A Night to Surrender (16 page)

Bram had the right idea, at least. These men definitely needed some help reattaching their bollocks and reasserting their dominance in this village. But his cousin had the wrong tactic, appealing to some vague sense of honor and duty. There was a much better source of motivation—that primal, undeniable impulse that drove every man.

Sex.

“Tonight,” he announced, “is the night we take back that village. And we’re not going to do it by marching in lines or committing acts of brave idiocy. We’re going to do it by being men. Manly men. The kind of men a woman wants to take control.”

Brows wrinkled in confusion.

“But . . .” The blacksmith looked around the group. “We
are
men. Last I checked, anyhow.”

“It’s not just a matter of having the proper equipment. It’s using the equipment properly.” Leaping up on a crate, Colin spread his arms wide. “Look at me. Now look at yourselves. Now look back at me. I am the man you want to be like.”

Dawes crossed his arms. “Why is that, precisely?”

“Do you know how many women I’ve bedded?” When Rufus and Finn perked, he waved at them. “Have a guess, boys.”

“Seventeen,” offered Finn.

“More.”

“Eighteen.”

“Still more.”

“Er . . . nineteen?”

“Oh, for the love of God,” he muttered. “We’ll be here all day. Let’s just call the number more than you can imagine. Because clearly, that is the case.” Under his breath, he added, “Perhaps higher than you know how to count.” He raised one arm over his head. “Tonight, we’re going to march down to that village, and we’re going to enjoy ourselves in our tavern.”

“You mean the tea shop?” Fosbury asked. “But this is the ladies’ card night.”

“ ‘But this is the ladies’ card night,’ ” Colin mimicked in a high-pitched voice. “That right there is your problem. You’ve all let yourselves be henpecked. Gelded, by this gaggle of bluestockings. Tonight, the ladies are not going to play cards. They’re going to dance.”

Fosbury scratched the back of his neck. “Well, that is what they do sometimes on Fridays. Dancing. But just with each other. They don’t ask us to join in.”

With a heavy sigh, Colin massaged the bridge of his nose. “We’re not going to wait for them to ask
us
, Fosbury.” He dropped his hand and motioned to Dawes. “You, there. How do you ask a woman to dance?”

The blacksmith shrugged. “I don’t. I don’t dance.”

Finn’s hand shot up. “I know! I’ve heard Sally saying it to the mirror. ‘May I have the pleasure of this dance?’ ” He affected a flourish and bow.

“Wrong,” Colin said. “All wrong.” He lifted his voice. “Every man, repeat after me. ‘I believe this dance is mine.’ ”

The men mumbled the words back at him.

Pathetic.

Colin drew out his double-barreled pistol, cocked it carefully, raised it level with his shoulder, and shot it into the air. The resounding crack caught the group’s attention. “Say it with conviction. ‘I believe this dance is mine.’ ”

The men cleared their throats and shuffled their feet, saying, “I believe this dance is mine.”

“Better. Try this. Your hair is a river of silk.” When he got only puzzled stares in return, he explained, “The first line gets her in your arms. If you’re going to woo a woman to your bed, you need a few more pretty words. Now repeat after me, damn it. ‘Your hair is a river of silk.’ ”

“ ‘Your hair is a river of silk,’ ” they echoed.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” He paused, considering. “Now this one. ‘Your eyes sparkle like diamonds.’ ”

They repeated, with a bit more spirit this time.

“ ‘Your breasts are alabaster orbs.’ ”

“What?” Rufus objected. “That’s stupid. I’m not saying that.”

“Do you have some better suggestion?”

“Why can’t you just say she’s got a fair set of titties?”

Colin looked to Keane. “Vicar, cover your ears.”

The man actually did it.

Colin groaned. Leaping down from the crate, he approached Rufus. “Now listen, lad. You don’t go speaking of titties. It’s crude. The ladies won’t like it. Not unless you’re well into the heat of things. Then, depending on the woman, she may like it well indeed. But when seduction is your aim, you can’t go wrong with alabaster orbs.”

“That’s all sorts of wrong, that is.” Thorne crossed his arms. “Alabaster’s cold and hard. Don’t know what kind of teats you’ve been suckling, but I like flesh-and-blood women myself. Don’t you have something better than that?”

“Of course I do. But I’m not wasting my best lines on you lot.” He raised the pistol and fired his second shot into the air. “Stand tall, snap those shoulders back, and say it loud and proud. ‘Your breasts are alabaster orbs.’ ”

It took a half dozen more tries, but Colin finally heard the line roared back to his satisfaction.

