Dedicated Villain (30 page)

Jenny was a hot-blooded young creature, and Mathieson, no less so, was delighted by her lack of any pretended shyness. Her low-swooping blouse had but three buttons which were soon unfastened. His expert attentions to the loveliness thus bared had brought her eager fingers to divest him of his shirt, since his coat had already been thrown aside. Now, he bent to her again, his teasing half-closed eyes roving her with the glow of desire that had prompted her little eager cry.

A rustling in the nearby straw. A cat trilled a greeting.

Mathieson tensed and his head jerked up. A small tabby wandered toward them, tail jauntily high-held.

“Come on, come on … me lovely lover …” urged Jenny huskily.

He stared at the cat. Impatient, the girl seized his hand and held it to her breast. With an effort, Mathieson tore his attention from the tabby and bent, smilingly to Jenny. The cat uttered another enquiring trill and came closer. Mathieson swore under his breath.

Jenny saw a frown replace the passion in those incredible black eyes. Irritated, she cried, “Get away! Dirty old mog! Get away and leave us be!” She had kicked off her shoes and now snatched one and flung it at the tabby, who fled with a yowl and a flash of grey stripes.

But it was done. It was no use. He didn't want this chit, however buxom—however willing. He desired her—but even his desire had not been so fully kindled that he was unable to draw back. He felt soiled and vulgar and wretchedly stupid, and he sat up, still frowning, and began to shrug into his shirt.

“Here!” cried Jenny, indignant. “What you a-doing of, melor'? Bean't I good enough, then?”

His eyes softening, he touched her cheek. “You are adorable. Only— Here,
mon petit chou
…” He pressed a gold sovereign
into her willing hand. “Buy something pretty to grace your pretty self.”

She sniffed, and flirted her shoulder at him as she restored her blouse, but ceased her angry mutterings when he swooped from behind her and kissed the back of her neck. Swinging around, she threw herself into his arms, and he kissed her once more, but differently. Trembling, she lay against him, then she sighed and sat up and began to button her blouse. “You love some fine lady, does ye? Aye—I see it in your eyes. I know that look, though most gentlemen don't care. Ah, well … she be one of the lucky ones.”

Mathieson's eyes became bleak, and his mouth twisted, but Jenny was busied with slipping on her shoes and did not see. With a flutter of petticoats she ran to the ladder and clambered rapidly down it.

“You can find your own way to the tavern,” she called, “seein's ye don't want me!”

Watching her ruefully, Mathieson bowed low. When he straightened she was standing in the open doorway, looking back at him, a shapely but faceless silhouette against the brightness of the golden afternoon. “I do hopes as she be worthy of ye,” she called, then ran from sight.

Mathieson discussed this with Rumpelstiltskin, man to man as it were, while he guided the stallion at a canter towards the tavern Jenny had suggested.

“Do you know, Rump, I really begin to think my moral values are being undermined by all these damnable heroes I've been consorting with of late! Either that, or my mind is failing! Jenny probably thought so, too.” He frowned. “More likely she thought I was unable to—
Sapristi!
” He drew rein and as Rump danced in a frustrated circle, his indignant gaze flew back across the tranquil meadow. “Of all the stupid dolts! I
must
be demented to so risk my reputation!”

Ten minutes later, seated on a wooden settle under a tall ash tree, Mathieson was still musing over his downfall. ‘I do hopes as how she be worthy …' He waved away a bee who was interested
in the contents of his tankard, then followed its flight until he lost it among the leaves. His gaze travelled higher. The sky was deeply blue, the clouds tinged with mellow gold. ‘You did this, Thomas,' he thought. ‘
You
sent that confounded tabby to remind me of—of a lot of silly foolishness. And for what purpose? You know how worthy is Mademoiselle Fiona. And you most certainly know what
I
am! So what point is there in showing me what I cannot have … ?' He took up his tankard and muttered, “You won this time. I hope you're satisfied!”

“Well, I ain't,” growled a harsh and vaguely familiar voice.

Mathieson started and blinked dazzled eyes at the roughly dressed man who stood beside him, coarse features scowling, and resentment in every line of his big frame.

“
Sacré nom de nom!
” drawled Mathieson, astonished. “I thought you were dead!”

“No thanks ter you I ain't,” grumbled Ben Hessell. But, knowing this individual, he did not presume to sit on the opposite settle until Mathieson waved an inviting hand and called up another tankard.

