A Night to Surrender (10 page)

Now.

“Aha.” Out whisked a fresh sheet of paper. His hand danced back and forth, scribbling lines of text and calculations. There was a rhythm to genius, she’d often observed, and he’d caught its brisk cadence now. His shoulders hunched, walling out the world. Nothing she could say would draw his notice, save perhaps “Fire!” or “Elephants!”

“You see, Papa,” she said casually, “he kissed me today. Lord Rycliff.” She paused, and then wanting to test the name on her lips, she added, “Bram.”

“Mm-hm.”

There. Now she’d told someone. No matter that the information had sailed straight over her father’s head like an errant musket volley. At least she was talking about it aloud.

“Papa?”

Her only answer was the sound of scribbling.

“I wasn’t entirely truthful just now. In fact, Bram first kissed me yesterday.” She bit her lip. “Today . . . today was something much more.”

“Good,” he muttered distractedly, running one hand through what remained of his hair. “Good, good.”

“I don’t know what to make of him. He’s gruff and ill-mannered, and when he’s not pushing me away, he’s touching me places he shouldn’t. I don’t fear him, but when he’s near me, I . . . I’m a little afraid of myself. I feel as though I’ll explode.”

She let a few moments pass. The sounds of scribbling continued.

“Oh, Papa.” She turned her body, resting her forehead against the doorjamb. She twisted the end of her dressing gown sash. “I don’t want you to worry. It won’t happen again. I’m not one of those swooning, fanciful girls, run mad with scarlet fever when officers march by. I won’t let him kiss me again, and I’m wise enough to know I can’t allow a man like that anywhere near my heart.”

“Yes,” he mumbled, scribbling some more. “Just so.”

Yes. Just so.

No matter how Lord Rycliff intrigued her, baited her . . .
kissed
her . . . she must keep the man at arm’s length. Her inner peace and reputation depended on it, and the ladies of Spindle Cove depended on her.

She took a deep breath, feeling unburdened and resolved. “I’m so glad we had this talk, Papa.”

Then she lifted the knife and fork from the dinner tray and carved the cooling hunk of roasted beef into thin slices. She split a roll and wedged the meat inside.

Breaking their unspoken agreement, she entered his workspace, walking on tiptoe around the edge of his desk. She balanced the sandwich by his inkwell, hoping he would notice it eventually.

“Good night.” In an impulsive move, she leaned over the desk and kissed the top of his balding head. “Please remember to eat.”

She made it all the way back to the door before he responded. And the words came in that same distant voice, as though he were speaking to her from the bottom of a fathomless well. “Good night, my dear. Good night.”

Nine

W
hen she returned to her bed, Susanna told herself she needn’t worry about Lord Rycliff. They’d agreed to keep the men and ladies separate. With any luck, they would both be so busy, she would scarcely see the man until the midsummer fair.

She hadn’t reckoned on church.

The very next morning, there he was. Seated directly across the aisle from her at a distance of four, perhaps five feet away.

And today, he’d shaved.

She noted that detail first. But he was stunning, generally. Resplendent in his dress uniform, bathed in a shaft of golden light from a clerestory window high above. The braid and buttons on his coat flashed with such polished luster, it almost hurt to look at him.

His eyes caught hers across the aisle.

With a gulp, Susanna buried her nose in her prayer book and resolved to think pure thoughts. It didn’t work. Throughout the service, she was always a beat too late in standing or sitting. Whatever the topic of Mr. Keane’s homily, it was utterly lost on her.

She couldn’t help but steal glances whenever an excuse presented itself—whether that excuse was an imaginary fly buzzing past, or the sudden, irresistible urge to stretch her neck. Of course, she was hardly alone. All the other parishioners were stealing looks, too. But Susanna felt reasonably certain she was the only one connecting those brief, forbidden glimpses with scandalous memories.

Those big, strong hands grasping the prayer book? Yesterday, they’d swept over her body with bold, irreverent intent.

That clean-shaven jaw, so well defined and masculine? Yesterday, she’d traced it with her gloved finger.

Those wide, sensual lips, currently mumbling their way through the litany? Yesterday, those lips had been kissing
her
. Passionately. Breathing her name in a hot, needy whisper.
Susanna. Susanna fair.

When the call to prayer finally came, she clamped her eyes shut.

God preserve me. Deliver me from this most horrible affliction.

No mistake, she’d contracted a most virulent strain of infatuation.

Why him, of all men? Why couldn’t she develop a silly
tendre
for the vicar, as so many of the innocent misses did? Mr. Keane was young and well-spoken, and he dressed very smart. Or if brute strength and heat were what enticed her, why didn’t she dawdle around the blacksmith’s forge?

She knew the answer, deep inside. Those other men never challenged her. If they had nothing else in common, she and Rycliff had a clash of strong wills. As a gunsmith’s daughter, Susanna knew it took a good, hard strike of flint against metal to produce that many sparks.

