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Redeeming The Roguish Rake
Liz Tyner
The scoundrel of Society…has compromised the Vicar’s daughter!When scandalous Fenton Foxworthy is beaten and left for dead, he’s rescued by demure vicar’s daughter Rebecca Whitelow. Fox is a cynical rake whose outrageous propositions are the talk of the ton—but his injuries are so great that Rebecca mistakes him for the new village Vicar! Too late, Rebecca realises her error…she’s been compromised into a hasty marriage!


The scoundrel of Society...
...has compromised the vicar’s daughter!
When scandalous Fenton Foxworthy is beaten and left for dead, he’s rescued by demure vicar’s daughter Rebecca Whitelow. Fox is a cynical rake whose outrageous propositions are the talk of the ton—but his injuries are so great that Rebecca mistakes him for the new village vicar! Too late, Rebecca realizes her error... She’s been compromised into a hasty marriage!
LIZ TYNER lives with her husband on an Oklahoma acreage she imagines is similar to the ones in the children’s book Where the Wild Things Are. Her lifestyle is a blend of old and new, and is sometimes comparable to the way people lived long ago. Liz is a member of various writing groups and has been writing since childhood. For more about her visit liztyner.com (http://www.liztyner.com).
Also by Liz Tyner
The Notorious Countess
The Wallflower Duchess
English Rogues and Grecian Goddesses miniseries
Safe in the Earl’s Arms
A Captain and a Rogue
Forbidden to the Duke
The Governess Tales miniseries
The Runaway Governess
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
Redeeming the Roguish Rake
Liz Tyner


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07342-4
REDEEMING THE ROGUISH RAKE
© 2018 Elizabeth Tyner
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dedicated to Ann Leslie Tuttle
Contents
Cover (#u0fb14aa4-72ab-5c06-a178-3e8d41f02b66)
Back Cover Text (#ubcb7a1f4-98c1-5d4f-b0f0-1e7c5782fea0)
About the Author (#u4cdcf526-95c4-59d2-b88e-c9f6022cf6f3)
Booklist (#u86f92128-8a95-5d91-86cc-68099e15d7df)
Title Page (#uecd83206-6883-5a20-81c6-698ebfd8ea15)
Copyright (#u4b3a5ac8-71fd-5c5a-b8a0-358235c19d51)
Dedication (#ue3b0f414-f6e4-5a6b-a140-12fc0651506f)
Chapter One (#u8ceb3903-4160-53a7-b011-68a9f0b379b0)
Chapter Two (#u8326eb1d-f003-5589-9f7d-f111b84c78ec)
Chapter Three (#u67f6d273-b9e9-5c6d-a4ed-5136a6304a82)
Chapter Four (#u887f0929-8a79-5124-80e9-1becb0d9d010)
Chapter Five (#u705eef5f-5fa3-500f-9d2e-57a8ed3c1547)
Chapter Six (#u7c165eb6-7da4-55e9-9e67-7f1786f2de86)
Chapter Seven (#u0610673b-9e3d-5334-a4c4-3160f1226b4f)
Chapter Eight (#u7a22f0fd-15f8-5f92-9ae8-35f0b6850b82)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u11ad3efd-6bd6-566f-b686-2b94cd14e627)
Thumps sounded on the stairs outside the bedchamber. Foxworthy sat straight, covers falling to his waist, just as the door swung open. He looked at the visitor’s hands first. No weapons. He raised his glance to his cousin’s face. Andrew wore one of those grim-lipped spectacled looks even though he didn’t wear spectacles.
‘Stop swearing,’ Foxworthy said. ‘I do not abide such language.’
‘If so, that’s your only virtue and it’s one more than you had last week.’ Andrew paused.
‘I’m on an improvement regimen.’
‘About time. You look ghastly. As though you’ve not slept a night this week.’
‘A bit of tiredness on my face and the ladies flutter about with suggestions on how to make me feel better. I can’t complain.’
‘I just heard about your little escapade.’
Foxworthy nodded his head. ‘A priceless moment I will not forget.’ And he doubted anyone would let him from the look on his cousin’s face. However, at the moment, he simply could not recall it. He’d danced a lot at the soirée—that he remembered. He’d decided to take a turn with every woman in attendance and in the short time of the dance, discover what was most endearing about her. Then Lady Havisham, all of elbow high to him and feisty as a tavern wench, had told him she could drink more than he. Since he’d started much earlier than her it was a difficult competition. She’d conceded defeat and he’d placed a kiss right on the top of the knot of her grey hair and she’d said she wished she had a grandson just like him, only smart and handsome.
He put a hand on his head. ‘The woman must have been pouring it into her reticule.’
‘You proposed.’
‘I did?’ He checked his cousin’s eyes to see if he told the truth. ‘To Lady Havisham? I can’t imagine she’d be foolish enough to say yes.’
‘You don’t remember?’ Andrew snorted. He kicked the base of the bedpost, but the frame didn’t move. ‘You don’t remember?’
‘Not at the moment.’ Fox pushed himself from the bed. Pain shot through his knee. He moved to the mirror, favouring the leg.
‘Millicent Peabody,’ Andrew continued. ‘Bended knee, in front of six witnesses.’
Fox smiled, remembering. ‘Yes. It was quite romantic. I only wished I’d had a red rose, but the proposal was unplanned.’ And he was going to pay for the rather dramatic crash to one knee. It played to the group well, but he wasn’t sure if the pain was worth it.
Andrew choked and swung around on one foot, looking away from Fox. ‘So why must you do it?’
In the mirror, Fox examined his face. ‘I do look like I could use a drink.’
‘Why did you propose to Mrs Peabody in front of everyone?’
Andrew moved closer, eyes tightened. He expected an answer.
‘Millicent Peabody’s husband was being such a toad.’ Fox tossed the words out. ‘Earlier, he told everyone in the card room that he could not abide how frumpy she’s grown since the children arrived. Mrs Peabody is lovely and her husband is too daft to know what a treasure she is because he’s chasing every tart in town.’
‘Nonsense.’ Andrew’s eyes darkened. ‘You do it so you’ll be mentioned in publication. Your sodden brain believes you must rival Lord Byron for attention.’
‘Exceed. Exceed Byron,’ Fox said, lips turning up. ‘This proposal even put tears in one debutante’s eyes.’
‘Fox,’ Andrew spoke softly, crossed his arm across his waist, rested an elbow on his other arm and tapped his fingertips against his lips. ‘How many times have you proposed to a married woman?’
‘It is not the quantity, it is the quality of proposals.’
‘How many times now have you publicly proposed to a married woman?’ Andrew repeated, voice rising.
‘I can’t very well propose to an unmarried woman. Might distress her when I don’t show up at the wedding. Proposing to a married woman is more sensible.’
‘To everyone except the husband.’
Fox quickly pulled on a shirt. ‘That may have entered my mind, but I discounted it. Too minor to concern myself with.’
‘I see your point. Mr Peabody is feeling disgraced and is planning to kill you. If he succeeds you will be in the papers again. Good plan. You should have thought of it years ago.’
Fox looked over his shoulder. ‘I assure you, my demise would be on the front page and not only for one day or two. They would devote considerable space to the event.’
‘I could get my wife to draw up a caricature of your passing on as well, and proposing again.’
‘Assuming there are married women in the hereafter. Which is an immense leap of faith.’ Fox poured water into the basin and wet a flannel before pressing it to his face. ‘Make sure Beatrice gets my smile just right. I do want to be remembered as I am.’
‘Including the wrinkles?’
Foxworthy patted his face clean and reached for the comb, but he spared another glance for the mirror. Not a line. Nothing. Not even at the eyes. His movements stopped and he stared into his reflection. Nothing. A caricature of a person. He flicked the comb against the glass, hearing the clink as he turned away.
‘You’ve moved through the ton, gathering the ladies about you,’ Andrew said. ‘It’s as if you wish to say to the husbands that had you asked the wife first, she would have chosen you.’
Fox snapped around, his eyes on his cousin. ‘She would have. Nothing to do with me, though. The advantage of inheritance.’ His voice roughened. ‘The heir’s advantage. None of it matters. Not to the women. Not to their husbands. Not to me.’
‘No less than three men in this town have threatened publicly to kill you. You’ll hardly be laughing if one decides it’s worth the noose to put you in the ground.’
‘They only say it because it is required of them. They must bluster and spout. They don’t care either.’ Fox shut his eyes. The women were fickle. The husbands—cowards. He opened his eyes. The ton had become as boring as the country, only with more elaborate planning going into the staleness.
‘You’ve not forgotten that woman who nearly chased you to the altar when you were a child.’ Andrew grabbed the waistcoat the valet had left draped over the lacquered clothing stand and tossed the garment at Fox.
Fox caught it. His lips curled up. ‘Best thing that ever happened to me was when she lost interest.’
‘True. At the time. But not now.’
‘I assure you I’ve no feelings for her at all. I wish her only the best her husband’s money can buy. And if you think of it, I’m as good as married to half the women in London. I see them once in a while and don’t live with them. The same as my parents do and they are quite happily wed.’
Andrew watched him without speaking for a moment. ‘There are decent women out there. You just don’t deserve one.’
‘I must agree.’ He looked at his cousin. ‘I’d drown in annoyance.’
The knocking at the door interrupted them. ‘Enter,’ Fox called out. A footman, hair close cropped at the sides, walked in with a tray holding two notes. He held the salver out to Fox.
Fox stood, picked up one paper, flicked it open, saw that it was from Lady Havisham and read her warning that Peabody was incensed about the proposal.
Then he saw the script on the other page. His father’s pen. He opened it. The man would be visiting. He claimed he wanted to see Fox’s new horse.
