Redeeming The Roguish Rake. Liz Tyner
Читать онлайн книгу.
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