A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)

A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1) Page 12

“Here I am. Because I won’t be treated this way, do you see? And I won’t let you terrorize my friends, either. Despite the awkwardness of our initial meeting, I have tried to be friendly. You, on the other hand, have been a perfect beast. The way you spoke to me last night. The way you behaved down in the tea shop. Even right now, this moment . . . I can tell by your gruff tone and that stern posture you mean to seem intimidating. But look.” She gestured at the lamb. “Not even Dinner is frightened. I’m not, either.”

“Then you’re fools, the two of you. I could make a meal of you both.”

She shook her head, stepping toward him. “I don’t think so. I know you didn’t expect to take up residence here, but people always come to Spindle Cove to get well. If I may say it, Lord Rycliff, I think you’re hurting. You’re like a great shaggy lion with a nettle in its paw. Once it’s plucked, your good humor will be restored.”

A prolonged pause ensued.

One dark brow quirked. “You mean to pluck my nettle?”

Flushing with heat, she bit her lip. “Not in so many words.”

With a hollow chuckle, he stepped back, pushing a hand through his hair. “You need to leave. We can’t have this discussion.”

“Is it so very painful?” she asked, in a quiet voice. “Are you haunted by some tragedy? Did the ravages of war embitter you toward your fellow man?”

“No.” He wiped the powder measure clean and banged it on a shelf. “And no, and no. The only thing paining me right now”—he turned—“is you.”

“Me?” Her breath caught. “That’s ridiculous. I’m not a nettle.”

“Oh no. You’re something far, far worse.”

“A burr?” she said helpfully. “A thistle perhaps? Roses have thorns, but I don’t possess the right sort of beauty for that comparison.” When he didn’t laugh, she said, “Lord Rycliff, I fail to see how I’m causing you any problems.”

“Let me explain for you, then.” He spoke low and even. “I ought to be headed for Spain right now, on the way to rejoin my regiment. Instead, I have an earldom I didn’t ask for, a castle I don’t want, and a cousin determined to drive me mad, insolvent, or both. But your father’s given me a chance to move on, leave it all behind. The only thing I need do is gather two dozen local men—equip them, arm them, and drill them into a respectable militia. Easy enough task, in a month’s time. Almost insulting in its simplicity.” He raised a single finger. “But there’s a snag, isn’t there? There are no local men. No real men, at any rate. Just spinsters and teacakes and poetry.”

“There are men here. And if you need any help rounding them up, you only have to ask.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” He chuckled. “ ‘Ask Miss Finch.’ Do you know how many times I heard those words this morning?”

She shook her head.

“More than I care to count.” He began circling her with slow, heavy steps. “When I asked the Bright twins if there are seamstresses in the neighborhood, to sew uniforms . . . They said, ‘Ask Miss Finch.’ When I inquired with the smith where I might find stonemasons to do some work here at the castle . . . Well, Miss Finch would know that too. Ask her.” He walked on. “Where do I find the parish register, for a list of all the local families? Well, your dandified vicar tells me, Miss Finch has been doing a study of the local birth records, and I will have to inquire with her. Ask. Miss. Finch. There’s no escaping you. It’s like you have the whole village playing some ceaseless round of Mother, May I.”

Susanna squared her shoulders as he completed his circle and came to stand before her—a fraction too close. The intensity in his eyes told her he meant to draw closer still.

No, you may not, she silently willed. You may not take two steps forward.

He took them anyway.

“I try to be helpful,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with that. And it’s natural the villagers show me a certain deference, out of respect for my father. He is the local gentleman of rank.”

“Your father is the local gentleman of rank?” He stood tall. “Well, now. I happen to be the local lord.”

“Oh,” she said, smiling with relief. “Now I understand. Your pride is wounded. That’s your problem. Yes, I can see how that would be disappointing, to be given the title and feel so little influence with the local residents. But with time, I’m sure the villagers—”

He shook his head. “My pride’s not wounded, for God’s sake. And no, I’m not disappointed. Nor haunted, nor embittered, nor threatened. Stop trying to pin all these emotions on me like frilly pink ribbons. I’m not one of your delicate spinsters, Miss Finch. This isn’t about my tender feelings. I have things to accomplish, and you”—he poked a single finger into her shoulder—“are hindering me.”

“Lord Rycliff,” she said carefully, “you are touching me.”

“Yes, I am. And I didn’t even ask. You see, I’m not going to ask Miss Finch anything. I’m going to tell her to stay far clear.” The pressure of his fingertip bit into her shoulder. “You are my problem, Miss Finch. No, you’re not a nettle, or a burr, or a delicate blossom of any kind. You’re a goddamned powder keg, and every time I draw near you, we start throwing off sparks.”

“I . . . I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh yes, you do.” He fingered the lacy edge of her cap sleeve, then slid a caress down her arm.

She was helpless to suppress a little shiver of pleasure.

He groaned deep in his chest. “See? You’re full to bursting with passion. You may think you have it tightly capped and contained. Hidden from everyone, even yourself. Perhaps the pathetic souls who pass for men in that village are too cowed by your modern ideals to notice. But I only have to look at you, and I see it all. That core of dark, explosive potential, held together with just a bit of ribbon and lace.” His voice deepened as his gaze wandered down her body. “I’m a damned fool to even be touching you, but I can’t bring myself to stop.”