“A fine mess you got me inter, Captin Otton,” Hessell went on then, keeping a cautious eye on that deadly right hand. “Jest a quiet little kidnapping, says you. Jest fer a lark, says you. We're jest a'goin' ter borrer the lady fer a coupla hours—no more, says you. So what happens? We—”

Mathieson interpolated coolly, “You knew the risks when you took my pay.”

“We didn't know as how poor Feeney was goin' ter get scragged stone cold. Nor as how that horrid friend o'yourn would put a pistol ball through me!”

“Friend? Brooks Lambert is no friend of mine! If he ever—” And Mathieson stopped, for the less Hessell knew of his dealings with Lieutenant Lambert, the better.

In a prudently low-voiced continuance of his grievances, Hessell said, “Me and poor o' Feeney didn't even know what it was all abaht. We was holding the gal fer ransom, we thought.” He grinned jeeringly, “Fat lot o' ransom yer got, eh mate?”

Mathieson had gained nothing at all from that little ploy, which had been devised not for ransom money, but to force the hand of a good friend, Meredith Carruthers, who'd been shielding one of the Jacobite couriers. The attempt to acquire the cypher carried by the Jacobite, and to learn from it where Prince Charles Stuart's treasure was stored, had failed, even as Hessell said, and for a while it had seemed that in the process Mathieson had lost one of his few friends. Later, however, Carruthers had appealed to him for help and (for a price) he had obliged. His assistance had been invaluable to Carruthers, but had also brought demotion to the scheming and ruthless Brooks Lambert. Mathieson had no regrets insofar as Lambert was concerned, but the kidnapping was a black mark against him. The lady had been mauled by his confederates and the reminder made him squirm. His eyes glinted angrily, but he said nothing until the approaching waiter had provided Hessell with a brimming tankard.

“I am not your
mate
,” he murmured as soon as the man had gone away again. “Wherefore I would advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head.”

Hessell leered ingratiatingly and snatched up the tankard. “I didn't mean nothin', sir!” He drank deep and dragged his sleeve across his loose-lipped mouth. “But you gotta admit as it was crool hard. Perishin' hard on a man with a poor wife and lotsa innercent babes ter—”

Mathieson sneered, “You rend my heart. One wonders what your poor wife might have thought had she seen you pawing Miss Ramsay!” The malevolent glare Hessell slanted at him brought a scornful shrug. “So you still hold the grudge, do you? Typical! You've no cause. I didn't force you to it. We all took the risk. We lost. 'Tis done and nothing to be gained from brooding over it. Set it down to experience man, and perchance you may learn from it. Meanwhile, tell me what mischief you are about up here.”

“Cor, you gotta nasty tongue, sir,” whined Hessell, injured. “I ain't up ter nothin'—'cept starving. What I couldn't do with a good bitta roast beef, or a slice'a ham, mebbe …”

Mathieson grinned his appreciation of the tragic gaze that
came his way. “Faith, but you're a slithery rascal. Very well, I owe you that much.”

The waiter was summoned again; a plate of steaming beef and potatoes was brought forth, and between all too generous mouthfuls Hessell related the sad tale of his slow recovery from the bullet wound Lambert had inflicted. “He only shot me dahn fer fear I'd tell as he was in on it, too,” he muttered indistinctly. “A wicked lot
he
is and no mistake.”

“As are we all. Which does not explain how you come to be up here.”

“Ar.” Overlooking that unkind aspersion, Hessell conscientiously mopped his plate with a piece of bread. “Well, me old woman's brother lives in Liverpool, so I'm makin' me way up there, so fast as ever I can, sir, ter find honest work on the docks.”

“If that's the truth, which I doubt, it'll be the first honest work you ever did.”

Hessell gave him an aggrieved look, salvaged the gravy laden piece of bread which was sliding down his greasy waistcoat, and threw it into his mouth more or less accurately.

Mathieson shuddered, and stood hurriedly. “I must be off. I've to be in Town by Sunday. Good luck in your search for—er, honest work, Hessell.”

The big man sprang to his feet, wiping his hands on his hat and bowing humbly. “And good luck t'you, too, Captin Otton. Proper kind o' you to give me what to eat.
Generous
is what it was. You allus was a generous gent. I—I don't reckon as you could spare a groat, p'raps? A half-crown, mebbe? Fer old times' sakes, sir … ?”

