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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