Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns (17 page)

Marietta had been petted and praised, becoming quite the
heroine of
the deadly incident. In private she was congratulated because Mr.
Coville had returned apparently as enamoured of her as before. But,
although her nerves were calmer now, she felt depressed and unhappy.
Her aunt's words irked her, and she said, "Why either of you should be
afraid of the Major, I cannot think. He deceived us certainly, and told
the most dreadful untruths, which is past forgiving. But I won't
believe he meant us harm."

''He harmed Arthur," said Fanny stubbornly.

''You know that was unintentional, and he has since made the
boy very
happy. Indeed, what we are to tell the little fellow, I do not know.
He'll miss Diccon so."

Mrs. Cordova nodded. "Yes, he will. You can't deny that, Fan."

''Perhaps not," said Fanny. "But I'm very glad Mr. Coville is
here
again, so that Etta can put the wicked creature out of her mind."

''The 'wicked creature,' " said Marietta, "probably saved my
life
this afternoon! Had he not pushed me aside when Mr. Coville fired, I
might very well have been hit."

Fanny had been unaware of that fact. Dismayed, she exclaimed,
"Then
I owe him an apology, and my most fervent thanks. But—oh, dear! I still
cannot like a man who has kidnapped his poor mama."

Marietta said, "I don't believe for a minute that he has done
such a thing!"

''Then you believe that Sir Gavin and Blake Coville are lying?"

''Say, rather, that I think they must be mistaken."

Fanny sighed, and said dubiously, "But consider all the fibs
the
Major has told us, and how skillfully he evades an issue if he doesn't
wish to answer."

''Evasions, yes," admitted Marietta. "He has many faults, I
admit.
I'll just not believe that murder is among them. Don't you agree,
Aunty?"

Mrs. Cordova pursed her lips, leaned to whisper in "Captain
Cameron's" ear, then said gravely, "I have no doubts at all, my love.
He has killed. Oh, yes. Our noble landlord has killed!"

''Aunty!" cried Marietta, taken aback. "I thought you liked
him!"

''But I do, child! I like him very well. Only Fan is perfectly
right
to be afraid of him. We all should be. He is a very dangerous man—even
as his step-brother told us!"

'Ye've got three bullet holes in ye, aside from that musket
ball you
hauled around in your back for yearrrs!" MacDougall's accent was very
broad as he slammed a plate of perfectly cooked eggs and juicy pink
slices of ham onto the kitchen table. "Ye've been knifed and beaten and
had a great rogue horse trrrample ye half tae death—" As if to
emphasize this unhappy inventory a bowl of buttered toast and a pot of
jam joined the plate. He turned to the coffee pot that was hissing
fragrantly on the hob. "And for—what?" he demanded, snatching it up.
"What hae ye tae show fer all that meeserrrry? Is there never tae be an
end of thumbing yer nose at Fate?"

Diccon reached for the damson jam, his thoughts on a certain
idyllic tea party. "What would you suggest?" he asked absently.

''I'd suggest," growled MacDougall, dashing coffee into a mug,
"that
ye turrrn yer back on the whole ungrrrrateful parcel of 'em! May they
rot! I'd suggest," he went on, thrusting the steaming mug in front of
his employer, "that we go back tae Toon, kick yon parrrasites oot o'
your fine hoosie, and that ye take your place in Society as is your
rrright and bounden—"

''You know how I feel on that subject," interrupted Diccon, an
edge
of impatience to his voice. "As for the town house, my hands are tied.
I cannot prove my right to it without leaving myself open to immediate
arrest."

''Which I warned ye would be the case," said the Scot grimly.
"So
what are we tae do, then? Wait here for the Swiss and his mountain tae
come and slaughter us? They know ye're here, mon! That thieving varmint
who brrroke in here was Monteil's spy, else why was nothing taken?"

''Probably because you interrupted him before he'd the chance.
No,
Mac," Diccon waved his fork to cut off MacDougall's indignant response.
"I mean to stay here. Lanterns is my heritage and it's been abandoned
and neglected for too long.I can all but hear my ancestors demanding
that I restore it. This is a beautiful spot—"

''And a beauty up the hill," muttered MacDougall under his
breath.

Ignoring that shot, Diccon went on, "—And I intend to make the
manor beautiful also."

