Redeeming The Roguish Rake. Liz TynerЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.
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