‘I am truly going on a health regime,’ Foxworthy muttered as he read. ‘I’ll pay a surprise visit to my father’s house in the country—since he’s at Bath, searching for a new vicar, and will be in London soon. There’s a tavern near my father’s country estate that I miss.’ He tossed the paper back onto the tray. ‘Put it with the others.’ He motioned the servant away, and the man nodded.
It would be best for all involved. His father didn’t see the humour in marriage proposals, or anything else.
He shook his head. ‘It’s a sad day when Lady Havisham can handle her spirits better than I can. That tavern ale should put some iron in my stomach.’
Andrew nodded, pushing himself up from the chair. ‘I’ll tell everyone at White’s that you’re going to the country estate. Perhaps someone else will divert their attention before you return.’ He paused. ‘Peabody isn’t the straightest arrow and everyone knows he’s vengeful.’
Fox waved the words away and checked the mirror again. His blasted eyes looked soulless. As though they didn’t care about anyone or anything. His cousin was wrong. He wasn’t soured on marriage. He was soured on the world and there wasn’t one better anywhere. He’d travelled just enough to know that.
‘Don’t get yourself killed by proposing to anyone in the country,’ Andrew said.
‘You have my word,’ Fox said. ‘I’m leaving London. I will stay from public view for a time. I am not proposing again...’ he paused, thinking ‘...unless it is to Lady Havisham. I rather like her.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘I doubt she’d take her vows seriously.’
‘Would you?’
‘Do I take anything seriously?’
‘Perhaps the taste of brandy.’
Fox gave an upward tilt of his head, and Andrew stepped out the door, closing it behind him. Fox stared at the wood for a moment.
He didn’t even feel much for Andrew. They’d grown up together and had their fair share of adventures. But now they were men and Andrew had married, and his thoughts always seemed somewhere else. Not that Fox didn’t understand. His own thoughts only half-attended the revelry around him. That last proposal had been a performance and a stale one at that.
Fox had to leave London. The stench of all the hypocrisy was flooding into him. Particularly his own hypocrisy of the easy smile and the game of getting his name mentioned in the newspaper.
He felt as if he had a bit of sand inside his boot all the time.
The tomb-like walls of his father’s house would fit him well. Particularly since his father wasn’t there. But first, he would have a crate of brandy sent ahead. Maybe two, since his father wouldn’t be there to share. Or three. His father would not see the humour in returning home with a new vicar and finding all the servants with sotted smiles.
* * *
The next morning, Foxworthy ignored the superfine silk coat the valet had left out and went to the dressing chamber. He found the half-rag brown garment that suited the country better. He and his father agreed on that one thing. Just as Fox wasn’t suited to the country life, neither were the clothes he preferred.
He didn’t wait for the carriage. He wanted the power of the horse at his command.
Foxworthy left the house, taking a bite from the apple in his hand. The groom handed the reins to Fox, and he took Rusty’s reins, moving to hold his palm flat at the animal’s face. The horse nibbled with his lips and then crunched the fruit. The beast looked at Fox and then Fox reached out and gave him a scratch under the chin.
In moments, they were headed to the countryside. Fox leaned forward, giving Rusty a pat on the neck. Rusty’s ear twitched his response.
Foxworthy looked around him as he rode. The sunbeams warmed his face. Servants with baskets under their arms walked along the road. A few carriages here and there.
He’d just been in a mood when he was at home. Probably from all the soirées and all the nonsensical talk he did. Damn. He got tired of his own voice sometimes. All the pretty words and all the right things to say. The ladies would flutter and he’d continue and he’d wonder why they didn’t slap his face. And they’d chuckle and brush up against him, and he’d spout even more nonsense.
* * *
The saddle was getting a bit smaller and Rusty’s ears had lost their joie de vivre when the horse stepped onto the road that would take him only one turn from his father’s estate, leaving the commerce of London behind them. He had to be thankful the road wasn’t mud soaked. The clouds had darkened and he hoped the weather wouldn’t trap him at his father’s house. The chilled air bit into his face.
He noticed the tracks in the road. Definitely well travelled. More so than usual. When he raised his head, he saw a man with an old, wide-brimmed hat that flopped over his face, standing, holding the reins of a horse in one hand and a cane in the other.
‘Ahoy.’ The man spoke. His clothes... His clothes were sewn by a fine tailor. Fox recognised the gold buttons. He’d seen them before.
Hooves thundered from the woods and, before he could turn his horse, a club thwacked at the animal’s rump. Rusty bolted forward. The man in front raised the cane. The horse surged to the gold-buttoned man and the man stepped aside, swinging the stick. He knocked Fox backward, breaking the club. Another stick caught Fox as he tumbled from the horse. When he slammed into the ground, he noted the face of the man who’d been behind him and the other one charging forward with both fists gripping the broken club.
It wasn’t a good sign that they didn’t have their faces covered.
* * *
Rebecca pinched the frond of the thorn bush, moving the long strand aside carefully so it didn’t prick her fingers. She stepped forward on the trail, then released the briar, and one thorn scraped along her skin as the stem swung back into place. The handle of her basket slid on her arm and the eggs she carried jostled, but barely moved, cushioned by the cloth. She checked her arm for blood, but only a white scratch marked the skin.
She continued along the path, listening to the chaffinch and knowing Mrs Berryfield would appreciate the eggs. She imagined Mrs Berryfield’s children, chirping like hungry baby birds, their dirty hands reaching for her basket to see what she’d brought. Eggs. They’d be disappointed. But one did the best one could. And the eggs would surely gain her a promise from Mrs Berryfield to attend Sunday Services.
Eggs were not as plentiful now that the weather had chilled. In fact, she moved to the trees lining the road so she’d be out of the wind. The dark clouds threatened, and she hoped to make it back home before the rain.
Stepping up to the road, she crossed, planning to take the short path to the woods to reach the furthermost tenant on the old earl’s land.
Then she saw a bundle of clothing lying on the ground. No one tossed the wash about like that. She moved one step closer, staring.
Brown. Brown hair. Still looking fresh from a morning comb. But it couldn’t be, because the rest of him—the rest of him splayed about. His head was face down. And blood, brown. Dried.
She couldn’t move.
Another funeral for her father to perform. Another widow needing courage and someone to listen to her pain. Rebecca didn’t want to walk forward. Then she’d discover if it was Mr Greaves or Mr Able. They were the only two men with a head of hair that colour, except theirs always stuck ragged from their hats. She needed to know who it was. The family would have to know.
The dead man groaned, just the tiniest bit, and she dropped her basket.
‘Mr Greaves? Mr Able?’ she called out, voice screeching into her own ears.
He didn’t move.
She took a step forward. No answer. Oh, my. She’d forgotten about Mr Renfro and he had eight children. ‘Mr Renfro?’ The words wobbled from her mouth.
He was quiet as a tomb. She was going to have to turn him over and she hated the thought of touching Mr Renfro, even dead. He smelled worse than a sweat-soaked draught horse. She didn’t know how Mrs Renfro did it.
She clamped her teeth together. Putting her boot solidly on the ground, she stepped forward.
His big bare feet tangled in the grass. His boots had been stolen. Shivering, she darted her eyes to the trail, fearing the thought of someone watching her.
The birds still sang and a breeze wafted through the air.
Moving forward, she nudged her own boot against the muddied toe. ‘Pardon.’
She was going to have to touch him. It wasn’t good for a man to touch a woman unless they were married, but women were granted no such favours where men were concerned.
She knelt on the ground, took in a deep breath and pushed at his shoulder to move him over. He didn’t budge. She tried again and then looked the length of him. He wasn’t Mr Greaves or Mr Able. Mr Renfro overshot the door frame and had to duck when he stepped inside, but the stranger looked too precise for Mr Renfro.
She leaned in. He didn’t smell like Mr Renfro. Even covered in dirt and mud, this one didn’t have an odour. She touched the one bit of skin she could see, near his neck. Cold.
Instead of pushing, she reached across his back. She grabbed his shirt shoulder in one hand and the waist in the other and pulled. He flopped over onto his back, and she plopped to her bottom. She shut her eyes when she saw his face. She took two deep breaths before she could look at him again. His nose was to the side and so was his jaw. His eyes—she didn’t know if he could even open them or not. His face could have once belonged to Mr Renfro, Mr Greaves or Mr Able. Then she looked him over again. He only wore a lawn shirt and his trousers. His clothing had been stolen. Or, it had been taken so he would freeze to death.
His eyelid fluttered and one eye opened a slit. She didn’t know if he could really see her. Then his hand reached up and touched her wrist.
She didn’t know what to do. She clasped his fingers. He squeezed, then relaxed his grasp.
‘I must get you help,’ she said. ‘I must. I’ll only be gone a moment. I can find a cart.’
He squeezed again. She hated to leave. But she had to. Both his eyes opened now. And she could have sworn he winked at her before shutting his eyes again.
But she didn’t want him to die in the brambles. She didn’t really want him to die in the vicarage either, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone had.
She stood, took off her coat, put it around him and ran, whispering prayers under her breath.
Mr Renfro’s house would be her best choice. He could carry the man to the vicarage and he’d have no trouble straightening the man’s nose back in place, something her father could never do. One of Mr Renfro’s sons could help. The stranger needed to be straightened out before they buried him and Mr Renfro would have plenty of help to hold the man down if he fought.
Chapter Two (#u11ad3efd-6bd6-566f-b686-2b94cd14e627)
He wasn’t sure if he lay in a bed or a coffin.
Buzzing. Bees or flies. No, a woman’s voice. An upset woman. Fox didn’t open his eyes at the noise. Everything hurt too much for him to care. If they were going to kill him, he just hoped for them to hurry.
The woman’s voice again and then a man’s. But the man’s voice softened. Concerned. Not angry. Not violent.
