Page 6 of The Untamed Heart

“Why? Because I am female and have no interest in men’s business?” she asked, aggravated by the observation.

“No, but because I suspect it is merely a ruse to get me talking,” he said irritably.

She laughed at that. “Well, obviously it is, but if you are going to sit there looking all broody and heroic, you will not get the kind of portrait you’ve come to me for. I wish only to put you at ease, which you clearly are not.”

Rather to her delight, he snorted with amusement. “A fair comment, though I take issue with the broody and heroic observation. I have it on good authority—that authority being my batman—that I look dyspeptic when I am ill at ease.”

“A charming and not inaccurate description,” she said earnestly. “I should like to meet this fellow, for he may give me invaluable information as to your true character.”

The laughter that had lit his eyes dimmed at her words. “He would certainly have done so and with pleasure, for there was no better man for keeping a fellow’s feet on the ground, but he died at Waterloo.”

Eustacia could have kicked herself as she saw the faint chink of light that had promised to illuminate one tiny aspect of this private man snuff out before her eyes.

“I am sorry,” she said, sensing the weight of grief that hung over him and knowing the words were insubstantial.

Something like fury tightened his jaw. “What the devil for? You didn’t start the bloody war, did you?”

Eustacia stiffened and set her sketchbook in her lap, a little taken aback by the violence of his words.

“Obviously, I did not.” She hesitated, wondering whether to hold her tongue, but keeping quiet was not in her nature. “I know words are frail things, but they are all I have to offer you, and they express my sympathy for all that you have lost. It is not much, I know, and perhaps I say it for my own sake, for it makes me feel better to say something rather than nothing at all, but these are the restrictions polite society imposes upon us. If things were different, I might express my regret another way, but I do not doubt you would find that vastly more distasteful.”

Whilst her words were earnest and entirely sincere, there was a gently teasing note there too, and his eyes glinted with appreciation, much to her relief.

“I don’t doubt it,” he said dryly.

Relieved that the taut atmosphere had dissipated, Eustacia picked up her pencil once more. Colonel Hamilton was quiet, but then, in his deep, gruff voice, he began the story of his career, and she was instantly riveted.

“I joined the army because my father expected it of me. He had an exemplary career and was a veteran of the American War of Independence. I was sixteen when I enlisted. I think it was the only time the old devil actually smiled at me,” he said with a chuckle.

Eustacia, who did not find this the least bit amusing, tucked the information away.

“Any real education I received began during the Peninsular War. I served in Spain and Portugal and was swiftly disabused of any romantic notions I may have harboured about soldiering.”

Her pencil moved over the paper as he spoke, capturing different expressions: the turn of his head, the hard line of his mouth. His words were crisp, and she suspected he intended to do nothing more than give her a brief outline of his career. But memory took over at times, and he occasionally illustrated moments that stood out in his mind of his part in that war, though she did not doubt that he sanitised much of what he said for the benefit of her delicate female sensibilities. Yet reading between the lines, the picture that emerged was that of a man who cared deeply, whose honour rested upon his determination to do his job to the best of his ability, to care for his men and keep them safe, keep them alive, no matter the cost to himself.

After about half an hour, and during a wonderful story about a run-in with Wellington himself, he suddenly stiffened. “Good God, why on earth did you let me rattle on so? You must be bored to flinders!”

Eustacia looked over her sketchbook at him in surprise. “I am no such thing. It’s fascinating to me. Please, go on.”

To her regret, he shook his head. “No. That’s quite enough for one day. It’s damned chilly even out of the wind and you’ll be cold, no doubt. That dress might be fetching but it doesn’t look adequately warm,” he said, glowering at her.

Eustacia blinked, taken aback both by his concern and the information that he thought her outfit fetching. “I am perfectly comfortable.”

“Well, I’m not. My arse fell asleep twenty minutes ago,” he grumbled.

Eustacia smothered a snort of laughter, and he shot her a suspicious glance before realising his error. “I beg your pardon. I’m unused to female company and forget my manners,” he said, once more ill at ease.

Holding out a hand, Eustacia waved his apology away with a grin. “Please, do not apologise. My behind is likewise afflicted, I assure you. Shall we go and have a cup of tea and warm ourselves up? I’m sure the entire town is aware you have commissioned me to paint your portrait by now, so it ought not cause undue gossip for us to be seen together.”

To her relief, he nodded his acceptance, and they made their way back along the shore and headed up the stairs to the town. He paused halfway up, steadied himself, and then carried on.

“Am I correct in supposing a brisk walk along the shore several times a day is the kind of exercise your physician had in mind for you?” Eustacia asked as they reached the promenade.

He nodded. “It is. Sea air is good for the lungs, in his opinion.”

“Well, I cannot give any medical advice, but it feels wonderfully cleansing to me. Should you like to do so again tomorrow morning? I would be delighted to accompany you once more, if you do not mind my bringing my sketchbook.”

His expression darkened for a moment, but he gave a taut nod. “Very well.”