A Night to Surrender

Sir Lewis went on, “But my daughter doesn’t always understand a man’s need to feel useful. To keep striving, working toward his goals.” He spread his arms, indicating the workshop. “Susanna would rather I give this up entirely. But I can’t do that, not a day before I give up breathing. I know you understand.”

He nodded. “I do.”

Bram did understand Sir Lewis perfectly. And it came as a great relief to finally feel understood. In the months since his injury, none of his peers—nor his superiors, for that matter—had sympathized with his unwavering determination to return to command. They all seemed to think Bram should be content, if not outright grateful, to retire and get on with the rest of his life. They couldn’t comprehend that this was his life.

“For men like us, it’s not enough to merely live. We need to leave a legacy behind.” Sir Lewis touched a fingertip to the scale model cannon. “This cannon will be mine. I may be old and balding, but my greatest invention is yet to be unveiled.”

His keen blue eyes met Bram’s. “And you may be wounded, but I know your finest battles are yet to be fought. I want to give you every chance I can. I’ve written Generals Hardwick and Cummings and invited them to attend the militia’s field review. I feel certain they’ll see what I do. That you’re your father’s son. A man who won’t remain hobbled. They’ll doubtless agree England needs you back in command.”

Emotion thickened his throat. “Sir Lewis . . . I don’t know what to say. I don’t how to thank you.”

That was a lie. Bram knew exactly how to thank the man—and that was by keeping his head on straight, doing his duty, drilling a militia to pin-sharp precision, and staying the hell away from Susanna Finch.

A clock on the wall chimed eight.

“Can I interest you in dinner, Rycliff?”

Bram’s stomach answered for him, loudly. “I appreciate the invitation, but . . . I’m not properly dressed.”

“Neither am I.” Sir Lewis laughed and indicated his own disheveled attire. “We don’t stand on ceremony in this house, Rycliff.”

“If that’s the case, I wish you’d just call me Bram.”

“Bram it is.” The older man untied his apron and laid it aside. Then he clapped Bram on the shoulder. “Let’s go find something to eat, son.”

The old man ushered him out of the workshop, down the corridor, and up a half flight of stairs.

As they wound through the house, rich, dark paneling welcomed Bram from room to room, and the collective warmth of dozens of candles seemed to seep into his bones. Not since his infancy had he resided in a house like this. For years now, he’d slung his campaign-weary bones in tents and barracks and officers’ quarters. Then hospital beds and finally, in London, simple bachelor’s rooms. He’d always avoided family residences such as Summerfield, purposely. Because they were more than houses. They were homes, and they weren’t for him. They made him feel out of place, and strangely achy inside.

“Susanna will be pleased to see us, no matter what we’re wearing,” Sir Lewis said. “Most evenings I don’t make it to the dining room at all. She’s always after me to eat more, take care of myself.”

Bram drew a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, trying to purge all improper thoughts of Susanna from his mind, body, heart and soul. Dinner was perfect. A completely civilized, chaperoned setting in which to see her, converse with her, and learn how to act like a normal human in her presence, rather than a slavering beast. His behavior over the last few days had been reprehensible. Beneath this warrior’s coat, he was a gentleman by birth. He’d lost sight of it somehow in all those freckles, but unless he meant to throw away this chance at redemption and Sir Lewis’s goodwill, it was time to start acting the part.

“Here we are.” Sir Lewis led Bram around a turn in the corridor and through a set of paneled double doors, announcing loudly, “We have a guest tonight, Susanna. You may wish to order another table setting.”

Here they went, Bram thought. He would eat dinner. He would use the correct forks. He would engage her in conversation that did not include the words “skin,” “lick,” or “powder keg.” He would thank her for her kind hospitality and helpful ministrations. Then he would kiss her hand, take his leave . . .

And never lay a finger on Susanna Finch again. On this he was absolutely, irrevocably resolved.

Until he turned the corner.

Bram halted midstep. His vision blurred at the edges. He felt certain he would faint. And his light-headedness had nothing to do with his recent head injury or his famished state. It had everything to do with her.

Hideous bathing costume and men’s breeches aside, he’d yet to see her wearing anything besides a simple muslin day dress. Tonight she was dressed for dinner, clad in a sumptuous violet silk gown with beaded brocade trim. The crystal wine goblets on the table took the candlelight and honed it to luminous arrows, shooting brilliance in all directions. Picking out every seed pearl sewn into her sash, every ribbon weaving through her shimmering, upswept hair. As she bent to smooth a wrinkle in the tablecloth, artfully curled tendrils framed her face and caressed the pale slope of her neck.

“Lord Rycliff.” Straightening, she gave him a shy smile.

He couldn’t speak. She looked . . .

Beautiful, he supposed he should say. But “beautiful” wasn’t a strong enough word. Neither was “dazzling,” “breathtaking,” or “devastating”—though that last came a bit closer than the rest.

Her outward appearance was only part of the effect. What called to him was the invitation implicit in her posture, her voice, her lovely blue eyes. She looked as though she’d been waiting on him. Not just tonight, but every night.

She looked like home.

“I’m glad to see you awake,” she said.

