Redeeming the Roguish Rake

by Liz Tyner

  ‘Promise?’ she asked.

  He traced the fullness of her lips and without words made a promise to both of them.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘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.

  He pushed himself up, leaned over and touched just where her sleeve ended on her arm. Making little swirls, he lightly ran his fingertip down to her right hand. She stilled. He kept his eye on the needle. When he reached the fabric, the whole garment and the threaded needle slipped from her hand. He moved it to the side. She kept her eyes on the cloth.

  ‘Give that back,’ she whispered.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he straightened each of her fingers, one at a time, running his thumb down their length, pressing as if pushing out any aches or soreness. With his fingers on the back of her hand and his thumb inside the palm, he moved from the inside to the outside, creating a friction that eased away soreness and, on this occasion, reddened a woman’s cheeks.

  Her hands. They needed the calluses soothed away.

  She jumped up, scraping the chair legs against the floor and staring. ‘It’s not good for a man to touch a woman.’

  He made a scornful sound. That was what he thought of that.

  ‘You had best—’ She marched away, went to the tiny desk and picked up the pen and paper. ‘You had best beg my pardon.’ She held it out to him. He crossed his arms and made another noise in his throat.

  Her jaw dropped. She clasped the pen tightly, closed her mouth, took a step sideways and slapped the paper against his arm.

  She gasped and held the paper against her chest. ‘Look what you made me do.’ She stood over him, eyes narrowed. ‘I have never, ever done anything like that before.’

  And from the look on her face, he wasn’t sure she wasn’t about to do it again. Oh, well, it would probably hurt her conscience more than it would ever hurt him.

  ‘…’ungry,’ he said. He meant it in more ways than one. His eyes travelled over her dress. Perfect handfuls. Everywhere.

  ‘You’re always wanting something.’ She clenched her hand.

  He nodded. No argument there.

  ‘It’s as if you’ve been waited on hand and foot your whole life,’ she said.

  He nodded. Nothing wrong with that. ‘…’ungry.’

  ‘You ate not long ago.’

  ‘…eatin’ is a…a ’abit I formed long ti… ago.’

  ‘You eat like a horse.’

  He held up two fingers.

  ‘You will need more discipline than you have to be a good vicar,’ she said.

  He exercised the discipline of a saint at that very moment—as far as he was concerned that was much better than any vicar.

  He looked at her and raised his brows just a bit. With his mottled face, the effect startled her into action.

  She bustled to the shelf and his eyes feasted. The dress was full in the back, but even though she was every bit as tall as her father, Rebecca had a round derrière and round bosom. She was round and angular in height, but the roundness far overshadowed the rest for keeping his attention. She was the perfect shape.

  She cut off a sliver of bread.

  That would not feed a sparrow, but he didn’t care.

  She put the bread on top of the stove to warm it and reached for the crock of butter. He stood, walking to her, but before he could get close, she stepped towards him and handed him the crock. He stared at it.

  ‘Put it on the stove.’

  He stared at her.

  ‘Put it on the stove,’ she repeated. ‘Warm it a little. It’ll spread easier.’

  His thoughts had a mind of their own, but he wasn’t complaining. He took in a breath.

  She turned back to the bread loaf. ‘You’ve made me hungry.’ She cut herself an even tinier slice and put it on the stove, touching his.

  Then she handed him the knife. Their fingers brushed when he took it. She paused.

  He turned, putting the knife in the butter.

  He put a hearty dollop onto the bread, spread it, then held it to her mouth. Her eyes widened. He kept the bread close to her lips.

  ‘But you’re the one who is hungry.’ Her eyes watched his.

  He didn’t move. She reached both hands to take it from him, but he didn’t release it and helped her guide it to her mouth before letting his hand drop.

  She had the tiniest bit of butter on her lips and when her fingertip brushed it away, he watched.

  *

  Rebecca pressed down the sides of her skirt and then crossed her arms again. Her body felt as if it belonged to someone else. All jittery, and the parts of her that he’d touched tingled and burned. Her skin remembered every bit of that moment. And then he’d stopped.

  The abominable man. He’d made her like his touch and feel good and want to be kissed and then he’d stopped. She wanted to slap him, but her hand would not dare hurt his already ravaged face.

  ‘A person’s honour is all that they are.’ At that second, she felt dishonoured. How dare he begin and then just end it, leaving her frazzled on the inside and bumbling about and feeling like a hideous spinster that even a man with only a good head of hair to recommend him would turn his back on.

  ‘You.’ She slapped out the word. ‘A man devoted to goodness must know how important it is to be honourable.’

  ‘Re…ecca. ’ardon. Didn’…’ean to offend.’

