A Night to Surrender (31 page)

“She’s gone home to have a rest and a change of dress, but she promised to meet us at the castle.”

Straightening his coat and running his hands over his hair, Bram looked to the other men. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

“W
here is she?” Hours later, Bram stood impatient at the castle gateway, scanning the path for any sign of Susanna. All morning long, folk had streamed up the ancient road, traveling by cart, on horseback, on foot—some coming from ten or more miles away to watch the review. But none of them were the one woman Bram wanted to see.

“Most likely she fell asleep,” Thorne said. “She worked hard all night.”

“Perhaps I should ride down to Summerfield.”

“I’ve already stalled for time as much as I can,” Colin said. “If it were just a matter of the crowd, I’d say hold off. But generals and dukes aren’t used to being kept waiting. And perhaps Miss Finch needs her rest.”

Bram nodded his reluctant acknowledgment. The review itself wouldn’t take long. If Susanna hadn’t arrived by the end, he’d ride over to Summerfield straightaway.

Striding to the center of the green, he motioned for his men to fall in line. He surveyed them with no small measure of pride—his cadre of willing volunteers, all fitted out in their new uniforms and assembled to serve his command. What a band they were. Shepherds, fishermen, clergymen. A smith, a baker—no candlestick maker, but a boy, a young woman . . .

And a lamb. Dinner stood at his knee, tricked out in a jaunty red ribbon and bell.

Make no mistake, this
was
Spindle Cove.

Under festooned canopies, the visiting dignitaries and the ladies of the Queen’s Ruby sat ready to observe. The assembled villagers and country folk lined the castle’s perimeter. Children too short to see over the crowd had climbed atop the walls. Gaily colored banners flew from each turret.

With everyone in place, Bram mounted his horse and addressed his men. And woman. “I want you all to remember, we’re not alone when we take to the field. There are others counting on us to succeed. All the ladies of the Queen’s Ruby. Finn. And Miss Finch. Their faith in us—it’s sewn into the linings of our coats, rolled into every powder cartridge. And it’s in every beat of our hearts. We will not let them down.”

He looked from one solemn, determined face to the other, making eye contact with every last one of his men. To Miss Taylor, he gave a smile.

“Vicar, say us a blessing, if you will.” Bowing his head, he muttered, “We’re going to need it.”

Between the catastrophe yesterday and the subsequent lack of sleep, Bram wasn’t sure how the men would perform. But despite his misgivings, the drill went surprisingly well. The wheel maneuvers that had given them such fits in recent weeks came off smoothly—even the backward one. There was a bit of a misstep with the obliques, due to Fosbury’s persistent confusion of right and left. But with the firings, they ended on a high note. Thanks to Susanna’s tutelage, the men fired in swift, impressive unison—by file and as a company.

As planned, they capped the display with a
feu de joie
. All the men lined up in a single file, loaded their muskets, and fired in quick succession—much like opera dancers rippling kicks down the line. The wave of smoke and fire swept from one end of the file to the other.

When it cleared, the crowd broke into cheers and applause.

Bram looked from man to man. He could only imagine that they, like he, were quietly bursting with pride and relief. Only one thing could make this moment brighter.

“Bram!”

And that was it. Susanna’s voice. She’d come. She was finally here, and she’d arrived in time to witness her friends’ triumph.

“Bram!” she called again. Her voice was breathless. She sounded as excited as he felt.

He dismounted his horse and whirled on his boot heel, searching the crowd for her.

There she was, standing in a ruined archway near the gate. The previous night’s trials had worn on her. She was pale, and shadows pooled under her eyes. Her hair was disheveled. Her Indian shawl drooped to the dirt. If someone had painted him this exact picture a year ago and said,
Someday, you will want to kiss this woman more than you want your next breath
. . . Bram would have laughed, and made some joke about artists and opium.

But today, it was the truth.

“Susanna.”

As he approached, she leaned against the stone arch. “
Bram
.”

“I’m sorry.” He had to get those words out first. “So sorry. I should never have said what I did. I shouldn’t have left. I was an idiot, and you did just the right thing for Finn. Thank you.”

She didn’t respond. Simply stood there in the doorway, looking pale and stunned. Was a ready apology from his quarter truly that much of a shock?

Perhaps it was. He
could
be a stubborn fool.

