Page 61 of The Untamed Heart

That when we live no more, we may live ever.”

Her voice quavered a little on the last words and Marcus did not know what to say as she turned to gaze at him, her eyes filled with tears.

“It is a memorial.”

Marcus nodded, unable to look away from her. “Yes.”

“How beautiful,” she said, swiping away a tear and laughing at her own sentimentality.

“It is beautiful. He’s planted roses. Dozens of them,” he said, gesturing to the thick tangle of green, woven through with bindweed and ivy.

“Can it be saved?” she asked, her expression suddenly one of concern.

Marcus smiled. “Of course. I shall save it.”

As you have saved me—the words filled his mind, but he could not speak them.

And then there was silence, filled only with the sound of birdsong, with the skitter of fallen leaves as the breeze chased them and shook the branches overhead.

“You make everything right, Marcus.”

His breath caught at the words, even as he assured himself she did not mean it that way. She spoke only of the garden, of the way he had fixed the potting shed and the tools. He was practical, that was all.

Yet there was something in her eyes that dared him to believe otherwise. That gave him hope.

“Eustacia, I—”

The sound of the bell ringing so violently he suspected Mrs Wainwright might wrench it down shattered the moment, and they stared at each other in alarm.

“What on earth…?” Eustacia began.

“A fire?” he suggested, for whatever the problem, it was one of great urgency.

Marcus helped Eustacia back through the garden, and then… he ran.

Eustacia glanced at Mrs Wainwright, who seemed to be taking everything in stride. Surely finding a duke and two earls sitting at the table where she habitually peeled potatoes would send a lesser woman into hysterics.

Truth be told, Eustacia felt a tad hysterical herself.

Mrs Wainwright was calmly making tea and setting down plates of biscuits as if the nobility popped into her kitchen at all hours of the day and night.

To their credit, none of the men, even the Duke of Hawkney, had batted an eyelid when Marcus had led them into the kitchen instead of the parlour, and Eustacia had been too overwrought by their sudden appearance and their grave faces to protest.

“Those are excellent,” the fellow Marcus had introduced as the Earl of Darenth said, as he reached for another butter biscuit and chewed with obvious relish.

Mrs Wainwright beamed at him. “Would you like some of my game pie if you are hungry, my lord? We were to have it today, but there is plenty to go around.”

“I would,” Darenth said eagerly. “Do you have pickles, and perhaps a bit of cheese, too?”

“Certainly, I do!” she said, bustling off, eager to prove how bountiful her table could be.

“Lucius,” Lord Sheringham hissed at him.

Darenth sent him a reproachful glare. “What? I told you I was hungry. A fellow can’t live on biscuits.”

“I still don’t understand why the three of you felt the need to ride hell for leather and scare everyone half to death, just to tell me Major Keller is in town,” Marcus complained bitterly, pulling out a chair and sitting down beside her.

Eustacia could only second his irritation.