Dedicated Villain Page 8

  Bond was watching him. “Please, Roly. Life or death to … so many …”

  Mathieson said quietly, “The list, is it?”

  The pleading eyes widened. “You—know? You—you’re one of us … then?”

  One of them? It was comical, really it was! How shocked this brave man would be had he the faintest idea of how far from being “one of them” was his good comrade! But Bill did not know, and this was no time for the truth. “No,” he replied smoothly, “I’m no Jacobite. But some of your people are my good friends. Go on, Bill. Where is the confounded—”

  Bond’s face convulsed suddenly, and he was gasping in anguish. Mathieson gripped a claw-like hand and held it firmly until the frightful paroxysm eased, and Bond lay limp and trembling in his arms. Whether he had fainted or was simply too weak to open his eyes, was hard to tell, but Mathieson had seen that greyish shade of skin often enough that he knew the end was near, so he made no attempt to investigate the wound or to fetch the brandy, but settled his friend as comfortably as was possible, spread his cloak over him, and sat quietly, not moving save to touch the drawn cheek from time to time, to be sure life remained.

  The wind blew, the rain started to come down, and the moments slid past, and still he sat there, keeping Bond as warm as he could, and waiting.

  It seemed a very long time and his legs were getting numb before the blue eyes opened and blinked up at him. In a stronger voice, Bond said, “Oh, hello, Roly. You’re still here. You know about the list, do you?”

  Mathieson had seen such a revival before. He bit his lip but it was all he could do to answer calmly. “I expect ’tis the famous list we hear so much about. All the names of those who contributed in response to Charles Stuart’s call for funds. And a proper death warrant for the lot of ’em if that piece of paper falls into military hands. A fine pickle you’ve got yourself into, my William.”

  With incredible courage, Bond attempted a grin. “The first copy we sent out was—was lost, y’know. Vital we had another, because it proves … who donated what. They’re starving, Roly. Lost their homes, most of ’em. Destitute. May mean—difference ’twixt life’n … life’n …” He sighed wearily. “Troopers after me—all the way down. Got to Chester … think ’twas Thursday. Had to hide in barn. Was—was hit—y’see. A bit—knocked up.”

  “Poor old fellow. But someone helped you, no? Who bandaged your wound?”

  “Vicar. Very … kind, but—couldn’t stay, Roly. Too—dangerous for him.”

  “I see. So you found a barn to hide in. Is that where you hid the list?”

  “No. Smithy. Mouldy old harness on wall behind … behind forge. Stuck it inside … You find it, Roly. Take it to—to … Boudreaux—or Geoff Dela—Dela—” The words trailed off and Bond’s eyelids drooped.

  “Bill,” said Mathieson softly, “can you tell me the name of the inn?”

  Again, Bond rallied. “Seven … Birds is it …?” He groaned fretfully, “Oh, Gad! Cannot seem to ’member …”

  “I don’t suppose it could be The Seven Geese, just south of Chester?”

  “That’s it.” Bond sighed with relief. “Y’know place?”

  “I know it.” Mathieson bent lower, scanning the grey features compassionately. “Are you in much pain, dear old boy?”

  “No. Feel better, in fact. No pain ’tall now. Only—confounded tired, y’know. Just … so tired … Have you … still got Rump?”

  “Yes. Splendid brute.”

  “I’m glad … And—what’ve you been doing with yourself … all this time? Reconciled with—with y’r grandsire? Only man I know, who’s grandson of—duke …”

  “Wrong side of the blanket, don’t forget.”

  “P’raps so, but—dashed if you ain’t the best sportsman I … ever …”

  The words faded away. He shivered, then said quaveringly, “Dashed cold, ain’t it? Are you—here, Roly?”

  Mathieson thought with a pang, ‘He’s looking straight at me!’ “I’m here, Bill. I won’t leave you, my tulip.”

  Bond shivered again, staring at him fixedly. “Can’t see you. ’Spect that—that means … I’m not ’fraid any … more. If—you should see my mother … give her my love and—and tell her I did my—my best …” He began to shake violently, his words panted out, barely audible. “Thanks, Roly … for—for staying … Jove, but—how—very cold—’tis …”

  Five minutes later, Lieutenant William Bond, aged twenty-eight years, left the cold behind him forever.

