A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)

A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1) Page 18

Susanna worried. She’d agreed to keep her ladies apart from Bram’s men. The physical distance separating them at the moment didn’t allay her concerns. Being this far removed only made the ladies feel free to gawk and gossip.

“I recognize that bright green topcoat. That must be Mr. Keane.”

“You would think his sense of rhythm would be better, what with all the singing in church.”

An elbow dug into her side. “Lord Rycliff’s dismounting, look.”

Susanna resolved not to look.

“He’s taking the musket from one of them. Perhaps he means to show them himself just how it’s done.”

Susanna renewed her resolution not to look. The blades of grass beneath her fingertips were more interesting by far. And lo, here was a fascinating ant.

A female sigh. “What’s that small, fluffy thing trotting at his heels? Some kind of dog?”

Drat it, now she had to look. A broad smile stretched her cheeks. “No. That’s His Lordship’s pet lamb. The dear little thing follows him around. He’s named it Dinner.”

All the ladies laughed, and Susanna laughed with them, knowing how it would vex Bram to be teased. Odd—and a bit disconcerting—how she felt so confident predicting his reactions. For that matter, how she kept thinking of him as “Bram.”

“Oh!” In a gesture that strongly recalled her mother, Charlotte pressed a hand to her heart. “They’re removing their coats.”

“Not only their coats.”

As the ladies all sat gawping in silence, the men halted their exercise and removed first their coats, then their waistcoats and cravats.

“Why would they do that?” Charlotte asked.

“They’re working hard,” Diana replied. “Perhaps it’s warm down there.”

Kate laughed. “It’s growing warm up here, too.”

“It’s not the heat,” Susanna said, again surprised how easily she knew his mind. “Their coats are all different colors. Lord Rycliff wants them looking the same, so they’ll act in unison, too.”

Charlotte grabbed the spectacles from Minerva’s hand and lifted them to her own eyes. “Drat. I can’t make out anything.”

“Goose,” Minerva said, giving her little sister an affectionate shove. “I’m farsighted. Those only help with objects up close. And I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss over a few men in shirtsleeves, anyhow. From this distance, they’re just pale, fleshy blurs.”

Except for Bram. There was nothing undefined about his torso. Even from this distance, Susanna could clearly make out the linen-sheathed muscles of his shoulders and arms. She recalled their solid heat beneath her touch.

“We should be heading back to the village.” She rose to her feet, brushing grass from her skirts and folding her Indian shawl into a neat rectangle.

Violet objected, “But Miss Finch, we haven’t yet reached—”

“Miss Highwood is winded,” she clipped, in a tone that would brook no argument. “This is far enough for today.”

The ladies rose in silence, retying bonnet ribbons and preparing to walk home.

“What do you say, Miss Finch?” Kate smiled as the sound of feeble drumming resumed. “How many times do you suppose he’ll make them march that same line?”

Susanna could not have given Kate a number, but she knew the answer just the same.

“Until they do it right.”

“They’ll never get this right,” Thorne muttered. “Bloody hopeless, all of them.”

Bram swore under his breath. For God’s sake, he’d spent all day yesterday just trying to teach these men to march in a straight line. When they mustered on Tuesday morning, he’d decided to make the task even simpler. No strict formations—just marching in time across open land. Left, right, left.

But marching in time was easier with a drummer who could drum in time, and Finn Bright seemed to have been born without a sense of rhythm. Say nothing of Rufus’s ear-stabbing squawks on the fife.

Despite all this, somehow they’d managed to cover the crescent of high ground between Rycliff Castle and the steep cliffs marking the other end of the cove.

“Put them at ease,” he directed Thorne. “See if they can manage to just . . . stand there for a while, without falling on their arses.”

Bram would have fallen on his own saber before admitting it, but he was the one who needed a rest. He looked out across the cove. Perched on the arm of land opposite, sat the castle. So close, if one measured as the gulls flew, but a rather long march back. Blast it, he should have brought his horse.

“So that’s the spindle, I take it?” Colin squinted at a column of rocks punctuating the inlet. The formation was tall and roundish, with a knobby sandstone top.

“I suppose.”

Colin snorted. “Proof positive that this place was named by dried-up old maids. No man—hell, no woman with a lick of experience—would ever look at that and call it a spindle.”

Bram released a slow breath. He had no patience for his cousin’s adolescent humor today. The sun was warm on his back. The sky and sea were having a contest to out-blue each other. Wisps of white dotted both, sea foam mirroring the clouds. Watching the gulls soar on the wind, he felt his heart pulling against its tether, floating in his chest. The water looked cool and inviting, buoyant.

And his knee felt like a collection of glass shards, encased in flesh. Never in the eight months since his injury had he walked this far without his brace. He shouldn’t need the brace anymore, damn it. What was a mile or three across the fields, anyhow?

Tell that to his ligaments. His whole leg throbbed with fiery pain, and he wasn’t sure at all how he’d make it back to the castle. But he would. He would lead them all the way home, and never betray a wince.

The pain was good, Bram told himself. The pain would make him stronger. Next time, he would push himself a bit farther, and it would hurt a bit less.

A bright flutter down in the cove caught his eye. “What’s that?”