‘I did find out who he is.’ The male again. ‘I spoke with the servants at the earl’s house, letting them know we have criminals on the loose, and I have the victim here.’
‘Who is he?’ she asked.
‘Well, Mrs Pritchett didn’t want me to know, but the earl sent them a letter telling them to brighten up a room for...a new vicar. Said to expect him any day now.’
‘Oh, Father...’ The word ended in despair.
‘Now, Rebecca. The earl only wants the best. Don’t look so upset.’
‘I’m not.’
The room was silent. Nothing. Then the rustle of clothing, someone moving, stopping at his side. He tried to open his eyes.
‘Are you the new vicar?’ the soft voice asked. Even in the blackness surrounding him, he could tell she leaned over him. The perfume of lilacs and just-cooked porridge touched his nose. She wasn’t anyone he knew.
But even the scent of his favourite flower didn’t ease the pain in his face. His eyes hurt and they wouldn’t open properly. He couldn’t open his blasted eyes.
He just wanted to rest. Rest. He needed to tell her.
He parted his lips to speak. Pain hobbled his words. His breath rushed from his lungs to throat and even thinking ached his head. He clenched his fist, barely trapping bedclothes in his hands. Rest.
But the first part of the word was too hard to speak. He couldn’t talk with her. The feeling of bones crashing together tensed his body.
‘Are you the new vicar?’ she asked again.
Rest. He wanted to rest, but it hurt too badly. He pushed out as much of the word as he could. ‘...esss...’
The woman spoke. ‘He said yes’
He didn’t care who she thought he was. He hurt worse than he’d ever hurt when he awoke after going twenty-four hours with nothing to sustain him but brandy. That hadn’t been this bad. He wanted to ask for brandy. He really did. He wanted to tell them he’d pay a hundred pounds for a good brandy to wash the taste of blood from his mouth. Or at least make him forget it.
‘His lordship has been saying for quite some time I should take a pension. We knew he was hoping to find a new vicar, Becca.’ A man’s voice. The man’s voice rumbled again. ‘He said that was part of the reason he was travelling. It’s to be expected.’
‘I know,’ she said.
The woman leaned in again, touching the bed, jostling Fox. Pain shot through the top of his head. She was going to kill him if she didn’t stop moving him. They’d already stripped him and cleaned him and dressed him in a sack. Whatever they’d given him to drink had left a bitter taste in his mouth and mixed with the other tastes. He needed a shipload of brandy.
He’d heard the crack when the club hit his face before the blackness had overtaken him. The breaking noise had been the same as when someone strong took a dried branch and snapped it. He’d not known a face could make such a sound.
The memory of the cracking noise warred with the pain.
‘Do you think I should give him some milk, Father?’
No, he wanted to scream. Brandy.
‘Put some on a flannel and drip it into his mouth.’
He raised his hand an inch, fingers spread, palm out. No milk.
‘I think that’s what he wants,’ she said. ‘Look. He’s clasping his fingers for the glass.’
Forcing the effort, he lifted his hand and put it up, over the area of his mouth.
‘He’s not thirsty,’ the male said.
‘But he should drink something.’
‘Leave him be. He probably can’t get it down anyway. He said no, so let’s give him some quiet.’
‘He’d probably like it if I read from the prayer book to him.’
The male voice sounded from further away. ‘Yes.’
Clothes rustled and the lilacs touched him again. Without opening his eyes, he reached for her. His fingers closed around something else. A book.
‘Oh, Father. He wants the prayer book.’ The words lingered in the air, floating, and wafted outwards, awe colouring them with praise. Much the same as his voice would have been if he’d been able to thank her for some brandy.
‘Scriptures have always given me comfort in my time of need,’ the gruff voice stated.
The sound of bustling clothing and a chair being moved close to the bed. ‘I think I should start with the January ones until I get to this month,’ the soft voice said. ‘And I’ll read the best parts slowly.’
It was autumn.
He was in hell.
And if he was going to be punished for all the wrongs he’d done...he would not be leaving for a while.
The old man interrupted the woman. ‘He’s not struggling and if he...doesn’t make it...well, he’ll be in a better place.’
No. No. He preferred London. It was good enough. It was wonderful, in fact. The best of everything the world could offer was at his fingertips. He’d been mistaken to leave it.
His hand slid sideways, and he clasped at the bedcovers to keep the feeling of floating from overtaking him.
‘I’d best go spread the word that we’ve got some cutthroats in the area.’ The gruff voice spoke again.
‘Did you let the earl’s servants know...he’s here?’
The man let out a deep sigh. ‘Yes. I told them it’s best not to move him and that you’re giving him the best care there is. You know as much as an apothecary does about treatments.’
‘I learned from Mother.’
‘Did you notice...?’ The male’s words faded. ‘In his time of need, he reached for comfort. A sainted heart lives inside that battered body. At least I can rest easier knowing a man who appreciates goodness is replacing me. I just think I have a lot of Sunday Services left in me.’
‘You do, Father. And you can teach the new vicar, too. You can help him.’
No one spoke for a few moments.
‘Well, Vicar,’ the older voice said from near Fox’s elbow, ‘I will look forward to hearing one of your first services.’
Fox, eyes still shut, breathed in and out. He could do that. He could give quite the sermon on why you shouldn’t covet your neighbour’s wife.
Shuffling noises sounded. ‘Latch the door behind me,’ the man said. ‘I don’t want any of those evil-doers coming back to finish what’s left of him.’
The door closed, and a bolt sounded, being moved into place.
Chapter Three (#u11ad3efd-6bd6-566f-b686-2b94cd14e627)
Fox dozed and words pulled him from his stupor. More reading from that book. Voice gentle, but sounding more asleep than awake. The book shut with a snap.
This was as much enjoyment as reading his father’s letters. The same type of admonishments. Mostly. Although, the voice wasn’t telling him the additional commandment to wed a virtuous woman and put a blindfold on.
A scraping noise. A chair on a rough floor. Clothing moving against skin as someone moved. A female. The air she disturbed swirled around him, trailing the lilac scent.
He tried to turn towards her. But his head was too heavy for his neck to move. She leaned over him and brushed a lock of his hair from his forehead, her fingertip trailing cool across his skin. ‘You look better than you did before I washed the blood from your face.’
His eyes remained closed. He remembered a rough rag brushing over his skin, shooting pain into him.
She stroked the skin in front of his ear, feather-light. His whole being followed the movement of her hand against his face, sending sparks of warmth. She pulled away. ‘You’ve slept for a full day. Over a day.’ She brushed a lock of hair from by his ear, but her hand remained, barely there. She stilled. ‘Nothing since you reached for the prayer book.’
He waited. Why didn’t she move again?
‘I think you should wake up.’
He wanted to hear her speak again. Now.
‘If you don’t wake up soon, I’m afraid you’ll never wake up. That won’t be good.’
It’s not my choice.
‘You’ll need to be shaved. I suppose Father can do that. But his hand trembles so.’
He imagined the razor at his throat and heard a guttural noise. Spears stabbed from inside his neck.
He couldn’t force his eyes open.
‘Quiet now,’ she said. ‘Don’t hurt yourself. But at least you’re talking now.’
Talking? He had no strength to agree or disagree.
She touched the cloth at his neck and tugged, loosening something. ‘I wasn’t thinking. You’ve jostled yourself and tightened the nightshirt strings over your bruise.’
The covers moved around him.
‘Oh. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I do beg your pardon.’ Again, fingertips brushed at the side of his face. She smoothed across his eyebrows, first one and then the other. Her fingers didn’t stop. ‘The only part of your face that isn’t bruised,’ she said.
He relaxed into her caresses.
Then her cool lips pressed at his forehead, bringing the scent of a woman’s softness. ‘I hope you’re sleeping comfortably.’
No. I never sleep comfortably.
He moved his feet and nothing new hurt. Then he moved his left hand. He tried to make a fist with his right hand, but he couldn’t. He remembered deflecting a blow.
He was fairly certain he could walk. His legs moved fine, but he didn’t think he could speak. He tried. But his throat ached and pain seared. Too much effort.
If she’d put a pen in his hand, surely he could write something without seeing. A haze of light seeped from under one lash. If he concentrated, he could make out the outline of the covers over his chest.
He tried to make a swirling motion with his hand to indicate writing, but she grasped it and he let her hold it still.
‘Don’t be uneasy.’
He could pen instructions for them to take him to his father’s estate.
The rough nightshirt they’d put on him would definitely please his father. But surely the servants could find something that didn’t bind him so tight.
Then he forced his eyes wider. He couldn’t get them open enough to see much more than shadows. And a bosom.
He pushed against the puffed skin that wanted to defeat him. He could see very little of the world except a very delightful view. Two delectable beauties right in front of him. Oh, this was not so terrible. And then they moved. Not in the preferred way, but whisked from his vision.
‘Praises be,’ she said, and clasped her hands together, moving so rapidly he could not follow. ‘Your eyes are open.’
Blast. His lids closed. Blast.
Then he imagined the sight he’d just seen. The faded and washed fabric, pliable from much use, and exactly the sight he wanted to wake up to. His whole body wanted to wake up to it and did.
He couldn’t smile. It hurt too much. But if he’d had to be separated into two parts and only one portion functioned, his head or his manhood, well, it had worked out for the best.
Relief flooded through him, dancing around the memory of the breasts.
‘Oh.’ She slid on to the chair at his bedside and reached for a cloth. She daubed it around his face. ‘Don’t let it concern you that your eye twitches. You’ve done that almost every time I speak to you. That’s how I know you hear me.’
He turned enough that he could see the book in her hands. He lifted his left hand, reaching for it.
She moved the volume into his grasp and helped him guide it against his body. He clasped it at his side, keeping it in his hand. She’d have to finish the job the cutthroats started to get that book back again. He would not hear one more saintly syllable from it.
