A Night to Surrender

She needed a man like him. A man sure enough of himself to enjoy her cleverness, rather than be cowed by it. A man brave enough to challenge her, to push her beyond the boundaries she’d set for herself. A man strong enough to protect her, if she ventured a little too far. Those were all the things she needed, as the remarkable woman she’d become.

But somewhere inside that woman huddled an awkward, frightened, wounded girl, who desperately craved something else: a man who would tuck neatly into her safe, scheduled life and promise to never, ever leave her alone. Bram just didn’t think he could—or even should—be that man for her.

When Thorne came to relieve him at the pitch-black hour of two, Bram accepted the torch his corporal silently offered and made his way down the winding stairs. Moths fluttered around him, drawn to the heat and flame.

He emerged onto the bailey and surveyed the neat rows of tents. The sounds of snoring and the occasional cough kept the night from growing too still. A fluffy ghost of a creature wandered toward him, emerging from the shadows.

Bram stared down at the lamb.

The lamb stared up at him.

He gave in and withdrew a handful of corn from his pocket, strewing it on the ground. “Why can’t I eat you?” he asked irritably. Though he knew the answer well enough. “Because she named you, you miserable thing. And now I’m stuck with a pet.”

Ever since he’d arrived here, Susanna had been busy as a spider, spinning little wisps of sentiment, connecting him to this place in ways he had no wish to be connected. If he didn’t leave soon, he’d begin to feel trapped.

He approached the tent he knew to be Colin’s and softly cleared his throat. A rustle moved through the tent. There was a muffled banging noise, and one of the tent poles shivered. Good, he was awake.

“It’s Bram,” he whispered. “I need to speak with you about the artillery demonstration.”

No reply. No further movement.

Bram crouched and held his torch near the canvas flap, knowing the light would shine through. “Colin.” He nudged the canvas with his elbow. “Colin. We need to discuss the artillery demonstration. Sir Lewis has a new—”

Someone standing behind him tapped his shoulder. “What do you want?”

Bram jumped in his skin, nearly dropping his torch. “Jesus.” He rose to a standing position, turned, and lifted his torch to illuminate . . .

Colin.

His cousin stood next to him, the picture of nonchalance, dressed in an unbuttoned, uncuffed shirt and loose trousers. In one hand, he clutched a bottle of wine by its slender neck. “Yes, Bram? What can I do for you?”

Bram looked at Colin. Then he looked at the tent. “If you’re out here with me,” he said, waving his torch at his cousin, “then . . . who’s in your tent?”

“A friend. And I’d like to get back to entertaining her, if you don’t mind.” Colin uncorked the wine bottle with his teeth and spat the cork aside. “What is it that can’t wait for morning?”

“What the devil are you doing with a woman in your tent?”

He cocked his head. “Hm. Just how detailed would you like my answer to be?”

“Whoever she is, you’re marrying her.”

“I don’t think so.” Colin took a few steps away from the tent, motioning Bram to follow. Once they were some paces away, he lowered his voice and said, “It’s the only way I can sleep, Bram. It’s either a woman’s embrace or an interminable night awake. When I told you I don’t sleep alone, it wasn’t an expression of preference. It’s a statement of fact.”

“After all these years?” Bram lifted the torch to make out his cousin’s expression. “Still?”

Colin shrugged. “Still.” He lifted the bottle of wine to his lips and drew a long pull.

A pang of sympathy took Bram by surprise. He knew Colin had suffered nightmares and sleeplessness in his youth, after the tragic accident that took his parents’ lives. During Colin’s first year at school, a few boys in his dormitory had taken to teasing him over the nighttime shouts and tears. Bram—then the biggest boy in fourth form—had pummeled some sense into the bullies, and that had been the end of that. None of them had dared to tease Colin again, and Bram had assumed his cousin’s dreams eventually ceased.

Evidently, they hadn’t ceased. They’d persisted. For decades. Damn.

“So who’s in the tent?” Bram asked. A bat swooshed by his ear, and they both ducked. “Not Miss Highwood, I hope.”

“God, no.” Colin laughed a bit. “Miss Highwood is a lovely girl, no mistake, but she’s refined, innocent. And too delicate by far for my needs. Fiona and I . . . well, we understand each other on a more basic level.”

“Fiona?” Bram frowned. He didn’t even recall a woman named Fiona.

“Mrs. Lange,” Colin clarified, brushing past him. “You’ll thank me when her poetry improves.”

Bram caught him by the arm. “But she’s married.”

“Only in name.” He cast a peeved glance at Bram’s grip. “I hope you’re not planning to give me some sermon on morals. As many times as you’ve been skulking off to meet Miss Finch?”

Bram could only stare at him. Here he’d thought he and Susanna had been so careful, remaining beneath everyone’s notice. But evidently Colin had been awake. And paying attention.

“So don’t judge me,” his cousin said. “Fiona and I have a mature understanding. I may be a rake, but I’m not a total cad. I’ve yet to ruin an innocent girl. And I’ve never come close to breaking a woman’s heart.”

“I don’t mean to ruin Susanna,” Bram insisted. And hers isn’t the only heart involved.

