Redeeming The Roguish Rake. Liz Tyner

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       Chapter Three

      Fox dozed and words pulled him from his stupor. More reading from that book. Voice gentle, but sounding more asleep than awake. The book shut with a snap.

      This was as much enjoyment as reading his father’s letters. The same type of admonishments. Mostly. Although, the voice wasn’t telling him the additional commandment to wed a virtuous woman and put a blindfold on.

      A scraping noise. A chair on a rough floor. Clothing moving against skin as someone moved. A female. The air she disturbed swirled around him, trailing the lilac scent.

      He tried to turn towards her. But his head was too heavy for his neck to move. She leaned over him and brushed a lock of his hair from his forehead, her fingertip trailing cool across his skin. ‘You look better than you did before I washed the blood from your face.’

      His eyes remained closed. He remembered a rough rag brushing over his skin, shooting pain into him.

      She stroked the skin in front of his ear, feather-light. His whole being followed the movement of her hand against his face, sending sparks of warmth. She pulled away. ‘You’ve slept for a full day. Over a day.’ She brushed a lock of hair from by his ear, but her hand remained, barely there. She stilled. ‘Nothing since you reached for the prayer book.’

      He waited. Why didn’t she move again?

      ‘I think you should wake up.’

      He wanted to hear her speak again. Now.

      ‘If you don’t wake up soon, I’m afraid you’ll never wake up. That won’t be good.’

      It’s not my choice.

      ‘You’ll need to be shaved. I suppose Father can do that. But his hand trembles so.’

      He imagined the razor at his throat and heard a guttural noise. Spears stabbed from inside his neck.

      He couldn’t force his eyes open.

      ‘Quiet now,’ she said. ‘Don’t hurt yourself. But at least you’re talking now.’

      Talking? He had no strength to agree or disagree.

      She touched the cloth at his neck and tugged, loosening something. ‘I wasn’t thinking. You’ve jostled yourself and tightened the nightshirt strings over your bruise.’

      The covers moved around him.

      ‘Oh. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I do beg your pardon.’ Again, fingertips brushed at the side of his face. She smoothed across his eyebrows, first one and then the other. Her fingers didn’t stop. ‘The only part of your face that isn’t bruised,’ she said.

      He relaxed into her caresses.

      Then her cool lips pressed at his forehead, bringing the scent of a woman’s softness. ‘I hope you’re sleeping comfortably.’

      No. I never sleep comfortably.

      He moved his feet and nothing new hurt. Then he moved his left hand. He tried to make a fist with his right hand, but he couldn’t. He remembered deflecting a blow.

      He was fairly certain he could walk. His legs moved fine, but he didn’t think he could speak. He tried. But his throat ached and pain seared. Too much effort.

      If she’d put a pen in his hand, surely he could write something without seeing. A haze of light seeped from under one lash. If he concentrated, he could make out the outline of the covers over his chest.

      He tried to make a swirling motion with his hand to indicate writing, but she grasped it and he let her hold it still.

      ‘Don’t be uneasy.’

      He could pen instructions for them to take him to his father’s estate.

      The rough nightshirt they’d put on him would definitely please his father. But surely the servants could find something that didn’t bind him so tight.

      Then he forced his eyes wider. He couldn’t get them open enough to see much more than shadows. And a bosom.

      He pushed against the puffed skin that wanted to defeat him. He could see very little of the world except a very delightful view. Two delectable beauties right in front of him. Oh, this was not so terrible. And then they moved. Not in the preferred way, but whisked from his vision.

      ‘Praises be,’ she said, and clasped her hands together, moving so rapidly he could not follow. ‘Your eyes are open.’

      Blast. His lids closed. Blast.

      Then he imagined the sight he’d just seen. The faded and washed fabric, pliable from much use, and exactly the sight he wanted to wake up to. His whole body wanted to wake up to it and did.

      He couldn’t smile. It hurt too much. But if he’d had to be separated into two parts and only one portion functioned, his head or his manhood, well, it had worked out for the best.

      Relief flooded through him, dancing around the memory of the breasts.

      ‘Oh.’ She slid on to the chair at his bedside and reached for a cloth. She daubed it around his face. ‘Don’t let it concern you that your eye twitches. You’ve done that almost every time I speak to you. That’s how I know you hear me.’

      He turned enough that he could see the book in her hands. He lifted his left hand, reaching for it.

      She moved the volume into his grasp and helped him guide it against his body. He clasped it at his side, keeping it in his hand. She’d have to finish the job the cutthroats started to get that book back again. He would not hear one more saintly syllable from it.

      * * *

      Becca watched him. He grasped the book so tight. Her chest fluttered. His discoloured face had made her cringe at first, but now she was used to all the marks and bruises. Her mother had once told her a tale of a woman falling in love with gargoyles and now she could understand how the ladies of the village could tolerate the touches of their rough husbands. They saw through the appearance to the heart underneath.

      She looked at him, clutching the prayer book to his side, holding close what was dear to him.

      Biting her lip, she reached out. She patted his hand and then let her fingers stop over his knuckles. Strong hands, but not roughened with work because he spent his time tending people instead of livestock or fields.