Mathieson eyed his fawning obsequiousness with amused disgust, but handed over a sovereign, and with grateful thanks ringing in his ears, made his way to the stables and the more pleasing company of Rumpelstiltskin.

Hessell curled his lip and swore at the sovereign, then wandered after Otton's tall figure and watched him ride out. So the wicked captain still had that fine hack, did he? Funny, but he'd have sworn the stallion had a coupla white stockings. Now
there
would be something worth the stealing! And the cold-hearted perisher owed it to him, after all! A paltry sovereign! “Muckworm,” he growled. “Much
you
care if poor Feeney's dead and buried!” Not but what Feeney had been a perishin' fool. Still … He wandered moodily across the yard, tucked the sovereign in his waistcoat pocket, drew out the other item that had resided there, and halted, looking down at it.

The button was silver, embossed with the crest of some proud old family, though which one, he had no idea. Stolen, likely, because Otton had give it to him during that horrid business with Mr. Carruthers. “If you ever have word fer me,” the perisher had said, “show this here ter me man—Sorenson—and he'll come and get me quick-like.” Well, he'd not had no words fer Captin No-Good Otton fer a coupla months and more. Hessell turned the button, wondering how much it would bring in a pawnshop. He only half considered that possibility, for it seemed to him that there was something sniffy going on. You could'a knocked him dahn with a feather when he'd seen that murdering Captin Lambert yestiday. Ex-captin, that is. He chuckled. Jolly good that they'd taken him dahn a peg or two. Serve the bastard right.

A thought struck him forcefully, and he scowled, grappling with it. From what Otton had said, him and Lambert wasn't friends no more. But that there Otton had closed his choppers mighty quick over something. They was up to no good, that was sure, and likely in it together, same as last time. There
might
be a shilling or two come outta this yet. Meanwhile, it wouldn't hurt ter keep a eye on the almighty Lambert. Them Quality coves thought they was better'n everybody. Well, they'd find out they didn't fool Benjamin F. Hessell! He returned the button to his pocket with care. You couldn't never tell when a thing like this might come in handy …

Rumpelstiltskin wanted to gallop, and Mathieson let him have his head, the peaceful countryside blurring past as the stallion
shot through drowsy meadows, thundered along lanes guarded by fragrant hedgerows, and slowed at last as they came to the hill where was the camp.

Mathieson patted Rumpelstiltskin's damp neck. “Brought me home fast, you rascal. Were you afraid I'd go back after the buxom Jenny?” He consulted the beautifully enamelled watch he had bought to reward himself after the business with the Alderman's lady and her misplaced pomander. “Woe is me, Rump! Half past four o'clock, and I quite forgot to gather the firewood! I'll be in deep dis—” His light words faded.

The faint sounds he had heard all the way up the hill were clearer now. The laughter became loud and the shouts raucous and unfamiliar. Listening intently, he drew Rumpelstiltskin to a halt. Someone had arrived. Someone important, to judge from all the hilarity. MacTavish?

A girl screamed then. He thought, ‘
Fiona!
' And the stallion who seldom felt a spur, reared to a hard jab and was away like a bolt of lightning.

Crouched low in the saddle as they burst into the clearing, Mathieson received a series of impressions that flashed with incredible speed across his mind. Cuthbert, sprawling beside the fire and trying feebly to get up, despite the efforts of a burly youth in a purple coat with one pocket torn off, who repeatedly kicked him down again; Heywood, sagging in the grip of two men whose garments proclaimed them “gentlemen,” while another of their kind aimed a fist at his already bloodied face; Elizabeth Clandon, crouching at bay, her back to a tree, both her little hands clutching a long sword while another Buck howled with glee and dodged her desperate but clumsy lunges; Mervyn Bradford, dead or unconscious, lying huddled atop the steps of his caravan; and a wild fight raging between Pauley, Gregor, and two more intruders. All this was noted and filed away. His frantically searching eyes found and held to one figure. Her hair streaming about her shoulders, a sleeve of her gown ripped away, Fiona sent her little knife darting at the great lout whose laughter ceased as he grabbed her flying wrist.
“Let be,” he commanded merrily, holding her captive while with his free hand he began to tear the rest of her gown off. “Don't want t'hit ya, m'pretty, but you and me—”