“Oh, so you’re marrying her?”

He sighed heavily. “I don’t know.”

“Why not? Holding out for better?”

“What? God, no.” Better? Bram didn’t know a soul alive who could best Susanna for cleverness, courage, beauty, passion, or generosity of spirit. A better woman didn’t exist.

“Ah, so you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Of course you are. You’re human. We’re all scared, every last one of us. Afraid of life, of love, of dying. Maybe marching in neat rows all day distracts you from the truth of it. But when the sun goes down? We’re all just stumbling through the darkness, trying to outlast another night.” Colin downed another swig of wine, then stared at the bottle. “Excellent vintage. Makes me sound almost intelligent.”

“You are intelligent. You could be making something of your life, you know. If you weren’t so determined to waste all your talents, along with your fortune.”

“Don’t speak to me of wasting gifts, Bram. If that woman loves you, and you toss that away . . . I don’t ever want to hear another ‘life lesson’ from your lips.”

“Believe me, I’m not tossing anything away. But I don’t know that she loves me.”

“Please.” Colin waved the wine bottle at him. “You’re rich, and now titled as well. Granted, there’s that stiff knee to contend with, but you do have all your own teeth.” He raised an impish brow. “And assuming handsomely sized male equipment runs in our family line . . .”

Bram shook his head.

“Oh,” Colin said pityingly. “It doesn’t?”

“It does”—Bram made a fist—“not matter.”

This was absurd. Since when did his cousin dispense witty aphorisms and advice? Damn it, Bram was supposed to be the voice of wisdom in this relationship. “No matter how many inches are in a man’s trousers, no matter how many pounds are in his bank account . . . those numbers don’t add up to love.”

“I suppose you’re right. And more’s the pity for me.” Colin nodded thoughtfully. “Well, Lord Elevated-to-the-Peerage-for-Valor, here’s a wild notion. If you want to know if Miss Finch loves you, have you considered taking a firm grip on your bollocks, and . . . I don’t know . . . asking her?”

Bram just stared at him.

“Good. You stand there and think about that.” Backing away in the direction of his tent, Colin waved a dismissal. “If you’ll excuse me, a warm bed awaits.”

“There’s a faster way, Charlotte,” Susanna said, tugging off her gloves and gently nudging the girl aside. “At this pace, you’ll be here all day.”

Charlotte and a few of the other ladies had been spending every afternoon rolling black powder cartridges. However, the men had been using so many during their daily marksmanship drills, the women had scarcely been able to keep pace. With the review scheduled for tomorrow morning, Summerfield’s breakfast room had become a temporary powder magazine, amid all the preparations for the officers’ ball. There was simply no more time to waste.

“You’re spending too much time cutting large sheets of paper down to size. I found long ago that the pages of this”—she flung a blue leather-bound book onto the table—“are the perfect size.”

Charlotte stared at it. “But Miss Finch, that’s Mrs. Worthington’s Wisdom.”

“Oh yes. It is.”

“But you said it was a very useful book.”

“It is a useful book. It’s the perfect size for propping open windows. Its pages make excellent cartridges, and its contents are good for the occasional laugh. Beyond that? Don’t ever pay it a moment’s heed, Charlotte.”

Opening the volume, Susanna mercilessly ripped out a page at random and smoothed it flat on the table. “First, make certain you have everything within reach and at the ready.” She skipped her fingers over each item. “Paper, dowel, balls, powder, thread. Roll the paper around the dowel, forming a tube,” she said, demonstrating, “and then use the ball to push the dowel through. When the ball’s come almost to the end, pinch it off and give it a good twist. Then pour the powder.”

Clasping the paper-wrapped ball between her fingers, she filled the rest of the slender tube with black powder, leaving a half inch of excess at the top. “No need to measure now, you see? Just stop pouring when the powder comes even with the margin of text. Another twist, and a bit of knotted thread . . . There.” With a satisfied smile, she handed the cartridge to Charlotte. “With practice, you’ll have the trick of it.”

Charlotte took the cartridge and blinked at it. “May I ask you a question, Miss Finch?”

“Of course.” Susanna ripped two more pages from the book and passed one to the girl. “So long as we work while we talk.”

Cocking her head like a macaw, Charlotte peered at Susanna’s ungloved wrists. “What’s happened to you there?”

Susanna froze. Slowly, she flipped her forearm and regarded the exposed scars. She’d spent so many years carefully hiding them under sleeves and cuffs and gloves, or dismissing them with a lame excuse when someone stared or questioned.

Why?

Here she was, more than a decade later. Not a girl anymore, but a grown woman of sense and education. At this moment, she was literally ripping apart the restrictive teachings society foisted upon women, and showing a well-bred young lady the fine art of fashioning not painted tea trays, but black powder cartridges. Perhaps the world had left a few slashes on her, but she’d made her own small mark on the world. Here in Spindle Cove, where women were safe to be their best and truest selves.

She ran her fingers over the old, familiar map of pain. These scars were a part of her true self. They weren’t all of who she was, but they were a part. And suddenly, there seemed no earthly reason to hide them.

“They’re healed injuries,” she told Charlotte. “From bloodletting. Years ago now.” 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">