A Night to Surrender (3 page)

“You have a small wound.” With trembling fingers, she brushed a reddish knot high on his temple, near his hairline. “Here.” She pressed her hand to his throat, feeling for his pulse. She found it, thumping strong and steady against her gloved fingertips.

“Ah. That’s nice.”

Her face blazed with heat. “Are you seeing double?”

“Perhaps. I see two lips, two eyes, two flushed cheeks . . . a thousand freckles.”

She stared at him.

“Don’t concern yourself, miss. It’s nothing.” His gaze darkened with some mysterious intent. “Nothing a little kiss won’t mend.”

And before she could even catch her breath, he pressed his lips to hers.

A kiss. His mouth, touching hers. It was warm and firm, and then . . . it was over.

Her first real kiss in all her five-and-twenty years, and it was finished in a heartbeat. Just a memory now, save for the faint bite of whiskey on her lips. And the heat. She still tasted his scorching, masculine heat. Belatedly, she closed her eyes.

“There, now,” he murmured. “All better.”

Better? Worse? The darkness behind her eyelids held no answers, so she opened them again.

Different
. This strange, strong man held her in his protective embrace, and she was lost in his intriguing green stare, and his kiss reverberated in her bones with more force than a powder blast. And now she felt different.

The heat and weight of him . . . they were like an answer. The answer to a question Susanna hadn’t even been aware her body was asking. So this was how it would be, to lie beneath a man. To feel shaped by him, her flesh giving in some places and resisting in others. Heat building between two bodies; dueling heartbeats pounding both sides of the same drum.

Maybe . . . just maybe . . . this was what she’d been waiting to feel all her life. Not swept her off her feet—but flung across the lane and sent tumbling head over heels while the world exploded around her.

He rolled onto his side, giving her room to breathe. “Where did you come from?”

“I think I should ask
you
that.” She struggled up on one elbow. “Who
are
you? What on earth are you doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” His tone was grave. “We’re bombing the sheep.”

“Oh. Oh dear. Of course you are.” Inside her, empathy twined with despair. Of course, he was cracked in the head. One of those poor soldiers addled by war. She ought to have known it. No
sane
man had ever looked at her this way.

She pushed aside her disappointment. At least he had come to the right place. And landed on the right woman. She was far more skilled in treating head wounds than fielding gentlemen’s advances. The key here was to stop thinking of him as an immense, virile man and simply regard him as a person who needed her help. An unattractive, poxy, eunuch sort of person.

Reaching out to him, she traced one fingertip over his brow. “Don’t be frightened,” she said in a calm, even tone. “All is well. You’re going to be just fine.” She cupped his cheek and met his gaze directly. “The sheep can’t hurt you here.”

Two

“Y
ou’re going to be just fine,” she repeated.

Bram believed her. Wholeheartedly. At the moment, he was feeling damned fine indeed. He had a road cleared of sheep, a functioning leg, and a fetching young miss stroking his brow. Why the devil should he complain?

Granted, the fetching young miss thought he was a blithering idiot. But that was a mere quibble. Truth be told, he
was
still gathering his wits.

In those moments following the blast, his first, admittedly selfish thought had been for his knee. He was almost certain he’d ripped the joint apart again, what with that ungainly rescue attempt. Before his injury, he would have managed to scoop this girl off the road with more grace. She was lucky he’d been standing to the side of the lane and not down the hill with the others, or he never could have reached her in time.

Once a few moments’ assessment and a trial flex or two had assured him his knee remained intact, his thoughts had all centered on her. How the irises of her eyes were the same blue as . . . well, irises. How she smelled like a garden—a whole garden. Not just blossoms and herbs, but the juice of crushed green leaves and the rich, fertile essence of the earth. How she made the perfect place to land, so warm and so soft. How it had been a stupidly long time since he’d had a woman under him, and he couldn’t recall one ever caressing him so sweetly as this.

God, had he truly kissed her?

He had. And she was lucky he hadn’t done more. For a moment there, he’d been well and truly dazed. He supposed the blast was to blame for that. Or maybe it was just her.

She sat up a bit further. Wisps of loosened hair tumbled about her face. Her hair was a striking shade of gold, touched with red. It made him think of molten bronze.

“Do you know what day it is?” she asked, peering at him.

“Don’t
you
?”

“Here in Spindle Cove, we ladies have a schedule. Mondays are country walks. Tuesdays, sea bathing. Wednesdays, you’d find us in the garden.” She touched the back of her hand to his forehead. “What is it we do on Mondays?”

“We didn’t get to Thursdays.”

“Thursdays are irrelevant. I’m testing your ability to recall information. Do you remember Mondays?”

He stifled a laugh. God, her touch felt good. If she kept petting and stroking him like this, he might very well go mad.