  She looked to the side. ‘I’m not offended.’ She raised her chin. ‘But you must give me your word that you’ll behave properly.’ And he’d best not touch her again. It felt too good.

  He pulled off a piece of the smallest bread and slid it into his mouth and swallowed. His eyes tightened every time he swallowed. She knew it hurt.r />
  He didn’t look her way. ‘I can’t say I… I won’t touch you. Only that I…I won’t offend.’ He tore another piece of the bread.

  Her anger wafted away like the little dandelion seeds that disappeared in a puff. She calmed her voice. ‘You must mind your manners… And what is your name?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘You aren’t going to tell me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s not very honourable.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You have a lot to learn about being a vicar. A vicar has to be agreeable. Good. Responsible. He has to be an example of how people should act at all times.’ She put a hand on her hip.

  He brushed her words away with an upwards flick of his eyes.

  ‘That will be unacceptable behaviour. You disgraceful man. You are not worthy to be a vicar.’

  She whirled around. ‘I said that without thinking.’ She reached for a towel and rubbed the cloth over her hands. He wondered she wasn’t taking off skin. ‘Please forgive me.’

  ‘…ease…’orgive…’ee. ’ease…’orgive…’ee…’ he mocked, waggling his head. If he’d heard that once he’d heard it a thousand times. If she jostled him… Please forgive me. If she shut a door just loud enough to hear… Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to wake you. Her habit to be good. Ingrained since birth.

  ‘I do not think you mean that,’ she snapped.

  ‘I don’t.’ He shot the words back, his chin jutting and sending pain all the way to his toes.

  ‘Well. I did.’

  ‘No. You say it without thinking.’ He bit out the words, letting the pain stab through his temples.

  ‘I do not.’ Her chin rose. Her eyes pierced. ‘I mean it.’

  ‘It frees your conscience.’ He noted how plain the sentence left his lips. That pleased him. ‘It is a…’abit. You say it too easy.’

  The woman marched well. ‘I do not know how you ever became a vicar.’

  He didn’t speak.

  ‘You are not worthy to be one.’

  ‘I…agree.’

  ‘And you don’t even care. The worthiest calling on earth and you are not giving it the due respect.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘For shame. I will ask my father to speak with you about this. Maybe he can shake out that rubbish clogging your mind. Perhaps when those men hit you they jarred your brain as well as your face. If anyone can straighten your thoughts, Father can. He can be quite stirring.’

  He put one hand over his ear, telling her what he thought of that little speech.

  ‘You are just hurt and not feeling well.’

  ‘Just…honest.’

  ‘You…heathen.’ Her chin went higher and her eyes sparked and she gripped the towel with the force of a man testing a knot in a hangman’s noose.

  He touched his chest. ‘Heathen.’ He pointed to her. ‘Saint.’ Then he waggled his shoulders. ‘Easy. No te…temptation.’

  ‘Oh. Oh. Oh. There is plenty of temptation in this village. If you only knew.’ And most of it in his fingertips. She thrust those thoughts aside. ‘You will find that out later when you get to know the people.’

  ‘Not for you. Te…temptation for them. Not you.’

  A lot he knew.

  ‘Na… when you last te…tempted to do anything…bad?’ he asked. She could see the sincerity in his eyes. Well, the women of the village always had plenty to say about their husbands’ inability to reason.

  ‘This second.’ She raised the cloth. ‘I would like to throw this towel at you.’

  ‘Ooh… Big…and evil.’ He shrugged. ‘Throw. I don’t care. It’s not even wrong.’

  She hurled it. He caught the flung towel in one hand. ‘B…best you can do for evil? I did more by…by time I was three.’

  ‘That is not something to be proud of.’

  ‘I’m not. Just fact.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her shoulders dropped. The tension in her face smoothed away. Her chest moved as she breathed. ‘I see what you are doing. I see it now.’ Her lips pushed up into a thin smile. ‘You’re right. We are all not worthy. And I have fallen into the routine of doing my good works without really thinking of it. It is merely a path I am on. Not considering my words and how I might improve them, and how asking for forgiveness comes so easily to me that perhaps it means nothing.’

  *

  He shook his head, stirring more pain, which irritated him even more. With his teeth still clamped, he said, ‘I do not care if you are…’erfect.’

  ‘I cannot be perfect. No one can. But if we were, you wouldn’t have had the injury.’

  She stalked to the broom, grabbed it in both hands and walked to him.

  He braced himself for a thwack, but instead she swept the floor, avoiding the area he stood. When she finished, she leaned down to a little piece of pasteboard by the door and brushed the dust into it and walked to the door, took a few steps out and hurled the dirt into the air.