* * *
Becca watched him. He grasped the book so tight. Her chest fluttered. His discoloured face had made her cringe at first, but now she was used to all the marks and bruises. Her mother had once told her a tale of a woman falling in love with gargoyles and now she could understand how the ladies of the village could tolerate the touches of their rough husbands. They saw through the appearance to the heart underneath.
She looked at him, clutching the prayer book to his side, holding close what was dear to him.
Biting her lip, she reached out. She patted his hand and then let her fingers stop over his knuckles. Strong hands, but not roughened with work because he spent his time tending people instead of livestock or fields.
He kept the book against his side, yet he moved his grasp so that he covered her hand with his, holding their hands resting on the volume. She’d never...been this close to a man before. Well, she had, but this made her breath shaky.
She took in a gulp of air.
‘Are you comfortable?’ she asked, leaning closer.
He moved his head and didn’t squeeze her hand. The blink of his eyes was a bit long to be anything positive. ‘Well, I guess you couldn’t be. Not with all the injuries.’
His grasp tightened in agreement and her heart double-thumped. It was just the gratefulness of not having to watch him die. She’d not looked forward to that.
She moved closer. ‘Do you mind if I talk to you?’
He pressed her hand, softly.
This time she couldn’t help giving a return squeeze to his fingers. His hand felt so big compared to hers. She liked that. She put her free hand over their clasp and gently rubbed over his knuckles. The tension in his grip lessened. It didn’t seem like they were strangers any more.
‘I’m Rebecca Whitelow. I’m twenty-three. Mother died when I was twenty. I still miss her every day.’ She shrugged the words, almost laughing at herself. ‘Good works. I try to do her good works now. One for each day of the week, except Sunday,’ she whispered. ‘A day of rest.’
Smoothing the pillow covering at the side of his head, she said, ‘No one knows about my good works, or my day of rest from them. They can’t, or it could hurt their feelings to think it is a duty.’
She touched the pillow again. ‘I like doing the nice things but I like resting on Sunday, too. It’s my good works for myself.’ Her hand was so near his head that she couldn’t stop herself from smoothing his hair, although truly, it didn’t need to be combed.
His grip had loosened. She peered at him. He wasn’t asleep, though. He watched her. ‘Father says most people spend so much time waiting for a chance to do something especially wonderful that they overlook little things, like the weeds that might need to be pulled from an elderly neighbour’s garden.’ She wrinkled her nose.
He listened. She moved closer to his face. He could see her. She could tell. Each time she bent near him his eyes followed her. She could see the tension. The concentration. The struggle.
‘Don’t you think it was wise of Father to help me understand the value of small efforts? To show me that goodness is not something to be saved for the biggest battles, but to be used every day?’
She asked the question to see if the man could give a response.
His eyes shut.
One quick pulse of movement at her hand rewarded her. But she didn’t think he quite agreed. ‘Oh, please understand that I’m not trying to ignore the bigger needs.’
He tapped her knuckles. A reassuring pat, but slow between movements. Much in the same way someone would agree who didn’t really or didn’t at all. Perhaps the way her father might when he wasn’t listening, but wanted to show her he cared about her anyway.
She ducked her head. ‘I’m not boasting. Forgive me if it sounds that way.’
She pulled her hand away, but his grip tightened, firm, keeping her in his grasp, but not forcing. His eyes flickered to her.
A sliding rub down her fingers told her he was pleased. Her heart grew, spreading itself throughout her body, warming it.
She kept the blossoming hope inside. She’d planned not to marry, ever, unless it was that once with Samuel Wilson. Not that she had a fondness for Sam. But he was sturdy and always attended Sunday Services and was her best choice in the village. And then he’d up and married the bar maid—not that Trudy wasn’t a nice woman, if you liked a certain coarseness and the fact she never laced her boots properly. And she wore her skirts just short enough for it to be noticed. Men seemed to find those unlaced boots quite fetching.
Rebecca looked at where her own feet were concealed under the folds of her skirt. She’d accepted that her choices in the village were rather dismal for a husband and after Samuel got married they had become almost non-existent. The men were always respectful to her, but they kept their distance, as if she might scold them for speaking roughly. And there weren’t a lot of them of marriageable age who weren’t already married.
She’d been tending her mother when other people were courting.
She’d overheard her parents speaking of marriage many times. Her mother had complained to her father that finding a man of good quality was difficult for the young women of the village, particularly with the number of men who’d died fighting Napoleon.
So many times her mother had cautioned her that in order to continue her good works she must find a man who appreciated the time she spent on giving to others. Only a man devoted to goodness would understand.
But, well, now she wasn’t certain that her future husband hadn’t been delivered to her doorstep.
A vicar certainly needed a wife to administer to the women of the village.
But one shouldn’t put the plates on the table before the vegetables had been planted.
She opened her mouth, relaxed her voice, then asked, ‘Is there anyone special that we should send for who might need to know of your accident?’
No tug at her hand.
She leaned nearer, studying his face for the barest movement. ‘Anyone?’
For a half-second, she thought he might have died. Everything stopped. His breathing. His movement. The awareness in his face. His eyes shut, but then he opened them. Something cold peered out.
‘I may have overstepped,’ she said.
Then his hand moved over hers, caressing, touching each finger as if to reassure himself of her. And she could feel the touch, bursting inside her, warming enough that even a day without sunshine would feel golden. A teardrop of emotion grew to a whole flood of feelings inside her, and ended on a trickle of guilt.
He could be all alone in the world and she’d reminded him.
Perhaps no woman had ever looked his way because he’d not found a parish yet and couldn’t support her.
And now that he was going to have a way to care for a wife, his face had been mashed beyond recognition.
She was certain he would look better when he healed, but she doubted much about his features could be appealing, except his hair.
She took the comb at the bedside. His hair didn’t need to be combed. It never seemed to. But brushing through it, letting the locks trickle over her fingers, soothed her.
What would it be like to be a wife cutting her husband’s hair? she wondered. They could take a chair outside for the light and he could turn it so that he sat astraddle, and his arms crossed over the back. She’d comb the strands, in the same way she did now. They’d talk about...everything. Neither alone any more.
Perhaps, if she tried very, very hard, he would love her by the time he recovered. She’d let him know that his appearance did not matter to her. It didn’t matter at all. His charitable ways were more important than anything else. She could learn to love his misshapen face.
She scrutinised him, realisation dawning.
‘I don’t even know your name,’ she said.
His jaw moved slightly, but then his hand tightened on hers and he winced. She reached out, placing a palm on the covers above his heart. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘You can tell me later, Vicar.’
His eyes trapped hers, and she instinctively pulled her hand from him. She’d overstepped once again. She didn’t know how, but she had.
Chapter Four (#u11ad3efd-6bd6-566f-b686-2b94cd14e627)
Rebecca sat at the bedside, knitting in her hands, but she’d hardly managed more than a few stitches the past few days.
His eyes were shut, but he didn’t sleep. He’d move an arm, or stretch his leg or move a shoulder every few moments as if the very act of being still pained him.
He looked so much better. His eyes could open now and the bluish marks didn’t quite reach his ears. The swelling in his nose had diminished some.
She took in his appearance again. Perhaps he didn’t really look better. Perhaps she’d just grown used to the mottled appearance. But it didn’t matter. He was mending.
Her father stood at the side of the bed, his shoulders stooped and his face a reflection of studied thinking.
‘I’ve never seen someone gain so much comfort from just the Prayer Book.’ He spoke to the still form. ‘But I must borrow it for Sunday Services.’
Instantly, and without opening his eyes, the man thrust out the book. Her father took it. Now he turned his studied look on Rebecca.
‘Walk with me a few steps, Becca.’
Rebecca put her knitting on the floor and stood. She took one look at the bed, reassuring herself he’d be fine for the moments until she returned. She and her father had both fallen into their usual routine of caring for someone very ill. One of them stayed with him at all times, even though they both expected him to live. Without his ability to open his eyes more than a sliver, it seemed cruel to leave him to his own devices.
She slipped out the doorway with her father, pulling the latch closed behind her. ‘Are you going to check if anyone has found the culprits?’
‘No need. They’d rush here first if they had. I told the new vicar this morning that a horse without a saddle was found and it was taken to the earl’s stables. Figure the men took the saddle and sold it.’
He snugged the book under his arm and turned to her, taking both her hands. Concern wreathed his eyes. ‘Rebecca. I’ve been worried about you. And I’ve thought about it a lot. This man may have been sent to us. To you.’
She ducked her head so he wouldn’t see her eyes. She’d thought the same thing.
‘It’s true, Rebecca. I’m not going to live for ever and I know the earl would see that you’re taken care of. But he’s not going to live for ever either and his son will inherit... We don’t know...what to...expect from him.’
‘The heir can’t be all bad, Father. After all, he’s the earl’s son.’
‘I know. But the earl confided that he is worried about his son. It seems the boy has become more and more reckless.’ Her father’s eyes increased their concern. ‘He’s nothing like his father.’
‘You don’t have to tell me. Mr and Mrs Able brought a newspaper back from their visit to see her sister in London. She showed me the part about the proposals.’ Rebecca sighed. ‘Or at least she tried. I made her put it away. Mrs Able and her sister must write to each other with every post. The earl does not share the newspaper when mention of his son is made.’
Mrs Able was the villagers’ prime source of London news, a status that made her preen and gave Rebecca’s father trials on how to present sermons about talebearers without being judgemental.
Most people only told the vicar of all the goodness in the world, sheltering their words from any tales of idleness or revelry except when asking for help with a trial too big to handle, but Mrs Able never concerned herself in such a way. She wanted to let Rebecca and her father know they still had much work to do.