“Well done,” he said, pacing to and fro before them. “Now for the rewards. Ale.” He thumped his fist on a sturdy barrel. With his boot, he rattled a nearby crate. “Wine.” Pausing for dramatic effect, he hefted a cask he’d raided from Bram’s personal supply. “Whiskey.”

“What are we going to do with all that?” Rufus asked.

“Use it for bootblack,” Colin said dryly. “We’ll
drink
it, of course. Tonight is the night we eat, drink, carouse, and make love to our women like we mean it. But wait. There’s more.”

He’d saved the sign for last. He’d spent all night working on the thing by torchlight. Not because he found any enjoyment in woodworking, but because the alternative was another sleepless night on his cold, uncomfortable pallet. After almost a week out of London, he was starved for a warm body and good sleep.

There was more than principle at stake tonight. He needed to find a woman, and soon.

“And with this, men”—he unveiled the painted sign with a swoosh of fabric—“I give you back your tavern.”

Fifteen

B
ram woke to searing light, stabbing him straight through his eyelids. Someone placed a cool cup in his hand. He couldn’t even bear to open his eyes and determine who it was, or investigate the contents of the cup. After a cautious sniff, he gulped it down. Water. Clear, crisp water. The most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. He would have muttered some words of thanks, but his tongue was too heavy. He couldn’t coax it to move.

A beneficent hand closed the drapes. Darkness pulled on him, tugging him back to the pillows and back to sleep.

When he woke again, the harsh light was gone. Pushing back the bedclothes, he rose up on one elbow. He was alone in the bedchamber. A single flickering taper in a candlestick provided the room’s only light.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he sat up and swung his bare feet onto the floor. How much time had he lost? He peered at the clock on the bedside table. The clock read half-past seven. But if that were the case, the sun should be up. Unless . . .

Unless it was evening again. Wednesday evening. He massaged his aching temples. Damn it. He’d lost an entire day.

His officer’s coat hung on a hook near the door. Draped over a chair nearby were a shirt, trousers, and waistcoat. He recognized them as his own, but they weren’t the ones he’d been wearing yesterday. Thorne must have come by and taken his sea-drenched clothes, replacing them with new.

Perched on the mattress edge, he tested his knee, flexing and straightening the joint. Remarkably, his leg pained him no worse for the long day of marching. In fact, it felt measurably better. Whether he could attribute that to Susanna’s liniment, her noxious potion, her soothing touch, or simply a full day’s sound sleep, he couldn’t guess. One way or another, he had her to thank.

With sudden, visceral force, a memory yanked him back some twenty hours. He was in this bed, and she was under him. He had her taut, plump breast in his hand, and her fingertips were soothing over his back, lulling him to sleep.

He’d been swamped by emotion, dragged underwater by its vicious undertow. Aroused by her touch, comforted by her whispered words, touched by the secrets she’d confessed. He’d simply felt
close
to her, in every possible way.

Out of habit, he pushed both hands through his hair, as if to smooth it back into a queue. Of course, his fingertips only brushed the bandage wrapped about his head and whatever meager fringe had escaped her shears the other day.

This woman was changing him.

After draining a glass of water, he made good use of the washbasin and soap. He toweled himself dry, then dressed in the fresh clothes. After two days laid up in bed, he needed a shave, but that would have to wait. With a quick check of his cravat knot in the tiny mirror, he left the room.

Summerfield was well-appointed, but it wasn’t a large house. He easily located the back stairs and descended them with a brisk step, confident he’d find the kitchens nearby. Etiquette and simple decency demanded he search out Susanna and thank her for her care and hospitality—but he could better stomach that slice of humility after he’d found a morsel to eat. His stomach rumbled with hunger, and his head was light with it. Wouldn’t do to reach the castle only to collapse in front of his men, yet again.

“Ho, there. Is that Rycliff?”

The question stopped him dead in the corridor. “Sir Lewis?”

The short, stoutish man emerged through a doorway, wearing a leather apron and wiping his hands on a rag. The few tenacious wisps of silver hair that still clung to his scalp were flying in all directions.

“Forgive me,” he said, waving toward his disheveled state. “I’ve been working in my laboratory.”

Bram nodded. The small action hurt.

Sir Lewis wadded the grease-stained rag into his apron pocket. “Susanna mentioned that she’d quarantined you in the house.” The older man’s blue eyes slid to Bram’s bandaged crown. “Feeling better?”

“Yes.” He tilted his head and looked past the man, into a large, lamp-lit space. “Your workshop?”

