Dedicated Villain (59 page)

Mathieson clung to the stallion dazedly. “Yes. I remember.” He drew an impatient hand across his face and fought to be sensible. “I—you must excuse my—my behaviour. 'Tis just … well, you see—I thought you'd … shot the poor old fellow.”

“So did our lieutenant, sir. I'd like you to know I wasn't—we all wasn't willing parties to—that lot.”

Still holding Fiona, the duke shook his head warningly, and the sergeant went on at once, “Me and the two chaps as went with me cornered this big fella when he made a mistake and run into a churchyard. It wasn't easy, sir, but—cor, we couldn't scrag something as fine as what he is! We kept him hid for a while. I'm very sorry we had to let you think— But—there wasn't any other way. We all got families to think of, y'see, sir. Soon's it was safe, and we found out you was here, I come and told the duke.”

Still caressing the stallion as if he dare not let him go,
Mathieson spoke to where he thought his grandfather stood. “Sir—why … why did you not tell me?”

Watching that white twitching face, Marbury was inclined to think that even now it had been too great an emotional shock. “Well, you see—” he began.

He had moved, and Mathieson turned to where the voice now came from. In that same instant the stallion tossed his head happily. Mathieson had no inkling. Sorenson shouted, “Look out!” even as a violent impact smashed him sideways and he staggered and tripped on the step behind him.

Fiona screamed.

With cries of horror the duke and Sorenson both leapt in abortive attempts to reach him.

Confused and alarmed, Mathieson had thrown out his hands to break his fall, but he had no way of knowing where he was falling and his head struck the low wall hard.

“Roland,” gasped the duke, falling to his knees beside his grandson's sprawled figure. “Oh, dear lad, what have I done? Are you—”

He stopped, appalled. Through these interminable weeks he had never seen Roland betray abject fear, not even when he was delirious and reliving those ghastly hours in the barn. Now, the thin face was twisted with terror, the teeth chattered; the mouth twitched uncontrollably; in most unheroical fashion, Roland shook from head to toe.

Also on her knees, Fiona cried frantically, “Are you all right? Have you hurt your back again?” Her little hands went out to him, and he clutched one, starting onto an elbow, then cowered against Sorenson as the man knelt to support him.

“'Tis a seizure,” groaned the duke. “Send for the doctor—quickly! God forgive me! I should not have—”

“W-w-wait …” gasped Mathieson, still racked by that violent shuddering. “Sir … is—is the sun … out now?”

Scourged by guilt, the duke glanced up. The sun was setting, and from a break in the clouds sent pink rays beaming out.
“Yes, lad, but—” He met Sorenson's stunned eyes and threw a hand to his mouth.

Fiona, staring in awe at Mathieson's face, whispered, “Muffin … Oh, Muffin!”

“
Grandpère
…” stammered Mathieson, “Take off the bandages. P-please. I—I think … I think …”

Marbury fumbled with the bandage, but his hands were shaking too much to be of use.

Sorenson drew his pocket knife and between them, he and Fiona cut through the narrow strip of linen, then unwound the bandages.

Sick with the fear that he might be imagining things, Mathieson blinked. His left eye did not respond in the slightest. His right eye twitched open. He saw a rosy dimness that gradually brightened. Blurred at first, he began to distinguish low-hanging leaden clouds pierced by pink rays that fanned out in an awesome glory … Dazed with rapture, he saw a face come into focus. Muffin's white face, as contorted as his own must be, and so full of love. He reached out blindly, but not blindly, and his hand was gripped crushingly and pressed against a wet cheek. Sorenson bent above Mathieson, and clutched his shoulder speechlessly, his dark features working. A vaguely anxious whinny, and Mathieson perceived a white blaze, then the great dark eyes and the magnificent head of the stallion. Turning slowly, drinking it all in, he knew that he was weeping, and he didn't care.

Someone else knelt close beside him. A beloved face materialized; an exquisite face, ineffably dear, the green eyes filled with tears, the features paler than he remembered, and reflecting some of the worry and strain she had lived through these past months. Overcome, he clung to her hand. “Fiona … Ah
ma chèrie
! My bravest Tiny Mite! You are even lovelier than I remembered.”

“My darling …” sobbed Fiona, pressing damp kisses on his forehead. “My darling …!”

“Oh, Thomas,” Mathieson whispered brokenly. “Thank you! Thank you!”

At the duke's insistence they were married early in April at the new Church of St. George in Hanover Square which had, in a little over twenty-two years, already become exceeding fashionable. All London was there, agog to see if it was truth that Marbury really had forgiven his wayward grandson. Rumour had it that poor young Roland Fairleigh Mathieson had been captured and terribly disfigured by a jealous and demented army officer, and when the prospective bridegroom and Lord Thaddeus Briley appeared at the altar, necks were craned and an excited murmur rippled through the graceful sanctuary. The eyes of the ladies brightened, and fans fluttered a little faster. The eyes of the gentlemen narrowed speculatively.

Captain Mathieson was impeccably clad in white velvet lightly embroidered with black. His thick black hair tumbled attractively over the left side of his brow. The lean planes of his face were marked by a scar across his right cheekbone, and his nose was not as classically straight as it once had been. His left eye was covered by a patch: a black patch, with a small cluster of diamonds jauntily placed at the corner.

