Redeeming The Roguish Rake. Liz Tyner

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