Tyler? Send her a basket
from the lady's auxiliary? I think we've long established my deficiency where
women are concerned.” Kate had not cried or showed a hint of fear. She had left
no easy opening for his awkward concern, and after their moment in her tent
he'd been at a loss as to how he should approach her.
Ty got up, standing nearly at
attention with his arms still crossed, clearly rejecting his general's excuses.
“Miss Foster is responsible for volumes of good work here, most of it unseen
and unappreciated by all of us. You are the general , Matthew. Your
praise, your concern means more than anybody's.”
It chaffed, hearing that Kate
thought he did not value her contribution. Even more irksome was that she only
shared her frustration with the major. She was his diversion to enjoy
and be selfish with. Even when they were at odds, he believed that her
confidence was for him alone. Kate's openness with Ty felt like a small
betrayal. Perhaps it stung because she did not seem to share his feelings. “Is
there any matter you two will not discuss with one another?” he snapped.
Ty folded back onto the cot and
grinned, allowing the tension to pass. “No, and you are our favorite.”
Was there a grain of truth to the
jest? Matthew shrugged it off. “Adding insubordination to your list of faults?”
he teased.
Ty got up, chuckling, craning around
the small oval mirror while Matthew dipped a soap cake into the basin. “By
Jove! That's the blackest beard I've ever seen.”
He shoved an elbow into Ty's
shoulder, pushing him away. “You've seen it before.”
“Not in such quantity. I'm shocked
Miss Foster allowed herself to be alone with you. Did you burn and pillage every village on your route back?”
He rubbed the brown sable-hair
shaving brush in a tense swirl, generating angry lather. “Have you nothing
better to do?”
Seating himself at the desk, Ty thumbed at papers, inspecting a
report on troop movements. It pushed Matthew to the brink of insanity when
Major Burrell got into one of his moods, bored and full of energy like a rowdy
child. They were predictably timed, always when Ty had been too long without
London, or war. “No, by the by. Captain Greene blew us all from the officers'
mess, being the pompous oaf that he is. It's too early for bed and too late to
convince Kate to cut my hair.”
Matthew paused mid up-stroke,
slathering his stubble. “You allow Miss Foster to cut your hair?”
“And so should you.” Ty rapped on
the desk. “She does something to the back with her shears. First rate. I'd
trade her for my man in Jermyn street.”
“You would not.” Ty was willing to
mire in the trenches on campaign, but he was inseparable from the posh
trappings of a gentleman's lifestyle at home.
“I'd consider it. Speaking of considering.”
Ty rocked his chair back onto two legs and planted his heels on the desk. “I
had a letter from my mother yesterday. Captain Grumman passed last month. Jemma
is a widow.” A widow was Ty's idea of perfection when it came to relations.
Matthew scraped the razor for
another pass, then swished it clean in the bowl. “Well, that puts her smack in
the middle of your territory, doesn't it?”
“That is not why I mentioned it. He
served under you in Portugal.”
Matthew snorted. “And you are not
tapping your foot for a chance at her.”
“I have manners Matthew, good lord.
She's a woman in mourning, not a coin in the street.”
He ignored Ty's wounded look,
splashing the last of the Castile soap from his cheeks, buffing dry with a
small blue hand cloth. “Miss Foster has been widowed for some time. I wonder
that you don't pursue her.”
Guffaws doubled Ty in half. He
flailed, almost dumping himself from the chair, still chuckling all the while.
“If I made the slightest attempt at charming my way into her bed, she would
laugh me to the border and then some.”
“Spoken from experience?”
“No, as a matter of fact.”
from the lady's auxiliary? I think we've long established my deficiency where
women are concerned.” Kate had not cried or showed a hint of fear. She had left
no easy opening for his awkward concern, and after their moment in her tent
he'd been at a loss as to how he should approach her.
Ty got up, standing nearly at
attention with his arms still crossed, clearly rejecting his general's excuses.
“Miss Foster is responsible for volumes of good work here, most of it unseen
and unappreciated by all of us. You are the general , Matthew. Your
praise, your concern means more than anybody's.”
It chaffed, hearing that Kate
thought he did not value her contribution. Even more irksome was that she only
shared her frustration with the major. She was his diversion to enjoy
and be selfish with. Even when they were at odds, he believed that her
confidence was for him alone. Kate's openness with Ty felt like a small
betrayal. Perhaps it stung because she did not seem to share his feelings. “Is
there any matter you two will not discuss with one another?” he snapped.
Ty folded back onto the cot and
grinned, allowing the tension to pass. “No, and you are our favorite.”
Was there a grain of truth to the
jest? Matthew shrugged it off. “Adding insubordination to your list of faults?”
he teased.
Ty got up, chuckling, craning around
the small oval mirror while Matthew dipped a soap cake into the basin. “By
Jove! That's the blackest beard I've ever seen.”
He shoved an elbow into Ty's
shoulder, pushing him away. “You've seen it before.”
“Not in such quantity. I'm shocked
Miss Foster allowed herself to be alone with you. Did you burn and pillage every village on your route back?”
He rubbed the brown sable-hair
shaving brush in a tense swirl, generating angry lather. “Have you nothing
better to do?”
Seating himself at the desk, Ty thumbed at papers, inspecting a
report on troop movements. It pushed Matthew to the brink of insanity when
Major Burrell got into one of his moods, bored and full of energy like a rowdy
child. They were predictably timed, always when Ty had been too long without
London, or war. “No, by the by. Captain Greene blew us all from the officers'
mess, being the pompous oaf that he is. It's too early for bed and too late to
convince Kate to cut my hair.”
Matthew paused mid up-stroke,
slathering his stubble. “You allow Miss Foster to cut your hair?”
“And so should you.” Ty rapped on
the desk. “She does something to the back with her shears. First rate. I'd
trade her for my man in Jermyn street.”
“You would not.” Ty was willing to
mire in the trenches on campaign, but he was inseparable from the posh
trappings of a gentleman's lifestyle at home.
“I'd consider it. Speaking of considering.”
Ty rocked his chair back onto two legs and planted his heels on the desk. “I
had a letter from my mother yesterday. Captain Grumman passed last month. Jemma
is a widow.” A widow was Ty's idea of perfection when it came to relations.
Matthew scraped the razor for
another pass, then swished it clean in the bowl. “Well, that puts her smack in
the middle of your territory, doesn't it?”
“That is not why I mentioned it. He
served under you in Portugal.”
Matthew snorted. “And you are not
tapping your foot for a chance at her.”
“I have manners Matthew, good lord.
She's a woman in mourning, not a coin in the street.”
He ignored Ty's wounded look,
splashing the last of the Castile soap from his cheeks, buffing dry with a
small blue hand cloth. “Miss Foster has been widowed for some time. I wonder
that you don't pursue her.”
Guffaws doubled Ty in half. He
flailed, almost dumping himself from the chair, still chuckling all the while.
“If I made the slightest attempt at charming my way into her bed, she would
laugh me to the border and then some.”
“Spoken from experience?”
“No, as a matter of fact.”
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