Dedicated Villain (50 page)

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 low 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.

The hours crawled past and he struggled on doggedly until
the voices were louder and seemed to come from every direction at once. Panic took him then. He ran with the strength of desperation until he fell, sobbing and gulping for breath like a hunted animal. It came to him that this must be how poor Quentin Chandler had felt when he and that hound Joseph Montgomery had tracked the wounded Jacobite down. He gave a faint, ironic laugh. The way of the hero … as he'd always known. A fine pickle he'd got himself into!

It must have been noon when he dragged himself up a slope and at the top the ground suddenly fell away. He rolled helplessly and lay sprawled in the mud at the foot, too tired to lift a finger. The stubborn flame of hope was quenched at last. He was finished, he knew, and he was so exhausted and spent he was almost glad. Heavy feet were running to him; a harsh, exultant voice rang and echoed in his ears. It would be Lambert, of course so he must find the strength to reach the pistol. He fought to drag the weapon from his pocket, cursing when it resisted his efforts. At last it was in his hand. It was very heavy. He saw the running boots now, and swung it upward. The boots halted.

Mathieson whispered, “
Maman … Je vous demande … pardon
…” And he closed his eyes, pressed the muzzle to his temple and pulled the trigger.

There was a click, nothing more. The powder, of course, was wet. What a sorry fool not to have realized it!

The boots were beside him. He blinked up into a rage-contorted face, saw the glitter of a high-swung bayonet, then was gasping to the sharp agony of goring steel.

The last thing he heard was Lambert … raving …

Life, reflected Benjamin Hessell, was a bitter pill. What's more, it was fulla meanness and trickery. Here he'd wheedled and stole and trudged his way clear up to Liverpool and back again, thinking as that there Otton was on to something good at last. And what had it got him? An empty belly, a perishing cold, and he'd damn near been scragged by that wicked and evil Brooks Lambert—may he rot! Bitta luck he'd cadged a ride with that carter, even if it had only got him this far. At least he was not much more than thirty-five mile from home. Give or take a mile.

He interrupted his gloomy introspection to look around the tap. Perishing farmers. All wot they could talk abaht was cows and corn, cows and corn! Cor! Enough ter make yer sick! The ale wasn't too bad though, considering as this was such a small tavern, on the north fringe of Cricklade which wasn't exactly no roaring city. Lor', but he hated the country! Give him the Big Smoke any day!

He fumbled in his pocket, wondering if he had enough coins to pay for another tankard. He'd gotta think of dinner. Might be able ter prig something, but you couldn't always count on it. He wouldn't've been able ter buy himself the sausage and pickles
or the first tankard, if he hadn't of earned a shilling loading a river barge fer two days. A fine thing when a man had to
work
fer his vittles! He found himself the possessor of a groat, a ha'penny, three farthings and the silver button Otton had given him. At least, it
looked
to be silver. He eyed the host thoughtfully. Wonder if the fat old clown would buy it—or take it in exchange fer—

A commotion from outside cut into his musings. A steady drumbeat, many horses, and a confusion of catcalls and whistles. That'd be soldiers. Likely they'd caught some slippery Jakeybite. Together with the other occupants of The Swan, he stood and hurried to the door.