A Night to Surrender (5 page)

Their gazes locked and held. Something defensive flared in those bold green eyes, and she wondered at the thoughts crossing his mind. Not thoughts of kissing her, she’d wager.

“I’m afraid,” Sir Lewis said, chuckling, “this happens to be a disagreement of the most vexing sort.”

Susanna smiled. “The sort where the woman has the right of it?”

“No, my dear. The sort where both sides have equal merit.”

“How do you mean?”

Her father motioned toward the chairs, directing them all to sit. “Susanna, you are correct,” he said, once all were settled. “The chances of any enemy invading Spindle Cove are so small as to be infinitesimal. However—”

Suddenly, Lord Payne choked and sputtered, replacing his teacup with an abrupt crack.

“What’s the matter with you?” Bramwell asked.

“Nothing, nothing.” Payne dabbed at his spattered waistcoat. “Sir Lewis, did you say Spindle Cove?”

“Yes.”

“This place, here. Is Spindle Cove.”

“Yes,” Susanna echoed slowly. “Why?”

“Oh, no reason.” Payne rubbed his mouth with one hand, as if massaging away a laugh. “Please, do go on.”

“As I was saying,” Sir Lewis continued, “chances of invasion are slim indeed. However, Bramwell here will tell you that a solid defense is based on the appearance of readiness, not the probability of attack. Similar points along the coast have been fortified with Martello towers, defended by local volunteer militias. Spindle Cove cannot appear to be the weak link in the chain.”

“There’s nothing weak about our village, Papa. Visitors know it to be perfectly safe. If this militia comes to pass, that reputation can only suff—”

“Susanna, dear.” Her father sighed loudly. “That’s quite enough.”

It wasn’t nearly enough.
Papa, do you know what kind of man this is?
she longed to argue.
He’s a bomber of defenseless sheep, an enemy of flounced muslin frocks, and a kisser of unsuspecting women! A perfect beast. We can’t have him here. We can’t.

Only deep, abiding respect for her father kept her quiet.

He went on, “To be perfectly honest, there is another reason. I am the only other local gentleman, you see. This duty should have been mine. The Duke of Tunbridge is responsible for the Sussex militia, and he’s been hounding me for over a year now to provide a display of our local readiness.” His eyes fell to the carpet. “And so I have promised him one, at this year’s midsummer fair.”

“The midsummer fair? Oh, but that’s not even a month away,” Susanna said, dismayed. “And we’ve always made the fair a children’s festival. Suits of armor, crossbows. A few melons fired out to sea with the old trebuchet.”

“I know, dear. But this year, we’ll have to treat our neighbors—and the duke—to a proper military review instead.” He leaned forward, bracing his arms on his knees. “If Bramwell agrees, that is. If he doesn’t embrace the Rycliff title and take on this militia as his duty . . . the task will fall to me.”

“Papa, you can’t.” The thought alone made Susanna wilt. Her father could not be responsible for embodying a militia company. He was aging, and his heart was weak. And he was her only family. She owed him her life, in more ways than one. The prospect of welcoming this horrid Bramwell and his friends into their safe, secure community filled her with dread. But if the only alternative would endanger her father’s health, how could she argue against this militia scheme?

The answer was plain. She couldn’t.

Her father addressed the officer. “Bramwell, you’ve led entire regiments into battle. I’m asking you to train a company of four-and-twenty men. Believe me, I know full well this is like asking an African lion to serve a barn cat’s purpose. But it
is
a position of command, and one I’m free to offer you. And it’s only a month. If you do well with it . . . after midsummer, it could lead to something more.”

A meaningful look passed between the men, and Bramwell—now Lord Rycliff, she supposed—was silent for a long moment. Susanna held her breath. A half hour ago, she’d wished for nothing more than to see the back of this man and his party. And now, she found herself forced into a most unpleasant occupation.

Hoping he would stay.

At length, he stood, pulling on the front of his coat. “Very well, then.”

“Excellent.” Rising to his feet, Papa clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly. “I’ll write to the duke forthwith. Susanna, you’re always fond of walking, and there’s ample time before dinner. Why don’t you show the man his castle?”

“T
his is the way,” Susanna said, leading the men off the dirt lane and onto an ancient road grown over with grass.

