Dedicated Villain (5 page)

A few chuckles were heard, and the large gentleman, rightly suspecting he was being mocked, bridled. “And … and you steam, sir,” he pointed out, making wild fanning motions.

“The logical result of a meeting of heat and water, alas.”

“Then ye mean t' go on with it? I din't come in here t'be steamed over, and—and so I tell ye. To y'r face—which I can't hardly see f'r—f'r all y'r c'nfounded steam, sir!”

Mathieson's dark eyes danced with laughter; he lowered them
and stepped aside saying meekly that he would endeavour to refrain from steaming. He was, however, quite unable to keep his mouth from twitching and, bristling, the large gentleman advanced.

“You found m' p'formance—amusin', I gather?”

Despite himself, Mathieson asked mildly, “Was not that your intent, sir?”

“By God, but 'twas not, sir! Th' Bard c'n be mos' ‘musin' when he wishes to—to be. Not in that p'tic'lar sonnet h'wever. You care to—to step outside … sir, an' let me wipe that demned grin off your face?”

A small and very hopeful crowd was gathering. The large gentleman was obviously eager for a mill. His dashing adversary was tall and well built, the sword that hung at his side had seen much service by the look of it, and there was about him the slight swagger and arrogant assurance that spoke of a born fighting man.

Mathieson disappointed them. “By no means, sir,” he replied, bowing once more. “I admired your rendering of Shakespeare.” The gentleman looked somewhat mollified. “I merely fancied your misquote to have been deliberate.”

“M-Misquote?”
roared the large gentleman, at once choleric. “Misquote, d'ye say? Why, devil take y'sir! I do
not
misquote th' 'mortal Bard. Not
never
! Take it back, sir, or … by—by—” Even as he spoke, his fist flashed out. It was a large fist and might have been most damaging had it landed. The wine, however, had taken its toll. Mathieson swayed easily aside, and the fist flew past his ear. The large gentleman lost his balance and plunged.

“Bye, bye,” said Mathieson, grinning as he caught and lowered the aggressive Shakespearean afficionado to the floor.

He then offered polite farewells to the amused onlookers, and taking up his wet cloak, made his way to the stables to check on Rumpelstiltskin.

The rain had stopped, a half moon was playing hide and seek with the clouds, and the wind had sunk to little more than a breeze. There was ample light for Mathieson to see his way, which meant there was also sufficient light for Rob MacTavish to do the same. On the other hand, Mathieson was tired, for he'd been in the saddle since dawn. It followed, therefore, that Mrs. Robert Victor MacTavish, née Albritton, would also be tired.

“Cheltenham eh, Rump old lad,” said Mathieson. The big horse whickered and tossed his head. “No,” Mathieson told him firmly. “No farther tonight, or I'm like to pass by the Highland gentleman, and we can't have that!”

Ten minutes later, his chances of passing his prey were deteriorating rapidly. The breeze had stiffened into a brisk wind once more; the wispy clouds were gathering into ominous masses that gradually obliterated the moon, and even as Mathieson called down maledictions on England's unpredictable climate, the rain began again. Cursing, he turned up the collar of his cloak and slowed Rumpelstiltskin, narrowing his eyes to peer through the darkness.

Above the drumming of the rain he could soon detect a deeper sound—rushing water. He was sure they'd left the Severn behind, but likely this was some tributary swollen by the heavy rains. After a while he was able to see the water, a dark flood, roaring along beside him. Rumpelstiltskin snorted uneasily, and Mathieson guided him with care, searching for a bridge. They came upon one at last, a rickety wooden structure. Mathieson dismounted and walked cautiously onto the timbers; the chestnut minced along, his cold nose at his master's neck. The bridge seemed safe enough, but Mathieson strode over it rapidly, Rumpelstiltskin's hooves thudding close behind. They were safely across and starting down the incline to level ground
when Mathieson checked, listening intently. Almost at once there came another faint cry, startling the chestnut so that he snorted and danced sideways.