“Yes, yes.” Sir Lewis’s eyes gleamed as he jerked his head toward the room’s interior. “Come have a look, if you like.”

“I don’t wish to disturb you.”

“Not at all, not at all.”

Bram followed him through the door, ducking to avoid bashing his head on the lintel. This room must have been a scullery at one point, or perhaps a laundry. The floor was ancient scoured slate, not wood parquet as in the corridor. Exposed brick covered the walls. A large, high window occupied much of the room’s south side, admitting a purple gleam of fading daylight.

On the walls, all sorts of weapons were mounted on hooks. Not just the standard rifles and dueling pistols, but blunderbusses, crossbows . . . Above the door hung an ancient mace with spikes.

“If you’d like,” Sir Lewis said, “I’ll show you the medieval hall later. Shields, chain mail, and so forth. We don’t get so many young men coming around to Summerfield, but those who do always take an interest.”

“No doubt.” Bram was beginning to understand why Susanna Finch remained unmarried. This house would frighten all but the most intrepid suitors away.

The thought of Susanna made him wince. He turned his gaze to a mahogany plaque above the hearth. On it were mounted a pair of gleaming, polished pistols. Pistols exactly like the one Bram, along with every commissioned officer in the British army, carried as his personal sidearm.

Finch pistols. Standard issue for decades now.

The diminutive, eccentric Sir Lewis Finch was, in his own way, one of England’s greatest war heroes. Bram wouldn’t be exaggerating to say he owed the man his life. He also owed Sir Lewis his newly bestowed title, the opportunity to raise a militia, and this one slim chance at regaining his command. And he’d spent yesterday tussling with the man’s only daughter. Assaulting her in the cove. Pinning her to the bed with his naked limbs and groping her.

Blast it all. Susanna deserved better treatment. Sir Lewis deserved better treatment. And Bram probably deserved to be staring down the barrel of a Finch pistol just about now. Somehow he had to master his lust and refocus on his mission. If the menacing contents of this workshop didn’t help him in those struggles, nothing would.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he turned his gaze from the weapons adorning the walls to the room’s furnishings. Underneath the window lodged a long worktable, covered with soldering tools, measuring devices, rasps, and more. On a smaller desk, he found a disassembled flintlock mechanism. It was much like the standard firelock on most rifles, but the hammer was an unusual shape.

“May I?” he asked, reaching for it.

“Of course.”

Bram picked up the firelock and turned it over in his hands, inspecting the intricate bit of machinery.

“It’s meant to be an improved rifle lock,” Sir Lewis said. “I almost have it perfected, I think. But I’ve left it alone for the moment, to work on the blasted cannon again. I’ve been agonizing over this one for years.”

“A cannon?” He noticed the wooden scale model on the worktable. “Tell me about it.”

Sir Lewis mussed his hair and made a sound of frustration. “I’ve been tinkering with this idea on and off for decades. It’s a rifled cannon.”

Bram whistled through his teeth, impressed. All cannons had smooth-bored barrels. They were the artillery equivalent of muskets—decent range and power, but only middling accuracy. But if a cannon could be grooved inside, like a rifle barrel, its projectiles would not only fly farther and faster, but their aim would be much more accurate. A rifled cannon would give the British army a keen advantage in any siege situation. It could be just the ace Wellington needed to boot Napoleon out of Spain.

“I must have tried a dozen variations on the design,” Sir Lewis said, gesturing toward the miniature cannon on the tabletop. “And hundreds of concepts never left the drafting table. But I have a good feeling about this one.” He patted the model. “This is it. I feel it in my old, creaky bones.”

The older man smiled at Bram. “I understand you, Rycliff. Better than you know. We’re both men of purpose and action, in our own separate ways. Neither of us is ready to retire the field just yet. I know it’s difficult, being stuck in this quaint, tiny village while wars are being waged. Must be torture for you.”

“Torture pretty well describes it.” Sweet, freckled torture of the purest kind.

“Is my Susanna giving you trouble?”

Bram choked on his tongue. He felt his face heating as he coughed into his sleeve.

“Don’t worry, you can be candid with me.” Sir Lewis patted him on the back. “The dear girl means well, but I know she has a tendency to overreach. Clever as she is, she has the whole village hanging on her advice. She likes to help.”

Yes, Bram thought. He was beginning to understand that Susanna Finch was driven to care for those around her. Whether it meant offering food, encouragement, healing salve . . . or the sweetest, most generous embrace a man could ever hope to know.

You don’t have to attack me every time you wish to be touched. To be held.

He swallowed hard, trying to clear her taste from his mouth.

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 . . .