Dedicated Villain (16 page)

“You are no fool, Mathieson.” Lady Clorinda's high-pitched voice cut through his reflections. “You have reached a conclusion?”

He looked at her levelly. “My lady, I'd be a fool had I not. You are either Jacobites or Jacobite sympathizers. This acting business is, I think, a screen for whatever it is you really are about.”

There was no consternation at this, although the dark girl looked scared and Torrey muttered explosively under his breath.

Lady Clorinda leaned forward. “If you knew that much, you have properly put your head in jeopardy by lying to the soldiers.”

“I am aware, ma'am.”

“A fearful risk to take,” said Bradford, gravely distinguished.

Lady Clorinda murmured, “And a sensible man does not take fearful risks without he has a compelling reason.”

This morning, Mathieson had seen a dreaming look of tenderness soften the old lady's shrewd bright eyes. Unless he was much mistaken, she had been a great beauty in her day, probably with her share of
affaires de coeur.
In his experience, time did not dim the romance in a lady's heart any more than the twinkle in a gentleman's eye. And he knew just how to manipulate romantical ladies. This particular lady was deeply fond of her granddaughter … He allowed his eyes to drift to Miss Fiona. How anxiously the chit watched him. Smitten. Yes, there was no doubt she was smitten, which might be useful. He gazed at her for a moment, with just the right touch of wistfulness, saw the uncertain smile curve her lips, and, aware that my lady had missed not an instant of the little byplay, acknowledged, “
Very
compelling.”

There came a sudden rush of colour to the girl's cheeks and the thick lashes drooped shyly. ‘Oh, nicely done,' he thought. ‘Or was that pure innocence?'

Freemon Torrey had also missed nothing of the interchange, and although he did not comment, his hand dropped to caress his sword hilt, and his eyes said very much indeed.

“Favour us with this so compelling reason, sir,” growled Cuthbert.

“Actually, there are several,” Mathieson explained, not altogether fallaciously. “I myself take small interest in politics, but I number some of your, ah—colleagues among my close friends.”

“For instance?” demanded my lady.

“For instance—a fellow named Carruthers, and a fugitive who called himself Lascelles.”

Bradford smothered an oath and Cuthbert started visibly. Lady Clorinda's eyes widened, but she said nothing.

“Also,” continued Mathieson, “I am favoured with the friendship of a regular blockhead, by name Anthony Farrar, whose affianced bride wangled a promise from me that fairly forbids I should inform against such as—yourselves.” He shrugged and gave them his wry, winning smile. “Wherefore I am, you see, unable to betray you even did I wish to do so. And, to say truth, I have no slightest desire to betray anyone to the—er, peculiarities of military justice. Perhaps I was unwise in telling the dragoons I am a member of your troupe, although it seemed to answer at the moment, but I'll be glad to travel with you for a while, in case Captain Lake should feel driven,” he smiled at Fiona, “to find you again.”

“No!” objected Torrey. “Lady Ericson says he is dangerous, and a soldier of fortune, which is why we snabbled his horse and sent him off on a wild goose chase.”

Mathieson caught his breath and his head jerked around to Lady Clorinda. She frowned irritably, but did not interrupt.

“What if he is also a damned bounty hunter?” Torrey went
on. “We've seen how quick-witted the fellow is! Heed the lies and fustian he tells and we all might pay with our heads!”

Several voices were raised in endorsement of this remark. The stern faces become sterner. The lives of these men and women were at risk every hour of every day. The slightest threat must be harshly dealt with were they to survive. It was a philosophy Mathieson could understand, but that very understanding told him his chances had diminished.

Cuthbert growled, “Ma'am, I'm not one for unnecessary killing, but—we must protect our own lives—and our mission.”

“Aye,” struck in Torrey eagerly. “Do you not see, my lady, that this fellow is the slippery type? With that pretty face and his beguiling ways, he needs no flute to charm a serpent. He thinks that by travelling with us, he'll learn something of real value, and once he does—may the Lord help us!”