  And sitting in the chill little hollow, Roland Fairleigh Mathieson—rake, duellist, soldier of fortune, dedicated villain—bowed his head over his friend, and wept.

  An hour passed before Mathieson began to toil up the slope. He had wrapped Bond in his own cloak and buried him in a narrow trench at the bottom of the cut, over which, with the aid of a sturdy branch, he had been able to collapse part of the walls of damp earth. He’d piled as many rocks as he could find atop the lonely grave, and strewn bracken and branches over all so that it was quite concealed. A temporary arrangement, which he would relay to Bill’s family so they might later make more fitting burial plans. His prayers had been clumsy, for in matters spiritual he seldom went beyond his arguments with St. Thomas. He had, however, asked his mother to keep a kindly eye on the valiant Bond, and had sent his patron saint an excellent character reference and the request for a hospitable reception for the newcomer.

  Now, clambering up through a deepening dusk, he grumbled bitterly over the predicament in which he found himself. Not that poor Bill was to blame, God rest him; although he might have had more sense than to get mixed up with so forlorn a cause.

  A frigid blast made him shiver and he clutched at an elm to keep from sliding back down the slope, then struggled on.

  What bitter irony, that he—of all men—should now be responsible for that accursed list! He had not the slightest wish to restore the treasure to its original owners! The list would work against—not for him. He would be wise in fact, to find and destroy the blasted thing! Indeed, he thought aggrievedly, if he delivered it, he was no better than a traitor to his king and country! But—if he did not deliver it, he broke his given word and betrayed the man who had saved his life. He frowned at the lowering heavens and hoped Thomas was pleased with himself. One thing—he could do nothing about the list at the moment, for he must come up with MacTavish as soon as possible. The list was perfectly safe where it was, and the time to distribute the treasure was distant, after all. Perhaps, when he’d made sure of his own share, he would retrieve the list and send it to Lord Boudreaux, or to Geoffrey Delavale, as Bill had requested. Meanwhile, the Bible said somewhere, “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” He brightened. So all was settled, respectably, and with no fuss or feathers!

  It was almost two hours since he had left Rump. Luckily he never had to tether the big horse, and the animal had doubtless grazed and wandered about, but he should have been rubbed down, and if the rascal had decided to roll, it would play hob with the saddle and equipment. There’d been no choice in the matter, of course. To be with poor Bill had taken precedence over all else. Such a good man to die so young, so needlessly … He forced away the crushing sense of loss. Life was full of partings and a chancy thing at best.

  He was up the bank at last, and began to run unevenly across the turf. It was still drizzling and the cold evening wind cut knife-like through his clothing. When he reached the copse he whistled the high warbling note that would bring the stallion to him. He heard a sudden scrambling. Rump whinnied but did not appear. ‘Gad,’ thought Mathieson suddenly anxious, ‘never say he’s stepped into a rabbit hole!’ He sprinted in the direction of the sounds, which became more agitated. He heard a man’s muffled imprecation, then a frantic neighing and plunging about.

  Rage blazed through Mathieson and weariness fell away. Some sneaking swine was trying to make off with his horse! The sword whipped into his hand. “Hey!” he roared furiously, then began to whistle the shrill notes that
would make Rump a handful even for skilled horse thieves. The command went unfinished. A twig cracked behind him. Even as he whirled around he was struck a stunning blow that sent trees, ground, and lowering heavens spinning into a crazy confusion. From a great distance he heard a shout, and then he was falling sick-eningly down an endless darkness …

  5

  The hack’s gait was jolting and every hoofbeat seemed to land on Mathieson’s throbbing head. Slumped forward in the saddle, he kept his eyes closed against the glare of the morning sunlight and tried to pretend he felt perfectly well while forcing his sluggish brain to take stock of the situation.

  It could scarcely have been worse. He had lost one of his few friends. He had lost Rump. MacTavish’s trail was cold as last week’s boiled mutton. And he was not succeeding in ignoring his head, which felt thoroughly caved in, though it wasn’t, thank heaven.

