by Liz Tyner
He didn’t move his head, but his eyes moved to stare into her face.
She jerked her hand back and her thoughts scattered. Apparently, the injury had affected his mind. How sad.
The thought jostled her that perhaps she’d been sent a man who would never be clear in his mind and she would have to spend the rest of her days caring for him. A man with a disfigured face and thoughts just as jumbled.
Oh, it had been a mistake to wish for a husband.
She squeezed her hands into fists. Well, so be it. If that was her lot in life, then it was to be accepted. She didn’t quite want to do thousands of little good works in a day and then try to fit in the needs of the villagers. Blast it.
Immediately, she thrust those thoughts away.
She put the happy look on her face that worked well for getting babies to do as she wished. She reached for the glass, lifted it, held it up, pointed to it and smiled.
His head tilted to one side and his eyes blackened even more. A flush warmed her from head to toe.
‘I’m the one who can talk.’ She smiled it away. ‘For a moment I forgot. Are you ready for the drink?’
He took it from her hand, put it to his lips, leaned forward and barely tipped the glass into the sliver of open mouth. He couldn’t seem to move his lower jaw. She took the cloth again, reaching 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, fighti
ng 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.
‘Re…ecca…’ The words trailed away.
‘Do you hurt?’
He shook his head. ‘Talking hurts.’ His voice croaked frog-like into the air he spoke from his throat, keeping his lips still.
‘’oving… ’outh…’ he added.
‘Who hurt you?’ she asked.
‘Not sure…’ He paused.
‘I’m so thankful you survived with so many attackers. It terrifies me to think so many wayward men are loose in the area.’
‘…not hurt village.’ He tapped his chest several times, letting her know they’d been after him.
There’d been four in all. That he was sure of. The gold-buttoned one had been the instigator. He knew that. And it wasn’t Peabody. But the fourth one had told the others to hit Fox again. Saying he’d proposed his last time.
And for the life of him he couldn’t remember proposing to that man’s wife. He was young and Fox had thought about the faces of the young women he’d spoken with and they all had older husbands.
Innocents were not his bailiwick. He didn’t wish to be bored.
‘We must see them caught,’ she said. ‘Now that you are awake and can tell us who they are.’
He crossed his wrists in front of him and then, palms out, abruptly spread his arms.
‘You don’t want them caught.’ Her eyes softened and her voice couldn’t have reached the walls of the room, and her face reflected awe. ‘You’re so forgiving.’
No one had ever looked at him like that and for good reason. Well, except perhaps after lovemaking.
‘Forgiveness is so divine.’
He pushed her statement from his mind. He’d not forgiven them. He might have done the same thing in their place. He understood. He understood revenge, too. It was best not to see it coming. He’d exact one slow squeeze at a time.
Perhaps he’d courted it. But that didn’t mean he had qualms about revenge.
‘They could have killed you. You would have frozen if you’d stayed out the night without your coat and boots,’ she said.
The laugh was on them if they’d stolen that coat and that pair of boots. The coat had fattened a moth or two and he’d kept it to wear to his father’s. He wasn’t sure if it was to fit in with his father’s wishes for austerity, or to jest at it. The clothes weren’t good enough to wear anywhere but to the country.
He reached up, touching his skin. Puffed. Not where it should be. A nose like he’d seen once at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salon. His skin felt foreign—like touching another person. A bristly person. He had short whiskers. He always shaved. He could not risk scratching a woman’s face.
‘Mirr…?’ He held a hand in front of his face and then with the other hand made movements shaving.
‘You’ll have to be careful.’
She took a looking glass from the wall and brought it to him. He jumped, startled, staring into the glass, feeling he dreamt. A monster stared back at him.
‘Holy…’ Damn. He looked more like something found in a butcher’s shop. Something discarded from a butcher’s shop. One side wasn’t so bad and that made his face worse. He had an almost normal half of his face and then he looked like an ogre who’d stuffed himself on overripe damson pastries and the colour had leaked through to the skin.
She bustled away, preparing water.
He put the mirror down, shut his eyes and lowered his head just a bit.
‘You’ve actually looked worse every day since I found you.’ She spoke from across the room. ‘The bruising has darkened. You look like plum pudding on one side and an apricot tart on the other. We can’t leave you outside,’ she said. ‘My cat Ray Anna might think we’d tossed out a treat.’
Fox imagined how pleased Mr Peabody would feel when he saw the injuries.
But he’d have to wait. He was not going to be seen by anyone who knew him until his face looked better. It could not look worse.
He took the mirror and held it to his gaze again. Surely he could not be that mangled.
The gut kick of seeing his face caused a recoil that shot pain throughout him. They should have killed him. It would have been kinder.
He held the mirror, feeling like he’d been encased in an extra layer of skin that didn’t want to move and didn’t belong to him and was nothing but pain. One eye even had the white stained in blood.
He stared, anger tensing his hand.
He lifted a finger and jabbed it in the direction of his face. He stared at her. He didn’t ask. He told. Look at this.
‘You’ll look so much better after you’ve shaved.’ Her voice wavered, but the words still sung out from her.
Better? He stared at her, challenging.
‘You have a good head of hair,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you could just grow it longer.’
He stared at her. He’d have to cover his whole damn face.
‘A person’s face isn’t everything,’ she said.
It was his. And his smile. Oh, Foxworthy, you have a beautiful smile. He’d heard that a thousand or so times. And those blue eyes…
‘You could…’ Her voice fell away and the mirror moved closer to her body. ‘A beard? Close-cropped beards can be quite…’
He stared at her. Waiting. Close-cropped beards could be?
‘Quite…nice.’
It hurt. It hurt a lot, but he forced a short burst of air from his nostrils.
‘Apostles had beards.’
He jerked his two hands to rest together over his heart. Pat. Pause. Pause. Pat.
‘Vicars aren’t supposed to be sarcastic.’
Well, he wasn’t a vicar. He held up one finger, pointing heavenwards, and then ever so gently shook his head. He was not now nor would he ever be a vicar. He had to make her understand.
‘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.