Dedicated Villain by Patricia Veryan Read Free Book Online Page A

small mirror and innumerable pots, pans, cooking implements, and extra candles, all very precisely disposed. And the unmistakable imprint of feminity was evidenced by the immaculate red and white cloth that was spread on the trunk, the little vase of flowers that stood there, the occasional water-colours nailed up amid the pots and pans, and the faint aroma of powders and perfumes that pervaded the air.
    He had succeeded with all but the last of his shirt buttons when the laces at his left wrist became caught on the ruby pin in his cravat. His right hand was useless and however he struggled, for some reason he could not detach the pin which seemed to have become inextricably entangled with his ruffles. Fuming, he snarled, “Of all the stupid—”
    The door opened, admitting a rush of colder air, and the girl hurried in. A towel was draped over her arm, and she held a tray on which were set a steaming bowl, a sponge, and a cake of soap. “Can you undo your … er …,” she enquired, slightly pink.
    He lowered his hand to the buttons of his nether garments and, of necessity his head followed. “Is somewhat difficult,” he admitted, bent double and craning his neck to grin up at her.
    â€œWhat—on earth …?” she gasped.
    He waved his left hand, the laces still securely attached to the ruby pin.
    Her laugh was a musical ripple. She was undoubtedly just as cold and almost as uncomfortable as he, yet she could laugh. A pearl among women, this gypsy lass.
    â€œPoor fellow,” she exclaimed, setting the pan on the trunk. “Here—let me!”
    He flung out his right hand to ward her off and cried theatrically, “Release my ruffles only, an you will, ma’am. I am not without me pride!” He grinned boyishly. “Besides, I’m afraid you may first have to help me shed my boots.”
    Chuckling, she reached up to disentangle ruffles from ruby. It was most fiendishly enmeshed, and soon her lips were slightly parted with concentration, revealing small white teeth and the tip of her tongue. Mud or no mud, she was all female, and Mathieson, not one to miss an opportunity, leaned to her mouth.
    She had finished her small task even as he bent however, and went hurrying off to rummage about under a pile of pillows on the lower bunk.
    He sighed.
    â€œPoor soul, you are exhausted,” she said with mistaken sympathy.
    â€œIneffectual, certainly.”
    â€œWe’ll soon have you feeling cozy.” She shook out another large blanket and held it up, screen-like. “Do you remove your shirt and then wrap this about you.”
    â€œNo such thing!” He leaned over the top of the blanket, smiling down into her upturned face. “We have not been so much as introduced and I’ll have you know I am one for the proprieties!”
    There could scarcely be anything less proper than their present situation and, predictably, that rich trilling laugh rang out again. “Very right,” she said, in her low, husky voice. “Therefore, out of respect for your privacy and my reputation, I shall close my eyes—thus. Now you may proceed, Mr. …?”
    â€œMathieson. Roland Mathieson.” He took off his shirt, wrapped the blanket around him toga fashion, and sat down on the chair. “I might better have introduced myself as Caesar.”
    â€œAnd of a certainty, the little one and I almost buried you!” The green eyes opened and twinkled at him. “Put your foot out and I’ll pull off your boots.”
    Despite all the mud he noted that her gown was of fine India muslin, well cut, and worn over many petticoats; altogether of much better quality than he would have expected of a gypsy girl. His brow wrinkled—come to think of it, she spoke in refined accents, also.
    She knelt. “Your foot,” she prompted, looking up at him.
    He hesitated. “No, please get up, ma’am! You’re cold and wet. Perhaps I can