Redeeming The Roguish Rake. Liz Tyner

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

      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.