When the service ended, she gathered her things and made ready to escape home. Papa rarely came into the village for church, but sometimes he would join her for the Sunday meal. Especially if they had guests.

“Mr. Keane,” she called, moving against the current of people as she made her way toward the pulpit. The crowd shifted, and she glimpsed his back to her. “My father and I would be delighted if you would join us for dinner today.”

The vicar turned, revealing his conversation partner. Lord Rycliff.

Drat. Too late to change course now. The vicar bowed, and Susanna found it in herself to curtsy. “Can we count on you for dinner, Mr. Keane?” Sliding her gaze to the left, she said coolly, “Lord Rycliff, you would be welcome, too.”

Mr. Keane smiled. “I thank you for the kind invitation, Miss Finch. But what with the call for volunteers today . . .”

“Today?” Susanna was taken aback. “I didn’t realize Lord Rycliff meant to do that today.”

Keane cleared his throat. “Er . . . I did announce it from the pulpit. Just now.”

“You did?” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lord Rycliff’s amused expression. “Oh. Oh,
that
. Yes, of course, Mr. Keane. I did hear you say that.”

Rycliff spoke. “So you see, Miss Finch, the good vicar can’t accept your kind invitation. He’s going to volunteer.”

“I am?” This seemed to be news to Mr. Keane. He flushed red. “Well, I . . . I am willing and able, of course. But I don’t know that it’s seemly for a clergyman to join a militia. I shall have to give it some reflection.” He frowned and studied his linked hands. Then he brightened. “I know. Let’s ask Miss Finch.”

Rycliff’s annoyance at hearing those three words could not have been more obvious. Or more satisfying.

Susanna smiled. “I believe Lord Rycliff has the right idea,” she told the vicar truthfully. “In volunteering, you would make an excellent example. And indirectly you would be doing my father a favor. I would be most grateful.”

“Then I’ll volunteer,” Keane said. “If you think it best, Miss Finch.”

“I do.” She turned to Rycliff. “Aren’t you pleased to hear it, my lord?”

His eyes narrowed. “Ecstatic.”

When they exited the church, Susanna was amazed. She hadn’t seen this many people assembled on the green since last year’s Feast of St. Ursula fair. As the church bell tolled, more and more villagers trickled out from the church. Yet more farming and herding folk funneled in from the countryside. She wasn’t certain whether they were gathering to join the militia or simply to view the spectacle. She would imagine many of them didn’t know yet, either.

She turned for home, but as she made her way across the green, Sally Bright gave a frantic tug on her sleeve. “Miss Finch, please. I need your help. Mother’s beside herself.”

“What is it? Has little Daisy taken ill?”

“No, no. It’s Rufus and Finn, the scoundrels. They’re determined to volunteer for Lord Rycliff’s militia.”

“But they’re too young,” Susanna said. “Not even fifteen.”

“
I
know it.
You
know it. But they’re planning to lie and say they meet the requirements, and who’s going to stop them?” She shook her head, and her white-blond curls bounced with dismay. “Imagine Rufus and Finn, issued muskets. There’s an omen of doomsday. But Mother doesn’t know what to do.”

“Never you worry, Sally. I’ll have a word with Lord Rycliff.”

She searched for him in the crowd. Big as he was, and dressed in red, he couldn’t be difficult to find. There he was—occupied, overseeing two men arranging tables. She recognized them as the wagon drivers from the other day. Leaving Sally at the edge of the green, Susanna approached.

“Lord Rycliff?”

Gathering a sheaf of papers, he drew her aside. “Miss Finch, don’t you have someplace else to be? Isn’t there a schedule to keep?”

“It’s Sunday. We have no schedule on Sunday. But I’ll be happy to let you be, just as soon as I have a word with you.”

He pierced her with a look. “I thought we had an agreement. I keep my men away from your ladies, and you keep your distance from me. You’re not holding your end of the bargain.”

“It’s but a momentary interruption. Just this once.”

“Just this once?” He made a dismissive noise, rifling through papers. “What about just now in the church?”

“Very well, twice.”

“Try again.” He stacked his papers and looked up, devouring her with his intent green gaze. “You invaded my dreams at least a half-dozen times last night. When I’m awake, you keep traipsing through my thoughts. Sometimes you’re barely clothed. What excuse can you make for that?”

She stammered to form a response, her tongue tripping against her teeth. “I . . . I would never
traipse
.”

Idiotic reply.

“Hm.” He tilted his head and regarded her thoughtfully. “Would you saunter?”

Susanna tempered a growl. Here he went again, trying to dismiss her with boorish innuendo. Caution would tell her to walk away, but her conscience wouldn’t let her back down. The Bright women were depending on her.