“Tell me your name,” he said. “I promise to recall it.” A bit forward, perhaps. But any chance for formal introductions had already fallen casualty to the powder charge.

Speaking of the powder charge, here came the brilliant mastermind of the sheep siege. Damn his eyes.

“Are you well, miss?” Colin asked.

“I’m well,” she answered. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same for your friend.”

“Bram?” Colin prodded him with a boot. “You look all of a piece.”

No thanks to you.

“He’s completely addled, the poor soul.” The girl patted his cheek. “Was it the war? How long has he been like this?”

“Like this?” Colin smirked down at him. “Oh, all his life.”

“All his life?”

“He’s my cousin. I should know.”

A flush pressed to her cheeks, overwhelming her freckles. “If you’re his cousin, you should take better care of him. What are you thinking, allowing him to wander the countryside, waging war on flocks of sheep?”

Ah, that was sweet. The lass cared. She would see him settled in a very comfortable asylum, she would. Perhaps Thursdays would be her day to visit and lay cool cloths to his brow.

“I know, I know,” Colin replied gravely. “He’s a certifiable fool. Completely unstable. Sometimes the poor bastard even drools. But the hell of it is, he controls my fortune. Every last penny. I can’t tell him what to do.”

“That’ll be enough,” Bram said. Time to put a stop to this nonsense. It was one thing to enjoy a moment’s rest and a woman’s touch, and another to surrender all pride.

He gained his feet without too much struggle and helped her to a standing position, too. He managed a slight bow. “Lieutenant Colonel Victor Bramwell. I assure you, I’m in possession of perfect health, a sound mind, and one good-for-nothing cousin.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Those blasts . . .”

“Just powder charges. We embedded them in the road, to scare off the sheep.”

“You laid black powder charges. To move a flock of sheep.” Pulling her hand from his grip, she studied the craters in the road. “Sir, I remain unconvinced of your sanity. But there’s no question you are male.”

He raised a brow. “That much was never in doubt.”

Her only answer was a faint deepening of her blush.

“I assure you, all the lunacy is my cousin’s. Lord Payne was merely teasing, having a bit of sport at my expense.”

“I see. And you were having a bit of sport at
my
expense, pretending to be injured.”

“Come, now.” He leaned toward her and murmured, “Are you going to pretend you didn’t enjoy it?”

Her eyebrows lifted. And lifted, until they formed perfect twin archer’s bows, ready to dispatch poison-tipped darts. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

She tugged on her glove, and he swallowed reflexively. A few moments ago, she’d pressed that hand to his bared throat, and he’d kissed her lips. All pretending aside, they’d shared a moment of attraction. Sensual. Powerful. Real. Perhaps she’d prefer to deny it, but she couldn’t erase his memory of her sweet, lush mouth.

And she couldn’t hide that hair. God, that hair. Now that she stood tall, wreathed by midday light, she all but blazed with beauty. Red flames and golden sunlight, each striving to outshine the other.

“You never did tell me your name,” he said. “Miss . . . ?”

Before she could answer, a closed-top coach hurtled over the crest of the hill, headed their way. The driver didn’t bother to slow, just whipped the team faster as the coach and four bore down on them. All present had to scramble to one side, to avoid being crushed beneath its wheels.

In a protective gesture, Bram positioned himself between the lady and the road. As the carriage went by, he glimpsed a crest painted on its side.

“Oh no,” she breathed. “Not the Highwoods.” She called after the coach as it rumbled off into the distance. “Mrs. Highwood, wait! Come back. I can explain everything. Don’t leave!”

“They seem to have already left.”

She turned on Bram, flashing him an angry blue glare. The force of it pushed against his sternum. Not nearly sufficient to move him, but enough to leave an impression.

“I do hope you’re happy, sir. If tormenting innocent sheep and blowing ruts in our road weren’t enough mischief for you today, you’ve ruined a young woman’s future.”

“Ruined?” Bram wasn’t in the habit of ruining young ladies—that was his cousin’s specialty—but if he ever decided to take up the sport, he’d employ a different technique. He edged closer, lowering his voice. “Really, it was just a little kiss. Or is this about your frock?”

His gaze dipped. Her frock had caught the worst of their encounter. Grass and dirt streaked the yards of shell-pink muslin. A torn flounce drooped to the ground, limp as a forgotten handkerchief. Her neckline had likewise strayed. He wondered if she knew her left breast was one exhortation away from popping free of her bodice altogether. He wondered if he should stop staring at it.

No, he decided. He would do her a favor by staring at it, calling her attention to what needed to be repaired. Indeed. Staring at her half-exposed, emotion-flushed breast was his solemn duty, and Bram was never one to shirk responsibility.

“Ahem.” She crossed her arms over her chest, abruptly aborting his mission.