The path was a familiar one. Over the years she’d resided in Spindle Cove, Susanna must have walked it thousands of times. She knew each curve of the land, every last mottled depression in the road. More than once, she’d covered this distance in the dark of night with nary a misstep.

Today, she stumbled.

He was there, catching her elbow in his strong, sure grip. She hadn’t realized he was following so close. Just when she thought she’d regained her balance, his heat and presence unsteadied her all over again.

“Are you well?”

“Yes. I think so.” In an effort to dispel the awkwardness, she joked, “Mondays are country walks; Tuesdays, sea bathing . . .”

He didn’t laugh. Nor even smile. He released her without comment, moving on ahead to take the lead. His strides were long, but she noticed he was still favoring that right leg.

She did what a good healer ought never do. She hoped it hurt.

Perhaps, with that swooping tackle in the road, he had saved her from losing a few toes. But if not for him, there would have been no danger in the first place. If not for him, right now she would be seeing the Highwoods settled in at the rooming house. Poor Diana. Poor Minerva, for that matter. Charlotte was young and resilient, at least.

They climbed the rest of the way in silence. Once they crested the sandstone ridge, Susanna pulled to a stop. “Well,” she said between deep inhalations, “there it is, my lord. Rycliff Castle.”

The castle ruins sat perched at the tip of an outcropping, an arrowhead of green heath jutting over the sea. Four stone turrets, a few standing arches . . . here and there, a bit of wall. This was all that remained. In the background spread the English Channel, now turning a lovely shade of periwinkle in the dimming afternoon.

Silence reigned for a long minute as the men took in the scene. Susanna kept quiet, too, as she tried to see the ancient fortress through fresh eyes. As a young girl, she’d been taken with the romance of it. When one viewed the castle as a picturesque ruin, the absent walls and ceilings were the best features. The missing parts were invitations to dream; they inspired the imagination. Looking upon this as a prospective residence, however, she could only imagine the missing parts would inspire grave misgivings. Or perhaps hives.

“And the village?” he asked.

“You can see it from here.” She led them through a standing fragment of arched corridor, across an open expanse of grass that had once been the castle’s courtyard, to the bluff, where they could overlook the crescent-shaped cove and the valley that sheltered her beloved community. From here, it looked so small and insignificant. With any luck, it would remain beneath his notice entirely.

He said, “I’ll be needing a closer look tomorrow.”

“It’s nothing special,” she hedged. “Just an average English village. Hardly worth your time. Cottages, a church, a few shops.”

“Surely there’s an inn,” Lord Payne said.

“There is a rooming house,” Susanna said, leading them back from the edge of the bluff. “The Queen’s Ruby. But I’m afraid it is completely occupied at this time of year. Summer visitors, you understand, come to enjoy the sea.”
And to escape men like you.

“An inn won’t be necessary.” Lord Rycliff walked slowly about the ruins. He propped a hand against a nearby wall and leaned on it, as if to test the wall’s soundness. “We’ll be staying here.”

This statement was received with universal incredulity. Even the stones seemed to throw it back at him, rejecting the words as false.

“
Here
,” the corporal said.

“Yes,” Lord Rycliff said. “Here. We’ll need to begin settling in, if we’re to make camp before nightfall. Go see to the carts, Thorne.”

Thorne nodded his compliance and quit the place immediately, descending the way they’d come.

“You can’t mean to stay
here
,” Lord Payne said. “Have you
seen
here?”

“I have,” Rycliff answered. “I’m looking at it. So we’ll be camping. That’s what militiamen do.”

“I’m not a militiaman,” Payne said. “And I don’t camp.”

Susanna would guess he didn’t. Not in those fine boots, at least.

“Well, you camp now,” Rycliff said. “And you’re a militiaman now, as well.”

“Oh no. Think again, Bram. You’re not pulling me into your tin soldier brigade.”

“I’m not leaving you a choice. You need to learn some discipline, and this is the perfect opportunity.” He cast a glance around. “Since you’re so fond of setting blazes, see if you can start a fire.”

Susanna put a hand on Rycliff’s sleeve, hoping to claim his attention.

She got it. His full, unwavering attention. His intent gaze ranged over her face, searching out her every feature and flaw.

“Forgive the interruption,” she said, releasing his sleeve. “But surely camping isn’t necessary. My father may not have made the express invitation as yet, but I’m certain he intends to offer you lodging at Summerfield.”

