Each word cut. Troublesome, really. He could endure outright cruelty and he'd never been afraid of hatred -- but sarcasm and insincere saccharine statements did a grand job of gutting him. Perhaps because it was an art he'd hardly managed to master. Or perhaps it was one all too often employed by the dandies and the well-to-dos. Either way, it soured him. Made him regret what vague advice he'd offered. Made him wish he didn't care whether or not she would fall in battle come the time her name was cast on the Malnosso's lists.

Her blown kiss garnered little more than a stern grimace and a dismayed grunt. He was glad to leave -- but was conscious all the same of the old saying: a flogging only taught a good soldier how to turn his back. Was that what was happening, now? For a moment, he thought he'd seen a glimpse of something interesting and raw in the woman. And just as quickly, she'd sewn it back up.

Disgruntled (as ever), Major Richard Sharpe made his way back into the stifled village. Too hot and too closed in. And, for the first time in a long time, he found himself resenting the life it offered; he much preferred it when all he could see was the free food, the easy survival, and the deficit of other officers making jokes in Latin at his expense.

Oh, how she made ever conversation feel as though he was back in the mess hall. Damn her.