  On the brighter side, it had stopped raining. Furthermore, when he’d awoken this morning, he’d been astounded to find that the thieves had not only thrown some sacking over him to protect him from the cold and wet, but had left his saddlebags, complete with all his belongings, lying beside him. Equally astounding, his purse had not been touched, and Bill’s hack had been unsaddled and hobbled nearby. Such consideration was beyond belief. His brow wrinkled painfully and he lifted one hand to explore the large lump on the back of his head. Inflicted by a cudgel, no doubt. Likely wielded by a thieving gypsy. But at least the skin was unbroken. And why in the world would gypsies not have taken poor Bill’s hack, to say nothing of his own weapons and saddlebags? Perhaps they’d been satisfied, realizing what a rare prize they had in Rumpelstiltskin, whose only faults were that he had a slight—just slight—Roman nose, and his ears were a trifle too long. To compensate for which, he possessed rare endurance, a silken gait, high intelligence, and an affectionate disposition. Devil take the miserable hounds who’d laid their filthy hands on the beautiful animal!

  Mathieson groaned faintly and drew a hand across his eyes. Fear was a rare emotion, but he felt it now, and the pain of loss was keener than the hammer blows to his head. What a beastly run of luck that so much could have gone wrong. It just went to show that a fellow could be quietly about his own business, bothering nobody, and without warning Fate could pull everything down about his ears and bring his well-laid plans to a grinding halt.

  “Halt!”

  The hack gave a snort and a half-hearted shy. Swaying with instinctive grace to the sudden movement, Mathieson clutched his head. His thoughts were becoming almost as loud as spoken words, by Jupiter! Perhaps he was delirious …

  “Well do not just sit there moaning, sir! I require assistance!”

  The voice was shrill, feminine, and imperious. Mathieson scrinched one eye open and peered reluctantly into the morning’s glare.

  An incredible personage was perched on a fallen treetrunk. An infinitesimal lady, tiny in everything but the jut to her determined chin and the spark in a pair of green eyes that were rather astonishingly lovely for a lady of advanced years. She wore a rust-coloured cloak thrown back to reveal a gown of orange muslin draped over large hoops. Her wig was awesomely high, and her cheeks were as bright as those of a young country miss.

  As if reading his thoughts, she declared belligerently, “Yes, I raddle ’em. And you’d be the first to notice such conceit, unless I mistake your character, for no man with your looks could fail to know all there is to know about women!”

  “Nor miss the chance to be of aid to a fascinating lady,” said Mathieson, managing a smile, and swinging from the saddle.

  The personage snorted. A lady-like snort but still a snort. “Very pretty, I’ll allow,” said she with disdain. “Why do you go about groaning and with your eyes closed? Are you drunk, sir? And why—” She flew up from her treetrunk suddenly and was at his side, one arm about him. “Zounds, but the boy’s in a proper state! Lean on me. Come now—this way …”

  Mathieson, who had been struck by a sudden wave of dizziness, blinked down at the tiny creature who held him in such a firm clutch, and gingerly placed one hand on her shoulder. In addition to her lack of stature, she was evidently afflicted, for she walked with a pronounced hobble, so that he was obliged to support her rather than accept her aid. They came in a most clumsy fashion to the treetrunk, whereupon the lady commanded that he sit down, then seated herself close beside him, peering up at his face, for all the world he thought, like some bright little robin.

  “Gin?” she asked, not beating about the bush.

  “I wish it was, ma’am. Thieves. Stole my horse and fetched me a clout that put me out of time for a while. But I’m perfectly fine now, so—”

  “Perfectly fine and white as paper. Put down your head, you great long creature and show me where you were struck.”

  Meekly, he obeyed and contrived not to swear when her fingers explored the lump.

  “Hmmnn. Well, ’tis not cut, at all events. Is your vision blurred?”

  “Merely dazzled, ma’am,” he answered, straightening cautiously.

  Her eyes softened. “I judged you rightly, I see. You may present yourself, if you feel able. No, I require neither that you stand nor bow, which would be stupid, for you’d likely fall down and I should be obliged to lift you all by myself. Ah! I saw that grin! I suppose you fancy me a helpless old hag, too shrunken and racked by gout to be able to lift anyone!”