“Then give your father my thanks. But I will respectfully decline.”

“Why?”

“I’m meant to be defending the coast. Difficult to do that from a mile inland.”

“But my lord, you do understand this militia business is all for show? My father’s not truly concerned about an invasion.”

“Perhaps he should be.” He glanced at his cousin, who was currently snapping dead branches from an ivy-covered wall. With a tilt of his head, Rycliff drew her aside. “Miss Finch, it’s not wise for officers to quarter in the same house with an unmarried gentlewoman. Have a care for your reputation, if your father does not.”

“Have a care for my reputation?” She had to laugh. Then she lowered her voice. “This, from the man who flattened me in the road and kissed me without leave?”

“Precisely.” His eyes darkened.

His meaning washed over her in a wave of hot, sensual awareness. Surely he wasn’t implying . . .

No. He wasn’t implying at all. Those hard jade eyes were giving her a straightforward message, and he underscored it with a slight flex of his massive arms:
I am every bit as dangerous as you suppose. If not more so.

“Take your kind invitation and run home with it. When soldiers and maids live under the same roof, things happen. And if you happened to find yourself under me again . . .” His hungry gaze raked her body. “You wouldn’t escape so easily.”

She gasped. “You are a beast.”

“Just a man, Miss Finch. Just a man.”

Four

B
ram told himself he was looking out for Miss Finch’s safety as he watched her picking her way down the rocky slope. He told himself a lie. In truth, he was utterly entranced by her figure in retreat, the way her curves gave a saucy little bounce with each downward step.

He would dream of those breasts tonight. How they’d felt trapped beneath him, so soft and warm.

Blast. This day had not gone as planned. By this time, he was supposed to be well on his way to the Brighton Barracks, preparing to leave for Portugal and rejoin the war. Instead, he was . . . an earl, suddenly. Stuck at this ruined castle, having pledged to undertake the military equivalent of teaching nursery school. And to make it all worse, he was plagued with lust for a woman he couldn’t have. Couldn’t even touch, if he ever wanted his command back.

As if he sensed Bram’s predicament, Colin started to laugh.

“What’s so amusing?”

“Only that you’ve been played for a greater fool than you realize. Didn’t you hear them earlier? This is Spindle Cove, Bram.
Spindle. Cove
.”

“You keep saying that like I should know the name. I don’t.”

“You really must get around to the clubs. Allow me to enlighten you. Spindle Cove—or Spinster Cove, as we call it—is a seaside holiday village. Good families send their fragile-flower daughters here for the restorative sea air. Or whenever they don’t know what else to do with them. My friend Carstairs sent his sister here last summer, when she grew too fond of the stable boy.”

“And so . . . ?”

“And so, your little militia plan? Doomed before it even starts. Families send their daughters and wards here because it’s safe. It’s safe because there are no men. That’s why they call it Spinster Cove.”

“There have to be men. There’s no such thing as a village with no men.”

“Well, there may be a few servants and tradesmen. An odd soul or two down there with a shriveled twig and a couple of currants dangling between his legs. But there aren’t any
real
men. Carstairs told us all about it. He couldn’t believe what he found when he came to fetch his sister. The women here are man-eaters.”

Bram was scarcely paying attention. He focused his gaze to catch the last glimpses of Miss Finch as her figure receded into the distance. She was like a sunset all to herself, her molten bronze hair aglow as she sank beneath the bluff’s horizon. Fiery. Brilliant. When she disappeared, he felt instantly cooler.

And then, only then, did he turn to his yammering cousin. “What were you saying?”

“We have to get out of here, Bram. Before they take our bollocks and use them for pincushions.”

Bram made his way to the nearest wall and propped one shoulder against it, resting his knee. Damn, that climb had been steep. “Let me understand this,” he said, discreetly rubbing his aching thigh under the guise of brushing off loose dirt. “You’re suggesting we leave because the village is full of spinsters? Since when do
you
complain about an excess of women?”

“These are not your normal spinsters. They’re . . . they’re unbiddable. And excessively educated.”

“Oh. Frightening, indeed. I’ll stand my ground when facing a French cavalry charge, but an educated spinster is something different entirely.”

“You mock me now. Just you wait. You’ll see, these women are a breed unto themselves.”

“The women aren’t my concern.”