“Help! Please … help me!”

A woman, and in distress. Mathieson's shout elicited the information that she was “down here,” this followed by a breathless request that he “come quickly!”

He left Rump and clambered down the rainswept bank, the roar of the stream sounding ever louder in his ears. But look where he might, he could find no sign of a lady and he was almost to the water's edge.

“Where the deuce are you?” he roared.

“Here! Are you b-blind?”

The voice came from his feet. Shocked, he discerned a cloaked figure lying face down in the mud and he dropped to one knee beside her. “What—on earth? Did you fall, ma'am? Here—let me help you up.”

“I can't … get up.” A young voice, and breathless. “I daren't let go! Please—can you reach it?”

Bewildered, he bent closer. The girl's arms were stretched straight out before her and he realized belatedly that she was clinging to a dark shape that leapt and swung to the pull of the rushing stream. He leaned down precariously.

“Sir—do be careful! A whole section of the … bank gave way just a minute ago. I—I think this piece is almost gone!”

He glanced down and was aghast. She was perfectly right. The earth he knelt on was melting away before his eyes. Amazed by such unselfish courage, he gasped, “Good God! Is it someone in the water? Jupiter! 'Tis a treetrunk! What—”

“She fell in and managed to cling to it. I—heard her crying and … and came. Oh, have you got a grip on—?” The words ended in a shriek as the bank disintegrated under Mathieson. At one instant he was stretching out to grab the tossing treetrunk; at the next he was up to his neck in icy water that pounded and pulled and tore at him, snatching his breath away, whirling him off his feet, and smashing him hard against the
treetrunk that was already providing a precarious haven for another victim of the storm. He clung to it, unable to see who was his companion in adversity, fighting to keep from being torn away, praying that the girl on the bank could hang on just until he could get a purchase on something. Mercifully, his feet found the bottom. He could stand, and he battled the raging current, groping out desperately for dry land. He felt something stable at last—a root exposed by the torrent. With a choked gasp of relief he clutched at it and dragged himself up, somehow managing to haul the treetrunk after him. Other hands came at once to help and, fighting for breath, he was kneeling on firm ground. Soaked, freezing, and feeling as if he'd been battered by two or three unfriendly giants, he spat and spluttered, “Are you—all right?”

“Yes. Oh, yes! And—here she is, poor little girl! Half drowned. Oh, sir—you were splendid! How brave to jump in like that to … save her!” The panting voice sharpened. “What's wrong? Did you hurt yourself?”

“Seem to have—twisted my ankle a trifle,” gasped Mathieson, pulling a slimy weed from his ear. His boots were full of water and when he attempted to pull one off, his right hand began to hurt as fiercely as his twisted ankle. He managed somehow to empty out the water and replace his boots. He hadn't lost them, at least, and if he'd managed to save a child's life this night, it just might warrant one bright spot on his page in the heavenly record book.
Maman
would be pleased, for, Lord knows there were sufficient blots on that particular page! “Never mind about me,” he said nobly. “Is the little girl able to walk? I can't see …”

“She'll be all right now. I can manage her. We must take care of—of you, sir. Oh, how c-cold it is, and you're wet through!” She took his arm. “Up the bank and just a little way into the trees. It's not too far.”

Since it was quite close by, Mathieson did not suggest that the girl ride Rumpelstiltskin, who came snorting up to follow them. With each stride however, Mathieson discovered new
aches and pains and it seemed a miserable age before he glimpsed a light through the trees. ‘A very small house,' he thought, but then realized it was not a house at all. ‘A caravan, by Jupiter! Are they gypsies, then?'

“Here we are,” said the girl, a faceless shape in the darkness as she climbed some steps. “Do come in.”

His teeth were chattering, but he hesitated. “M-my horse—”

“Will be quite all right for a few minutes, if you tether him on that side, out of the wind.” She opened the door and became a dark silhouette against the warm inside glow, her hood close about her face, her cloak protectively covering the child she carried.

