

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.”