Save for one woman, and she didn’t live in the village. She lived at Summerfield, and she was Sir Lewis Finch’s daughter, and she was absolutely off limits—no matter how he suspected Miss Finch would become Miss Vixen in bed.

Colin could make all the disparaging remarks he wished about bluestockings. Bram knew clever women always made the best lovers. He especially appreciated a woman who knew something of the world beyond fashion and the theater. For him, listening to Miss Finch expound on the weakened state of Napoleon’s army had been like listening to a courtesan read aloud from her pillow book. Arousing beyond measure. And then he’d made the idiotic—though inevitable—mistake of picturing her naked. All that luminous hair and milky skin, tumbled on crisp white sheets . . .

To disrupt the erotic chain of thought, he pressed hard against the knotted muscle in his thigh. Pain sliced through the lingering haze of desire.

He pulled the flask from his breast pocket and downed a bracing swallow of whiskey. “The women aren’t my concern,” he repeated. “I’m here to train the local men. And there
are
men here, somewhere. Fishermen, farmers, tradesmen, servants. If what you say is correct, and they’re outnumbered by managing females . . . Well, then they’ll be eager for a chance to flex their muscles, prove themselves.” Just as he was.

Bram walked to the gateway and was relieved to see the wagons approaching. He couldn’t remain lost in lustful thoughts when there was work to be done. Pitching tents, watering and feeding the horses, building a fire.

After one last sip, he recapped his flask and jammed it in his pocket. “Let’s have a proper look at this place before the dark settles in.”

They began in the center and worked their way out. Of course, the current center wasn’t truly the center, since half the castle had fallen into the sea.

Turning back toward the north, Bram now recognized the arch they’d entered through as the original gatehouse. Walls spread out from the structure on either side. Even in spots where the walls had crumbled, one could easily trace the places where they’d stood. Here in the bailey area, low, moss-covered ridges served to mark interior walls and corridors. To the southern, waterfront side, a four-leafed clover of round turrets hugged the bluff, connected by sheer, windowless stretches of stone.

“This must have been the keep,” he mused, walking through the arched entryway to stand in the center of the four soaring towers.

Colin stepped inside one of the dark, hollow turrets. “The staircases are intact, being stone. But, of course, the wooden floors are long gone.” He tilted his head, peering toward the dark corners overhead. “Impressive collection of cobwebs. Are those swallows I hear chirping?”

“Those?” Bram listened. “Those would be bats.”

“Right. Bats. So this inches-deep muck I’m standing in would be . . . Brilliant.” He stomped back into the courtyard, wiping his boots on the mossy turf. “Lovely place you have here, cousin.”

It
was
lovely. As the sky turned from blue to purple, a sprinkling of stars appeared above the castle ruins. Bram knew he’d made the right decision to decline quarter at Summerfield. All concerns of duty and restraint aside, he never felt comfortable in stuffy English manor houses. Their door lintels were too low for him, and their beds were too small for him. Such homes weren’t for him, full stop.

The open country was where he belonged. He didn’t need a place like Summerfield. However, his empty stomach was beginning to argue he should have accepted a meal at Sir Lewis’s table, at least.

A low bleat drew his attention downward. A lamb stood at his feet, nosing the tassel on his boot.

“Oh look,” said Colin brightly. “Dinner.”

“Where did this come from?”

Thorne approached. “Followed us up. The drivers say it’s been nosing around the carts ever since the blasts.”

Bram examined the creature. Must have been separated from its mother. By this time of summer, it was well past the age of weaning. It was also well past the age of being adorable. The lamb looked up at him and gave another plaintive bleat.

“I don’t suppose we have any mint jelly?” Colin asked.

“We can’t eat it,” Bram said. “The beast belongs to some crofter hereabouts, and whoever he is will be missing it.”

“The crofter will never know.” A wolfish smile spread across his cousin’s face as he reached to pat the lamb’s woolly flank. “We’ll destroy the evidence.”

Bram shook his head. “Not going to happen. Give up your lamb chop fantasies. His home can’t be far. We’ll find it tomorrow.”

“Well, we do have to eat something tonight, and I don’t see a ready alternative.”

Thorne strode toward the fire, carrying a brace of hares, already split and gutted. “There’s your alternative.”

“Where did you get those?” Colin asked.

“On the heath.” Crouching on the ground, Thorne drew a knife from his boot and began skinning the animals with ruthless efficiency. The rich smell of blood soon mingled with smoke and ash.

