A Night to Surrender (15 page)

Something much more serious than a nettle in her paw.

“Susanna fair,” he said, skimming a touch over her marked skin. “What happened here?”

S
usanna winced at his touch. Inside, she crumpled. She ought to have known she couldn’t hide them forever. That she would never get this close to a man without those dratted scars ruining everything, one way or another.

“How old are these?” he asked, tracing a thin, healed line with his fingertip.

“Quite old,” she said dismissively. “They’re nothing. From gardening.”

“Gardening? Did you pick a death match with a rosebush?”

“No.” She arched her back, rubbing her breasts against his chest. His touch had felt so good. So right. “Couldn’t we just go back to where we left off?”

Apparently not.

As she wriggled beneath him, he used his weight and strength to keep her pinned. Not out of conquest, it seemed, but out of concern. “What happened? Tell me the truth.”

“I . . .” She hesitated. Then she took a deep breath and decided to just be honest. He could make of the truth what he would. “They’re from bloodletting.”

“So many?” He cursed softly, running his fingertips over the ladder of scarred skin. “I thought you said you weren’t ill as a child.”

“I wasn’t ill. That didn’t stop the surgeons from trying to cure me.”

“Tell me,” he said.

Her gaze slanted to the corner. A wild pulse pounded in her ears, like a warning.

“You’ve seen
my
scars,” he reminded her, easing aside to give her space. “I’ve told you everything.”

“It was the year after my mother died.” Her own voice sounded flat, remote. “Papa thought I needed feminine influence—someone to see that I grew into a young lady. So he sent me to Norfolk, to stay with relations.”

“And you took ill there?”

“Only with homesickness. But my cousins didn’t know what to do with me. They saw it their duty to make me ready for society, but they lamented that I would never fit in. I was tall and freckled, and my hair gave them the vapors. Not to mention, my behavior left much to be desired. I was . . . difficult.”

“Of course you were.”

She felt a stab of hurt at the flip comment. It must have been evident, for he quickly qualified his remark.

“I only mean,” he said, “that was perfectly natural. You were sent to live with virtual strangers, and your mother had just died.”

She nodded. “They understood that, at first. But when weeks went by and my comportment failed to improve . . . they thought something more must be wrong. That was when they called in the doctors.”

“Who bled you.”

“To begin with. They prescribed a variety of treatments, over time. I didn’t respond as they hoped, you see. I do have an obstinate streak.”

“I believe I’ve noticed that.” He smiled a little. The warmth in his eyes gave her strength to continue.

“The doctors bled me more, dosed me with emetics and purgatives. After that, I refused my meals, took to hiding in the cupboards. They called the doctors back again, and again. When I fought them, they decided I suffered from hysteria. My treatments increased. Two footmen would restrain me, so the doctor could take yet more blood, dose me with more poison. They would bind me in blankets until I was drenched with sweat, and then force me to bathe in ice-cold water.”

The painful memories rushed in on her, but they weren’t as difficult to voice as she’d thought they’d be. After all this time, the words just flowed out of her, as if—

Oh, now
there
was an ironic thought.

As if she’d opened a vein.

“They . . .” She swallowed hard. “They shaved off all my hair and applied leeches to my scalp.”

“Oh God.” Guilt twisted his features. “The other day on the green, when I threatened to cut your hair . . .”

“No. Bram, please don’t feel that way. You didn’t know. How could you?”

He sighed. “Just tell me everything now.”

“I’ve told the worst of it, truly. Just one vile, useless treatment after another. In the end, I was so weakened by it all, I truly took ill.”

Frowning intently, he smoothed the hair from her brow. His eyes were the angry green of tempest-swept seas.

“You look so grieved,” she said.

“I am.”

Her heart pinched. Truly? Why would he care about the medical travails of a spinster, years upon years in the past? Surely war had shown him much worse. It had done far worse to him. And yet, something in his serious, battle-ready expression told her he did care. That if it were in any way humanly possible, he would go back in time and impale those surgeons on their own bloody lancets.

She could love him. God help her, she could love him for that alone.

“It’s all right now. I did survive.” She gave him a smile tipped with self-effacing humor, to keep the tale from growing too maudlin. Or perhaps to keep herself from bursting into grateful tears.

