Dedicated Villain by Patricia Veryan Page B

the drink would contain.
    â€œWhy, hot milk and wine, of course. And spices.”
    â€œThank you. But—no.”
    She bent over him, patting his shoulder as one might soothe a recalcitrant child. “Poor soul, you are tired. This will help you sleep. Do you pull off your breeches first and I will—”
    â€œDevil you will, miss!”
    The deep voice fairly thundered through the caravan.
    Mathieson looked up, his nerves twanging a warning.
    A large gentleman stood upon the threshold. He held a heavy riding crop. His face was a thundercloud, and it was a familiar face, for this irate individual was the Shakespeare lover from the tap. Evidently, he loved more than Shakespeare. Perhaps he had set up this little lass in her nest, and was irked by an apparent invasion of his territory. Amused, Mathieson drawled, “
Tu peux être tranquille
, Falstaff. I can—”
    â€œQuite so, Papa,” cried Miss Bradford cheerily untroubled. “For there is nothing to worry about. And you are come home!”
    Papa
? Mathieson all but reeled. Zounds! Whatever else, the man was undoubtedly a gentleman. If this unorthodox chit was his daughter, then one normally quick-witted soldier of fortune had properly compromised himself with the type of female he knew well enough must be avoided like the plague! A lady of Quality—of marriageable age! ‘My dear God!’ he thought, frantically. ‘I’ve fallen into parson’s mousetrap! I’m ruined!’
    â€œAye, I’m home!” grated the new arrival, his eyes narrowed with rage as he watched Mathieson stand. “And only just in time, ’twould appear! I give you fair warning, sir—you’ll answer to Mervyn Bellamy Bradford for this!”
    â€œAnd to me, by God!”
    Another man had come in. A man as large as Bradford, but some twenty years younger. He had auburn hair, a pair of blue eyes that fairly hurled wrath, and a square chin which was heroically outthrust.
    â€œOh, now really, Papa,” cried Miss Bradford, stepping infront of her infuriated parent. “Mr. Mathieson is a brave gentleman who came to—”
    â€œTo have his head blown off,” snarled the young man, wrenching a long-barrelled pistol from his belt.
    This farce, thought Mathieson, had gone on long enough. Entering it, he stood very straight, clutched his blanket about him and lied on two counts, “I am an honourable man, sir. You may be sure I had no designs on your daughter.”
    â€œHa!” snorted the large young man. “It don’t much look like it!”
    â€œDo be quiet, Freemon,” said Miss Bradford angrily. “Papa, Mr. Mathieson has behaved as a perfect gentleman.”
    â€œ
Sans
apparel,” growled Bradford, pacing forward, lifting his whip.
    â€œ
Will
you listen, Papa?” Miss Bradford held out her hands in appeal. “This gentleman—”
    â€œTook you for some gypsy wench, I’ll be bound,” snorted Torrey murderously. “Alone and unprotected. So he decided to bed you and—”
    â€œNo!” cried Miss Bradford in desperation. “Papa! Only listen to—”
    Low and grim, Bradford commanded, “Step aside, Fiona.”
    Mathieson moved the girl to one side. “I have not harmed your daughter in any way. But if you mean to strike me, sir, ’tis only fair to tell you I’ve not the least intention of permitting you to do so.”
    â€œWe’ll see that,” jeered Torrey, coming up beside Bradford.
    â€œWe’ll also see a lot more of Mr. Mathieson, is he obliged to drop his blanket so as to defend himself,” pointed out Miss Bradford. “In which case I shall be properly compromised!”
    Mathieson grinned at this logical summation and promptly sneezed.
    â€œHere,” said Bradford, peering at him narrow-eyed. “I know you! You’re the young puppy made a mock of me in the tap. And now you’ve ruined