Free Dedicated Villain by Patricia Veryan

and great sad dark eyes. She floated above the altar, her shining wings outstretched, a glowing aura about her loveliness. “Oh, Roly,” she murmured.
“Mon fils … mon fils … que faire?”
    And sweating, horrified, he knew what must be done. He could not bring tears to his beloved
maman.
He was trapped. He would marry the muddy girl and have dozens of muddy children … Good God!
    â€œVery well,” he muttered through dry lips. “I … do.”
    â€œWell I do not!” cried Miss Fiona.
    A great gasp arose from the crowded pews. The archbishop threw up his hands; Torrey and Bradford uttered shocked cries.
    He himself stood trembling, not daring to hope.
    Pointing one finger, incensed, Miss Fiona shrilled, “His toenails want cutting!”
    He looked down. He was barefoot.
    â€œI’ll cut ’em!” roared Torrey, and swung up his axe.
    With a shout of terror, Mathieson woke up.
    He was in the caravan, his heart thundering. “Thank the Lord!” he gasped, enormously relieved. Deep rumblings emanated from the opposite bunk, but the one above his own appeared to be empty. Mr. Torrey had found other accommodations for the night.
    Panting, drenched with sweat, Mathieson lay back again, and as his breathing eased and the vivid nightmare faded, he listened drowsily to the steady beating of the rain and wondered where Rob MacTavish was spending the night and how soon he would be able to come up with him. If he lost his chance at that Jacobite gold when he had at last come so close to the end of the rainbow … Still, if he hadn’t been riding this way last evening it was very likely that foolish chit would have hung onto the tree until the bank gave way beneath her. He frowned at the upper bunk. She should never have been left alone by her charming but irresponsible father. And as for Torrey! His frown became a scowl. Was that where the surly block had gone? But—no, it was unlikely. Evidently Torrey’s intentions were honourable; he actually wanted to marry the chit. A fine chance he stood! She might want for manners and have no notion of correct behaviour, but she was kind and warm-heartedand deserved better than the likes of Freemon Torrey …

    By ten o’clock Mathieson was well on his way, riding at a steady canter, bathed in a warm and beneficent sunlight. He had risen before dawn and, thanks to the vibrations of Mr. Bradford’s snores, had been enabled to don the clothes which he’d found on the solitary chair, and limp outside, undetected. It had stopped raining, and the brilliance of the morning had also revealed that Miss Fiona had done remarkably well with his garments. His shirt and cravat were clean, if not ironed, and most of the mud had been brushed from his breeches and cloak. If it should rain again, which it very likely would, he’d look no worse than any other bedraggled traveller. He suffered a momentary qualm to think of the chit staying up half the night to achieve such results for him, but perhaps she considered this fair payment for the rescue of her repulsive cat. At all events, it was as well to put as much ground between them as possible, just in case her flamboyant papa should change his mind and turn the nightmare dream into a horrid reality!
    Rumpelstiltskin was in high spirits, eager to run. Mathieson gave him his head, guiding him on a course that ran parallel to the highway, but remaining, as far as was possible, out of sight of any traveller. Swaying easily in the saddle, his keen eyes alert for a sign of his valuable quarry, Mathieson’s thoughts drifted to the task before him.
    He suffered no qualms of conscience regarding his intention to divert as much as possible of the Scottish treasure into his own pockets. That those who had contributed their gold and valuables now stood in dire need was no concern of his. ‘The fools brought it on themselves,’ he thought contemptuously. Nor was he