“That obstinate streak was to thank, I imagine. No doubt you simply refused to die.”

“Something like that. I don’t remember much of the illness, mercifully. I grew so weak, they sent an express to my father, thinking my time was near. He arrived, took one look at me, bundled me up in his cloak, and had me out of that house within the hour. He was furious.”

“I can believe it. I’m furious now.”

Blinking a moist sheen from her eyes, she cast a glance around the room. “That’s when we moved here, to Summerfield. He bought the place so I could convalesce by the sea. Slowly, I recovered. I didn’t need doctors or surgeons. Just nourishing food and fresh air. Once I was well enough, exercise.”

“So,” he said thoughtfully, running his thumb over her scars, “these are why . . .”

“Yes. They’re why.”

He didn’t ask for further explanation, but she gave it anyway.

“You see, my father did eventually take me to London for my presentation at Court. And just as my cousins had predicted, I didn’t fit in. But while I was standing at the edges of those elegant ballrooms, I realized there were others like me. Girls who, for one reason or another, didn’t square with expectations. Who were in danger of being sent to some dreadful spa to take a ‘cure’ they didn’t need. I began inviting them here for the summer. Just a few friends at first, but the number has grown each year. Mrs. Nichols is glad for the steady custom at the inn.”

“And you turned your own talents to healing.”

“I take after my father, I suppose. He’s an inventor. All those surgeons’ failed experiments made me curious to find better methods.”

Again, he traced his fingertips over the crosshatch of scars. So many of them, from the razor-thin, superficial lines to the thick, gnarled evidence of a formidable fleam—a wooden implement nearly as thick as her wrist. She still shuddered to recall it.

“Damned butchers,” he muttered. “I’ve seen veterinarians tap horses’ arteries with less injury incurred.”

“The marks would have been fainter if I’d struggled less. Do they . . .” She resisted the urge to look away. “Do they disgust you?”

In response, he pressed a kiss to her scarred wrist. Then another. Emotion swelled in her breast.

“Do you think me weaker for them?” she asked.

He cursed in denial. “These have nothing to do with weakness, Susanna. They’re only proof of your strength.”

“Well. I don’t think you weaker for your scars, either.” She stared deep into his eyes, willing him to absorb the meaning of her words. “No one would.”

“It’s not the same,” he argued, shaking his head. “It’s not the same. Your wounds can be hidden. They don’t cause you to limp, or fall, or lag behind those you’re meant to lead.”

Perhaps not. But she was only just beginning to understand, her scars had held her back in different ways. She’d been afraid, for so long, to come this close to a man. To let the gloves come off, and take the chance of being hurt again.

“There are differences, to be sure,” she whispered, drawing him down. “But I do know how it feels to fight a long, slow recovery. To feel confined in your own body, so frustrated with its limitations. And I know what it is to crave closeness, Bram. You don’t have to attack me every time you wish to be touched. To be held.”

She stretched her arms around him. He lay silent atop her, and she knew a moment of fear. She wanted to give him the same comfort he’d given her, but she was afraid of doing everything wrong. With trembling fingers, she stroked a light caress down his spine.

“Yes.” He exhaled against her neck. “Yes, touch me. Just like that.”

She caressed him with both hands now, covering his back with smooth, even strokes.

“Susanna?” he said, after minutes had passed.

“Yes.”

“Feel strange. Can’t lift my head.”

“It’s the drugs. They’re taking you under now.”

“Su-san-naa,” he half whispered, half sang, in a slurred, drunken tone. “Susanna fair with brazen hair.” As she laughed, he pressed his brow to her pounding pulse. “That’s the perfect word for you, ‘brazen.’ Do you know why? Because your hair is like molten bronze. All gold and red and glowing. And you’re bold and fearless, too.”

“I have so many fears.” Her heart was thumping like a hare’s.

“You don’t fear me. That first day, when we met. Those few seconds after the blast . . . you were under me, just like this. Soft. Warm. The perfect place to land. And you trusted me. I could see it in your eyes. You trusted me to guard you.”

“You
kissed
me.”

“Couldn’t help myself. So pretty.”

“Hush.” She turned her head to kiss him quiet. Her heart couldn’t take any more. The faint, drugging taste of laudanum lingered on his lips. “Just rest.”

