Free Dedicated Villain by Patricia Veryan Page B

urged the well-trained stallion into an immediate stretching gallop. They reached the meadow with a flurry of air and a thunder of hooves, and Mathieson dismounted to bow to the pretty creature. The geese scattered. The girl was frightened, wherefore it was only common kindness to soothe her. Besides, she was even prettier than he had hoped, with that special prettiness that comes from youth and fresh-scrubbed cheeks innocent of paints and powders. He questioned her cautiously about the MacTavish coach. She answered with shyness and regret that she had seen no such vehicle. However, she proved more than willing to make up forthis lapse by returning his kisses, nor did she raise any objection to a roving hand, even if that hand was bound up in a rather grubby bandage … Still, he dared not linger too long—the Scot was not far ahead, he was sure of it. Reluctantly rearranging her bodice, therefore, he lifted his head to smile at her, met a yearning look that suddenly became scared, and from the corner of his eye glimpsed a large dark shape hurtling at him.
    He had forgotten the artist. His left hand blurred to the jewelled hilt of his Arabian jambiya dagger, his right grabbed instinctively but abortively for his deadly colichemarde. He heard the goosegirl scream, had time only for a half-formed thought that the old fool might believe he was abusing the girl, then something heavy slammed into his back, and he measured his length on the turf.
    A warm, wet object was flapping about his neck; heavy blows thudded at him, driving the breath from his lungs; whines and smothered grunts, familiar but impossible, were in his ears. Disbelieving, he flung up an arm to protect himself, and rolled over. The goosegirl had departed. A great head, neither Alsatian nor mastiff but something of each, hung over him, powerful jaws grinning, and big brown eyes adoring him.
    â€œBeast!”
he gasped, incredulous, and was at once deafened by a bark that must have been heard three miles away. What appeared to be a yard of pink tongue sloshed across his mouth. Spluttering, he loosed his hold on the dagger, and sat up, drawing his sleeve across his face, fending off the dog’s rapturous excitement, caressing him even as he damned his ears, his own eyes darting to the side, then fixing there. Incredulity became stupefaction.
    The artist stood watching. He was of no great stature, his shabby clothing seeming to indicate a minimum of success in his chosen profession. His grey hair was thick and neatly tied back. He had a wide mouth, a thin hooked nose, bushy eyebrows, and there was a smear of green paint down his long chin. Not, one would say, a figure to strike awe into the heart of such a fighting machine as was Captain Mathieson. Yet thatruthless young man’s jaw dropped, his black eyes were glazed, and, forgetting his manners he gasped, “M-Muffin …?”
    The bushy eyebrows lifted. A gleam of amusement lit the pale blue eyes. “You recognize me,” murmured his Grace the Duke of Marbury. “But how charming. And quite remarkable, under the circumstances. You were very fast with your dagger, Mathieson. I commend you, though I trust you will feel inclined to spare Beast and return it to its sheath. Thank you. No—pray do not stand. I purely detest being obliged to look up to you.”
    Mathieson flushed, but one did not remain in an ungainly sprawl while one’s grandparent stood. He compromised by kneeling. His bewildered gaze roved the duke’s person, then sought about for attendants.
    â€œI am disturbed that you were rather tardy with that ready sword of yours,” said Marbury. “A man in your—er, profession—Ah, but you have hurt your hand, I see. That explains matters. Are you looking for my servants? I am quite alone.”
    â€œB-But—sir …” Mathieson absently removed Beast’s tail from around his jaw. “Surely—That is—I mean—Why on earth