“Are you?”

“You brought my father to the dining table, only five minutes past eight. In this house, that’s a small miracle.”

Sir Lewis laughed. “And now that I’m here, I must beg you to excuse me for a moment.” He raised work-streaked hands. “I’ll just go wash before dinner.”

The older man quit the room, and the two of them stood there, regarding each other.

She cleared her throat. “Are you feeling well?”

“I don’t know,” he answered. It was the truth. He wasn’t sure of anything at the moment, except the fact that his boots were now carrying him forward. All his chaste resolutions and respect for Sir Lewis aside, he simply couldn’t do otherwise. Whatever this was between them, it commanded his loyalty in a forceful, visceral way. To deny her pull would seem a dishonor all its own.

He watched her blush deepen as he drew near. It was some comfort to know that he affected her, too. He reached for her hand, where it rested atop the damask tablecloth.

“No gloves tonight?” he asked, running his thumb over her soft, protected skin, tracing each of her fingers and the delicate webs between.

She shook her head. “I haven’t worn them all day. I mean to, but then I keep forgetting.”

He tumbled into her gaze. Passed a small eternity wandering there.

“I . . .” he started.

“You . . .” she began.

To hell with words, he thought, sliding his hand around her waist. To hell with it all. If they had only moments together, he could not let them go to waste. Cool silk teased against his palm as he pulled her close. He drew a ragged breath, and his senses exploded with her unique, essential perfume.

“Bram,” she whispered. “We can’t.”

“I know.” And then he bent his head, seeking her kiss. Her mouth softened beneath his, lush and welcoming. Her kiss was tender and sweet, and in that quiet, stolen moment, worth any risk.

Light footsteps clattered down the corridor, jolting them apart.

A young woman tore into the room, followed by an apologetic footman.

“Miss Finch! Miss Finch, you must come at once.” As the girl paused for breath, Bram recognized her as one of the young ladies from the Queen’s Ruby. One of the quieter ones, whose name he hadn’t yet learned.

“There’s trouble in the village,” she said.

Susanna crossed the room in a swift, determined ripple of silk. “What is it, Violet?”

“Oh, Miss Finch, you won’t believe it. We’ve been invaded.”

They’d been invaded.

Minerva touched a fingertip to her spectacles. She knew she had to be wearing them—she never went anywhere without her spectacles. But at the moment, nothing within her view was clear. The lines of reality had blurred, and the world simply didn’t make sense.

A mere quarter hour ago, the ladies had been sitting down to cards in the Blushing Pansy. Seated at the window table with her mother and sisters, Minerva had begun to split and shuffle the deck of cards.

And then—before the first round could even be dealt—the men had come thundering in without warning, bringing with them what looked to be numerous bottles of liquor and the prelude to sheer chaos.

Down came the lace curtains and the Blushing Pansy’s gilt-lettered sign. Up went an ancient broadsword and a set of steer horns mounted above the hearth. And outside, above the door, a new sign dangled.

“What does it say?” her mother asked, peering out the window.

Minerva looked over her spectacles. “The Rutting Bull.”

“Oh dear,” Diana muttered.

The ladies all froze in their seats, uncertain how to react. What was the proper etiquette, when civilization crumbled around a girl? Not even Mrs. Worthington’s Wisdom covered this.

Leaping up a step to the small dais, Lord Payne took the center of attention. No surprise. Wherever the ladies were gathered, that man always took the center of attention. Minerva detested him. If Diana wished to marry, she deserved so much better than a proud, preening rake. Unfortunately, their mother seemed to have already embraced him as a future son-in-law.

“Fair ladies of Spindle Cove,” Payne announced, “I regret to inform you that the Blushing Pansy tea shop has closed for the evening.”

A murmur of confusion and dismay swept the ladies.

“However,” Payne went on, “it is my great pleasure to announce that the Rutting Bull tavern is open for business.”

A loud huzzah went up from the men.

“There will be drinking. There will be dancing. There will be dicing and debauchery of every pleasant sort. Ladies, you have been warned. Leave now or live high.”

A man she didn’t recognize—one of the farmers or fishermen, she supposed—produced a battered violin. He put bow to strings and began sawing away, producing a wild country dance.

The other men wasted no time clearing tables and chairs to the edges of the room. In some cases, with the mortified ladies still seated upon them. The blacksmith approached their table. With a curt nod and an intense, silent look, the big man reached under their table with one hand, lifting the entire piece of furniture by its pedestal and carrying it aside.

“Oh my,” Diana said, as someone pressed a brimming flagon into her hand. She sniffed at its contents, then passed the drink to Minerva. “Is that ale, Min?”

She sipped at it. “Yes.”

Miss Kate Taylor was urged to the pianoforte. A few of the younger girls grabbed hands and fled, trailing some vow to fetch Miss Finch.

“We should leave,” Diana said.

“I don’t understand,” Charlotte said, raising her voice above the crescendo of music. “What’s happening?”

“Opportunity, my dears.” Their mother’s face lit up like a bonfire. “That’s what’s happening. And don’t think of leaving. We’re staying right here. Smile, Diana. Here he comes.”