Page 42 of The Untamed Heart

“I’m not hungry,” he retorted and disappeared upstairs. The sound of a slamming door followed.

“Oh dear,” she said with a sigh, and made her way to the kitchen.

Chapter 12

A Clean Cut

Seagull Heights, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 25th September 1816

Eustacia moved restlessly around her studio, re-arranging her brushes for the fifth time, checking her paints were laid out as she would require. Narrowing her eyes, she gazed at the chair where Marcus would sit, gauging the light coming into the room, and hurried to the curtain, twitching it back as far as it would go. Large windows on two sides meant the room was always brightly lit, but the dull afternoon was doing its best to dim everything.

Marcus came into the room as she turned, hesitating in the doorway.

Eustacia’s breath snagged in her throat, one hand unconsciously moving to cover her heart, which had given a sudden and erratic thud that made her feel a little giddy. Oh my. Her greedy gaze drank in the sight of his broad shoulders and the snug fit of the scarlet coat that accentuated them, the sensuous gleam of a silk sash, and the tension in his gloved hands.

Oblivious to the havoc he had wrought upon her nerves, Marcus gave the scarlet coat a self-conscious tug and went and sat in the chair. He looked horrendously ill at ease.

Eustacia swallowed and did her best to gather her scattered wits.

She had known he would look marvellous, of course she had. All the same, she had been unprepared for the full force of the rich gold lacing, the gold epaulettes, white breeches, and highly polished Hessian boots. Then there was the crimson sash around his waist, worn diagonally beneath the coat, the sword suspended from his officer’s belt, and the bicorn hat with gold edging and black cockade, which he held under one arm.

And that was before she even looked at the medals.

He’d been ordered to wear every medal he’d won during his career, and she suspected this more than anything was making him contemplate flight. She could see his desire to bolt written in every rigid line of his body.

“Well,” she said, endeavouring to keep her voice light while her idiotic heart beat a tattoo in her ears. “That lot must weigh a tonne, though they are most impressive. No wonder Wellington wished to have them all on display.”

He snorted and glanced up at her. “I do hope you have enough gold paint,” he said disparagingly.

She heard the disdain in the remark but ignored it, bending down to peer at the impressive display. “I have no idea what they are all for. Might you tell me, please? I should prefer to understand what it is that I am painting.”

He glowered at her but sighed, pointing to each in turn. “The Army Gold Cross.”

“What are all the bars on it for?” she asked with a frown.

His expression became increasingly forbidding, but he rattled off, “Salamanca, Vittoria, Pyrenees, Nivelle.” He hesitated for a moment, his jaw tightening before he added, “Nive, and Toulouse.”

Eustacia swallowed, knowing they were not just names to him, but battles where he and his men had fought and shed blood, and many had died, yet she said nothing and simply nodded as he pointed at the next.

“The Portuguese Order of the Tower and Sword. The Spanish Order of San Fernando. That one is the Waterloo Medal.”

The words were clipped and impatient and she did not dare ask more, instead considering the details of the splendid outfit. The cloth was in excellent condition, though some of the gold work was worn smooth from wear. Glancing at the hilt of the sword, she frowned.

“That isn’t your dress sword, is it?” she asked, aware that in accordance with the brief he’d been supplied for the portrait, he was supposed to be wearing that too.

“No.”

She hesitated. “You didn’t bring it?”

“No. This is the sword that brought me home. It might not be pretty, but it did the job.” He met her eyes, a stubborn set to his jaw that suggested it was this far and no farther. “I’m a bloody soldier, not a fashion plate.”

She nodded her understanding, aware he was close to walking out on her, but she could not help but study it. The hilt had once been engraved, but was now worn smooth, and the black leather scabbard had been polished times beyond counting, but despite that had dulled to a brown-black sheen. Deeply scuffed and scratched, it had suffered badly from years under a harsh Spanish sun. The brass fittings were dark except where the touch of his fingers had constantly worn the metal to a brighter hue. It had been mended at some point, one mount re-riveted and set slightly askew.

“Could you take it off and hold it?” she asked suddenly. “Place it across your knees.”

He frowned but did as she asked. “Like this?”

Eustacia nodded and stood back, studying him. He looked like he was awaiting court-martial, but the sword worked. There was something both touching and powerful about the wear and repair of the piece that satisfied her.