“Well, I am growing dangerously out of practice,” Colin answered. “But they look like ladies to me.”

His cousin was right. The ladies—and Bram was certain he recognized Susanna Finch’s tall, slender form among them—were picking their way along the shore. They paused as a group, removing their bonnets and wraps and draping them on the branches of a twisted, scrubby tree. As their headwear came off, Bram caught a glimpse of golden-red flame, and desire kindled to life inside him. He’d know that hair anywhere. It had played a rather vivid role in his dreams last night.

As they reached the shingle beach, the ladies disappeared from view. The curve of the inlet guarded them.

“What do you suppose they’re doing?” Colin asked.

“It’s Tuesday,” Bram said. “They’re sea bathing.” Mondays are country walks. Tuesday, sea bathing. Wednesday, we’re in the garden . . . That promise of gardening gave him hope. God, perhaps tomorrow he’d finally have a chance of escaping Susanna Finch and her maddening sensual distractions. As if it weren’t bad enough watching her climb the hillside yesterday, now he had to suffer the knowledge that somewhere not too far below, she’d soon be wet to the skin.

The Bright twins set aside the drum and fife and joined them at the edge of the cliff.

“It’s no use craning your necks from here,” Rufus said. “They’re well hidden when they change into their bathing costumes.”

“Bathing costumes?” Bram snorted. “Leave it to Englishwomen to civilize the ocean.”

“If you want a better view, the best place to peek is down the ridge a bit,” Finn said, gesturing toward the tapering point of land. When Bram raised an eyebrow, the boy’s cheeks flushed red. “Or so I hear. From Rufus.”

His twin gave him an elbow to the side.

By now the rest of the men had gathered, clustering around the edge of the bluff.

“Tell me about this path,” Bram said.

“Just there.” Finn pointed. “Steps, cut into the sandstone by pirates in our grandfather’s day. Once was, at low tide you could climb all the way from sea to bluff. The path’s eroded now. Breaks off halfway. But follow it down a bit, and you have the best view into the cove.”

Bram frowned. “You’re certain no one could climb up this way? If spies or smugglers learned of it, this path could present a true risk.” He turned to the fishermen volunteers. “Are your boats available? I’d like to have a look at these bluffs from the water.”

The vicar rushed to his side. “Oh, but my lord—”

“But what, Mr. Keane? It’s a fine enough day. High tide.”

“The ladies have their sea bathing, my lord.” Keane wiped his reddened face with his sleeve. “Miss Finch wouldn’t like the intrusion.”

Bram huffed an impatient sigh. “Mr. Keane. The purpose of this militia is to protect Miss Finch—and all denizens of Spindle Cove—from unwanted intrusions. What if a French frigate sailed into view this moment, setting course for this cove? Or an American privateer? Do you think they’ll hold off on invading merely because it’s Tuesday? Are you going to postpone fighting them, simply because the ladies have their sea bathing?”

The blacksmith scratched his neck. “If any ship’s stupid enough to set course for this cove, we’ll all sit back and watch the rocks chew her up.”

“There aren’t so many rocks right here.” Bram looked over the edge. In the patch of aquamarine water directly below them, very few boulders littered the surface. A decent-sized rowboat could make its way right up to the bluff’s edge.

“Anyway,” Fosbury said, “there’s no French frigate on the horizon today. Nor any American privateers. We’ll leave the ladies to their privacy.”

“Privacy?” Bram echoed. “What privacy? You’re all standing up here leering at them while they flip and float like mermaids.”

Of course, he was no better than the rest. They all stood in silence for a long minute, as one by one the ladies took to the water, rapidly submerging themselves up to their chins in the sea. He counted them. One, two, three little spinsters . . . All the way up to eleven, and Miss Finch—with her unmistakable head of hair—made twelve.

By God, Bram would welcome a swim right now. He could all but feel the water surrounding him, cool and sensuous. He could all but see Susanna in his mind’s eye, swimming alongside him. Stripped to a wet, translucent shift and wreathed with that glorious, unbound hair. She lay in the shallows, tracing lazy circles with her arms while foamy waves lapped at her breasts.

Focus, Bramwell.

Milk-white breasts, just the perfect size for his hands. Tipped with pert, rosy nipples.

Focus on something else, you addled fool.

Lowering his weight to a nearby boulder, he began working loose his boots. Once he had them both off, he rolled his sleeves to the elbow. Clad only in breeches and shirt, Bram walked to the extreme end of the rocky ridge where it jutted out over the sea, gripping the sandstone surface with his bare toes.

“Wait,” Colin said. “Just what are you doing? I know this militia isn’t going how you’d planned, and the only thing this set of pathetic souls have in common is shriveled, pathetic sets of their own. But surely matters aren’t that dire.”

Bram rolled his eyes at his cousin. “I’m just having a look at this path for myself. Since the thought of a rowboat survey has everyone in such a tizzy.”

“I’m not in a tizzy,” Colin said. “But I’m not stupid enough to go walking that cliff’s edge, either.”

“Good. I think we could use some time apart.” Bram walked out as far as he could and investigated. As Finn and Rufus had told him, the cut-stone steps descended a ways down the bluff before crumbling into nothingness. No one could ascend this cliff face without the help of ropes and pulleys. Maybe wings.