His touch traced the edge of her elbow-length glove, skimming along the delicate border where satin met skin. Sensation rushed through her entire body, lifting the hairs on the back of her neck. She thought of those creases in his palms, still limned with gunpowder. So perilous. His caresses made her feel shaken, rearranged.

Just a little dirty.

“Do you understand now?” he said, keeping up his bold caress. “This is dangerous. You’ll leave straightaway, if you know what’s best.”

Leave? She couldn’t move. Her body was so busy responding to his, it wouldn’t spare a moment to heed her own commands. Her breath quickened. A strange ache grew in her breasts. Her heart thundered wildly, and a matching pulse beat at the juncture of her thighs.

“I know what you’re doing.” She lifted her chin. “You’re just trying to change an unpleasant conversation. I said you’re in pain, and I’ve piqued your pride. Why own up to possessing feelings, when it’s much more manly to be loutish and crude? If you’re hoping to push me away, it won’t work.”

“Won’t it?” He propped a single finger under her chin. “This did the trick before.”

He dipped his head, and his lips brushed hers.

Sparks. She could have sworn she saw them, swarming bright and orange. Pinprick heat branded her skin.

“What of this?” he asked. Another kiss. “Or this, perhaps.”

His mouth moved over hers, teasing her with a series of brief, bruising kisses. There was meaning behind those kisses, so commanding and firm. They were like little words in . . . in German, or Dutch. One of those languages she really ought to know, but had never taken the trouble to learn. And now she was left frustrated, uncertain how to respond. Were they accusations? Warnings? Desperate pleas for something more?

Whatever sort of argument they were having, she knew one thing.

She could not let him win.

She made herself tall, pressed back at his aggressive mouth with little kisses of her own. In both hands, she gathered great fistfuls of his warm lawn shirt, as if she could shake some sense into the impossible man. Or maybe just to keep from falling, as the dizzying sensations rocketed through her body. Exhilaration lifted her stomach and set her heart floating loose in her chest.

When the kisses ended, she met his gaze, rather proud of herself for not dissolving on the spot. Despite the complete upheaval of her senses, she tried to appear worldly and composed. As if this sort of thing happened to her regularly, in the course of normal interaction. As if she often stood toe-to-toe with an enormous, virile, unshaven man in a room full of explosives, feeling these lethal sparks of attraction fly around and between them. And her breasts were just always grazing against a hard wall of muscled chest, her nipples drawing to taut, needy peaks out of mundane habit. Completely expected, regularly scheduled arousal.

“Well?” he asked. “Have I made my point? Are you leaving now?”

“I’m so sorry to disappoint you,” she said, breathing hard. “But it would take far more than that to scare me.”

A quick flex of his arms, and their bodies collided. And he whispered, just as his mouth fell on hers, “God, I was hoping you’d say that.”

Eight

This kiss could be the end, Bram knew. He was foolishly, thoroughly kissing Miss Susanna Finch, clutching her slender body to his while he reveled in the faint currant spice of her lips, and this could be the end of everything. The end of all his plans, his military career. Perhaps the end of him, full stop.

And if that was the case, and he’d impulsively gambled his entire future on a forbidden kiss . . .

He might as well slow down and do the thing right.

He let his mouth linger over hers. She hadn’t been kissed much. At least, not properly. He could tell in the way she was struggling to respond. She was unschooled, but she showed great natural aptitude.

He cradled her neck in one hand. “Softly, love. Let me show you.”

He teased his lips over hers, brushing from bottom to top. Then again. And then once more, persuading her lips to part. She startled at the first touch of his tongue, but he held her tight until the instinct passed. And then he tasted her. The slow, sweet slide of his tongue against hers had him growling with satisfaction.

Yes, he told her without words. Yes. Again.

From their first meeting, he’d suspected this woman to be a temptress in a teapot, and she was proving him right with every tentative stroke of her tongue against his. Her inexperience only made the whole business sweeter. The way she clutched his shirt, chased his teasing tongue, slid her gloved finger along the edge of his unshaven jaw . . . She was inventing these small intimacies as she went, acting out of pure, untutored desire. These weren’t practiced motions, honed on other men.

They were only for him.

He deepened the kiss, keeping his rhythm steady and sure. Each time taking just a little more, delving just a fraction deeper. The same way he would make love to her.

No sooner had the thought surfaced in his mind, than he seized on it. He had to make love to her. Someday. Not today. Today, she was only learning to kiss. She wasn’t ready.

Bram, by contrast, was ready indeed. Ready, willing, and able. In a mindless, instinctive motion, he pulled her snug against his aching groin. If she could feel the abundant evidence of his arousal, she didn’t shy away. Her breasts eased warm and soft against his chest as she leaned into the kiss.

Bending his head, he kissed her throat, her ear, losing himself in the scent of her. Her skin smelled of herbs, and she tasted . . . like a memory. A memory of a long-ago summer’s day. Warm sun. Cool, crisp water. Tall grass and a gentle breeze. Everything good and real and fresh. Even her name was a whimsical song.