Page 82 of Wicked By Design

Eustacia snorted and folded her arms. “Oh, I see you are one of those men,” she said, disdain dripping from every syllable.

He looked at her sharply.

“The sort who never admits he needs help, even if he’s at death’s door. Go ahead, kill yourself, see if I care.” She waved a hand at him, gesturing for him to get on with it and Marcus glared at her.

With every fibre of his being vibrating with indignation, he pushed off the wall and headed towards the well. He’d have been perfectly fine too, if not for the buzzing in his head, for the breath that refused to fill his lungs. He turned the handle to draw the bucket back up, the effort far greater than it ought to have been. Finally, the blasted thing arrived, and he reached for it with shaking hands. He set the bloody thing down on the edge of the well, slopping water everywhere as his head spun and his knees felt strange beneath him. Suddenly the world tilted, and the ground rose up to meet him.

He swore viciously, struggling to right himself but, before he could, Miss Foxworthy was beside him.

“Here, take my hand. That’s it. No, don’t try to stand, just sit there for a moment and catch your breath.”

Without any fuss or exclamations of I told you so, she dipped a handkerchief in the bucket and wrung it out, handing it to him. “Here, wipe your face and neck, it will make you feel better.”

Marcus took the handkerchief silently, humiliation burning through him, grateful her words were brusque and unemotional, her actions businesslike. If she had fussed, he could not have borne it.

She reached for a metal dipper that hung on the side of the well, filled it from the bucket, and handed it to him.

“Here, drink this. When you’re feeling strong enough, I’ll take you inside and find you somewhere more comfortable to sit. If you are very good and refrain from swearing at me, I might even find you a drop of brandy.”

Marcus grunted and drank thirstily before handing back the dipper.

“More?”

He shook his head.

Miss Foxworthy perched on the well beside him. “I take it this visit means you have decided about the portrait. For or against, I wonder? I assume you would not put yourself through such an ordeal merely to reject my services.”

Marcus shook his head. “No. Though I wonder if you want to accept the commission now. I’m hardly heroic material, am I?” he said with a breathless snort.

“I thought that’s why you chose me, to show that there is a real man, a flawed, flesh-and-blood creature behind the legend of Hamilton of the Hollow Road.”

“Oh, Christ, save me from such bloody claptrap,” he said savagely. Reaching up a hand, he grasped the edge of the well, pulling himself upright.

“Let me help you. No, you will not bat me away like an annoying fly, you wretched man. Not this time.”

Much to his discomfort, Miss Foxworthy insisted on sliding her arm around him, lending him her support.

“I know you’re a big, strong fellow who needs no help from a silly female, but humour me, just until you’ve had a cup of tea and something to eat.”

“Coffee,” he grumbled, ungracious to the last.

“Very well, coffee it is,” she said with a laugh as she helped him inside.

Eustacia carried the tray of coffee and cake back into her studio, certain Colonel Hamilton would not thank her for allowing her housekeeper to view him in such a state. He already hated her for seeing him brought so low. Not that he’d been exactly friendly the first time they’d met either. The Colonel seemed to resent her or at least regard her with the kind of suspicion that suggested accusations of witchcraft might be forthcoming.

She understood it, even as it vexed her. For a man who did not want the heroic reputation that had attached to his name, he was equally terrified of anyone uncovering the man behind the legend. He feared her for that reason. Painting him would be a battle of wills, that was certain.

Fury simmered inside her still and it was all she could do not to shake the bloody man. Not because he was horribly rude—though he was—but because she could not shake the world. She could not shake everyone who had undermined him or made this infuriatingly brave man feel less than whole. His fierce pride stood like a barricade around him, tall and impenetrable, refusing admission to anyone who might care for him, who might offer him a word of comfort, or a helping hand.

Well, it would be interesting at any rate, she thought wryly, though she feared she might as well try painting the brick wall of the house because finding the emotion, the story, behind this man’s eyes would not be easy.

“Here we are, coffee and cake as promised. I hope you like it strong, for that’s how we drink it in this house. I have also borrowed my brother’s flask if you wish for a tot of brandy too. You see, I am as good as my word.”

She set the tray down, studying him surreptitiously and pleased to remark that his colour had returned to a degree and he looked less ghostly than he had. His breathing appeared to have returned to normal, which was a relief.

“Cream and sugar?”

He shook his head, and she wondered if he truly did not like cream and sugar or had simply denied himself for so long, he’d grown used to the absence. Was that life in the army, or an aversion to anything resembling comfort and indulgence. To her keen eye, he seemed to offer her a landscape of harsh lines and formidable terrain, yet that was only the surface, the face he showed the world. Eustacia’s fingers itched with the desire to pick up a pencil and sketch him, to discover a way to get beneath that unforgiving exterior.