A Night to Surrender
Page 11

So Bram went perfectly still and held her gaze. Stared deeply, directly into her eyes until he made her aware of it, too—this scorching-hot cinder of attraction they juggled back and forth between them.
The air went warm with her effort not to breathe, and her gaze dipped—ever so briefly—to his mouth. The fleeting ghost of a kiss.
Oh yes, he told her with a subtle lift of his brow. That’s what we’re doing here.
She swallowed hard. But she didn’t turn away.
Damn, they could be so good together. Just staring into her eyes, he saw it all. Those iris-hued irises held wit and passion, and . . . depths. Intriguing depths he very much wished to explore. A man could talk to a woman like this all night. At intervals, of course. There would need to be lengthy stretches of gasping and moaning, too.
She’s Sir Lewis Finch’s daughter, his conscience blared in his ear. The problem was, the rest of his body didn’t bloody well care.
She cleared her throat, abruptly breaking the spell she’d cast on him. “Mrs. Lange, won’t you favor us with a poem?”
Bram sat back in his chair. A slender, dark-haired young woman ascended to the dais, clutching a paper. She appeared meek and shrinking.
Until she opened her mouth, that was.
“O, vile betrayer! O, defiler of vows!”
Well. Now she had the room’s attention.
“Hear my rage, like distant thunder. My heart, the beast doth ripped asunder. My cove, the wretched brute did plunder—though not thoroughly.” She glanced up from her paper. “Small wonder.”
Miss Finch leaned toward him and whispered, “Mrs. Lange is estranged from her husband.”
“You don’t say,” he murmured back. He lifted his hands, readying some polite applause.
But the poem didn’t stop there. Oh no. It went on.
For several minutes.
There were many, many verses of epic infamy to be chronicled, it would seem. And the longer the woman read aloud, the higher her voice pitched. Her hands even began to shake.
“All my trust he did betray, when to another he fain would stray. That cruel deed I did repay. With the help of a bronze tea tray. His blood had the temerity . . . to stain the drapes of dimity.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I recall it well, that rusty stain. It is my promise. Never . . . never . . . never—”
The room held its breath.
“—again.”
Silence.
“Brava!” Colin shot to his feet, applauding wildly. “Well done, indeed. Let’s have another.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Bram saw Miss Finch’s soft, lush lips twitching at the corners. She was struggling, mightily, not to laugh. And Bram was struggling, mightily, not to cover that mouth with his. To taste the sweetness of her laughter, the tart bite of her clever wit. To claim her, the way she needed to be claimed. In thorough, beastly, medieval fashion.
His only course of action was clear.
He pushed back from the table, screeching the chair legs against the floorboards. As every woman in the place turned to him in mute horror, he rose to his feet and muttered gruffly, “Afternoon.”
Then he walked straight out the door.
Seven
Susanna followed him.
Before she even knew what she was doing, she’d launched from her chair, swept out the door, and followed the impossible man into the lane. To be sure, she wanted him gone. But she couldn’t allow him to leave like that.
“That was rather abrupt.” Lifting her skirts, she hurried after him as he moved to reclaim his horse. “The young ladies were anxious, but they made every effort to welcome you. You might have at least taken proper leave.”
For that matter, he might have accepted a dratted lavender teacake, or dinner last night at Summerfield. He might have refrained from needling her until she blushed and girlishly fidgeted with her hair, in front of all her protégées. He might have taken the trouble to shave.
What was wrong with this man, that he couldn’t comport himself in polite society? His cousin was a viscount. Surely he’d been raised a gentleman, too.
She caught up to him on the green, only mildly winded. “Spindle Cove is a holiday village, Lord Rycliff. Visitors journey great distances to enjoy fine, sunny weather and a restorative atmosphere. If you take a deep breath and a good look around you, perhaps you’ll find the place doing you some good. Because forgive me for saying it, but the presence of a dour, brooding lordship doesn’t fit with the advertising.”
“I’d imagine it doesn’t.” Rycliff took his horse’s reins from Rufus Bright. He nodded toward the Blushing Pansy. “I didn’t belong in that place. I knew it well. The question is, Miss Finch . . . what are you doing in this village?”
“I’ve been trying to explain it to you. We have a community of ladies here in Spindle Cove, and we support one another with friendship, intellectual stimulation, and healthful living.”
“No, no. I can see how this might appeal to a mousy, awkward chit with no prospects for something better. But what are you doing here?”
Perplexed, she turned her gloved hands palms-up. “Living happily.”
“Really,” he said, giving her a skeptical look. Even his horse snorted in seeming disbelief. “A woman like you.”
She bristled. Just what kind of woman did he think she was?
“If you think yourself content with no man in your life, Miss Finch, that only proves one thing.” In a swift motion, he pulled himself into the saddle. His next words were spoken down at her, making her feel small and patronized. “You’ve been meeting all the wrong men.”
He nudged his gelding into a canter and rode away, leaving her affronted and sputtering. She whirled on her heel, only to come nose-to-epaulet with Corporal Thorne.
She swallowed hard. From across a room, Thorne was an intimidating presence. Up close, he was terrifying. But Susanna’s anger and curiosity were too greatly piqued. Together, they overrode all sense of etiquette or caution.
