Redeeming the Roguish Rake

by Liz Tyner

  She continued along the path, listening to the chaffinch and knowing Mrs Berryfield would appreciate the eggs. She imagined Mrs Berryfield’s children, chirping like hungry baby birds, their dirty hands reaching for her basket to see what she’d brought. Eggs. They’d be disappointed. But one did the best one could. And the eggs would surely gain her a promise from Mrs Berryfield to attend Sunday Services.

  Eggs were not as plentiful now that the weather had chilled. In fact, she moved to the trees lining the road so she’d be out of the wind. The dark clouds threatened, and she hoped to make it back home before the rain.

  Stepping up to the road, she crossed, planning to take the short path to the woods to reach the furthermost tenant on the old earl’s land.

  Then she saw a bundle of clothing lying on the ground. No one tossed the wash about like that. She moved one step closer, staring.

  Brown. Brown hair. Still looking fresh from a morning comb. But it couldn’t be, because the rest of him—the rest of him splayed about. His head was face down. And blood, brown. Dried.

  She couldn’t move.

  Another funeral for her father to perform. Another widow needing courage and someone to listen to her pain. Rebecca didn’t want to walk forward. Then she’d discover if it was Mr Greaves or Mr Able. They were the only two men with a head of hair that colour, except theirs always stuck ragged from their hats. She needed to know who it was. The family would have to know.

  The dead man groaned, just the tiniest bit, and she dropped her basket.

  ‘Mr Greaves? Mr Able?’ she called out, voice screeching into her own ears.

  He didn’t move.

  She took a step forward. No answer. Oh, my. She’d forgotten about Mr Renfro and he had eight children. ‘Mr Renfro?’ The words wobbled from her mouth.

  He was quiet as a tomb. She was going to have to turn him over and she hated the thought of touching Mr Renfro, even dead. He smelled worse than a sweat-soaked draught horse. She didn’t know how Mrs Renfro did it.

  She clamped her teeth together. Putting her boot solidly on the ground, she stepped forward.

  His big bare feet tangled in the grass. His boots had been stolen. Shivering, she darted her eyes to the trail, fearing the thought of someone watching her.

  The birds still sang and a breeze wafted through the air.

  Moving forward, she nudged her own boot against the muddied toe. ‘Pardon.’

  She was going to have to touch him. It wasn’t good for a man to touch a woman unless they were married, but women were granted no such favours where men were concerned.

  She knelt on the ground, took in a deep breath and pushed at his shoulder to move him over. He didn’t budge. She tried again and then looked the length of him. He wasn’t Mr Greaves or Mr Able. Mr Renfro overshot the door frame and had to duck when he stepped inside, but the stranger looked too precise for Mr Renfro.

  She leaned in. He didn’t smell like Mr Renfro. Even covered in dirt and mud, this one didn’t have an odour. She touched the one bit of skin she could see, near his neck. Cold.

  Instead of pushing, she reached across his back. She grabbed his shirt shoulder in one hand and the waist in the other and pulled. He flopped over onto his back, and she plopped to her bottom. She shut her eyes when she saw his face. She took two deep breaths before she could look at him again. His nose was to the side and so was his jaw. His eyes—she didn’t know if he could even open them or not. His face could have once belonged to Mr Renfro, Mr Greaves or Mr Able. Then she looked him over again. He only wore a lawn shirt and his trousers. His clothing had been stolen. Or, it had been taken so he would freeze to death.

  His eyelid fluttered and one eye opened a slit. She didn’t know if he could really see her. Then his hand reached up and touched her wrist.

  She didn’t know what to do. She clasped his fingers. He squeezed, then relaxed his grasp.

  ‘I must get you help,’ she said. ‘I must. I’ll only be gone a moment. I can find a cart.’

  He squeezed again. She hated to leave. But she had to. Both his eyes opened now. And she could have sworn he winked at her before shutting his eyes again.

  But she didn’t want him to die in the brambles. She didn’t really want him to die in the vicarage either, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone had.

  She stood, took off her coat, put it around him and ran, whispering prayers under her breath.

  Mr Renfro’s house would be her best choice. He could carry the man to the vicarage and he’d have no trouble straightening the man’s nose back in place, something her father could never do. One of Mr Renfro’s sons could help. The stranger needed to be straightened out before they buried him and Mr Renfro would have plenty of help to hold the man down if he fought.

  Chapter Two

  He wasn’t sure if he lay in a bed or a coffin.

  Buzzing. Bees or flies. No, a woman’s voice. An upset woman. Fox didn’t open his eyes at the noise. Everything hurt too much for him to care. If they were going to kill him, he just hoped for them to hurry.

  The woman’s voice again and then a man’s. But the man’s voice softened. Concerned. Not angry. Not violent.

  ‘I did find out who he is.’ The male again. ‘I spoke with the servants at the earl’s house, letting them know we have criminals on the loose, and I have the victim here.’

  ‘Who is he?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, Mrs Pritchett didn’t want me to know, but the earl sent them a letter telling them to brighten up a room for…a new vicar. Said to expect him any day now.’

  ‘Oh, Father…’ The word ended in despair.

  ‘Now, Rebecca. The earl only wants the best. Don’t look so upset.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  The room was silent. Nothing. Then the rustle of clothing, someone moving, stopping at his side. He tried to open his eyes.

  ‘Are you the new vicar?’ the soft voice asked. Even in the blackness surrounding him, he could tell she leaned over him. The perfume of lilacs and just-cooked porridge touched his nose. She wasn’t anyone he knew.