He took a few more slow steps in Susanna’s direction, stopping less than an arm’s length from where she stood. It was killing him, not to take her in his arms. “I should have come to Summerfield earlier, just to say that. But Miss Taylor said you’d wanted to see this through . . .” He motioned around at the festivities. “Everyone’s worked so hard, and . . . And they did it all for you, Susanna. It went brilliantly, and it was all for you.”

She swallowed hard and pressed a hand to her side. She was silent for so long, he began to worry.

For good reason, apparently.

“Bram, I—” Her eyes went wide, and she drew a sharp, gasping breath. Where she clutched her side, her knuckles went white. “Bram, I feel so strange.”

“Susanna?”

It was a fortunate thing he’d come within an arm’s length of her. Because when she collapsed, he had only an instant to break her fall.

Twenty-eight

S
usanna loathed being ill. Absolutely despised and feared this sense of being out of control of her own body. And this . . . episode, or illness, or whatever it was . . . was worse than anything she’d felt in years.

The discomfort had been coming on all night, but it had worsened sharply after she’d left Summerfield. At one point, she’d stopped to sit by the side of the road, uncertain whether her feet could even carry her forward. But then she’d heard the sounds of the review floating down to her. Drumbeats, rifles firing in unison.

Bram.

Encouraged by the sounds, she’d somehow managed to gain her feet and stumble the rest of the distance up the path. But once she reached the archway, she couldn’t take one more step.

She couldn’t breathe. Her chest hurt, so very much. She’d forgotten this kind of pain existed. Pain that seemed a tangible entity all its own. A monstrous thing, made of sharp edges and bright colors.

But Bram was there. And despite his angry words at their parting, he
had
managed to look at her again. With a smile and apologies, even. His arms were around her, and his soothing whispers stroked away some of her fear.

“It’s all right, love. It’s all right. Just rest and let me help.”

They carried her beneath a canopy and laid her on the ground. Cool grass and springy turf crushed beneath her weight. She opened her eyes. The slanting patterns of the canopy’s striped canvas both amazed and overwhelmed her.

This couldn’t be real. She couldn’t be
dying
. Not now.

But perhaps she was. She heard people discussing her. That’s what people did, when they thought you were dying.
Discuss
you, while standing right nearby. She’d been through this before.

“Poor Miss Finch. What’s happened?”

“Perhaps she’s just overtired. It was a hellish night.”

“Miss Finch, overtired? I can’t believe that, not her. She’s too strong.”

Well, if she had to die, at least it would be here—in her beloved castle, with Bram at her side, surrounded by so many people she loved. She could feel their concern, wrapping around her like warm cotton wool.

“I’m a surgeon,” some newcomer said. He spoke with a Northern accent. “If you’d all clear out, I’d like to have a look.”

Oh God. Not a surgeon. Bram’s heat receded, and she clutched at his hand.
Don’t leave me.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Last night,” she forced out, squeezing his hand. Every breath was pure, stabbing pain, made worse by how hard she had to fight for the torturous privilege. “By the stables, I . . . fell.” Another painful gasp. “My ribs, I think.”

“Her ribs,” Bram said. “She says it’s her ribs.”

“Let me have a look, then.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a black leather satchel being opened. The very image made her want to scream. Nothing good came out of those satchels. Only pain, and more pain.

Someone cut, then tore her bodice into two halves. She felt so exposed. The instinct to struggle seized her.

“Be calm, love. Be calm.” Bram stroked her hair. “This is Daniels. He’s a friend of mine, and a brilliant field surgeon. He’s the one who saved my leg. You can trust him. I do.”

You can trust him.
No, she didn’t think she could. She tried to stay calm, drawing quick, shallow breaths as this Mr. Daniels listened and prodded and assessed. All the while, panic raced through her veins.

“You say you suffered some injury to your ribs, miss?”

She nodded. “Last night.”

“But at the time, the pain wasn’t this severe.”

She shook her head.

“What’s wrong with her?” Bram asked.

“Well, if you want my guess . . .”

“No, I don’t want your guess,” Bram said angrily. “I want the damned answer.”

Mr. Daniels was unruffled by this outburst, which gave Susanna some reassurance. He and Bram truly must be close friends.

“I am certain,” said Daniels patiently, “she has broken some ribs. But broken ribs alone should not cause this sort of difficulty and pain. Not suddenly, after so many hours. But if she’s been going about physical activity since the initial wound, the broken bones may have caused her some bleeding, inside. Over the hours, the blood has been gathering inside her chest with no outlet. Now it’s pressing on her lungs and making it difficult for her to breathe. It’s called a hemo—”

“—thorax,” Susanna finished. Hemothorax. Yes, she thought grimly. She’d read about that. It made perfect sense.

