A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(100)

Bram scrubbed a hand over his face, absorbing the censure. “Just shut up and ride.”

Joshua Daniels and Susanna Finch were two of the most intelligent people Bram had ever known. If the two of them agreed on something, that pretty well guaranteed Bram was wrong. Damn it all. If he hadn’t torn off in such a hurry, he likely would have come around to reason, eventually. But he’d gone a little mad at the idea of just standing by helpless, allowing Finn to be permanently lamed. Susanna was right; after all his own struggles to recover his strength, it had hit too close to home.

But Susanna was stubborn, he told himself. Headstrong and brave. She’d never listened to him when it didn’t suit her, so why should she start now? No matter what dire proclamations he’d made, surely she wouldn’t have heeded them. Not if Finn’s life hung in the balance. But then again, he’d told Thorne to use any means necessary to prevent an amputation. And Thorne had some formidable, ruthless means at his disposal.

Jesus Christ, what had he done?

Day was breaking as they rode over the crest and caught their first glimpse of Spindle Cove. His heart lurched at the sight. The charming little village, nestled snug in its valley. The ancient castle ruins, standing sentinel on the bluffs. The cove, calm and blue, studded with small fishing crafts. Warm, buttery sunlight melting over the ridge.

Susanna was right. He was lord of this quiet little nook of England, and there was pride in that. Spindle Cove had a claim on his honor and his heart. And for the first time in his life, Bram knew he had a true home. He could only hope she’d see fit to welcome him back.

They reached the smithy in a matter of minutes. He launched himself from the saddle the moment his gelding slowed to a walk. While the horses made good use of a nearby trough of rainwater, Bram led Daniels into the small, timber-framed building. They found the forge empty of all souls, save one. Finn Bright lay stretched on a long table in the center of the room, draped with linen from the neck down. Eyes closed.

The boy was as pale as the sheet that covered him. The smells of blood and singed flesh hung in the air. For a moment, Bram feared the worst had happened, and this new day would mean the boy’s death on his conscience.

“He’ll live.” Dawes stood in the opposite entry, filling the entire doorway. He looked to have recently bathed. Damp hair clung to his brow, and he was still pulling down a fresh shirt. “Provided he doesn’t go septic,” the man qualified, “he’ll live.”

“Thank God.” Bram sucked in a breath. “Thank God.”

He knew he tossed out that phrase all the time, but this time he meant it. He was really, truly thankful to God. And unsure how he’d ever repay the debt.

“But there was no saving his foot, my lord. The blast had done most of the work already. I just did my best to make it clean.”

“I understand. You did right.”

Bram stared down at the boy’s blood-drained, perspiring face. Fortunately, he looked to have been dosed with enough laudanum to take him beyond the pain. For now. When he woke, Finn would find himself in a vivid, burning hell. That much, Bram had experienced.

Clearing his throat, he introduced Daniels. “He’s a surgeon and a friend of mine. He’ll see to the boy from here.”

Daniels threw back the linen drape from Finn’s leg. Bram winced.

“It’s not pretty, but it ought to heal cleanly,” Daniels said, assessing the stump. “You do good work, Mr. Dawes.”

Dawes nodded his thanks, wiping his hands on a small towel. Bram looked past the man, to the cottage adjacent. A fair-haired woman was sleeping at the table, her head bent over an extended arm.

He walked toward Dawes, giving Daniels some space to examine the boy. “Is that Miss Highwood?”

Dawes shot a glance over his shoulder and exhaled roughly. “Yes.”

“What is she doing here?”

“Honestly, my lord? Damned if I know. But she’s been here all night, and all the screaming and blood in the world couldn’t persuade her to leave. Golden hair and an iron will, that one. Lord Payne’s gone to borrow Keane’s curricle, so he can drive her home.”

“What about Miss Finch? Where is she?”

“Lord Rycliff.” A thin, weak voice called to him. “Is that you?”

“Aye, Finn. It’s me.” Bram hurried back to the table and crouched at the boy’s eye level. “How are you feeling?”

Stupid question.

“S-s-sorry,” the wide-eyed lad scraped out. “My fault. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, no.” Guilt twisted in Bram’s chest. “You’re not to blame, Finn. It was an accident.” An accident that should have never occurred. “Don’t try to talk. There’ll be time enough for that later.”

He reached for the flask of whiskey in his breast pocket, with every intent of gifting it to Finn. The flask had nursed Bram through his own leg injury, and the youth had earned his right to drink like a man. But then he thought better of the gift, considering the absent Mr. Bright’s struggles with liquor. He didn’t want to send the boy down the same troubled path.

He gave Finn a warm pat on the shoulder instead. “I know it’s hell, but you’ll come through it. You’re strong.”

“I’m worried,” Finn said through gritted teeth. “How am I to help Mum and Sally with the shop now?”