“Would have garroted those surgeons,” he muttered. “Your relations, too. Never would have let them hurt you.”

She couldn’t help but smile at his sweet promises of violence, offered up like a posy of carnivorous blooms.

“I suppose they did mean to help,” she said. “My relations, I mean. They just didn’t know better. Looking back, I know I presented a challenge. I was so awkward and stubborn. Not a ladylike bone in my body. They used to set me at copying pages from this horrid, insipid book.
Mrs. Worthington’s Wisdom for Young Ladies
. Oh, Bram. You would laugh at it so.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then his chest rumbled—not with a laugh, but with a loud, resonant snore.

She laughed at herself, and at the same time hot tears spilled from her eyes. In his sleep, he flexed a protective arm around her. His embrace felt so right.

Perhaps she could trust him to guard her. He was strong and principled, and she had no doubt he would risk his life to keep her safe, in body. But he couldn’t make any promises to guard her heart.

And in her heart, she feared she was already falling. Tumbling headlong toward a world of pain.

Fourteen

“O
uch.”

Susanna released the rose blossom and stared at the tiny drop of welling blood on her finger. Reflexively, she stuck it in her mouth, soothing the hurt.

“Kate,” she called across the garden, “would you finish the roses for me? I’ve forgotten my gloves this morning.”

Incredible. She
never
forgot her gloves.

She left the roses and moved to the herbal bed, gathering great fistfuls of thorn-free lavender and snipping them free with shears. Soon her basket was heaped to overflowing with fragrant stalks. And still, she kept piling them higher.

Whenever she tried to still them, her hands began to tremble. Maybe because they were still heavy with the feel of his skin, his hair.

At this very moment, Bram remained asleep upstairs on the upper floor of Summerfield. Meanwhile, down here in the garden, Susanna was forced to keep up the Wednesday habit of hosting the Spindle Cove ladies. Gardening first, tea after. Normally, she appreciated both their company and their help. But today, she would have far rather been alone with her thoughts.

Because her thoughts were all of him. They made her blush. They made her feel uncorseted, exposed. They made her sigh—
aloud
, for heaven’s sake. Ladies clustered all around her, pulling weeds, cutting blooms, sketching bumblebees and blossoms. But when Susanna knelt beside the feverfew and let her gaze go unfocused, her thoughts climbed straight upstairs.

She saw him. Dark, powerful limbs, covered with even darker hair, all tangled among the white, crisp sheets. Her sleeping beast. In her mind’s eye, she approached the bed, eased onto the mattress beside him. Stroked his cropped, velvet hair. Kissed the notch carved between his throat and clavicle. Heat raced along her skin, gathered between her thighs.

And then he woke, capturing her with his strong arms and that compassionate green gaze. His heavy weight atop her was a blessing, not a burden or a threat.

Susanna fair,
he said.
You were the perfect place to land.

“Miss Finch. Miss Finch!”

She shook herself, coming back into the present. “Yes, Mrs. Lange?” How long had the poor woman been trying to catch her attention?

“Did you want me to divide these lilies today? Or shall we leave them for another week?”

“Oh. Whatever you think best.”

From beneath her straw bonnet, the other woman gave her an impatient look. “It is your garden, Miss Finch. And you always have an opinion.”

“What’s wrong, dear?” Mrs. Highwood asked. “It doesn’t seem like you to be so distracted.”

“I know. It’s not. Forgive me.”

“It’s a lovely day,” Kate said. “I can’t imagine what has you so out of sorts.”

“It’s not a what.” Minerva looked up from her sketchbook. “It’s a who.”

Susanna gave her a warning look. “Minerva, I’m sure you don’t need—”

“Oh, I’m sure I do. And you mustn’t be ashamed to talk about it, Miss Finch. You needn’t suffer in silence, and the ladies ought to know. They may need to protect themselves.” She closed her sketchbook and turned to the assembled ladies. “It’s Lord Rycliff, the vile man. He did not hit his head when he made that dive yesterday. He survived the fall with no harm, and then he attacked Miss Finch in the cove.”

“Minerva.” Susanna put her hand to her temple. “He did not attack me.”

“He did!” She turned to the others. “When I came upon them, they were both drenched to the skin. Poor Miss Finch was shaking like a leaf, and he had his hands . . . Well, let’s just say he had his hands in places they oughtn’t be. She tried to fend him off, but he wasn’t having any of it.”

