Free Dedicated Villain by Patricia Veryan Page A

much interested in the bitter plight of those Jacobiteswho had escaped the slaughter on Culloden Field only to be hunted like animals the length and breadth of England. He had no intention of persecuting them himself—unless they carried information of use to him—nor had he the least desire to inform against them or hand them over to torment and slaughter. But as to helping them—rubbish! They were grown men who had known the risks when they took up arms against the Crown. One made one’s decisions in life and, if those decisions went awry, one contrived somehow, without whining, or repining, or involving others in one’s difficulties.
    He’d had his own difficulties, heaven knows! He’d come within snatching distance of the treasure when its existence had first become known. But as is so often the case, just when everything was going along nicely, a fly had to plop into the treacle. In this case the “fly” was personified by a set of curst interfering persons he designated The Busybodies. Many of these idiots had been violently opposed to the Cause of Charles Stuart; some of the men had actually fought against him. Yet all were so appalled by the ruthless persecution of escaped Jacobites and the privations of their hapless families, that they had banded together to help in any way possible. They had impeded his own efforts several times and were now intent upon a plan to restore the treasure to the original donors—a dastardly scheme he was determined to sabotage.
    Half an hour later, he still had caught no glimpse of the MacTavish coach. The odds against picking up a trail lost for over twelve hours might well have discouraged another man, but not the least of Mathieson’s attributes was his unquenchable optimism. A decision was indicated, however, and he pulled Rumpelstiltskin to a halt, and considered his next move carefully.
    He was convinced that for the treasure to have reached England in the first place, it could only have been sent down the west coast aboard ship. Prince Charles was known to have spent considerable time in the Isles of the Western Sea, which fact seemed to lend credence to this theory. Mathieson’s personalopinion was that for Charles Stuart to have sent his treasure to England was as brilliant as it was daring; certainly it must have been the last move his enemies would have expected. Further, if the valuable cargo had indeed been hidden in haste, as he had reason to believe, it followed that the hiding places must be near the coast. Therefore, although MacTavish had yesterday turned eastward to Cheltenham, it seemed unlikely that he would continue to the east, but more probably would at this point either swing north toward Kidderminster and Wolverhampton, or strike west through the Malvern Hills into Herefordshire. But which?
    Mathieson put the matter up to his four-legged friend. “Rump,” said he whimsically, “an you toss your head once we will immediately turn west into the hills. Two tosses, and we continue to follow the river, at least as far as Tewkesbury, hoping for a sight of the elusive bounder.”
    As was his fashion when addressed by his master, Rumpelstiltskin snorted amiably and tossed his head.
    â€œOnce, is it?” Mathieson patted his glossy neck, then reined around to the west. “As you will, then.”

4

    Mathieson came upon the hedge tavern by following the smoke that drifted up from behind a fine stand of oak trees. Riding slowly down the hill, watching the vista gradually unfold to reveal a wandering stream, a goosegirl herding her flock across an emerald meadow, and the old tavern standing in thatched and whitewashed serenity amid its oaks, he was not surprised to see an artist at work. An elderly man, seated at his easel, absorbed in his task.
    Mathieson was as absorbed in the goosegirl. Even from this distance it was apparent that she had a comely figure. He grinned, and whistled the command that