The Dedicated Villain by Patricia Veryan

Author:Patricia Veryan [Veryan, Patricia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2015-09-12T00:00:00+00:00

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—”

In that shocked split second, Mathieson saw her little face, white and distorted with fear and rage. A roaring came into his ears. The scene before him blurred oddly around the edges. He must have cried out, for the big lout turned enquiringly as he launched himself from the saddle. A jarring impact, shouts, blows that were as nothing, the joy of feeling his fists thud home once, twice, three times against that dissipated, flabby young face. They were up and then down again. Fiona’s voice shrieked, “Look out!” He rolled aside, seized the boot that had barely grazed his ribs and heaved—seemingly not very hard, yet his attacker howled and soared from view.

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