I like it when you snipe at me.
A thrill raced through her at the memory.

“It’s fortunate I came along when I did,” Minerva said. “And that I’d made such a good find of weighty specimens that morning.”

Fortunate?
Perhaps it was. Lord only knew what liberties Susanna would have allowed him without Minerva’s interruption. And if those drugs hadn’t carried him off to sleep last night . . .

She’d stayed an hour in his arms, unable to leave. Stroking his strong back and shoulders and listening to his gentle, rumbling snore. When she’d sensed herself drifting off to sleep too, she’d extricated herself from the bed and returned to her own room. Watching over a wounded man as he slept . . . that much was a healer’s duty. Sleeping
with
him . . . now that was the privilege of a wife.

And she wasn’t his wife, she reminded herself. She had no business sharing a bed—or a cove, or an armory—with the man. No matter how passionate he proved her to be, or how exhilarated his caresses made her feel, or how sweetly he kissed her damaged wrists. If she gave into fleeting pleasure with him, she could lose everything she’d worked so hard to build.

She could lose everything
now
, if Minerva’s “helpful” reports weren’t contained.

“Minerva, you’re mistaken,” she said firmly. “You weren’t wearing your spectacles, and you don’t know what you saw.” To the others, she declared, “I swam out to check on Lord Rycliff’s health. We were discussing it when Minerva came along.”

“That wasn’t discussing, it was grappling,” Minerva said. “And I’m not that blind. I know very well what I saw. He kissed you!”

Mrs. Lange made an outraged squawk. “I knew it. Men are such filthy invaders. I shall write a poem.”

“He kissed you?” Kate’s eyes flew wide. “Lord Rycliff kissed you? Yesterday?”

“Yes, he did,” Minerva answered for her. “And it wasn’t the first time, from the looks of things. Clearly he’s been molesting her ever since he arrived in the neighborhood.”

Susanna lowered herself onto the nearest bench. She felt her life unraveling at its seams.

“Oh, this is wonderful,” Mrs. Highwood said, coming to sit at Susanna’s side. “I knew you’d caught his eye, my dear. And Lord Payne has shown a marked preference for my Diana. Just think, the two of you could be cousins by marriage!”

“I am not marrying Lord Rycliff,” Susanna insisted. “I don’t know what would cause you to say such a thing.” And she wished the older woman would stop saying it so loud. The man was still on the grounds of Summerfield, and there was no way of knowing when he might wake. He could be awake now.

He might be stretching, flexing those powerful limbs beyond the edges of the mattress and yawning like a grizzled lion.

“Lord Payne has not shown me any particular favor,” Diana said. “Honestly, I don’t wish him to.”

“Pish. The man asked you to cut his hair! He’s titled, handsome as the devil, and rich besides. Pretty as you are, he’ll no doubt offer for you soon. See if you can’t contrive to be trapped in a cove with him. A kiss would do the trick, I warrant.”

“Mama!” Diana and Minerva spoke in unison.

“What is wrong with all of you?” Mrs. Highwood asked, looking from one to the other. “These men are lords. They are powerful, wealthy. You ought to encourage them.”

“Believe me, encouragement is the last thing that’s needed.” Upon speaking the words, Susanna instantly worried. Would Bram take their encounter last night as encouragement? Did she wish him to? They understood each other now, on a level that went more than skin-deep. Assuming he retained some memory of the conversation when he woke.

“Lord Rycliff is not looking for a wife,” she said firmly. “And neither is his cousin. If we were so foolish as to ‘encourage’ them, we would risk not only our own reputations, but the reputation of Spindle Cove.” She looked from woman to woman around the group. “Do you all understand me? Nothing is going on here.
Nothing
.”

“But, Miss Finch—” Minerva objected.

“
Minerva
.” Susanna turned to her, hoping her new friend would someday understand and forgive her this harshness. “I am sorry to say it, but you are mistaken in what you saw, and your persistence is becoming wearisome. Lord Rycliff did not attack me yesterday, or any day. Nothing improper has transpired between us. In fact, he only made that jump from the cliff because he thought you had
drowned
and he hoped to save your life. To impugn his character after that brave, albeit misguided action seems most ungracious. My part in this conversation is concluded.”

