Page 89 of The Untamed Heart

“Whenever you, like, my love. Just… give me a moment,” he said, letting out a breath and moving to her side. She turned in his arms, snuggling into his embrace as if it had always been so, because that was the place she belonged.

They lay together, replete and content, each entirely comfortable with the silence as they allowed their hearts to slow and peace to settle over them.

Marcus bent and kissed the top of her head.

“Thank you.”

Eustacia looked up at him. “Whatever for?”

He smiled down at her, feeling a little foolish, but needing to say it. “For seeing me.”

When her eyes filled with tears, he knew she understood and he kissed her again, for he could never grow tired of that. He kissed her for the longest time, one kiss becoming another, and another, until their breath mingled and her sighs fluttered over his cheek.

“It’s finished.”

He drew back to look at her. “It is? You didn’t tell me that. You said it would take months.”

“I wasn’t sure,” she said with a lazy smile. “And I said it might take months, but you were wonderfully easy to paint. I think because I fell deeper in love with you with every brushstroke, but one of the hardest things with painting is knowing when to stop. Yet I looked at it before I left this morning, and I knew it was complete.”

“Oh.” Marcus hesitated, wondering what he ought to say. “Congratulations.”

Her smile widened, and she sat up in his arms. “Would you like to see it?”

In all honesty, Marcus did not wish to move, but… but he could see the anticipation in her eyes and knew at once it was important to her that he saw it now.

“Of course.”

They pulled on dressing gowns and padded along the hall to her studio, where Eustacia set about lighting the lamps. Though it was early still, it was dusk outside, and Marcus moved to draw the curtains against the chill of the evening.

He turned to see her waiting beside it, holding out her hand to him. She looked rather anxious, and he smiled at her.

“I’m sure you’ve done a marvellous job, love, don’t—”

But she shook her head and silenced him. “Don’t. If you don’t like it, I… well, I don’t know what I shall do, but…. Oh, just look, will you?” she exclaimed, nerves making her jittery as she tugged him around to stand before it.

Marcus drew his unwilling gaze from her beautiful face and turned to the portrait and found himself staring back.

Startled, he took a step backward.

It was him. Not some prettied up, gilded image. Just him. So much so, it was like looking into a mirror, and yet no, it was not like that at all, for he saw himself too clearly. He saw the weariness beneath his eyes, the slight hollowing of his cheeks where he had lost weight, and the touch of grey at his temples. Yet humour lurked in his expression, and whilst the battered sword rested on his knees, his hand was curved around a small terracotta pot. A tiny shoot pushed through the soil, bright and fragile, the lush green rather startling against the sombre background and the bright scarlet of his coat.

In the background, a spade with earth still clinging to the metal, leaned carelessly against the wall, ready to be picked up and taken outside. Light glimmered in the far corner of the portrait, as if a door had been left open, ready for him to walk through, out into the light of a new day.

The portrait she had produced was unconventional, brave and quite different from anything he’d ever seen before. Just like her. Perhaps like them both.

He let out an unsteady breath.

For a long moment he could do nothing but stare at it in wonder. How had she done that? For he recognised more than a simple likeness: the way he held himself, a little stiff from the pain on one side, the angle of his head, everything was familiar and real.

The uniform was there, the medals too, and yet they were not the focus of the portrait. It was him. The man, the survivor, the fellow who would pick up that spade and walk out and feel the sun on his back and start something new.

It was only then that he realised he’d not said a word and the poor girl was beside herself with agitation.

“Well?” she asked, her voice trembling.

He could do nothing but hold her hand tighter. Too emotional to put into words everything she had done, everything she had given him. Words were her brother’s domain, not his, but there was one other thing he could do.

Turning to her, he cradled her face in his hands and kissed her, slowly and thoroughly, until he felt her body tremble against his.