MacDougall dared to say with heavy sarcasm, "Planning on
spending a deal o' the rrrready, are ye, sir?"

''Of which I have very little, is that what you mean, damn
your impudence?"

''Och aweigh, I'll own I shouldna hae' said it," mumbled the
Scot
repentantly. "There's times, just noo and then, ye mind, when I'm
drrrriven tae forgetting me place. I ask y'r pardon, my—"

''Do not
dare
throw that blasted title
at me! And as for your 'place'—you need not be acting the part of a
humble servant, for once!"

MacDougall looked injured, and maintained a stiff silence
while
slamming dishes about, and Diccon returned his attention to his
breakfast.

But they had been together for a long time. On a few occasions
they
had fought side-by-side, and if the Scot had not been allowed to
accompany Diccon on his more desperate adventures, he'd never failed to
rush to his bedside when he was hurt or ill. After the manner of old
family retainers, MacDougall exercised the right to a little judicious
bullying. Sometimes, more than a little. But no one knew better than
Diccon that his courage never wavered and his loyalty was beyond
question. Which presented a problem. He'd been an eighteen-year-old
ensign and the Scot twice his age when the man had become his batman.
So Mac was now past fifty. He was still hale and hearty, but this
particular kettle offish was liable to be very nasty.

''Besides," he said, holding out his mug to be refilled.
"Business may—er, pick up."

"
Business
!" snorted MacDougall, wielding
the coffee pot.

Diccon said quietly, "Because I choose the rural life is not
to say you must. You prefer Town, Mac, and I know many gentlemen who'd
be more than glad of your services. Do but say the word, and I'll send
off some letters at once."

MacDougall, who had stood watching him from under frowning
brows,
drew in his breath with an audible hiss, banged down the coffee pot,
and stamped from the room without a word.

Diccon could all but hear the skirl of Highland pipes
accompanying that regal exit. "Phew!" he muttered.

The Scot had likely guessed why he would never leave here, and
just
as likely thought him all about in his head. He sighed. Which he was.
Who'd ever have suspected that the long perilous years would culminate
in his coming to his own estate and finding the lady who might well
have been fashioned from his dreams? Or that Fate would be so unkind as
to give her some quite logical reasons to despise and distrust him?
That she'd not been snapped up by some fellow in Town did but prove
what a silly, empty-headed lot they were. But at any day a sensible man
of wealth and position might come along and see her sweetness and
courage and beauty. And, worshipping her, would be able to offer all
that she deserved. Which was, he thought miserably, as it should be.

These past two days had been dreary stretches of emptiness. He
missed her so much that it was a continuing ache in his heart. And he
missed the boy also. He'd not gone near the dower house, but he had
looked that way often. Very often. And he'd caught not so much as a
glimpse of Mrs. Gillespie, or the tail of Friar Tuck. Of course, it had
rained most of the time, the greyness adding to his gloom. He'd kept
busy, inspecting the house and grounds, and making plans for repairs,
but he could not banish Marietta from his thoughts. What was she doing
at this very moment? Helping Mrs. Cordova replace "Dora Leith's" head?
Singing in her soft pretty voice as she dusted or polished? Worrying
over those damnable bills? Did she ever think of him at all? And if he
did come into her mind, was he remembered with disgust or—

''What ye mean!" snarled MacDougall, erupting into the kitchen
red-faced and wrathful, "is that ye're packing me off oot o' harm's
way, as ye've done before and before! Ye think tae sit here alone,
eating your hearrrt oot for the bonnie lassie up yon, and waiting for
Monteil and his mountain tae come and put a perrriod tae ye!"

''Devil take you, Mac!" exclaimed Diccon, starting up
guiltily, "I—"

''Well, I'll nae have it, d'ye hear?" roared his man, banging
a
clenched fist on the table and causing all the dishes to jump. "If ye
mean tae be such a muckle fool as tae bide in this godforsaken
glummery, then I'll bide too, so dinna be trying tae be rrrid o' the
MacDougall!" And with another soundless skirl of the pipes he marched
out, pausing before he slammed the door behind him to add a
provocative, "Your lorrrdship!"

Diccon shook his head and shrugged into his coat. He'd tried.
"Thimblewit," he muttered fondly, and went out to visit his less
belligerent four-legged friends.