“Lud!” whispered the much admired Comtesse di Benedetto in the ear of her friend. “That rogue may have lost his eye, but I vow he's almost as handsome as ever!”

“And no whit less dashing!” Lady Deborah Martin, who had once enjoyed a dalliance with that same rogue and was London's present arbiter of fashion, hissed, “Only look at the men! Roly has set a new style! I'll wager half our gallants will be wearing jewelled eye patches 'fore the week is out!”

Another ripple disturbed the congregation and every head turned to view the bride.

Mervyn Bradford clad in mulberry satin paced with regal step and high-held head up the aisle, looking every inch a grand seigneur. On his arm, his daughter drifted in a cloud of white net and lace, a tiny cap embroidered with seed pearls atop her clustered and powdered curls, the fine veil unable to hide the radiant beam on her face.

Watching her come to him, Mathieson saw no other, and his breath caught in his throat because he thought her so exquisitely lovely.

Much later, after four hundred of the guests had enjoyed the wedding supper in Mathieson House, and the dancing had continued for an hour, Mathieson guided his bride from the crowded floor of the grand ballroom and swept her behind a potted palm. She was very thoroughly kissed breathless (to which she raised no least objection), and then led into the corridor.

Watching them go, the Duke of Marbury smiled fondly. How beautiful they were, he thought. Young and indomitable, mercifully uncrushed by the dark time they had endured so bravely, standing together on the threshold of their new life. He had been glad to note of late the return of the proud carriage of Roland's dark head; the slightly arrogant cavalryman's swagger to the walk. A flogging could do terrible things to a man's pride, but there was little doubt that his grandson was impudent as ever. He chuckled, and turning, found a young captain of dragoon guards at his elbow, resplendent in full dress regimentals.

“Hello, Jacob,” said the duke. “You look surprised.”

“I am astounded, your Grace,” said Jacob Holt. “I think I must be dreaming. Roly so often told me he would never be leg shackled.”

“Ah, but that was only because he had never truly loved. He does now.”

“She is a very pretty lady.” Knowing his cousin well, Holt pursed his lips. “Not quite the type I'd fancied he would choose. I hope he may never disappoint her.”

“Oh, he never will,” murmured the duke confidently. “He thinks of her as his madonna, and because each time she looks at him she sees a knight in shining armour—he will make very sure that she never sees him in any other light. Besides, there is a legend of our House, you know, that says Mathieson men love once … and once only.”

Holt looked at him curiously, and because they were distantly related, he dared to ask, “Was that the way with you, duke?”

Marbury smiled again. A rather secret smile. “Oh yes,” he said, and glancing across the ballroom saw the roguish eyes of Lady Clorinda Ericson peeping at him over her fan. She wore pale pink satin tonight. She had worn that same colour the last time he had escorted her to a ball—long and long ago.

Murmuring an apology, he went to her, his own eyes bright and his step remarkably light for a gentleman of his years.

In the corridor Fiona clung to her husband, considerably more breathless. “We must—go back inside,” she said dazedly.

With his lips against her hair, he murmured, “I was about to suggest that we leave now.”

“Faith, but—I wonder you wish to! The way all the ladies flocked round you, and you—”

“Hated every minute,” he declared piously.

Fiona looked up at him, and saw the twitch beside his mouth. “Liar! You loved every second!”

He chuckled and spread his hands in the charming Gallic shrug that made her loving heart beat even faster. “It appeared, Mrs. Mathieson, that
you
did not lack for admirers! As for me—
par grâce
, but have I not said many times that all the ladies are adorable, but none is worth more than a week of my time?”

“Pish!” said Fiona irreverently. “The trouble with you Captain
Roland Fairleigh Mathieson is that you never say what you mean! But—I
know
what you really think!”

The laughter fled from his face and a very different expression replaced it. “I wonder …” He lifted her hands and looked down at them. “Am I thinking that my life rested in these two dear little hands?” He pressed a kiss on each one. “Am I thinking that they belong to me now, even as I belong to the bright angel of my life?” He raised his head to look at her steadily. “Do you
know
that you will have all my adoration through this life and into eternity? Do you know
that
my Tiny Mite?”

Fiona found a lump in her throat. She blinked mistily, and wondering if any other lady had ever loved this deeply, asked with a rather quivering smile, “Even if the bright angel of your life is lacking the proprieties, and says gauche things at times?”

“She requires educating,” he admitted with a twinkle. “Especially in … certain matters.” His long, skilled fingers drifted tantalizingly down beside her ear and awoke a delicious shiver. He murmured softly, “And—there is no time like the present, to commence … my most precious bride …”

Blushing and ecstatically happy, she swayed to him, and with his arm fast about her, they drifted slowly along the hall and up the wide staircase, quite oblivious of the amused glances of lackeys and footmen; conscious only of each other.

It had been a long and stormy journey, with the future often in doubt, but the storm was over at last, and Roland Fairleigh Mathieson had found his safe harbour.

Patricia Veryan
was born in England and moved to the United States following World War II. The author of several critically acclaimed Georgian and Regency series, including the Sanguinet Saga, she now lives in Kirkland, Washington. You can sign up for author updates
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