He pulled his hands from hers and took the book from under his arm. He smiled, but his eyes remained saddened. ‘Before the earl came to his senses and saw what a decadent life he lived, he gave the boy too much. He knows that. The earl blames himself for the error of his son’s ways.’
‘Well, he shouldn’t. His son is a grown man and he avoids the village as if we are plague ridden. When he’s visited his father in the past, it’s said he spends more time at the tavern than at the estate. And he’s never once attended Sunday Services with the earl.’
‘A parent has responsibility and only a short time to guide the child before the child becomes its own person. The earl feels badly that he left the boy with his mother after their daughter died, but she grieved so and the boy was the only reason she lived.’
‘A good wife would have moved with her husband.’
The vicar shook his head. ‘We shouldn’t judge her, Rebecca. Perhaps he should have stayed with her. They were both swathed in grief and each blamed the other for the loss.’
‘No one can blame someone because of a loss such as that.’
‘The daughter was always sickly and the countess blamed the earl for encouraging the marriage. The earl thought his wife shouldn’t have let their daughter go about so close to her time and the cough she caught weakened her in childbed. And he still feels the burden of his daughter’s death.’
Her father sighed. ‘The earl has promised me that you will be cared for should anything happen to me. When he said he was to look about for someone to take on the responsibilities of the church, I did ask...’ His voice trailed to nothing and then he began speaking again. ‘I did ask that he might look for an unwed vicar. One near your age.’ His eyes met hers and then he turned, walking the path to the church.
Rebecca gulped in air. She didn’t really like having her life planned for her.
‘He reassured me you’d be taken care of, Becca.’
Emotions stilled her body, but her thoughts exploded inside her. She must put aside her irritation at the matchmaking. To be able to remain in the village and continue her duties would be her greatest wish.
The new vicar had been chosen with her in mind. She was certain of it. If she and the new vicar were to wed, though, she would be able to remain in the home she’d lived her whole life and with the ladies who’d been like mothers to her as well.
She wouldn’t have to worry about what might happen if her father passed on. She’d have a home somewhere and good works to do.
‘Of course, you know I’d never wish you to do anything that might bring you unhappiness,’ her father said. ‘I just want you to have the happiness of a marriage such as your mother and I had.’
* * *
She went back inside. The man slept. She knew he did. He made the little whistle now—the one that reminded her of a kitten’s purr.
She returned to take up her knitting. When she sat, she accidentally kicked her toe on the chair leg. ‘Dash it.’
His eyes opened completely and stared into hers. Her heart pounded and she couldn’t move.
‘My apologies. I didn’t mean to speak so roughly,’ she said.
He didn’t look at her eyes. He looked into them. She dropped her needles and took a cloth from the table at her side, relishing movement. She dotted the cloth over his forehead. He flinched. Then she slowed, taking her time, just as she would have with a newborn.
One eyelid drooped and one corner of his lip turned up. He winked. He shouldn’t have. He really shouldn’t have.
She winked back.
Nothing happened. No thunder ripped through the air. No violent wind shook the house. It was just an ordinary, calm moment. Not a butterflies-in-the-stomach moment, but butterflies around the heart.
This was what it would feel like to be married. She’d not realised. She’d not realised how much she truly wanted to be married. To have someone to cherish her and to hold her and share quiet moments with. She’d thought she didn’t really care. That marriage wasn’t important except as a duty and to provide a roof over her head.
But now he watched her. She looked past the marred countenance and into the blue eyes. She could see his kind spirit. The compassion for others that they both shared.
He touched her hand, and she dropped the cloth. Their fingers interlaced and it was as if their hearts connected.
* * *
He’d fallen asleep, and so had her arm. She slipped out of his grasp and noted the cracks on his lips. She moved for a plate of butter and with her forefinger dotted it on his chapped lips. His eyes opened and he watched her. She peered closer, observing him. She held one finger in front of his face and moved right, then left.
His eyes didn’t follow the movement.
She tried again. Left to right this time.
He looked at her and then lifted a forefinger and moved it right, then left. And then he touched her nose. Then without moving his upper torso, he took the butter dish from her hand, their fingers brushed and she froze.
He touched the butter to the tip of his finger, reached up and traced her lips.
She couldn’t move for a moment, locked in place by some experience that didn’t quite fit in her life.
She jumped back, knocking the chair aside, reeling with the touch.
‘Vicar.’ Her cheeks burned. ‘We don’t do that.’ But she’d done it for him. She righted the chair and stood behind it, hands grasping the top rung. Who knew how much of his mind remained?
The poor man had probably lost all his senses and was just following her movements. And she’d been so daft as to imagine a person behind the eyes, even though she had no reason to. Her own secret desires were leading her thoughts. She frowned.
‘I. Am. Rebecca.’
He looked at her.
‘Would. You. Like. Me. To. Recite. Verses. To. You?’
He lifted his hand and made a cupping shape, and tipped the invisible glass close to his face.
‘Thirsty? Ale... Water?’
He grunted, disagreeing.
‘So your mind works?’
The slightest shake of his head.
‘You’ve lost your senses?’
He held up the hand again. This time the drinking motion was more forceful. He then moved to push himself up, but winced instead.
She ran to the shelf and pulled off the ale. She grabbed one of the three glasses and poured a fingerwidth in it, then grabbed the dipper from the bucket and poured in another two fingerwidths. Just like her father liked it.
Next, she stopped at the bedside.
He used both hands to nudge himself to a sitting position. But he didn’t right himself fully. And then he looked at her and she could see thoughts. She didn’t know if they were fully formed or if they only half made sense.
He looked towards her breasts and then her eyes, then he wilted a bit and pushed, but didn’t move.
She realised she was going to have to help him sit. Well, if she had to, she would do it.
‘Give me a moment.’ She set the glass onto the table. ‘Vicar.’
When she turned to help him, little sharp lines etched at the sides of his eyes. His expression had changed to darkness. She didn’t move.
He made a flat, stopping motion with his hand and he stared at her as if she’d pinched his bruises.
Then he moved himself upwards even more, doing a fine job of righting himself, but the pillow was at an odd angle. She must correct it. It was impossible not to brush against him. She put a hand on his arm to steady herself. She’d never been so close to anyone except Mrs Greaves when she had her babies and needed an extra day or so of help.
She moved to pull the pillow up. ‘I’m so sorry, Vicar,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you to be sitting on a lump.’
When she pulled away, the stark lines at his eyes had increased even more.
Perhaps he had a mind problem that came and went. Old Mr Jeffers had been like that. She reached out and patted the back of his hand just as her mother had patted Rebecca’s hand.
He didn’t move his head, but his eyes moved to stare into her face.
She jerked her hand back and her thoughts scattered. Apparently, the injury had affected his mind. How sad.
The thought jostled her that perhaps she’d been sent a man who would never be clear in his mind and she would have to spend the rest of her days caring for him. A man with a disfigured face and thoughts just as jumbled.
Oh, it had been a mistake to wish for a husband.
She squeezed her hands into fists. Well, so be it. If that was her lot in life, then it was to be accepted. She didn’t quite want to do thousands of little good works in a day and then try to fit in the needs of the villagers. Blast it.
Immediately, she thrust those thoughts away.
She put the happy look on her face that worked well for getting babies to do as she wished. She reached for the glass, lifted it, held it up, pointed to it and smiled.
His head tilted to one side and his eyes blackened even more. A flush warmed her from head to toe.
‘I’m the one who can talk.’ She smiled it away. ‘For a moment I forgot. Are you ready for the drink?’
He took it from her hand, put it to his lips, leaned forward and barely tipped the glass into the sliver of open mouth. He couldn’t seem to move his lower jaw. She took the cloth again, reaching to his face. He grasped her wrist with his free hand, stopping her.
His eyes tensed as he sipped, downing only a small amount. Then he sat it on the table at his bedside.
‘Would you like me to get you some milk toast?’
One blinking glare hit her and she took a half step back. Her arm loose at her side, she knotted the fabric of her dress in her hand.
Remaining unwed might be her best choice. The village had a considerable number of spinsters and widows.
But then she shut her eyes, realising the truth. If someone else wed the vicar, then Rebecca would just be another spinster. It was prideful, she knew, but her role gave her a certain standing. Sometimes—most times—even the ladies twice her age and long married looked to her when they needed advice or a listening ear. After all, she lived in the vicarage.
The only way she could retain the role her mother had left to her was to become the new vicar’s wife.
And if that meant propping him up and taking on many of his responsibilities, then she could do it.
One didn’t receive training to only reach to the edge of what the teacher taught.
She would do what was needed even if it meant yoking herself to a man who must be cajoled to take his milk toast.
She examined his face. With the swelling around his eyes and the turn of his nose, he looked more like a prisoner of himself than a true man.
Perhaps he was in pain. ‘Would you like a sip of laudanum?’
* * *
He didn’t want to take laudanum. He wanted to drink the fine wine and dance the best of dances. Not lie in a bed and have someone hovering about him. He tightened his jaw and a spear of pain spiked into him.
Anger warred with the pain, causing both to flare. He shut his eyes, forcing the pain back. He’d never been still in his waking moments. Never. He could not remain in a bed. He would speak and he would go and get his own damn brandy. He opened his mouth and a thousand spears shot into his jaw. He contracted in pain, arms locked on to the space in front of him. Someone spoke. Noise. Buzzing darkness.
‘Vicar. Vicar.’ A soft voice. A whisper of sound.
Pressure on his chest. Not pain. Just hands, pressing at him.
He opened his eyes enough to be aware her face was inches from his. Her eyes were wide. ‘Let me go,’ she whispered.
He realised he clutched her to his chest. Instantly, he released his grip, dropping his arms. She pushed herself away, taking the solace of warmth with her. But not every last bit of it. One little gem of softness remained in him. One little spot free of pain and filled with comfort.