Minerva blinked at her, clearly hurt. Susanna felt horrible, but the future of their community was at stake. Where would Minerva hunt her fossils if word reached London of spinsters gone wild, and the Queen’s Ruby was forced to close its doors?

“We’ll be called to tea shortly.” She picked up her basket and headed inside. “Until then, I’ll be in the stillroom, pounding herbs. I’m running low on liniment.”

Kate followed her. “I’ll help.” As they neared the house, she whispered, “How was it? The kiss.”

Susanna suppressed a little cry of frustration.

“You can tell me,” Kate said, propping open the stillroom door. When both had entered, she swiftly shut and locked it behind them. “Miss Finch, you know I won’t tell a soul. I have nowhere else to live but here. Spindle Cove’s fate is my fate, too.”

Susanna leaned against the door and closed her eyes.

“Was it wonderful?”

“Wonderful” wasn’t the word. There were no words to describe the wild, breathless flood of sensation.

And there was no way she could keep it a secret one instant longer. She gave a tiny nod and whispered, “Yes.”

Kate clutched her arm. “I knew it. You must tell me everything.”

“Oh, Kate. I can’t. I shouldn’t even have admitted that much.” She began taking bottles down from the shelves and snipped a bundle of dried St. John’s wort from its string. “And it won’t ever happen again.”

“Don’t you think he means to marry you?”

“Absolutely not. And I have no plans to marry him.”

“I don’t mean to pry,” Kate said. “Truly, I don’t. It’s just my only chance to know. I mean . . . It won’t ever be me, kissed in the cove by a lord.”

Susanna let pestle drop against mortar. “Why wouldn’t it be you? You’re beautiful, and so talented.”

“I’m an orphan of unknown family. A nobody. What’s more, a nobody with this.” She touched the birthmark at her temple.

Susanna set aside her work entirely and placed both hands on her friend’s shoulders, looking her square in the eye. “Kate, if that little mark is your greatest imperfection, then you are surely the most lovely and lovable woman I know.”

“Men don’t seem to agree.”

“Perhaps you’ve been meeting all the wrong men.”

At the echo of Bram’s words to her, Susanna bit back a rueful smile. No matter what happened, life would always be a bit different now. Because at last, Susanna knew what it was to feel
desired
, flaws and all. She felt the unexpected warmth of it lighting her from the inside, and she wanted Kate to experience the same.

“Your admirer will come along someday. I’m sure of it. But in the meantime . . .” She tugged one of her friend’s chestnut curls. “This is Spindle Cove, Kate. We base our self-worth on our qualities and accomplishments, not just the opinions of gentlemen.”

“Yes, I know. I know.” A sheepish look stole into Kate’s eyes. “But it’s impossible to stop thinking about them, just the same.”

Yes, Susanna silently agreed. It was. And with their leader indisposed upstairs, she suddenly worried what trouble the rest of the men were finding today.

I
n the shadow of Rycliff Castle, Colin Sandhurst regarded his troops.

They
were
his troops for the day, he presumed, since his fool cousin remained unconscious. Colin had warned him not to take that ridiculous dive off the cliff, but did Bram ever listen to him? Oh no. Of course not.

He’d half expected the whole militia business to be over after that show of absurdity. But apparently the lure of eight shillings and the promise of high entertainment had brought the recruits back for another day.

He clapped his hands together. “Right, then. Gather round, fellows. Over here.”

Nothing happened.

Thorne shot him a smug look. “Fall in line!” he barked.

The men fell in line.

“Thank you, Corporal Thorne.” Colin cleared his throat and addressed the men. “As you all know, our stalwart commander is currently flat on his back, nursing a head wound. A wound, I might add, given him by a little nothing of a girl. So today, as your first lieutenant, I am in charge. And we’re going to have a different sort of drill today.”

Keane, the vicar, raised a hand. “Are we going to learn a new formation?”

“No,” Colin told him. “We’re going to stage an invasion. Those little ladies down there in Spindle Cove have occupied what should be your village.
Our
village. Are we going to roll over and take that?”

The men looked from one to the other.

“No!” Colin supplied, exasperated. “No, we are not going to take that, not one evening more.”