A Night to Surrender

Bram had seen soldiers’ wives clean and assemble their husbands’ firearms. But he’d never witnessed anything like this. Susanna didn’t just know the proper sequence, she understood the piece. Those gloved hands moved confidently, handling the weapon with ruthless, arousing grace. His desire, and his loins, had already been stirred by that measuring exercise. Now his arousal approached rifle-barrel proportions.

She shouldered the musket, cocked the hammer, and fired the blank charge. The weapon gave a violent kick against her shoulder, but she didn’t even flinch.

“Have I caught the trick of it, do you think?” she asked coyly, lowering the musket.

Remarkable. Bram fought the urge to applaud. He hadn’t been timing, but he would have guessed the elapsed time to be under twenty seconds. Perhaps as few as fifteen. There were elite riflemen who couldn’t load and shoot in fifteen seconds.

“Where did you learn to do that?”

“My father, of course.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Don’t most men learn such things from their fathers?”

Yes. Most men did. Bram himself had learned everything about shooting from his father. He’d begged for his first fowling piece almost as soon as he’d been able to form the words. Not because he’d loved guns so very much, but because he’d worshipped his father. He’d always looked for any excuse to spend more time with the man. Those solemn, patient lessons on safety and cleaning and marksmanship . . . they were now some of Bram’s most cherished memories. He wondered if it had been the same for her. If she’d sat through similar lessons at Sir Lewis’s side. Mastered this weapon, learned its workings inside and out, drilled and practiced until she could fire by instinct—all as a way to feel closer to him.

And now Bram felt closer to her, in a way he’d never expected to feel. Strange. And damned inconvenient. He scrunched his shoulders together, trying to shake the feeling off.

“Did you want to see me fix a bayonet next?” she asked.

“That won’t be necessary.”

He stared at her—standing tall, musket propped against her shoulder, braced in perfect position. He’d thought himself so clever, letting her proceed with this “I’m a man” charade. The joke was on him. Male or not, she was his most promising recruit. He was tempted to punish her by letting her enlist.

But she would be too great a distraction. For all the men, but for Bram most of all. Spending all day with her, while she wore those form-fitting breeches? He couldn’t be leading drills with his staff at full, rigid attention.

And more importantly, he could not let her best him in front of the whole village. He would have to release her from duty somehow, without losing the Bright boys in the exchange.

His eye fell to the table. The answer gleamed up at him, polished and sharp.

“There’s one more thing, Miss . . . Mr. Finch. One more requirement for volunteers.”

“Really? And what’s that?”

Bram turned to the row of ladies sitting at the edge of the green. “Ladies, I must prevail on you for your assistance. I need each one of you to locate a pair of scissors and bring it here, as soon as possible.”

The women looked to one another. Then quite the scuffle ensued, as they ducked into the Queen’s Ruby to raid their dressing tables and sewing boxes. In similar fashion, the storeroom of All Things was turned out like a pocket.

When every available pair of scissors and shears had apparently been unearthed, and all the ladies were armed and assembled on the green, Sally Bright stepped forward. “What would you like us to do with them, Lord Rycliff?”

“Put them to use,” he answered. “In my militia, all volunteers must have short hair. Above the collar in back. At the sides, above the ear.”

He looked to Susanna. She paled a shade, and those freckles fairly danced off her face.

Turning to the recruits, he made a sweep of his arm. “The ladies have chosen their weapons. Men, choose your lady.”

The women exchanged surprised glances. Equally stunned, the men hung back. Some pairings were obvious, of course. A woman he reckoned to be Mrs. Fosbury already had her husband by the collar, tugging him over to sit on a stump and submit to the will of her shears. But the unmarried men and women of Spindle Cove stood about regarding one another in silence. Like Quakers at meeting, waiting on some signal from above. Good Lord, he needed to teach these men to take some initiative.

Bram turned to his cousin. “Aren’t you always the one to start off the dance? Do the honors now.”

Colin shot him a look. “I’m not a volunteer.”

“No, you’re not. You’re indebted and compelled. You have no choice whatsoever.”

Colin rose slowly, pulling down the front of his waistcoat. “Very well. As you say, I do like to have first pick of the ladies.” He strode forward, doffing his hat with a broad, theatrical sweep and coming to kneel at Miss Diana Highwood’s feet. “Miss Highwood, would you be so kind?”

The fair-haired lady blushed. “Er, yes. Certainly, Lord Payne. I would be honored.”

The ladies tittered among themselves, surely interpreting this as partiality on Colin’s part. Susanna was right about the matrimonial fervor. They’d be rumoring an engagement by noon. If only there were a bit of truth to it. Colin was welcome to enter an engagement, and then he wouldn’t be Bram’s problem anymore.

His current problem tilted her lovely, freckled head. “You were supposed to keep your men apart from my ladies.”

“Need I remind you who broke that agreement first?” He picked up the pair of scissors on the table—the ones Thorne had been using to cut the measuring tapes. “Well?” he asked loudly. “What will it be, Finch?”

She stared at the scissors, wide-eyed. “Above the collar, you say?”

“Oh yes.”

