Page 15 of The Untamed Heart

Marcus took the scone but did not eat until she proved as good as her word, taking a large bite of the loaded scone and licking cream from her ripe lips in a way that made his insides tighten, his pulse leap. He looked hurriedly away, annoyed with himself for his distraction, and ate the scone with quiet deliberation.

“Oh, Mrs Wainwright is a marvel,” she said, sighing happily and wiping her mouth with a napkin.

Marcus glanced up, his gaze snagging on a spot to the right of those full, plump lips. He scowled.

Eustacia blinked at him. “Now what?” She glanced down at herself as if to check her buttons had not become undone without her knowledge.

“You… You’ve cream. Just…” Marcus gestured in the general direction of her mouth.

“Oh.” She wiped the napkin again but somehow missed the tiny speck of cream.

Marcus cursed inwardly, wishing he’d held his tongue.

“Give me that,” he grumbled, snatching the napkin from her. Deftly, he removed the offending speck of cream and handed her back the napkin. “There.”

Eustacia beamed at him. “Thank you. Would you like another?”

“No,” he replied, instantly regretting his refusal when she gazed rather wistfully at the remaining scones. His refusal meant that she could not have another either, but he realised this too late and with a stab of guilt. He liked that she ate with such unapologetic relish. As an officer, he had been obliged to attend a number of social events, no matter how hard he tried to avoid them, and had endured too many dinner parties where fashionable ladies toyed with the delectable food on offer as if they had been served roasted slugs. As a man used to campaigning and who knew what real hunger felt like, it never failed to irritate him.

“Well, shall we see the garden, then? Or what we call the garden, at least,” she amended with a smile, setting down her empty cup.

Marcus nodded, eager to get out of doors. Everything was going wrong this morning, and the tentative camaraderie they had established the previous day was gone.

She led him down the stairs and through the house.

“This is my brother’s study and where he does most of his writing,” she said, pushing open the door. She smiled, noticing his hesitation. “He’s not here today. Actually, he’s gone to town for a few days, so there’s no fear of disturbing him.”

“You’re here alone?” Marcus disliked the notion of her living in this lonely house so far from anyone, from any help, with no man to protect her.

“No, far from it. Mrs Wainwright and her son live here too. We converted a small barn into a dear little cottage for them. It’s on the other side of this wilderness, if you can believe it.” She gestured to the French doors that opened onto an explosion of greenery.

Marcus grunted, making a mental note to take a look at Mrs Wainwright’s son and see what he made of the fellow. But then Eustacia opened the doors and walked out and his breath caught.

Despite the nettles and the bindweed, despite the disorder, here was a garden. It was a garden in despair, true enough, long abandoned and forgotten, but it was crying out to be brought back to life.

Marcus smiled.

Eustacia’s fingers itched with the desire to sketch his expression, but she forced herself to stand quietly, not wanting to risk any movement or distraction that might chase away the look of wonder in this fascinating man’s eyes.

She pondered what it was he saw, certainly not the overwhelming disorder and chaos that she did. For as much as she appreciated the beauty of what nature had done when the last owner had died and left the garden to its own devices, the enormity of finding what it had once been beyond her.

He took a step outside, and she realised she was holding her breath, as spellbound by his reaction as he was by the garden itself.

Since he had arrived that morning and discovered her sprawled on the floor with her nightrail barely covering her modesty, she had been kicking herself. Yesterday things had gone so well, and she had been elated with her discoveries about his past and the possibility of having found something to put him at ease. And then she’d gone and ruined everything by reminding him she was female, rather chaotic, and alone—all things nicely calculated to send him running.

But now she saw salvation. It was in his eyes, in the alert, eager tension of his large frame. He was almost twitching with the desire to tame it all, to discover its secrets and reveal the beauty beneath the turmoil.

“Who designed it?”

“The last owner, as far as I know. He was a recluse and liked plants and nature rather more than his family.”

Marcus snorted, his eyes glinting as he glanced at her. “A man after my own heart.”

Eustacia tsked at him. “Oh, don’t give me that. You like to make out you are belligerent and bad tempered and best left alone, but when that wretched letter arrived threatening you, your friends rallied to your side and never once questioned your honour. They respect you deeply and you do not get friends like that by being a curmudgeon all the time.”

He reached out and touched a glossy green leaf, his expression guarded. “Well, perhaps not all the time,” he allowed, and she heard the teasing note behind the words with a thrill of triumph. “Is that the kitchen garden?”

Eustacia nodded and followed him, grateful for his help in holding back thick brambles and branches as they moved towards a pretty wrought-iron gate set in an arched opening in the high brick wall.