Colin stared at the officer. “Thorne, you scare me. I’m not ashamed to say it.”

Bram said, “You’ll learn to appreciate him. Thorne always comes up with a meal. We had the best-stocked officers’ mess on the Peninsula.”

“Well, at least that satisfies one type of hunger,” Colin said. “Now, for the other. I’ve an insatiable craving for female companionship that must be addressed. I don’t sleep alone.” He looked from Bram to Thorne. “What? You’ve just returned from years on the Peninsula. I’d think you two would be positively salivating.”

Thorne made a gruff sound. “There’s women in Portugal and Spain.” He set aside one skinned carcass and reached for the other hare. “And I’ve already found one here.”

“What?” Colin sputtered. “Who? When?”

“The widow what sold us eggs at the last turnpike. She’ll have me.”

Colin looked to Bram, as if to say,
Am I to believe this?

Bram shrugged. Thorne was nothing if not resourceful. At every place of encampment, he’d always ferreted out the local game and found a local woman. He hadn’t seemed particularly attached to any of them. Or perhaps the women simply didn’t attach themselves to Thorne.

Attachments were Bram’s problem. He was an officer, a gentleman of wealth, and, all things being equal, he preferred to converse with a woman before tupping her senseless. Taken together, these qualities seemed to encourage a woman’s attachment, and romantic entanglements were the one thing he couldn’t afford.

Colin straightened, obviously piqued. “Now wait just a minute. I will happily be outdone when it comes to hunting game, but I will not be . . . outgamed, where the fairer sex is concerned. You couldn’t know it, Thorne, but my reputation is legendary. Legendary. Give me one day down in the village. I don’t care if they
are
ape-leading spinsters. I’ll be under skirts in this neighborhood long before you are, and far more often.”

“Keep your pegos buttoned, both of you.” Bram gave the sleeping lamb at his knee a sullen nudge. “The only way we’ll accomplish our task and be quit of this place is if the local men cooperate. And the local men won’t be eager to cooperate if we’re seducing their sisters and daughters.”

“What precisely are you saying, Bram?”

“I’m saying, no women. Not so long as we’re encamped here.” He cast a glance at Thorne. “That’s an order.”

The lieutenant made no reply, save to skewer the two skinned hares on a sharpened branch.

“Since when do I take orders from you?” Colin asked.

Bram leveled a gaze at him. “Since my father died, and I came back from the Peninsula to find you stickpin-deep in debt, that’s when. I don’t relish the duty, but I hold your fortune in trust for the next several months. So long as I’m paying your bills, you’ll do as I say. Unless you get married, in which case you’d spare us both the better part of a year’s aggravation.”

“Oh yes. Marriage being a fine way for a man to spare himself aggravation.” Colin shoved to his feet and stalked away, into the shadows.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Bram called. Colin was welcome to have his adolescent sulk, but he should take care. They hadn’t checked the soundness of the entire castle, and there were those steep bluffs nearby . . .

“I’m going to have a piss, dear cousin. Or did you want me to keep my pego buttoned for that, too?”

Bram wasn’t any happier than Colin about this arrangement. It seemed ridiculous that a man of six-and-twenty, a viscount since his tender years, should even require a trustee. But the terms of his inheritance—meant to encourage the timely production of a legitimate heir—clearly stipulated that the Payne fortune was held in trust until Colin either married or turned twenty-seven.

And so long as Colin was his responsibility, Bram knew of no better way to handle the situation than to make his cousin a soldier. He’d taken far less promising fellows and drilled a sense of discipline and duty into them. Deserters, debtors, hardened criminals . . . the man seated across the fire, for one. If Samuel Thorne had made good, any man had hope.

“Tomorrow we’ll start recruiting volunteers,” he told his corporal.

Thorne nodded, turning the roasting hares on the spit.

“The village seems the likely place to begin.”

Another barely perceptible nod.

“Sheepdogs,” Thorne mused sometime later. “Perhaps I’ll find a few. They’d come in useful. Then again, hounds are better for game.”

“No dogs,” Bram said. He wasn’t one for pets. “We’ll only be here a month.”

A rustling sound in the shadows had them both turning their heads. A bat, perhaps. Or maybe a snake. Then again, he supposed it was just as likely a rat.