Liz Tyner - Redeeming The Roguish Rake

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

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.