Mathieson drawled, “That would depend on what you term ‘real value.'”

“The location of the Jacobite treasure, for instance,” jeered Torrey. “Or—the real identity of the gentleman who calls himself Ligun Doone.
That
would be a good saleable item, eh? How much would you get for selling
his
head?”

Mathieson's fists clenched hard, and a glint came into his eyes. Ligun Doone had not been heard from of late, but not long after the Battle of Culloden that intrepid gentleman had run the English victors a merry dance. Dozens of fugitives had been spirited away from under their noses; wounded rebels had been helped and hidden until they were well enough to be carried off to safety in France. Vital cyphers concerning the disposition of the Jacobite treasure had been sent out and safely delivered. And all accomplished without the loss of any more English lives, for Doone was known to believe there had been too much of death in this bitter struggle. Despite threats and intimidation, Doone's fame had spread, his courage and brilliance heartening the crushed populace as much as it infuriated the occupation forces. Enraged and outwitted, the notorious
Duke of Cumberland had offered a huge reward for information that would lead to Doone's capture, but until the day he had vanished from the scene, not one single farthing of that reward had been claimed. Still the reward posters flaunted their message, and now, always hopeful of making an example of the man who had thumbed his nose at oppression and cruelty, the military had raised the ante: Ligun Doone's brave head was currently worth an unprecedented Six Hundred Guineas; a fortune, in any man's language.

“Do you say,” murmured Mathieson, “that
you
are aware of Doone's real identity?”

Torrey grinned and said tauntingly, “Eager, ain't you? But your avarice is wasted, Mathieson, for I do
not
know. In point of fact, Doone's identity is known to only one of us here! What d'you think of that, master greed?”

“I think you are a liar, sir.”

With a cry of rage Torrey lunged for him.

Mathieson timed it to a nicety, ducked under the flailing fist, and his left came up short and sharp. Torrey shot backward faster than he had advanced and sat down hard.

Gregor whipped out his dagger and sprang forward.

As swiftly, Heywood stepped in front of Mathieson and snapped in an unexpectedly commanding voice, “Let be! Torrey earned that.”

Mathieson lifted both hands slightly in the timeless gesture of surrender. “Your pardon, Lady Clorinda, but a man can take just so much. And I spoke nought but truth. There are now
two
here who are aware of the valiant Mr. Doone's real name!”

There were no comments. Indeed, his words seemed to have turned everyone to stone. It was my lady who broke the silence. “I'll admit I would liefer believe you are sincere, than be obliged to agree with Torrey. But I'll not have my people betrayed to the bloody block and axe, nor racked and tortured. If you can prove what you say—you'd best do so. If not—heaven help you, for I'll not protect you further!”

Mathieson moved closer and bent to whisper so that she alone could hear.

She gave a smothered cry and threw a hand to her throat, staring at him wide-eyed.

“Is it? Oh, is he right?” asked Fiona anxiously.

My lady pulled herself together. “He is perfectly right.”

“Is he, by God!” gasped Cuthbert.

Clambering to his feet, one hand pressed to his reddening jaw, Torrey growled, “He likely discovered it by chance! What difference does it make?”

“It makes a muckle difference, mon—as ye'd see had ye a single brrrrain in yer head,” said Gregor.

“Indeed it does!” Lady Clorinda's eyes were fixed on Mathieson's face. “Only a handful of us know Doone's true identity. Lord help you if ever the military discover you know it, for they'd flay you alive, and a man can only hold out against the torture for a time.”

He said quietly, “Or die, ma'am.”

Torrey clapped his hands and jeered, “We have indeed found ourselves an actor! If ever I heard such dramatics! He admits that he's not in sympathy with the Jacobite Cause. Yet he would have us believe he is willing to die rather than betray a man for whom he likely feels no admiration—no allegiance! Fustian!”

Mathieson eyed Torrey thoughtfully but addressed his reply to Lady Ericson. “I owe no allegiance whatsoever to Doone. But I admire him. And—a gentleman does not break his given word.”

