Page 21 of The Untamed Heart

Mrs Wainwright’s face appeared in the opening a moment later, rosy from the heat of the kitchen and bringing with her the scent of cinnamon and apples.

“Oh, Colonel, come in, sir. Why did you bother knocking? We don’t stand upon ceremony here, you know. You just walk in and sit down, and you’ll find coffee and a bite of something to eat before you in a trice.”

She opened the door fully and hustled him inside before he could speak a word.

“Go on, sit yourself down there. You’ll be famished after all that work. I’ll make you a nice snack.”

Despite his awkwardness, Marcus could not help but smile in return at the woman’s frank and open manner. In a way, she rather reminded him of his grandfather, down to earth and no-nonsense, and he suspected they would have got on famously.

“I was actually… I wished to speak to Miss Foxworthy,” he said, though he found himself unequal to the task of denying Mrs Wainwright the chance of fussing over him.

“And so you shall,” she said, bringing a large ham to the table and cutting several fat slices. She put them on a plate before turning and cracking several eggs into a pan that sizzled and spat.

A short time later, Marcus was presented with a large plate of ham and eggs, several slices of thickly cut bread and butter, and a large cup of strong tea, which she presented to him with a challenging smile. “I know you prefer coffee, and it’s all well and good, but too much of it makes a fellow peevish, you ask me. Drink that up and see if you don’t like it as well.”

Marcus might have faced down the French, and Wellington himself when the man was on a rampage, but he found himself quite unable to deny Mrs Wainwright, so he tucked into the hefty serving of ham and eggs and drank his tea, which he had to admit was an excellent brew.

“There now,” she said, as she regarded his empty plate and mug with evident satisfaction. “Bet you feel more the thing now. A man can’t work on fresh air alone, Colonel. Here, have a little slice of apple pie and a bit of cream and then you’ll have wherewithal to face Miss Eustacia and feel up to the challenge.”

Marcus eyed the enormous slab of apple pie and cream and glanced reprovingly at Mrs Wainwright. “You cannot overpower the enemy by feeding him to death, you know,” he grumbled. “And who says I need to gird my loins before I face her?”

The lady snorted and gave him an old-fashioned look. “No one says, but I saw the way she looked as she ran past this window. No doubt she spoke out of turn, she’s a deal too free with her opinions, I dare say, but only with those she cares about. She cares a deal too much for her own good sometimes, but she’s tender-hearted, else me and Neil wouldn’t be here. She took us on when others would have turned us out, and I’d go through thick and thin for that girl and so I tell you.”

Marcus heard the warning and approved. It seemed to him Eustacia was too much alone in this large, rambling house and it was good to know this rather formidable woman was an ally.

“I’m glad,” he said, picking up his spoon and regarding the apple tart with some trepidation. He’d already eaten more than he’d grown used to of late.

“Even if she poked at your tender parts?” she asked wryly.

Marcus snorted and lifted a spoonful of pie and cream to his mouth. “Even then,” he admitted, and resigned himself to being fattened like a Christmas goose.

He heard her before he saw her. In his younger years, Marcus had found no difficulty in attracting women to his side, or his bed. He did not consider himself handsome, but he was well made enough to have a lady turn her head his way. Yet he could not say the amorous adventures of his youth had given him any great understanding of the fair sex, who were as great a mystery to him now as they had been when he was a snot-nosed lad. However, the rather brutal manner in which the lady was pounding paint with a pestle and mortar, suggested–even to his limited understanding—that she was not entirely calm.

An apology flew to his lips as she glanced up and saw him standing there, but the hectic blush that rushed up her throat to her cheeks made him hesitate.

She wasn’t furious, he realised. She was mortified.

Marcus frowned, running back over the conversation to figure out why she might be embarrassed by it. Instead, Mrs Wainwright’s words came back to him.

She’s a deal too free with her opinions, I dare say, but only with those she cares about.

Ah.

She set down the pestle and met his gaze, putting up her chin.

“Colonel Hamilton,” she began. “I must beg your forgiv—”

“Oh dear, we’re back to Colonel Hamilton,” Marcus said, interrupting her before she could speak. “Things must be black indeed.”

She blinked, watching him cautiously as he came into the room and walked towards her. He stood on the opposite side of the workbench, rather charmed by the sight of her in a messy apron splattered with paint.

“N-Not black, precisely,” she said. “Only—”

“Only, I’m a bad-tempered brute who took his guilt and frustration out on you. I apologise for my complete lack of manners. Am I forgiven?” he demanded, aware he was speaking too forcefully, too loudly, but that she might be too embarrassed to face him with her usual candour made him wretched and he intended to chase the impression from her mind.

She set down the pestle with a clatter and folded her arms, glaring at him, though the huff of laughter that escaped her suggested she was not really angry at all. “You wretched man. I’ve been fretting myself to death, wondering how best to make up for… for sticking my nose into things that are none of my affair and you—well, what am I to say to that?”

“That I am forgiven, I suppose,” he said, rather pleased at being called a wretched man for reasons he wasn’t entirely sure of.