Redeeming The Roguish Rake. Liz Tyner
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‘You don’t look that bad.’
He pointed to the sky, jabbing upwards, and then to his ear.
She let out a deep breath, looked down and spoke softly. ‘You do look rather bad.’
He agreed with a rumble from his throat.
She would do her duty. She would be a good wife if they married. She would learn to love his misshapen face. If she could love a hissy, splotchy orange cat with a missing ear then she could love this man. It would be nice to care for someone in such a way. Marriage softened the harshness in life. She would no longer be a woman and he would no longer be a man. They would be one, together.
Although it would take some time. She could tell that by looking at him.
And he was a bit too concerned about his appearance, but she could help him get over his vanity, although at this point, he might need a smattering of it.
He did have elegant lashes. She could compliment him on his lashes. His hair. She wasn’t certain of his teeth because he couldn’t seem to open his mouth. But there would be a lot of things she could remind him of so that he would not feel so...lopsided. She tilted her head. Yes, he was just lopsided and in different hues than anyone else she’d ever seen. He did not quite look as good as Mr Tilton did when he was dead, but Mr Tilton had only been kicked in the face by a horse.
He caught her looking at him with her head tilted. He crossed his arms. One could believe in beasts when he looked at her like that.
Stopping a moment, she reminded herself that all creatures were beautiful. And he was handsome in his own way. He did have a nice colour of hair.
He leaned across, and took her knife from her hand, and he worked at peeling the apple skin into one thin and perfect ribbon. He looked her way briefly and continued, his concentration on his task.
With his thoughts on his task, he didn’t intimidate her at all and with his head down, he could be endearing enough, this man with bare toes.
He finished the peeling, then deftly sliced the apple in half, cored it and made another slice. He held it out to her. She took it, their fingers brushing, and ate it. Then he cut the smallest sliver, put it in his mouth, shut his eyes, chewed carefully, and she could see him tasting, swallowing. He opened his eyes, cut another piece for her and held it high, to her lips.
She took a bite and shut her eyes.
His hand stilled, fingers straightened and rested on her cheek by the crease of her lips.
She opened her eyes, and whispered, ‘What is your given name?’
His eyes tightened. ‘Dam...’ His hand jerked away from her face.
‘Did you just say Adam?’ she asked.
Then shook his head. ‘Dam...nation.’
‘The oath?’
He nodded with a flick of his brows.
‘What are you...angry with yourself for...?’ Her cheeks reddened.
He took one hand, putting it under her chin, and lifting so that her eyes aligned with his vision.
He shook his head. With his free hand, he reached to cup her face, but he stilled just before touching.
Neither moved.
* * *
He took a step back, letting his hand slide from her. This would not end well. Not for her at any rate.
He wanted to kiss her, but he could not. He could not let his face against hers. No woman should be touched by such ugliness. He reached out and rested his fingertips against her cheeks. Then he traced her perfect nose. Even her jawline was perfect.
He’d thought nothing fascinating about her face, but now he looked closer. In her plainness, she had a simple beauty. The wisps of hair framing her face enhanced the softness of her skin. Such a contrast to the rough hands—the work she did made the woman more delicate.
He grasped her shoulders and her eyes opened. She’d taken pity on a beaten man and helped her neighbours with whatever they needed. He could see purity. An unaware angel.
He must kiss her. He must.
But he brushed his hands along the sides of her neck and downwards, tracing the shoulder, brushing her dress aside to the limits of its closures, ignoring the texture of fabric while his mind told him what lay underneath.
Her lips parted.
‘Kissed?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘Never?’
Her head wobbled a ‘no’. Eyes begged him.
‘Later.’
His right hand rested against her throat. Her pulse hammered. She swallowed.
‘Promise?’ she asked.
He traced the fullness of her lips and without words made a promise to both of them.
‘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.
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