He looked at her eyes. Wide. Staring at him.
He expelled a short breath. That made two of them who couldn’t talk.
She was a rather bland woman. All saintly and hair pulled back tight. But she had the gentlest eyes he’d ever seen. Soft heart-shaped face. He reached out. He couldn’t help himself. He took her hand again. But this time, he wasn’t overwhelmed by pain as he had been when he held her hand before.
Her hand. It—His mouth stopped hurting and went dry.
Her hands contrasted with the softness of her face. He looked, reassuring himself that the hands were as they felt. She tried to pull away. But he had to see the truth. And he did. An abrasion. Redness. One fingernail torn past the quick.
She jerked back from his touch.
He couldn’t apologise, but he tried to with his eyes. Not for holding her hand. But for the hardness of her life.
If she’d been a lady, sitting in her house, perfecting her pianoforte or her embroidery stitches, he would have died.
When he looked into her face, he remembered hearing her and her father talk about her finding him.
The weather had been so cold when he’d started on the trip to his father’s estate. The night would have been even colder. He would have died if he’d stayed on the ground.
He remembered the jests he’d made in the past about his funeral being filled with weeping women. That would have turned out to be a lie. His death would have been mentioned at length in a scandal rag for people to recount the foolish jests he’d done and certainly his mother would have shed a tear and erected a shrine of some sort.
His cousins would have been sad for a day and gone on with their lives. Steven, Andrew and Edgeworth had all married and settled into boredom. When their children were of an age the children would have been told stories about him and an admonishment about how reckless rakish living led to an early end.
‘...ank you,’ he said.
‘I did nothing.’
He looked at her hands and held out his. She paused, hesitated and put her hand on his palm. He moved to touch the rough, reddened knuckles.
How much would this woman be missed if she died? Her friends would talk in lowered voices and shake their heads. His friends would raise a glass to his memory and laugh at the silliness he’d provided them.
He pulled her hand close. He could not kiss away the roughened skin. He couldn’t laugh it away.
He took her palm and placed it over his heart.
Her face cleared of all emotion. Her eyes widened.
‘Re...ecca.’ His throat didn’t want to work around the words, but he had to say her name.
‘Vicar,’ she whispered.
He took in a breath and removed her hand from his chest, holding it out and gently letting go.
She was pure. Too pure. Too saintly. How odd.
Chapter Five (#u11ad3efd-6bd6-566f-b686-2b94cd14e627)
If this was her day of rest, he understood why her hands were rough. She’d taken a break from washing clothing outside to warm by the fire and write a letter. Apparently Rebecca penned letters for a lady with gnarled fingers to the woman’s sister in Leeds.
Strands of Rebecca’s hair worked free of the bun and wisped around her face, haloing it.
He should ask her for the pen. He needed to tell her who he truly was.
Foxworthy waved her to him, ignoring the pain caused by raising his arm.
‘What do you need?’ she asked. Wide eyes. Soft face.
He didn’t really want to go to his father’s, but he did need to tell her who he was. As soon as he did, he’d become the heir again. To be fussed over by his father’s servants and witnessing their underlying air of disapproval would grate under his skin. He didn’t know how the staff could be so helpful, so perfect in their jobs, and yet manage to point out better than his father did that he was unwelcome.
He indicated the chair beside him.
She put the pen down and stood.
He held out his hand again. Her eyes examined each finger. He waited. She glanced at him, then her lips moved up even as they pressed into firmness, fighting a battle with themselves.
His face naturally moved towards a smile. Even beaten, he still could charm a woman to his side. His jaw reacted from the agony of demon’s claws affixing themselves onto both sides of his face and ripping downwards.
He gasped inwardly, not moving his face.
‘Oh. Oh.’ She bustled forward, and he used his eyes to tell her not to touch him for a moment, but she grabbed the thrust-out hand and put her other over it. They both gripped and squeezed until his breathing became measured and he opened his eyes.
He held her cupped fingers and relaxed, putting their hands on his chest.
‘Re...ecca...’ The words trailed away.
‘Do you hurt?’
He shook his head. ‘Talking hurts.’ His voice croaked frog-like into the air he spoke from his throat, keeping his lips still.
‘’oving... ’outh...’ he added.
‘Who hurt you?’ she asked.
‘Not sure...’ He paused.
‘I’m so thankful you survived with so many attackers. It terrifies me to think so many wayward men are loose in the area.’
‘...not hurt village.’ He tapped his chest several times, letting her know they’d been after him.
There’d been four in all. That he was sure of. The gold-buttoned one had been the instigator. He knew that. And it wasn’t Peabody. But the fourth one had told the others to hit Fox again. Saying he’d proposed his last time.
And for the life of him he couldn’t remember proposing to that man’s wife. He was young and Fox had thought about the faces of the young women he’d spoken with and they all had older husbands.
Innocents were not his bailiwick. He didn’t wish to be bored.
‘We must see them caught,’ she said. ‘Now that you are awake and can tell us who they are.’
He crossed his wrists in front of him and then, palms out, abruptly spread his arms.
‘You don’t want them caught.’ Her eyes softened and her voice couldn’t have reached the walls of the room, and her face reflected awe. ‘You’re so forgiving.’
No one had ever looked at him like that and for good reason. Well, except perhaps after lovemaking.
‘Forgiveness is so divine.’
He pushed her statement from his mind. He’d not forgiven them. He might have done the same thing in their place. He understood. He understood revenge, too. It was best not to see it coming. He’d exact one slow squeeze at a time.
Perhaps he’d courted it. But that didn’t mean he had qualms about revenge.
‘They could have killed you. You would have frozen if you’d stayed out the night without your coat and boots,’ she said.
The laugh was on them if they’d stolen that coat and that pair of boots. The coat had fattened a moth or two and he’d kept it to wear to his father’s. He wasn’t sure if it was to fit in with his father’s wishes for austerity, or to jest at it. The clothes weren’t good enough to wear anywhere but to the country.
He reached up, touching his skin. Puffed. Not where it should be. A nose like he’d seen once at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salon. His skin felt foreign—like touching another person. A bristly person. He had short whiskers. He always shaved. He could not risk scratching a woman’s face.
‘Mirr...?’ He held a hand in front of his face and then with the other hand made movements shaving.
‘You’ll have to be careful.’
She took a looking glass from the wall and brought it to him. He jumped, startled, staring into the glass, feeling he dreamt. A monster stared back at him.
‘Holy...’ Damn. He looked more like something found in a butcher’s shop. Something discarded from a butcher’s shop. One side wasn’t so bad and that made his face worse. He had an almost normal half of his face and then he looked like an ogre who’d stuffed himself on overripe damson pastries and the colour had leaked through to the skin.
She bustled away, preparing water.
He put the mirror down, shut his eyes and lowered his head just a bit.
‘You’ve actually looked worse every day since I found you.’ She spoke from across the room. ‘The bruising has darkened. You look like plum pudding on one side and an apricot tart on the other. We can’t leave you outside,’ she said. ‘My cat Ray Anna might think we’d tossed out a treat.’
Fox imagined how pleased Mr Peabody would feel when he saw the injuries.
But he’d have to wait. He was not going to be seen by anyone who knew him until his face looked better. It could not look worse.
He took the mirror and held it to his gaze again. Surely he could not be that mangled.
The gut kick of seeing his face caused a recoil that shot pain throughout him. They should have killed him. It would have been kinder.
He held the mirror, feeling like he’d been encased in an extra layer of skin that didn’t want to move and didn’t belong to him and was nothing but pain. One eye even had the white stained in blood.
He stared, anger tensing his hand.
He lifted a finger and jabbed it in the direction of his face. He stared at her. He didn’t ask. He told. Look at this.
‘You’ll look so much better after you’ve shaved.’ Her voice wavered, but the words still sung out from her.
Better? He stared at her, challenging.
‘You have a good head of hair,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you could just grow it longer.’
He stared at her. He’d have to cover his whole damn face.
‘A person’s face isn’t everything,’ she said.
It was his. And his smile. Oh, Foxworthy, you have a beautiful smile. He’d heard that a thousand or so times. And those blue eyes...
‘You could...’ Her voice fell away and the mirror moved closer to her body. ‘A beard? Close-cropped beards can be quite...’
He stared at her. Waiting. Close-cropped beards could be?
‘Quite...nice.’
It hurt. It hurt a lot, but he forced a short burst of air from his nostrils.
‘Apostles had beards.’
He jerked his two hands to rest together over his heart. Pat. Pause. Pause. Pat.
‘Vicars aren’t supposed to be sarcastic.’
Well, he wasn’t a vicar. He held up one finger, pointing heavenwards, and then ever so gently shook his head. He was not now nor would he ever be a vicar. He had to make her understand.
‘Oh...’ She rushed to his side and took the hand he’d pointed heavenwards, holding it in both hers.
‘I’ve seen this before. You cannot. You cannot lose faith over this.’ Eyes pleaded. Her fingers soothed, running over his knuckles.
He wasn’t willing to pull from her touch. This woman, who wanted him to grow his hair over his face, was doing the best she could. She had a heart and some misguided goodness. Using his left hand, he pointed upwards. Then, with four fingers, he lightly tapped his chest and made a shaking-away movement.
‘No. You mustn’t feel that way.’
He tapped his chest again. Oh, well. He’d tell her the truth. ‘...ad.’
Her eyes puzzled over his word and she shook her head. He’d tried to tell her he was bad, although he was very good at it. He had a certain skill there, he had to admit. He tried again without moving his jaw. ‘Not good.’
He motioned the movement of writing. Wanting the paper. He’d tell her now.
