He's shocked and dismayed to find that her laughter wounded him. God, he hated when women laughed at him -- he could only ever speculate that it had something to do with how desperately he wore his sash and how he clung to his progress. Men's laughter was simple: challenge the bastard to a duel, give him a hard thump on the field, or else simple stand tall and threatening. They generally stopped. But women's laughter...

Sharpe turned away -- his voice a hard mask once again. As if giving his opinion to a dangerous fellow officer. An unstable one, liable to drag the whole company to Hell without intervention. "You truly want to make them pay for what they've said to you? Threatened you with?"