Mathieson limped around to the side protected by the wide-spreading branches of a tree. He unsaddled Rump with a good deal of difficulty and a great many oaths, found a comparatively dry piece of sacking, and gave the chestnut a cursory rubdown with his left hand, promising to come and do it properly in a few minutes, and wondering if he could manage such a feat.

“Do hurry, sir! You must be frozen!”

He responded to that urgent call and made his painful way to the steps once more. The girl had removed her cloak, and stood waiting for him. She ran to take his arm, advising him to lean on her as he negotiated the steps. He contrived to do so. She was very short, but she was young, and he thought glumly that if she was also comely and lived alone in her little caravan, he might soon have made them both warm, save that fate had been so unkind as to disable him. She pushed the door open and, sighing regretfully, he glanced at her, only to recoil instinctively.

From head to toe, she was mud. It streaked down her forehead, covered her face, and sullied her pale green gown. Her hood must have been of little protection, for her hair was soaked and had plastered itself in wet strands around the oval face and hung in a lank straggle about her shoulders. She might as well have been wearing a mask, for all he could really distinguish were her eyes, which were a rather odd shape, somewhat
narrow and slightly uptilted at the corners, but of a clear light green. They twinkled at him now, and she said rather illogically, “Oh dear, you
are
a mess! Poor man! And—alas, I've no fire to warm you, for the rain put mine out. I have saved hot water though, thank goodness.” She went to the rear of the caravan, calling over her shoulder, “You must take off your clothes at once!”

Mathieson could have wept. A golden opportunity, ruined! That it truly
was
ruined became more evident when he started to unbutton his cloak. His right thumb was swelling and so painful he could scarcely endure to move it. He fumbled with his left hand, stifling the curse that rose to his lips, but the girl must have been watching because at once she was standing directly before him again, peering up with anxious if bizarre solicitude into his face.

“What is it? Why do you just stand there shivering instead of taking off your clothes?”

She was a bold lass, if nothing else. Confound the luck! But the humour of it all struck him, and he held out his hand saying ruefully, “'Fraid I'll have to disappoint you tonight, my pretty.”

“Oh, dear!” She touched his thumb with one feather-light finger. “What a pity. Is it dislocated, do you think? My brother did that once, and it was exceeding painful until Papa re-set it.”

“A sprain, more likely, and a confounded nuisance.” He added with a suggestive wink, “Tonight, especially.”

She nodded. “I should probably bandage it so you do not use it for a while, but first we must have your garments off, they're fairly dripping mud!”

“So are yours,” he pointed out. “I can manage. Do you tend to yourself and the little one.” He glanced about. “Where is she?”

“Under there.” She indicated a blanket lying in a bundle on the upper of two narrow bunks attached to the left wall of the caravan. “She's warmer now, poor mite. I'll fetch some hot
water and be back in a minute.” And she was gone with a whirl of petticoats and a slam of the door.

Mathieson had never been inside a caravan before and as he shivered and swore his way out of cloak and coat, he was intrigued to find things cramped but very neat and orderly. A straight-backed wooden chair with a brightly embroidered cushioned seat stood in the far corner, which would be the front end were they moving. A tall narrow cupboard was bolted to the wall beside it, and on the left wall were the two bunks. Several books and periodicals were piled on a small shelf enclosed by a guard rail, and a large brass-bound trunk did double duty as a table. Strings of onions and a rope basket of vegetables hung from the ceiling. The remaining wall space was home to a small mirror and innumerable pots, pans, cooking implements, and extra candles, all very precisely disposed. And the unmistakable imprint of feminity was evidenced by the immaculate red and white cloth that was spread on the trunk, the little vase of flowers that stood there, the occasional water-colours nailed up amid the pots and pans, and the faint aroma of powders and perfumes that pervaded the air.