She clasped those rough fingers over his hand, stilling him. ‘None of us are good enough. And you mustn’t think your actions caused you to be punished. These men were the ones who are not good. You will forgive them in time.’
After revenge. He could forgive them after that. Forgiveness was so much easier when your enemies were dead. And he knew damn well his actions had caused this.
That was part of the game. Dancing along the edge of the precipice. Seeing how close he could get without tumbling over and losing his smile. Well, he’d lost his smile and dangled too far, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t play another game.
The game. The game he’d tired of, truth be known, and decided to visit his father. In part, he supposed, to pretend otherwise and needle his father a bit.
She expected him to be an example. Perhaps she should reconsider that.
He moved his hand from hers and made a jabbing motion towards his face.
‘It is what is inside the man that counts and you should know that better than anyone.’
Well, he was under the dunghill on that one. Unless you counted gambling and his manhood still having a nice morning stretch.
‘...’ish... I could...’ill...’ He would kill whoever did this and he doubted he’d even be noticed for it. One look at his face and if they’d known him before they’d overlook a small thing like murder.
‘It takes time to recover.’
He grunted.
He knew. He knew the truth very well. Without his face and his ready smile to charm people, he was nothing but the heir.
She released his hand, taking her warmth with her. She moved to the table and brought him the pen, paper and placed the ink on the table at his side. Then she dipped the pen for him.
He clasped the paper and looked into her eyes. Waiting. Gentle.
One sentence and his father’s servants would whisk him away.
When his father returned, Fox would hear nothing but how his evil ways had led to his downfall. Every time he saw his father, this tale would be resurrected and pointed to and every bump on Fox’s face would be examined by the earl as he spoke. Anger flared in his thoughts. He’d never visit his father again. Ever. The ridicule.
A bit of ink dripped on the page.
‘Do you need help?’ she asked, leaning so that a wisp of her hair tickled his cheek. The lilacs engulfed him.
All thoughts of revenge slid into the back of his mind.
She clasped the paper, holding it steady and unsteadying the rest of him.
Thank y... he wrote. The ink ended. He handed her the pen, hands touching. She dipped it in the ink again and leaned over him again, their shoulders together. He finished the word. I suppose...he wrote, inhaling, taking his time. She dipped the pen and returned to his side...revenge is wrong.
He didn’t add, but necessary.
She smiled and it touched her eyes and even her feet as she took the pen and paper and put it on the table.
Looking into her eyes was much better than looking in any mirror. And if she was happiest seeing him as a vicar, then he would stay a vicar for the time being.
At the first hint of his father returning, he’d make his way to the estate, get Rusty back and return to London. She’d never know who he was.
Only a few moments later, Rebecca’s father walked in the door. She quickly stepped back from Fox and put her hands behind her back.
He saw the glance her father gave them and the widened eyes, followed by a smile.
‘You missed a good service today. One of my best.’ He spoke to Rebecca as he set the boots in his hand on the floor and then he put his scarf and coat on a peg. ‘It was on pride and boastfulness.’
‘Father,’ she admonished, then turned to Foxworthy. ‘That’s his favourite jest.’
‘I told everyone that our guest is still recovering.’ He picked up the boots. ‘And I may have mentioned my plans to let a younger man take my place.’
Fox shook his head. ‘No...vicar.’
‘Very kind of you, Son.’ His smile had a sadness at his eyes. ‘But you’ll do a fine job and it’s time everyone knows that I’m going to step down. A high calling indeed.’
‘...’ox...orthee.’ He touched his chest.
‘You’re worthy, son. Or the earl wouldn’t have chosen you.’
The vicar held the boots nearer Fox. They were of good quality and scuffed. Fox wondered where they came from, a little warning fluttering inside his head. He’d never realised such a thing existed inside him and he considered carefully, and decided not to ask what he didn’t want to know.
Fox looked at the covers over his bare feet.
He tried not to think of it. Poor villagers did not just outgrow boots in that size.
‘Now, Rebecca,’ the vicar said. ‘What delicious meal are you going to cook for us?’
Rebecca moved to go about her chores.
Then the vicar started talking about Rebecca’s mother and how saintly she was and how blessed they were to have a daughter like Rebecca. He complimented Rebecca with every other word.
Fox settled in to the covers. He wondered if Rebecca knew that her father had exchanged his prayer book for a matchmaker’s tally sheet.
The man erred on a grand scale, as all fathers seemed to do where their child was concerned. Faithfulness was only for vicars and simpletons. And perhaps for a man so scarred only a wife would touch him without pity.
Chapter Six (#u11ad3efd-6bd6-566f-b686-2b94cd14e627)
Her father, the not-so-subtle matchmaker, left after they’d eaten, hoping to get more men involved in the search for the criminals who had attacked a vicar.
A waste of time, Fox thought, unless they searched for men in London who had a jealous streak.
Fox stuffed the pillow tighter at his head and watched Rebecca.
Her bottom bustled nicely as she worked. It worked better than any laudanum to relieve his pain. His eyes drooped, watching each nuance. Each twist. Each whisper of movement.
He’d been wrong to think her drab. The sun sparkling in the window when she walked by the glass showed him otherwise.
In fact, the sun taunted him by showing him what he could not have. He looked at the ceiling again, trying to recall something in his past he’d wanted—something he’d wanted but not been able to have. Nothing came to mind except Mrs Lake. And he’d worked hard to get her from his mind—filling his world with all the beauty he could surround himself with. He’d determined never to let anyone else that deep into his thoughts again.
He’d even been able to talk Gillray into drawing a caricature. Gillray had created a picture of Fox surrounded by a bevy of ladies of all shapes and ages.
That had been before he’d turned twenty. It had been published. He’d been certain the former Mrs Lake would have seen it.
The bereaved Mrs Lake had been beyond beautiful, and twice his age at thirty-two when she’d dropped her fan onto his boot.
Seeing her tearful eyes as she had told of her loss had torn at his heart, but when she’d clutched at him for support—he’d been too green to understand that she had him by the pizzle. Unfortunately, his heart had been attached to it at that moment.
Within days he’d told her he loved her; she’d told him she would wait until he became old enough to wed.
Then the Duke of Marchwell’s wife had died and Mrs Lake had told Foxworthy he was just infatuated with her. That he would forget her and that she was much too old for him.
It had been quite immature of him to propose to the elderly Countess Bolton the day after Mrs Lake had announced her betrothal to the seventy-year-old duke, but even Earl Bolton had caught the humour in that proposal and thumped Foxworthy on the back and congratulated him at realising what a gem the countess was.
He doubted Mrs Lake had enjoyed the print as much as he had. The caricaturists in London had become quite fond of Foxworthy over the years.
Now was when he needed Gillray’s pen. Fox would like a sketch of Rebecca. One of her bustling about, hovering over the little needs of the village like a mother hen guarding the chicks.
Now the little mother hen faced him, and he waited for the sound of her voice.
‘You’ve met the earl as he’s chosen you for his vicar.’
He nodded, more with his eyes than his head.
‘He’s such a good-hearted man. Kind. Caring. We’re all so lucky to have him.’
No need to let her know her hero wasn’t perfect. His father was a kind man.
A boring but kind man. The most boring man on the face of the earth. Sanctimonious, too. Proud in his austere life. As if he thought the things he could turn his back on made him stronger. When his daughter had died, he’d even turned his back on the whole of London.
He’d not taken well to a son who didn’t turn his back.
Rebecca’s voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘You’ve a spot of blood on your nightshirt.’
‘How can you stand to look at this?’ He forced out the words, this time willing to ignore the pain.
Now she huffed out a breath. ‘I’ve never seen you any other way. That’s just how you look to me. And it’s the inner person...’ She paused. ‘Yes. It is.’
He shut his eyes. At least his eyelids didn’t hurt. And his inner person chuckled, stoked the irritation with a pitchfork and gave a spit shine to its horns.
‘And all things happen for a reason. Perhaps this is meant to give you time to spend in contemplation. And compassion for others in similar circumstances. We can never have too much compassion. Think of what is important in life.’
At that point, Fox’s inner person stuck out its tongue and made a fluttering noise. His outer person was older, however. ‘Ale.’ He held out his hand.
She stepped forward and softly slapped his fingers. ‘That’s not what is important.’
He pushed and threw one leg from the bed, and remembered he was in one of those nightdresses. He’d never worn such a garment in front of any woman. Ever. His inner person might have lacked modesty, but it did have some pride.
He reached up, flapping the neck of the nightshirt. ‘Cose...’
He looked around the room, searching for his trousers.
‘They’re put away.’
As soon as he moved his arm to fling back the covers, her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth went so tight her lips almost disappeared. A hand went over her face and she whirled around, her back to him.
He jarred his face and the pain nearly knocked him back to the bed, but he shoved himself forward. ‘Cose...’
‘You don’t know where they are.’
He grunted, three little grunts.
He swung his legs around. His head took a moment to catch up, so he sat while his view straightened again.
He could focus on the back of her head. Her elbows still stuck from the sides. They moved a bit. She reached for the basket. ‘I’m going outside and I’m going to pray until Father returns. I need to gather some apples for tarts.’
‘Uh-un.’ He spoke softly. He was certain he could find them on his own. ‘Cose...’
‘Your clothes are in Father’s room,’ she said. ‘On a peg. I washed them for you.’
‘...’ank...’oo.’
And then she swirled out the door, scenting the air with lilacs.
He watched her leave. Miss Prim and Proper who believed the inside of a person mattered. Only when it had enough ale to sleep like a babe.
Holding the iron bed frame, he put his weight on his legs and stood. His head swam, but then strength returned to his legs. His feet burned in spots, like small, fierce coals jabbed at his soles. But the tingles felt good and strength shot into him.
He strode to the inner door. Inside the other room, his eyes stopped on the shirt hanging over the peg. Two garments on one peg. Under the shirt, his trousers. He shut his eyes, relieved.
