Читать книгу Redeeming The Roguish Rake - Liz Tyner, Liz Tyner - Страница 15

Chapter Seven

Rebecca walked into the house and instantly her eyes moved to the empty bed. She stilled, except her heart doubled in speed. She wanted to call out his name, but realised she didn’t know it. ‘Vicar,’ she whispered.

He dipped his head to walk under the door frame from the bedroom. An unshaven man, dishevelled, except for his hair. In bed, he’d taken up the size of the mattress. In the doorway, he completely filled her eyes.

She didn’t speak and she took a tiny step back.

‘Th...ank you for washin...’ he said. ‘Shirt...’aistcoat...’

She rushed to the table, putting her basket down, not looking his way, watching the apples. She took one from the top and put it on the table. She reached for a knife to peel the apples.

‘The boots.’ She indicated the footwear her father had brought back.

He looked at them and nodded, but he didn’t get them.

The man moved to the chair and sat at her table as if it was his own. All the men of the village did the same occasionally. Even the earl had once or twice. But the vicar sat with his bare feet apart, his mangled head high and his eyes staring straight ahead. And he sat on the wrong side.

She pressed her lips together hard, then she spoke softly. ‘You’re in my father’s chair.’

His brows raised and he slowly turned his head to look at her. She couldn’t read his thoughts.

Then he stood and moved to the other chair and sat.

She moved to the stove, but then he turned the chair slightly so she was in his direct line of vision and it was much more straightforward than before. The trousers and shirt seemed to make him into a real person, not an invalid. And not the same.

In the bed, he’d not taken up so much room, but in the chair at the table, she couldn’t move without being closer to him.

Then she laughed at herself. She was being foolish. She’d just not seen a man so undressed before. Not even her father. He was always very particular about how he looked because at any moment a parishioner might appear and need counsel.

She took in a deep breath. ‘You look half—’

He waited.

She couldn’t say naked, wild, or any of the first words that hit her mind. ‘—dressed. But more like a gentleman.’

He pointed two jabs to his face.

‘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.