  “I beg to present Roland Mathieson to your Grace’s attention,” he said, suppressing the grin with difficulty. “And my vision would be blurred indeed did I fancy you to be any of those things. How may I be of service? Never say you also have been robbed?”

  “Well, I won’t. Nor am I a duchess, though I might have been I do assure you had he not had a great stomach and been sixty when I was eighteen. I’ve mislaid my coachman. One of the carriage wheels split, or some such thing, and, faith but I could not blame it, for we’d been jolting over that dreadful road with its potholes and mud since dawn. Or nine, or thereabouts! My poor bones could endure no more, and the sun was so bright, and the countryside is always so—countryish and delightful. Provided one stays no longer than three days. I sent Cuthbert off and told him I would wait. Only he did not come so I began to walk about and became lost and then the heel of my foolish slipper broke off. You will say I should have stayed where I was, but—I was lonely, something you know nothing of, Roland. Nor did I, at your age, but I do now.” Her eyes were wistful suddenly, and she sighed as she continued, “For in spite of wealth, servants, houses, and so-called friends … age is—lonely, alas.”

  “What fustian,” he said, greatly daring.

  The infinitesimal personage stiffened; the small mouth became a tight line, the chin jutted ominously.

  “No lady with eyes like yours could ever be lonely,” he went on, “else all the middle-aged gentlemen are betwattled! Am I to be favoured with the name of my companion in adversity?”

  For an instant it appeared that he was not, for she continued to glare at him. But laughter danced in his velvety black eyes, he was young and good to look upon and showed besides promise of an ability to amuse. Further, although he was still pale, he gave no sign of discomfort. The infinitesimal personage admired courage, and thus the twinkle was back when she said, “I am Lady Clorinda Ericson.” She extended a tiny hand but cried, “No! Do not bend, or you will hurt your head. Here.”

  To his amusement, she pressed her fingers to his lips, and when he had dutifully planted a kiss upon them, she drew back regarding him with approval.

  “Faith, but you flirt deliciously, Roland. Are you wed?”

  Startled by such a home question on short acquaintance, he said, “No, my lady.”

  “I suppose you think me a prying old woman, which I am. But as we grow older, gossip becomes so delicious. Now that I think on it, I always found it a delightful pastime, and so exquisitely wicked. Speaking of which, you must be Marbury’s bastard.” She gave a cackle of mirth. “Lud—only look at the boy fire up! An I have sh
ocked you ’tis because you young people today are so incredibly and unnaturally prim!”

  Mathieson had been called many things, but “prim” was so divorced from any of those things that he forgot his vexation and gave a shout of laughter, whereof he winced, and had to bite back an oath.

  “Say it,” invited Lady Clorinda. “Too much the gentleman, are you? Then I’ll say it for you!” And she did, so explicitly that Mathieson could barely refrain from uttering another devastating laugh and at length had to plead that she refrain from so cruelly amusing him. “Tell me, rather,” he begged, “why you are lonely. Have you no family, ma’am?”

  “Family! If ever anything should be poxed in perpetuity, ’tis ‘Family’! One bears children—well, you won’t, of course, but your poor wife will!” She twinkled at him. “And I say ‘poor wife’ for many reasons, Roland Mathieson! Where was I? Do not interrupt! Oh, yes. I bore children. Three. All by my first husband, unfortunately. One died. My daughter ran off with a charming rascal and has the poor taste to be happy with the creature! My son is eight and forty, and as rash, irresponsible and bothersome as the veriest child! My grandson—humph! And my granddaughters both are buxom, opinionated wenches with more sauce than sense, who should have been wed long since save that one lost her love and will not accept the man who seeks to take his place, and the other wasted her sympathy on her brother, who is a reckless scamp, and now wastes her youth on her father—the idiot! I mean her father is the idiot—not my granddaughter. Oh, I am a wretch and have made you laugh again! My apologies. Why do you vex Marbury so?”

  Mathieson’s laughter died abruptly and his eyes became cool and veiled. “I have the greatest respect for my grandfather, ma’am.”

  “Have you? I heard he is grown to be an impossible creature! You do not resemble poor Muffin, but you are very like him, for all that the relationship is so—à huis clos, as it were.”