“Ah,” said the doctor, in a tone of surprise. “So the patient is both lovely and clever.”

“She’s also mine,” Bram growled. “Don’t get any ideas. She’s mine.”

Susanna squeezed his hand. That sort of talk was so medieval and possessive. And she loved him for it.

“Yes, well.” Daniels cleared his throat and reached for his satchel. “The good news is, this is all too common on the battlefield.”

“How on earth is that good news?” Bram asked.

“Let me rephrase. The good news is, I’ve seen this many times, and there’s a simple cure. It’s a newer, controversial treatment. But I’ve used it in the field, with great success. All we need to do is drain the blood from her chest, and the condition will resolve.”

“No.” Wild with fear, she struggled to make the words. “Bram, no. Don’t . . . don’t let him bleed me.”

“You can’t bleed her,” he said. “She had too much of that in her youth, and it nearly did her in.” He turned her wrist scars-up for the surgeon’s view.

“So I see.”

And then Mr. Daniels did the truly astonishing. Something none of those doctors or surgeons in her youth had ever done. He crouched at her shoulder, where she could look him in the eye. And then he talked
to
her, not
about
her. As if she had a brain of her own, and full control over her own body.

“Miss Finch, if I can say it without risking a thumping from Bramwell here, you strike me as a very intelligent woman. I hope you will understand and believe me then, when I tell you this is no quack bloodletting. The pressure in your chest is unlikely to resolve on its own. If we do nothing, there is a good chance you’ll die. Of course, there’s always the risk of infection with such a procedure. But you’re young and strong. I like your chances against a fever better than I like your chances against this.” He thumped lightly on her distended chest, and it sounded strangely dull. “I won’t do anything without your agreement, however.”

Susanna regarded him with keen appraisal. He was young, it seemed. Scarcely older than she. His hair was unruly, but his eyes were calm and intelligent. Still, on this short acquaintance, she didn’t know that she could bring herself to trust any man who carried one of those horrific black satchels.

But there was someone else. Someone she could always trust to protect her.

She looked to Bram. “Do you . . . trust him . . . with my life?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then . . .” She pressed his hand and sucked another painful breath through a rapidly narrowing straw. “I trust you.
Love
you.” She needed to say that, once more.

Relief washed over his face. “Do it,” Bram told his friend.

She could bear this. So long as it was her choice, and Bram was beside her . . . she could bear anything.

Or so she thought, until she glimpsed the silver gleam of a blade, pressed against her pale skin. The sight made her recoil in horror. Her whole body flinched.

Daniels lifted the scalpel. “Where is that blacksmith? We may have to restrain her.”

No. Please God, no.
All the nightmarish memories came rushing back. The footmen, pinning her to the bed. The sharp fire of the lancet against her wrist.

“No,” Bram said firmly. “No restraints. No one touches her but me.” He turned her head to face him. “Don’t look at what he’s doing. Only look at me.”

She obeyed, skimming her gaze over the handsome features of his face and letting herself sink into those familiar jade-green eyes.

He interlaced his fingers with hers. With the other hand, he stroked her hair. So tenderly.

“Now listen to me, Susanna. Do you remember that first night we met in the cove? I can refresh your memory, if need be. You were wearing that horrid bathing costume, and I was wearing a medieval torture device.”

She smiled. Only he could make her smile at a time like this.

“That night, you suggested we make some promises to each other. Well, we’re going to make them now. I’m going to promise not to leave. And you’re going to promise not to die. All right?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

“I promise to stay at your side,” he said, “until this is all over. And for the lifetime after that. Now, make your promise to me.” His eyes glistened, and his voice was rough with emotion. “Promise me, Susanna. Tell me you won’t die. I can’t go on without you, love.”

She gritted her teeth, and managed a tiny nod.

Then the blade pierced her. And if there’d been any air left in her lungs, she would have screamed.

The pain was like fire. Burning and intense. But relief followed swiftly, like a quenching rain.

That first rush of air into her lungs . . . she was dizzied by it, turned upside-down. The world narrowed, and she felt as though she’d stumbled into a deep, dark well. As she fell down and down, she heard distant voices. Bram’s. The surgeon’s.

“I believe she’s gone unconscious.”

“Perhaps that’s a mercy.”

Yes, she thought, swirling and tumbling into the darkness.

Yes, it was a mercy indeed.