  But even the scent of his favourite flower didn’t ease the pain in his face. His eyes hurt and they wouldn’t open properly. He couldn’t open his blasted eyes.

  He just wanted to rest. Rest. He needed to tell her.

  He parted his lips to speak. Pain hobbled his words. His breath rushed from his lungs to throat and even thinking ached his head. He clenched his fist, barely trapping bedclothes in his hands. Rest.

  But the first part of the word was too hard to speak. He couldn’t talk with her. The feeling of bones crashing together tensed his body.

  ‘Are you the new vicar?’ she asked again.

  Rest. He wanted to rest, but it hurt too badly. He pushed out as much of the word as he could. ‘…esss…’

  The woman spoke. ‘He said yes’

  He didn’t care who she thought he was. He hurt worse than he’d ever hurt when he awoke after going twenty-four hours with nothing to sustain him but brandy. That hadn’t been this bad. He wanted to ask for brandy. He really did. He wanted to tell them he’d pay a hundred pounds for a good brandy to wash the taste of blood from his mouth. Or at least make him forget it.

  ‘His lordship has been saying for quite some time I should take a pension. We knew he was hoping to find a new vicar, Becca.’ A man’s voice. The man’s voice rumbled again. ‘He said that was part of the reason he was travelling. It’s to be expected.’

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  The woman leaned in again, touching the bed, jostling Fox. Pain shot through the top of his head. She was going to kill him if she didn’t stop moving him. They’d already stripped him and cleaned him and dressed him in a sack. Whatever they’d given him to drink had left a bitter taste in his mouth and mixed with the other tastes. He needed a shipload of brandy.

  He’d heard the crack when the club hit his face before the blackness had overtaken him. The breaking noise had been the same as when someone strong took a dried
branch and snapped it. He’d not known a face could make such a sound.

  The memory of the cracking noise warred with the pain.

  ‘Do you think I should give him some milk, Father?’

  No, he wanted to scream. Brandy.

  ‘Put some on a flannel and drip it into his mouth.’

  He raised his hand an inch, fingers spread, palm out. No milk.

  ‘I think that’s what he wants,’ she said. ‘Look. He’s clasping his fingers for the glass.’

  Forcing the effort, he lifted his hand and put it up, over the area of his mouth.

  ‘He’s not thirsty,’ the male said.

  ‘But he should drink something.’

  ‘Leave him be. He probably can’t get it down anyway. He said no, so let’s give him some quiet.’

  ‘He’d probably like it if I read from the prayer book to him.’

  The male voice sounded from further away. ‘Yes.’

  Clothes rustled and the lilacs touched him again. Without opening his eyes, he reached for her. His fingers closed around something else. A book.

  ‘Oh, Father. He wants the prayer book.’ The words lingered in the air, floating, and wafted outwards, awe colouring them with praise. Much the same as his voice would have been if he’d been able to thank her for some brandy.

  ‘Scriptures have always given me comfort in my time of need,’ the gruff voice stated.

  The sound of bustling clothing and a chair being moved close to the bed. ‘I think I should start with the January ones until I get to this month,’ the soft voice said. ‘And I’ll read the best parts slowly.’

  It was autumn.

  He was in hell.

  And if he was going to be punished for all the wrongs he’d done…he would not be leaving for a while.

  The old man interrupted the woman. ‘He’s not struggling and if he…doesn’t make it…well, he’ll be in a better place.’

  No. No. He preferred London. It was good enough. It was wonderful, in fact. The best of everything the world could offer was at his fingertips. He’d been mistaken to leave it.

  His hand slid sideways, and he clasped at the bedcovers to keep the feeling of floating from overtaking him.

  ‘I’d best go spread the word that we’ve got some cutthroats in the area.’ The gruff voice spoke again.

  ‘Did you let the earl’s servants know…he’s here?’

  The man let out a deep sigh. ‘Yes. I told them it’s best not to move him and that you’re giving him the best care there is. You know as much as an apothecary does about treatments.’

  ‘I learned from Mother.’

  ‘Did you notice…?’ The male’s words faded. ‘In his time of need, he reached for comfort. A sainted heart lives inside that battered body. At least I can rest easier knowing a man who appreciates goodness is replacing me. I just think I have a lot of Sunday Services left in me.’

  ‘You do, Father. And you can teach the new vicar, too. You can help him.’

  No one spoke for a few moments.

  ‘Well, Vicar,’ the older voice said from near Fox’s elbow, ‘I will look forward to hearing one of your first services.’

  Fox, eyes still shut, breathed in and out. He could do that. He could give quite the sermon on why you shouldn’t covet your neighbour’s wife.

  Shuffling noises sounded. ‘Latch the door behind me,’ the man said. ‘I don’t want any of those evil-doers coming back to finish what’s left of him.’

  The door closed, and a bolt sounded, being moved into place.

  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 ma
nhood, 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.

  He kept the book against his side, yet he moved his grasp so that he covered her hand with his, holding their hands resting on the volume. She’d never…been this close to a man before. Well, she had, but this made her breath shaky.

  She took in a gulp of air.

  ‘Are you comfortable?’ she asked, leaning closer.

  He moved his head and didn’t squeeze her hand. The blink of his eyes was a bit long to be anything positive. ‘Well, I guess you couldn’t be. Not with all the injuries.’

  His grasp tightened in agreement and her heart double-thumped. It was just the gratefulness of not having to watch him die. She’d not looked forward to that.

  She moved closer. ‘Do you mind if I talk to you?’