was cold comfort. Captain Galahad still thought her odd. For some reason, it was imperative she did not leave him on such a bad impression.
‘I am not normally this silly Captain.’ Cassie spun around only to see him wincing, resting painfully on one knee, as he tried to stand. ‘Oh, my goodness! You’ve hurt your leg.’ She dropped the reins and dashed to his side to offer him some assistance. ‘Let me help you up and then I will escort you home.’ After causing his injury it was the very least she could do.
Those lovely blue eyes hardened to ice crystals. ‘I’m not a blasted invalid, woman! I can get myself up off the floor and find my own way home!’ To prove his point, he stood and stubbornly limped towards his horse.
‘Please, Captain Warriner—allow me to assist you. Your poor leg!’
But he ignored her. He reached his horse quickly and grabbed the pommel of the saddle to steady himself. Then, with another wince, put all of his weight on his injured left leg so that he could place his right foot in the stirrup. He hauled himself upwards using only the power in his arms. Large muscles bulged under the fabric of his coat, emphasising his strength and excellent broad shoulders. He arranged himself comfortably before shooting her a scornful glare which could have curdled milk.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Reeves. Next time you decide to go out for a ride, kindly remember this is private property.’ He nudged the foreboding black stallion forward and the pair of them galloped off without a backward glance.
Jamie dipped his brush in some water and used it to soften the cake of blue paint to create the perfect wash. He preferred to work with watercolours rather than oils. Oil took too long and he was never completely happy with the effect. With watercolour, you could play around with the finish. He loved the translucency it created when he painted skies or water, yet with less moisture you could still create solid lines and definition, and mixed with gouache it could mimic oil paint when he needed texture. It was the perfect combination for recreating scenes from nature, his preferred studies, and definitely the most therapeutic.
He could paint a reasonable portrait if he put his mind to it, but his style was more romantic than practical, far too whimsical for a career soldier and most certainly not something he was ever prepared to discuss. Soldiers were not supposed to enjoy the shape and curve of a petal or the lyrical pictures drawn by clouds—yet he did. He always had. Right from the moment he had first discovered he could draw, somewhere around the age of seven or eight, Jamie had always created fanciful, dream-like depictions of all the beauty he saw around him. His father had always disparagingly claimed he painted like a girl. And as vexing his noxious father was something he had done thoroughly as a point of personal honour, the man’s obvious disgust had only encouraged his talent more.
‘That looks like the orchard.’ His sister-in-law Letty peered over his shoulder, smiling. ‘I always think things appear so much more beautiful once I have seen them through your eyes.’
‘Hmm.’
It was as far as he was prepared to go in acknowledging her compliment and she knew him too well to push. He watched her move towards her favourite chair and carefully lower herself into it. There was no disguising the evidence of her pregnancy now, and every day it reminded Jamie of what he would never have. Not that he wasn’t happy for his elder brother Jack and his wife. He was delighted for them. They both deserved every happiness. A man would have to travel a very long way to find two better people. A part of him was even excited at the prospect of being an uncle—but it was bittersweet. He had always thought he would have a family, although he had never spoken about it aloud because admitting such things was not manly, but he had always hoped he would have a large one. The promise of it had sustained him during his years fighting on foreign battlefields: little, dark-haired versions of himself running riot and driving him to distraction.
But the romantic part of his soul had refused to consider just any woman in those days. He had wanted the whole cake to eat, not just the icing. Fighting for King and country had occupied all of his time and he had stupidly assumed he still had plenty of time left to search for the woman of his dreams; that elusive soulmate who enjoyed nature’s beauty as much as he did and who would want to sit with him while he painted because they adored each other. With hindsight, Jamie probably should have married a few years ago, when he was handsome and complete. He doubted any woman would consider the broken man who had returned from the Peninsula. And who could blame them?
Any decent young bride worth her salt would expect her new husband to be similarly brimming with vigour. Two working legs were a prerequisite, as was a sound financial future. Crippled soldiers had few career choices open to them and he could hardly expect a wife to be content to live under the benevolent charity of his brother for ever. He tried not to envy his three brothers. Jack was about to be a father, Joe was finally pursuing his dream of becoming a doctor by studying at medical school and Jacob was having the time of his life at university. Their lives were just starting while his had come to a grinding halt. A wife would definitely not want a man devoid of prospects.
Nor could he ask one to cope with his other peculiarities—peculiarities so evident he could hardly keep them a secret from a wife. Finding the right words to explain them to the unfortunate woman, without making himself sound dangerous and ripe for immediate incarceration in Bedlam, was almost impossible. No, indeed, marriage and family were lost to him until he could find a way to fix it all and as he had spent the better part of a year since his return home failing dismally, he did not hold out much hope a solution was around the corner. Mulling the fact was not going to change it. It was the way it was, yet the death of his dream still stung.
Jamie began to sweep the first layer of wash on to his paper, pleased with the hue he had mixed. It was exactly as he remembered the sky yesterday as he had stared mournfully up at it.
‘What made you draw it from that perspective?’ Letty was still scrutinising the picture and he supposed it was a little unusual to paint exactly what he had seen when he had been flat on his back, minus all of the hair covering his face, of course.
‘I thought I would try something different.’
The lie seemed to appease her and she picked up her embroidery, but the truth was Jamie could not stop thinking about those damned pink garters. Or the way the wearer had pitied him when she had seen him struggle. At this stage he had no idea what colour to paint his complete humiliation. Black seemed fitting, but did not quite go with the sky. Maybe he would try to leave it out, in the vain hope he could erase the shameful memory from his mind by creating an alternative memory here on paper.
Their butler crept in stealthily and coughed subtly. Every time Jamie saw him it gave him a start. Six months ago they had not even had a maid—now, thanks to Letty, there was a veritable army running Markham Manor, all transplanted from her opulent mansion in Mayfair.
‘You have a caller, my lady.’
A rarity indeed. Nobody called on the Warriners unless they were baying for blood or demanding immediate payment.
‘A young lady. A Miss Reeves. She is enquiring as to whether Captain Warriner is at home.’
Jamie could feel the beginnings of nerves in the pit of his stomach, warning of further impending humiliation, but tried to appear impassive.
‘Captain Warriner?’ Letty was staring at him with barely contained delight. ‘How very dashing that sounds.’
‘Tell her I am not at home, Chivers.’
‘Tell