“I need to speak to you about the Bright twins,” she said. “Rufus and Finn. Their sister tells me they mean to volunteer, but you mustn’t allow them.”

One dark eyebrow lifted. “Oh, mustn’t I?”

“They’re too young. If they tell you different, they’re lying.”

“Why should I take your word over theirs? If I’m going to make up a sizable company, I need all the willing volunteers I can gather.” He turned to her. “Miss Finch, my militia is precisely that.
My
militia. I gave you my word regarding your father, but beyond that I’ll make my own decisions, without your contributions. Content yourself with managing all the women in this village, and I’ll see to the men.”

“Rufus and Finn are
boys
.”

“If they join the militia, I’ll make men of them.” He looked around the crowd. “Miss Finch, I’m about to make the call for volunteers. Unless you mean to join the militia yourself, I suggest you remove yourself from the green and have a seat with the ladies. Where you belong.”

Fuming, but seeing no immediate way to protest, she made a curtsy in retreat. “As you say, my lord.”

“Well?” Sally asked, once she’d reached the edge of the green. “Did he see reason? Did he agree?”

“I don’t know that that man will ever see reason.” She straightened her gloves with angry tugs. “But don’t you worry, Sally. I will make him agree. I’ll just need to borrow a few things from the shop.”

A
s Bram took the center of attention, he resolved to put the woman—
all
women—out of his mind. He turned his head slowly, scanning the crowd for men. He saw some males who were imprudently young, like the twins. He caught glimpses of a few who were impossibly old, grizzled and toothless. Here and there, he spied a man who ranged between. A handful of fishermen and farmers. The jewelry-making blacksmith stood near the dandified vicar. Fosbury emerged from the tea shop kitchen, dressed in an apron and covered in sugary dust.

Bram steeled his jaw. From this unlikely assortment of men, he would need to muster an elite, impeccably drilled fighting force. The alternative was the permanent end of his military career. He would remain in England a conquered, lamed, useless wretch. Defeated in every way.

Failure simply wasn’t an option.

“Good morning,” he announced, lifting his voice for all to hear. “Most of you will have heard, I’m Rycliff. The ancient title was revived and given me, and now I’m here to fortify and defend the castle. To that end, I’m calling for men to take up arms. I need able-bodied men, ages fifteen to five-and-forty.”

He had their attention. He’d given the call. Now would be the ideal time to summon some motivational words, he supposed. “Let it be understood, England is at war. I want willing and able soldiers. Men of courage, prepared to fight and defend. If there are men among you who wish to be challenged, to become part of something larger than themselves . . . let them come. If there are men who desire to use their God-given strength in service of a noble cause . . . let them come. If there are men in this ‘Spinster’ Cove who want to be
real
men again . . . let them answer this call to arms.”

He paused, expecting some sort of red-blooded, rallying cry in return.

He got silence. An interested, attentive silence, but silence nonetheless.

Well, if inspirational speeches weren’t his strength, Bram still had one incontrovertible argument on his side. He straightened his coat and said the rest. “Drill and training will last a month. Uniforms, firearms, and other supplies will be provided, and there will be wages. Eight shillings a day.”

Now that caught their attention. Eight shillings was more than a full
week’s
pay for most workingmen, and more than enough to overcome any reluctance. Murmurs of excitement swept the crowd, and several men began to move forward.

“Fall in line,” he told them. “See Lord Payne for enrollment, then Corporal Thorne for outfitting.”

There was a bit of a crush as the men made their way to the enrollment table, but Finn and Rufus Bright took the head of the line, no contest. Bram joined Colin behind the table.

“Names?” Colin asked.

“Rufus Ronald Bright.”

“Phineas Philip Bright.”

Colin dutifully inscribed the names. “Date of birth?”

“Eighth of August,” Finn said, looking to his brother. “Seventeen ninety-ei—”

“Seven,” Rufus finished. “We’re over fifteen.”

Bram interrupted, fixing the boys with a stern look. “Are you certain?”

“Yes, my lord.” Finn stood tall and slapped a hand over his heart. “I’m over fifteen. May the devil take me if I’m telling you false, Lord Rycliff.”

Bram sighed to himself. No doubt they’d stuffed scraps of papers with the number fifteen in their shoes. Oldest trick in the shiftless army recruiter’s sack. With that scrap of paper beneath their heels, the lads could say with all honesty that they were “over” fifteen.

Susanna was right, the boys were obviously lying. And they
were
boys yet, not men. He regarded their matching, fresh-scrubbed faces that wouldn’t know a razor’s scrape for years. But if their birthdays truly were in August, that put their actual fifteenth birthday only a few months away. He surveyed the queue of men behind the twins, performing a quick mental tally. They numbered just under twenty, all in all. Not good. To form a company that would appear remotely impressive in formation, he needed twenty-four.