It was said without bravado, and several murmurs of approval were heard.

“Very well, Roland,” said my lady with the hint of a smile. “Since you know who Doone is, and have not claimed the reward, I have no alternative but to judge you a friend. Will you tell us now to what extent you are involved with Doone? Or how you came by your knowledge?”

He had to sternly suppress an urge to laugh. What if he told her the truth? ‘Why, ma'am, I was hired by greedy men to arrange his murder, but unfortunately, my ambush failed …!' That would wipe away the friendly grins he now saw. By God, but it would! The laugh within him died. Ligun Doone—alias Lord Geoffrey Delavale—had accepted the word of honour of Roland Mathieson to keep his deadly secret. Knowing what manner of man he dealt with, Doone had yet been so unwise as to entrust his life to that dishonoured and discredited individual.

“Three months back,” Mathieson said slowly, “Doone and I were involved in a little, er—fracas. I discovered his dual identity by chance, and he knew me well enough to rely on my silence.” He met Lady Clorinda's eyes levelly. “I wish, ma'am, you could see your way clear to do the same and allow me to journey with you.”

“Why, Mathieson?” demanded Cuthbert, but with a note of respect now in his voice. “Ours is dangerous work.”

Mathieson grinned. “I like a lazy outdoor life. Especially …” he glanced again at Fiona, “with such pleasant companions. Besides, I always had a fancy to tread the boards.”

A laugh went up. My lady declared her own willingness to allow Captain Mathieson to join the group and asked for any nays. There were none, even the bitter-eyed Torrey remaining silent.

Mr. Heywood pointed out, “I think we owe the gentleman our gratitude.”

Suddenly, they were all eager to shake his hand and wish him well. It was a novel experience. Pleasant, just for a change, even if it was nonsense. But, in an odd way, disquieting.

The green caravan was larger than the one Fiona had occupied, and the end section was curtained off, presumably to
hold clothing. The bunks were arranged as in Bradford's vehicle, two on one wall, and a single one on the other. There was also a narrow highboy, and a solitary wooden chair.

Fiona lit two candles set in wall sconces, and Mathieson was divested of his coat and cravat and required to occupy the chair. My lady had intended to tape a dressing over the shallow cut high on his shoulder, while questioning her patient about his association with Ligun Doone. She had no sooner bathed the wound however, than she was summoned by Cuthbert, and with a speculative look at Mathieson, went out promising to send Moira to help.

“I think it was unforgivable of them to doubt you so,” said Fiona, gently spreading a salve over the injury. “Tilt your head just a little, please.”

“You are very kind, ma'am,” he murmured, complying. “It was, after all, only natural for them to be extreme careful. I cannot fault them for mistrusting me. Indeed, they would have been foolish not to have done so.”

“Then I must be very foolish,” she said, “for I have no doubts of you whatsoever.”

Rather touched, he watched her as she taped a bandage over the cut. She was concentrating on her task and seemed neither flustered by his scrutiny, nor shy because she ministered to a gentleman in his shirtsleeves. Truly the least affected chit he had ever met. Her hands were incredibly gentle and she had a very graceful way with them, as he'd noticed before. He was reminded with sudden horrible clarity of his treatment at the hands of Madame in that ghastly Flanders hut, and he shuddered involuntarily.

At once Fiona bent to peer anxiously into his face. “Oh, I am so sorry. Did I hurt you?”

He smiled. “Not at all.” Straightening, he stayed her busy hands by the simple expedient of holding them. “Miss Fiona … I—hope I did not embarrass you just now.”

“When?” She frowned, puzzled. “Oh—do you mean when you implied that I was the reason you wished to stay with us?”

He blinked, rather taken aback by such candour. She was looking at him with cheerful ingenuousness. Amused, he thought, ‘The poor child simply does not know how to go on! Has Bradford taught her nothing of correct female behaviour?' He lifted her small warm hand to his lips and murmured as he kissed it, “Yes.”