“It’s not about me,” she said, “or my frock. The woman in that carriage was vulnerable and in need of help, and . . .” She blew out a breath, lifting the stray wisps of hair from her brow. “And now she’s gone. They’re all gone.” She looked him up and down. “So what is it you require? A wheelwright? Supplies? Directions to the main thoroughfare? Just tell me what you need to be on your way, and I will happily supply it.”

“We won’t put you to any such trouble. So long as this is the road to Summerfield, we’ll—”

“Summerfield? You didn’t say
Summerfield
.”

Vaguely, he understood that she was vexed with him, and that he probably deserved it. But damned if he could bring himself to feel sorry. Her fluster was fiercely attractive. The way her freckles bunched as she frowned at him. The elongation of her pale, slender neck as she stood straight in challenge.

She was tall for a woman. He liked his women tall.

“I did say Summerfield,” he replied. “That is the residence of Sir Lewis Finch, is it not?”

Her brow creased. “What business do you have with Sir Lewis Finch?”

“Men’s business, love. The specifics needn’t concern you.”

“Summerfield is my home,” she said. “And Sir Lewis Finch is my father. So yes, Lieutenant Colonel Victor Bramwell”—she fired each word as a separate shot—“you concern me.”

“V
ictor Bramwell. It
is
you.”

Sir Lewis Finch rose from his desk and crossed the office in eager strides. When Bram attempted to bow, the older man waved off the gesture. Instead, he took Bram’s right hand in both of his and pumped it warmly.

“By the devil, it’s good to see you. Last we met, you were a green captain, just leaving Cambridge.”

“It has been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“I was sorry to hear of your father’s passing.”

“Thank you.” Bram cleared his throat awkwardly. “So was I.”

He sized up the graying eccentric for any signs of displeasure. Sir Lewis Finch was not only a brilliant inventor, but he’d become a royal advisor. He was said to have the ear of the Prince Regent himself, when he chose to bend it. The right word from this man could have Bram back with his regiment next week.

And idiot that he was, Bram had announced his arrival in the neighborhood by tackling the man’s daughter in the road, rending her frock, and kissing her without leave. As strategic campaigns went, this one would not be medal-worthy. Fortunately, Sir Lewis seemed not to have noticed his daughter’s bedraggled state on their arrival. But Bram had best conclude this interview before Miss Finch returned and had a chance to relate the tale.

He couldn’t be faulted for not making the connection. Save for the blue eyes they shared, she could not have been more different from her father. Miss Finch was slender and remarkably tall for a woman. By contrast, Sir Lewis was thick in the middle and short of stature. His few remaining wisps of silver hair would scarcely brush Bram’s epaulet.

“Be seated,” the man urged.

Bram tried not to betray much visible relief as he sank into a studded leather chair. When Sir Lewis handed him a drink, he rationed the whiskey in small, self-medicating sips.

As he drank, he studied his surroundings. The library was unlike any gentleman’s library he’d ever seen. Naturally, there was a desk. A few chairs. Books, of course. Whole walls of them, populating several floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves. The shelves themselves were separated by plaster columns with Egyptian motifs. Some resembled stalks of papyrus. Others were carved into the shape of pharaohs and queens. And to one side of the room, occupying most of the open space, sat an enormous coffin of solid, cream-colored stone. Its surface was etched, inside and out, with row upon row of tiny symbols.

“Is that marble?” he asked.

“Alabaster. It’s a sarcophagus, from the tomb of King . . .” Sir Lewis ruffled his hair. “I forget his name at the moment. I have it somewhere.”

“And the inscriptions?”

“Hexes on the outside. On the interior, directions to the underworld.” The old man’s hoary eyebrows rose. “You can have a lie-down in the thing, if you like. Good for the spine.”

“Thank you, no.” Bram shuddered.

Sir Lewis clapped his hands. “Well, I don’t suppose you’ve brought two wagons through eight turnpikes just to discuss antiquities over a fine whiskey.”

“You know I haven’t. Idle chatter isn’t my purpose, ever. But I will take the whiskey.”

“And dinner later, I hope. Susanna will have already informed the cook.”

Susanna
. So, her name was Susanna.

The name suited her. Simple, pretty.

Susanna. Susanna Finch.

Rather like the refrain of a song. A cheerful, stubborn sort of song. The sort of tune that persisted, dug a trench in a person’s mind and kept merrily chirping there for hours, days . . . even when that person would rather be rid of it. Even when that person would slice off his own great toe just to turn his attention to something,
anything
else.

Susanna. Susanna Finch. Susanna fair with brazen hair.

He turned his gaze to the window, which overlooked an immaculately tended garden. With each herb and shrub he glimpsed, he identified another element of her intriguing, garden-infused perfume. He saw lavender, sage, hyacinth, rose . . . a dozen other plants he couldn’t name. But through the open window, the breeze carried their scent to him. Lifting his hair with gentle fingers, just as she had.