The sky was mantled with heavy grey clouds but the rain had
eased to
a drizzle. Orpheus was grazing in the deep grass of the paddock behind
the stables. He cantered to the fence to exchange greetings with his
master, then went off at full gallop, tail and mane flying. The little
donkey was indulging his morning sulks in a corner of the old barn
where the roof was still intact. Diccon went into the stall and handed
over the letter that Mac had brought from the village post office
yesterday, and Mr. Fox closed his eyes and digested it with
appreciation. Taking up the currycomb, Diccon went to work, chatting
with the animal as was his habit.

''I hope you are taking note of what you're chewing. It's from
Smollet. He has another little bit of business for me, and I'll tell
you frankly, I don't like the smell of it. I sometimes think I missed
my calling. I should have followed a respectable trade. Been a parson
or a diplomatist or some such—"

A trill interrupted him. Mr. Fox snorted and peered at the
ginger-and-white intruder that was wrapping itself about his master's
boots.

''Well, well," said Diccon, putting the comb on the rail and
picking up the visitor. "I thought pussycats didn't like rain."

Friar Tuck purred and rubbed his whiskers against the fingers
that scratched so competently behind his ear.

''Why did you run 'way?" enquired a small, accusing voice.

Diccon turned to confront a bedraggled outlaw. One did not
advise
'Robin of Sherwood' that his tunic was soaked or that his feather was
sagging. "I expect Miss Marietta told you why," he evaded cautiously.

''Friends don't go 'way an' not say g'bye, even if they do got
work to do," said Robin. "I missed you."

''I'm very sorry, old fellow, and I'm glad you came to see me.
If it's allowed."

''Outlaws does things what's not 'lowed. That's why they're
called
outlaws. 'Sides, Aunty Dova keeps forgetting her part. Yest'day she was
'sposed to be Queen Guin'vere an' she started being Merlin instead.
What good is that?"

''I'm sure she tried. But we mustn't worry your—your family.
I'd better take you back."

The small face fell.

''Soon," Diccon added quickly. "But we'll have some hot
chocolate
first, if you don't mind. I'm rather cold. And we never did finish our
hold-up, did we?"

''No. An' you said you'd got some d'livers for The Dancing
Master."

''So I did! And I still have them. Come along, and I'll
deliver them
now. Or perhaps you could be The Dancing Master on the way home."

Arthur thought about it, but said with proper integrity that
he didn't have the highwayman's mask.

''Oh, I think we can make one," said Diccon.

''What about Friar Tuck? I 'spect he'd like some milk."

''We'll steal some for him from the Lord of the Larder."

''A'right." A small hand slipped trustingly into his own. "Is
he a terr'ble genie sort of lord?"

''Dreadful! With a great fierce voice and big boots that make
the floors shake."

Arthur sighed contentedly. "Good. I
knowed
you'd make everything all right, Sir G'waine."

To love and be loved, thought Diccon, did not make life easier.

MacDougall's scolding was reserved for private moments with
his
employer, and he was all polite deference as he hung Robin Hood's tunic
before the kitchen stove, wrapped the boy in a blanket, set out a dish
of milk for Friar Tuck, and prepared the hot chocolate. He saw nothing
untoward in Arthur's awed eyes and subdued behavior and would have been
surprised to know that the boy thought him very fierce indeed.

They had a merry visit. Diccon could not in honour ask the
questions
he yearned to have answered, but Arthur chattered on gaily, so that he
did learn something of the activities of his beloved. She was always
busy it seemed, and thought "a lot of big thoughts" because when people
spoke to her she didn't sometimes answer. The Widow Maitland had called
and gone down to Papa's workroom, but had started screaming.

Diccon exchanged a surprised glance with MacDougall. "Do you
know why?"

Arthur said solemnly that the widow had tried out his father's
new
invention without permission and—here, he lapsed into shrieks of
laughter—"It got caught in her hair!"

Diccon could picture the scene and joined in the boy's mirth,
and
MacDougall warmed to Arthur to such an extent that he went off and
returned with his bagpipes. When the first wailing howls rang out,
Arthur's hand sought out Diccon's in terror, but the Scot was a notable
piper, and the impromptu concert ended with them all marching from end
to end of the great manor, with Diccon playing his violin and Arthur
'drumming' on a bucket. They made, as the boy said exuberantly, "A
jolly good noise!"