“What’s the matter with that man?” she asked the corporal.
His eyes hardened.
“That man.” She gestured down the lane. “Rycliff. Bramwell. Your superior.”
His jaw hardened.
“You must know him quite well. You’ve probably worked alongside him for several years, his closest confidant. Tell me, then. Did it start in childhood? Was he neglected by his parents, mistreated by a governess? Locked away in an attic?”
Now the man’s entire face turned to stone. A stone etched with unfriendly frown lines and a ruthless slash where the mouth should be.
“Or was it the war? He’s haunted by memories of battle, perhaps. Was his regiment ambushed, at great loss of life? Was he captured and held prisoner behind enemy lines? I do hope he has some excuse.”
She waited, watched. The corporal’s face surrendered no clues whatsoever.
“He has a paralyzing fear of tea,” she blurted out. “Or enclosed spaces. Spiders, that’s my final guess. Blink once for yes, twice for no.”
He didn’t blink at all.
“Never mind,” she said, exasperated. “I’ll just have to drag it from him myself.”
Some thirty huffing, panting minutes later, Susanna reached the top of the bluffs and the perimeter of Rycliff Castle. Naturally Lord Rycliff had arrived well ahead of her. She found his mount already unsaddled and grazing in the bailey.
“Lord Rycliff?” she called. Her shout echoed off the stones.
No answer.
She tried again, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Lord Rycliff, may I have a word?”
“Only one, Miss Finch?” The faint answer came from the direction of the keep. “I couldn’t be that lucky.”
She advanced toward the collection of stone towers, training her ears for his voice. “Where are you?”
“The armory.”
The armory?
Following the sound of his reply, she made for the keep’s arched entryway. Once inside, Susanna turned left and entered the hollow stone turret on the northeast corner. Now the armory, it would seem. She supposed it did make a suitable place to store powder and weaponry. Cool, dark, enclosed by stone. The crunch of dry gravel beneath her feet indicated the tower’s roof was sufficiently intact to keep out the rain.
She stood in the entry, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. Slowly, the scene came into focus, and as it did, her heart sank.
She’d been half hoping—fully hoping, she supposed—that he would take this militia task lightly, limit his efforts to the bare minimum. The occasion required only a bit of show, she’d reasoned. Rycliff couldn’t earnestly mean to scrape together a true fighting force in Spindle Cove.
But looking on this scene, she couldn’t deny the truth. The man was serious about this militia. This was a serious amount of weaponry.
A row of Brown Bess muskets lined one side of the tower. To the other direction, cannonballs and grapeshot were stacked. A few newly constructed shelves on the far side held kegs of powder. And by them, with his back to her, stood Lord Rycliff.
He’d undressed on arrival and now wore only a loose shirt, breeches, and boots—no coat or cravat. The pale linen gleamed in the dim light, stretching over the muscled contours of his arms and back. Susanna wasn’t a doctor, but she knew human anatomy well enough. Well enough to recognize what an excellent specimen of it he was. Without the hindrance of a coat, for example, she could appreciate that his backside was particularly well formed. Tight and muscled and . . .
And a completely inappropriate object of her attention. What was happening to her? She pulled her gaze upward, allowing a moment to compose herself before she called his attention. His hair was a long, dark queue, bound with twine. Its end hung just between his shoulder blades, where it curled like a fishhook, baiting her.
“Lord Rycliff?” she ventured. He did not turn. She took a deep breath and tried once again, putting some force into her voice. “Lord—”
“I know you’re there, Miss Finch.” His voice was quiet and controlled as he remained with his back to her, bending over something she could not see. “Hold your peace a moment. I’m measuring powder.”
Susanna took a step into the room.
“There now,” he murmured, low and seductive. “Yes. That’s the way.”
Good heavens. The sultry rasp in his voice had persuasive force. It moved her center of balance, rocking her from her toes to her heels. She took a step in reverse, and her back met the wall of ancient stone. A cool ridge calmed the place between her shoulder blades.
Without turning, he said, “Well, Miss Finch? What is it you’re wanting?”
What a dangerous question.
She realized she was still hugging the wall. Pride propelled her two steps forward. As she advanced, something bleated at her, as though chastising her for trespassing. She stopped midstep and peered at it. “Did you know there’s a lamb in here?”
“Never mind it. That’s dinner.”
She gave it a smile and a friendly pat. “Hullo, Dinner. Aren’t you a sweet thing?”
“It’s not his name, it’s his . . . function.” With an impatient oath, he turned, wiping his hands with a cloth. His palms were dusted with charcoal-colored powder, and his eyes, so dilated in the cool, dark stillness, glittered black as jet. “If there’s something you mean to say, say it. Otherwise, be on your way.”
She growled to herself. He was such a . . . Such a man. Crooning sweetly to his weaponry, then barking at her. As her father’s daughter, Susanna understood that an ambitious man could seem married to his work. But this was ridiculous.
She squared her shoulders. “Lord Rycliff, I have an interest in maintaining village harmony, and I’m afraid we’re not off to a neighborly start.”
“And yet”—he crossed his arms over his chest—“here you are.”