  Then she returned and put the stiffened paper back in its place.

  She stood with her head down and her fingers clasped around the handle, using it for support. ‘I do beg your pardon for being so hateful. Please forgive me.’ She looked at him, brown eyes sad. ‘I said it again. I didn’t mean to. I don’t mean to be so hateful today.’

  He walked to her, put a finger along her chin and raised it higher.

  ‘Not you. ’ee. I’m bad. You’re good.’

  She looked at him and didn’t flinch. Something he wasn’t sure he could have done.

  He slipped the broom from her fingers, then put it by the pasteboard, before walking back to stop beside her.

  Keeping his head pulled back and his jaw as far from her as he could, he reached out, grasped her, twisted her around and sat, pulling her onto on his lap.

  ‘Vicar,’ she gasped. ‘This is not—’

  He rested his forehead at the top clasp on the back of her dress and then pulled her back enough so his head went higher and the softness of her skin melted against his. The fragrance of her soap touched him. He loosened his grasp, aware of the corset just under her clothes and the woman under that.

  Her hands locked on his where they rested at her stomach and she could have pulled away if she wished. Instead, she turned sideways, sitting half on his lap, and perched to leave. ‘Your hair tickles.’

  He pulled back and wobbled his head, letting his hair flutter against her skin.

  ‘This is not acceptable,’ she said, ‘unless we are courting.’

  Courting? How like a woman to think of that. Then he realised. How unlike the women he knew to think of that.

  She whispered, ‘Are we courting?’

  He raised his head forward, and then down, letting the tendrils of his hair trail over the skin at her neck. Saying no would hurt her. The little wobble in her voice told him that. He would let her be the one to reject him because when she found out who he truly was, she would want to throw the broom, the pasteboard and all the crumbles of dirt into his face.

  ‘I’ve never courted before,’ she said.

  He shut his eyes and took in a breath. Neither had he.

  She looked over her shoulder, but her eyes didn’t meet his face. ‘If it is acceptable to you…’ She paused and the pressure on his hands tightened. ‘If it is acceptable to you, I will tell Father we are courting.’ The last words came out in a rush.

  She took in a breath. ‘Although, perhaps I should wait a while. I would not want him to think there are any improprieties.’

  Her voice sounded wistful and, even though his mouth didn’t move, he smiled inside himself. He would be more than happy to provide her with plenty of improprieties. But it would be wrong. For the first time since Mrs Lake, he would treat her carefully.

  ‘I’ve thought…’ She took in a breath. ‘I’ve thought it must be nice to be courted.’

  She studied his face. ‘I don’t think the earl will be bothered at all with us courting,’ she said. ‘He is kind and has told my father I would make som
eone a fine wife some day. But if you wish us to keep it secret while everyone gets to know you, I completely understand.’

  Once the new vicar arrived, full of his own good works, Rebecca would happily move on. All she would have to do was discover who Foxworthy was and she would be attacking his face with the broom.

  She’d discover an understanding of why the people around her did the foolish things they did and have a better understanding of desire, loss and the foibles of humans who did not sit on perches above the rest. Only three people he knew managed to sit above the odour of imperfection.

  His father. Her father and her.

  Then he caught a glance of her profile. The profile framed by wisps of hair that had escaped and skin so delicate it should always be protected. He touched her hand. He could not be the one to cause her to doubt herself.

  He glanced at the paper. The pen. The ink. But she was closer.

  It felt so good just to hold her hand. He would not destroy her innocence. When she discovered who he was, he would spin one of the tales that came so easily to his lips and soothed all the feminine feathers. He would be mournful and sad and help her see she was not deserving of someone so reprobate as he. Her good works would override her momentary lapse. The man his father returned with would be standing at the side, ready to sweep her into that fairy tale of matrimony which only worked for people who had no other resources.

  ‘I do think the earl will be happy with us courting,’ she said. ‘Once he said something about my making a fine wife for someone and he wished his son would find someone with my values.’

  Fox could have choked on his own tongue. No.

  ‘Except he said his son was not likely to value me. The earl’s son is a bit of a rogue, according to the newspaper. And his father says he is beyond redemption.’

  Fox gave a slight nod. Rogue? He had invented the best ways to be a rogue. The ways which brought humour, except sometimes if a jest was pointed, it took the prick of truth and jabbed into someone. He could not condemn himself for that. Sometimes vicars did the same with truth.

  ‘I’m pleased I’ve never met him. Trudy, the barmaid, has.’

  Fox tried to think back to a Trudy. Or a barmaid. He could only remember the woman whose hair hung at the sides of her face almost like puppy ears and who had sort of a panting way of speaking that did remind him of a friendly hound. Her head wagged, too.