Redeeming The Roguish Rake. Liz Tyner

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      ‘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.

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