He stripped the frippery of a nightshirt from his shoulders, taking deep breaths and moving slowly while he finessed it around his jaw. The pain angered him. He tossed the shirt to the floor.
He dressed, finishing by leaning against the wall, using his strength to control the pain.
Putting on the clothing wasn’t too difficult, but the cravat was the loosest one he’d ever tied and his jaw ached afresh.
He might not be dressed well enough for callers, but he definitely preferred the apparel over the nightshirt. It lay under his feet. He scooped it up with one hand, crushed the cloth within his grasp and tossed it on the bed. No valet would be along behind him. The mistress of this house was also the housekeeper, cook and scullery maid.
The mirror on the wall had a crack running the length of it, but the nails at the edge held it together.
It beckoned him. The scarred mirror.
He walked to it. Even the eyes that stared back at him didn’t seem his own. He had all the organs necessary to make a man. At least the appearance of a man.
These people thought him a vicar. A man with a caring heart. A person who fit in his father’s world. The exact opposite of who he was.
Well, he could play that game. It was perhaps the only one he hadn’t tried. They wanted him to be a vicar. Until the man his father chose arrived, then Fox would be the vicar. A pretence to see how it would be to live as a man who saw someone behind the soulless orbs.
If he wasn’t going to be able to smile his way into people’s good graces, then perhaps he could... No, he couldn’t. He could never go back among the people who knew him and be anything but Foxworthy.
Now he touched the swollen cheek, his skin feeling leathery. The left side of his jaw looked the most swollen and the thin cut line along it showed the remnants of the club’s mark.
He moved his head to one side, and then the other, still not believing the image followed his movements.
He put his hand over the glass, feeling the coldness where the eyes stared back at him. He spread his palm, covering the image.
He could not smash every mirror in the world. He could not hide away for ever. But he could not let anyone see him. Some of the swelling would have to recede. The colour would have to return to a semblance of human skin.
Someone would answer for this.
He returned to the main room of the house. His conscience was not sitting in her sewing chair.
Chapter Seven (#u11ad3efd-6bd6-566f-b686-2b94cd14e627)
Rebecca walked into the house and instantly her eyes moved to the empty bed. She stilled, except her heart doubled in speed. She wanted to call out his name, but realised she didn’t know it. ‘Vicar,’ she whispered.
He dipped his head to walk under the door frame from the bedroom. An unshaven man, dishevelled, except for his hair. In bed, he’d taken up the size of the mattress. In the doorway, he completely filled her eyes.
She didn’t speak and she took a tiny step back.
‘Th...ank you for washin...’ he said. ‘Shirt...’aistcoat...’
She rushed to the table, putting her basket down, not looking his way, watching the apples. She took one from the top and put it on the table. She reached for a knife to peel the apples.
‘The boots.’ She indicated the footwear her father had brought back.
He looked at them and nodded, but he didn’t get them.
The man moved to the chair and sat at her table as if it was his own. All the men of the village did the same occasionally. Even the earl had once or twice. But the vicar sat with his bare feet apart, his mangled head high and his eyes staring straight ahead. And he sat on the wrong side.
She pressed her lips together hard, then she spoke softly. ‘You’re in my father’s chair.’
His brows raised and he slowly turned his head to look at her. She couldn’t read his thoughts.
Then he stood and moved to the other chair and sat.
She moved to the stove, but then he turned the chair slightly so she was in his direct line of vision and it was much more straightforward than before. The trousers and shirt seemed to make him into a real person, not an invalid. And not the same.
In the bed, he’d not taken up so much room, but in the chair at the table, she couldn’t move without being closer to him.
Then she laughed at herself. She was being foolish. She’d just not seen a man so undressed before. Not even her father. He was always very particular about how he looked because at any moment a parishioner might appear and need counsel.
She took in a deep breath. ‘You look half—’
He waited.
She couldn’t say naked, wild, or any of the first words that hit her mind. ‘—dressed. But more like a gentleman.’
He pointed two jabs to his face.
‘You don’t look that bad.’
He pointed to the sky, jabbing upwards, and then to his ear.
She let out a deep breath, looked down and spoke softly. ‘You do look rather bad.’
He agreed with a rumble from his throat.
She would do her duty. She would be a good wife if they married. She would learn to love his misshapen face. If she could love a hissy, splotchy orange cat with a missing ear then she could love this man. It would be nice to care for someone in such a way. Marriage softened the harshness in life. She would no longer be a woman and he would no longer be a man. They would be one, together.
Although it would take some time. She could tell that by looking at him.
And he was a bit too concerned about his appearance, but she could help him get over his vanity, although at this point, he might need a smattering of it.
He did have elegant lashes. She could compliment him on his lashes. His hair. She wasn’t certain of his teeth because he couldn’t seem to open his mouth. But there would be a lot of things she could remind him of so that he would not feel so...lopsided. She tilted her head. Yes, he was just lopsided and in different hues than anyone else she’d ever seen. He did not quite look as good as Mr Tilton did when he was dead, but Mr Tilton had only been kicked in the face by a horse.
He caught her looking at him with her head tilted. He crossed his arms. One could believe in beasts when he looked at her like that.
Stopping a moment, she reminded herself that all creatures were beautiful. And he was handsome in his own way. He did have a nice colour of hair.
He leaned across, and took her knife from her hand, and he worked at peeling the apple skin into one thin and perfect ribbon. He looked her way briefly and continued, his concentration on his task.
With his thoughts on his task, he didn’t intimidate her at all and with his head down, he could be endearing enough, this man with bare toes.
He finished the peeling, then deftly sliced the apple in half, cored it and made another slice. He held it out to her. She took it, their fingers brushing, and ate it. Then he cut the smallest sliver, put it in his mouth, shut his eyes, chewed carefully, and she could see him tasting, swallowing. He opened his eyes, cut another piece for her and held it high, to her lips.
She took a bite and shut her eyes.
His hand stilled, fingers straightened and rested on her cheek by the crease of her lips.
She opened her eyes, and whispered, ‘What is your given name?’
His eyes tightened. ‘Dam...’ His hand jerked away from her face.
‘Did you just say Adam?’ she asked.
Then shook his head. ‘Dam...nation.’
‘The oath?’
He nodded with a flick of his brows.
‘What are you...angry with yourself for...?’ Her cheeks reddened.
He took one hand, putting it under her chin, and lifting so that her eyes aligned with his vision.
He shook his head. With his free hand, he reached to cup her face, but he stilled just before touching.
Neither moved.
* * *
He took a step back, letting his hand slide from her. This would not end well. Not for her at any rate.
He wanted to kiss her, but he could not. He could not let his face against hers. No woman should be touched by such ugliness. He reached out and rested his fingertips against her cheeks. Then he traced her perfect nose. Even her jawline was perfect.
He’d thought nothing fascinating about her face, but now he looked closer. In her plainness, she had a simple beauty. The wisps of hair framing her face enhanced the softness of her skin. Such a contrast to the rough hands—the work she did made the woman more delicate.
He grasped her shoulders and her eyes opened. She’d taken pity on a beaten man and helped her neighbours with whatever they needed. He could see purity. An unaware angel.
He must kiss her. He must.
But he brushed his hands along the sides of her neck and downwards, tracing the shoulder, brushing her dress aside to the limits of its closures, ignoring the texture of fabric while his mind told him what lay underneath.
Her lips parted.
‘Kissed?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘Never?’
Her head wobbled a ‘no’. Eyes begged him.
‘Later.’
His right hand rested against her throat. Her pulse hammered. She swallowed.
‘Promise?’ she asked.
He traced the fullness of her lips and without words made a promise to both of them.
Chapter Eight (#u11ad3efd-6bd6-566f-b686-2b94cd14e627)
‘Bran...ee...’ he mumbled, turning away. Brandy. He needed the brandy he’d sent to his father’s estate.
He should put some space between Rebecca and himself. A road. A town, even.
‘Ale.’ He changed his request. Anything to create movement—distance between them.
She whirled around, poured a swallow of ale and diluted it with enough water to make it tasteless. She handed it to him, moving so fast their fingers couldn’t touch.
Then she dashed away to pick up her stitching.
He looked at the glass. He wanted to down it, but he couldn’t. He drank, ignoring the pain. Finally, he thumped the empty glass on to the table, much like he did during the contest with Lady Havisham.
Then, he moved the chair beside Rebecca and sat.
After she did three more stitches, he leaned forward, tugging on the little dress.
Her eyes moved to his face.
‘Do you need something?’
He gave a bump of his shoulders.
She started stitching again. Her words jumped one after the other. ‘I do need to get this finished. The babe could arrive any day, or I could be called to care for the other children. And once she needs me I’ll be busy for a time.’
He tugged at the little skirt, but she didn’t stop stitching as she pulled it away. Surely she understood he could not kiss her.
‘...and all the little boys she has are just like you. Except they are children and they have an excuse.’
He grasped the dress, held firm and pulled it slowly away from her. She had no choice but to tumble towards him or stop stitching.
She picked up her scissors and rapped his hand. Instantly, he released the fabric and touched the tapped spot. He glared at her. He felt worse about not being able to kiss her than she did. And he was certain that scissor tap was punishment. Punishment he didn’t deserve. He deserved a sword-tap on each shoulder, not a clunk from a pair of dull scissors.
‘Oh, my pardon,’ she said, smug. ‘Perhaps I did that harder than I meant. Forgive me.’
Then she looked at him, eyes wide. ‘Oh, you must forgive me, mustn’t you? You have no choice.’ She chuckled softly and began sewing, pulling the last of the thread through the garment. ‘I know how that feels.’
He didn’t. Forgiveness was only for people unable to plot a good revenge.

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