“Every volunteer in the militia?”

“No exceptions.”

Her eyes pleaded with him. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “They’re boys. Finn and Rufus, I mean. Their mother is anxious for them. Try to understand.”

“Oh, I understand.” He understood that she was ostensibly trying to shield those boys from harm. But he also understood her other purpose—clinging to her position of power in this village. On that score, he could not let her win. “Perhaps neither you nor I wanted it, but I’m the lord now. My militia. My village. My rules.” He held out the scissors. “Shear or be shorn.”

After a long moment, she removed her borrowed hat and set it aside. Reaching both hands behind her neck, she unbound her long queue of hair, then shook out the locks with a sensual toss of her head. The newly freed hair tumbled about her shoulders in lush, golden-red waves that shimmered in the sunlight, dazzling him into a near stupor.

In that instant, Bram knew he’d made a grave tactical error.

With a resigned sigh, she met his gaze. “Very well. It’s just hair.”

It’s just hair.

Good Lord. That molten bronze aura framing her face was most definitely not “just hair.” It was living, flowing beauty. It was a crown of glory. It was . . . like the righteous breath of angry angels. Some kind of religious experience, and he was probably damned just for daring to look upon it.

A faint, wistful noise scraped from his throat. He covered it with a cough.

Let her cut it, he told himself. You have no choice. If she wins this battle, it’s all over. You’re done for.

“Let me have them,” she said. “I’ll do it myself.” She reached for the shears.

He gripped them tight. “No.”

“No?” Susanna repeated, trying not to betray her panic. A brave front was important here.

She truly didn’t want to cut her hair—“that hair,” as her cousins had less than affectionately cursed it. Wild and unfashionable as it might be, it suited her now, and it was one thing she had of her mother’s. But Susanna would make the sacrifice, if it meant keeping Finn and Rufus safe.

If it meant besting him.

It would grow back, she told herself. It had all grown back once before, after that dreadful summer in Norfolk. Only she wanted to cut it herself this time. Quickly, and with as little thought as possible. She didn’t think she could bear to stand still while another held the shears.

“Just give me them.” Growing close to desperate, she tugged on the scissors handles. “I’ll do it now.”

He wouldn’t let go.

“Finn and Rufus.” He spoke low, only to her. “I’ll make them drummer and fifer. They’ll be in the militia, attend drill and draw wages. But they won’t be armed. Will that suffice?”

She was stunned. He had her just where he wanted her—on the verge of public humiliation—and now he wished to compromise? “I . . . I suppose that will do. Yes.”

“Very well, then. Does this mean you’re a lady again?”

“I’ll go change straightaway.”

“Not so fast,” he said, still clutching the scissors handles tight. He gave her a bold look. “Before you leave, you’ll do a service for me. Just like the other ladies are doing.”

Indeed, all around them the men and women of Spindle Cove were pairing off. As Diana busied herself with Lord Payne, the blacksmith made his way to the widowed Mrs. Watson and her shears. Finn and Rufus seemed to be arguing over which of them would be stuck with Sally.

“You want me to cut your hair?” Her mind’s eye went to that long, overgrown tail of hair always dangling between his shoulders, taunting her.

“As I said, no exceptions.” He pressed the shears into her hand. “Go on, then. I’m all yours.”

Susanna cleared her throat. “I believe you’ll have to kneel.”

“Kneel?” He snorted. “Not a chance, Miss Finch. There’s precisely one reason I will kneel before a woman, and this isn’t it.”

“Proposing marriage, I hope you mean.”

A devilish spark lit his eyes. “No.”

Awareness raced through her body. She glanced around them. All around the green, the business of clipping hair had occupied her friends and neighbors. This had become a private conversation. And a fortunate thing, too, considering what took place next.

“If you don’t mean to kneel,” she said, angling on tiptoe, “I don’t know how you expect me to cut your hair. All the chairs are in use. I may be tall, but there’s no way I can reach—oh!”

He framed her rib cage in both hands and lifted her into the air. The brute power in the motion thrilled her. This made two times in three days that he’d swept her off her feet. Three, if she counted yesterday’s kiss.

Why was she counting? She shouldn’t be counting.

He set her down atop the table, making her the taller of the two. “Steady?”

At her mute nod, he slid his hands from her waist. Now she was lost in memories of their embrace yesterday, the press of his body against hers . . . Their gazes clashed. The now-familiar sparks flew.

Susanna swallowed hard. “Turn around, if you will.”

Thank God. For once, he obeyed.

She took it in her hand, that thick, dark hank at his nape, bound with a bit of leather cord. His hair was lush, soft. Probably the softest thing on this man, she mused. Once it was cut, he would be all angles and sinew, hard all over.

“Why the delay?” he taunted. “Are you afraid?”

“No.” With a steady hand, she raised the shears. Grasping the queue of hair firmly in the other hand, she aimed . . . and snipped. “Oh dear.” She dangled the lopped-off coil before his face, then dropped it to the ground without ceremony. “Pity.”

He only chuckled, but she thought she caught a hint of bruised pride in his laughter. “I see you’re enjoying your chance to play Delilah.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">