A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(101)

“In a hundred ways. We’ll see you fitted with the best false foot possible—no pirate peg leg. You’ll be walking and working again in no time. Or I’ll send you to school, if you like. There are plenty of ways for a man to be useful that don’t involve unloading crates.” Or marching into battle, he thought.

“Cor, school? But I couldn’t accept . . .”

“No arguments, Finn. I’m the lord, and this is my militia. I won’t let it be said my wounded men don’t have an excellent pension.”

“One good thing’s come of it.” With a weak flash of humor, Finn glanced in the direction of his amputated foot. “No one will ever confuse me with Rufus now, will they?”

“No.” A smile warmed Bram’s face. “No, they won’t. And I’ll tell you a secret. The ladies find a wounded soldier hopelessly romantic. They’ll be buzzing after you like honeybees.”

“Suppose they will. Rufus may have two feet, but I’m still the one what danced with Miss Charlotte. Twice.” He broke off, coughing.

Bram took the cup of water Dawes offered and held it to Finn’s lips, helping him lift his head to drink.

“Does my mother know?” the youth asked, reclining again with a wince.

“Yes,” Dawes said. “She was here earlier, during the surgery. But Sally and Rufus had to take her home, she was so overset.”

“I’ll take her word that you’re well and asking for her,” Bram said.

“Tell her to make certain little Daisy don’t bang on my drum.” The lad’s eyes flew open. “Cor. The review. It’s meant to be today, isn’t it?”

“Don’t you worry about that.”

“But how can the men march if I can’t drum?”

“They won’t,” Bram told him. “We’ll cancel the review.” Nothing lost there, really. After the revelation of Sir Lewis’s deceit, he knew the militia never had much purpose, aside from providing fanfare for a doomed cannon’s debut.

“But the review must go on,” Finn said. “Don’t call it off on my account. Everyone’s worked so hard.”

“Yes, but—”

With a grimace of pain, Finn struggled up on his elbow. “If the militia’s found lacking, Miss Finch said the ladies would be called home. They need this place, and my family’s store needs them. We’ve worked too hard to give up now, my lord. All of us . . .” He slumped back to the table, overtaxed by the effort of his speech.

“Rest, Finn.” Bram dragged a hand through his hair. Guilt consumed him. After all their hard work, he didn’t know how to tell the villagers the task had been rather meaningless all along. Just an exercise in bloated pride for a fool man.

Make that two fool men, if he included himself.

From outside the forge, hurried footsteps approached.

“You can’t do this.” That was Thorne’s voice, rough and low.

“Yes I can.” A female voice, drawing closer.

“Damn it, woman. I told you no.”

“Well, let’s see what Lord Rycliff has to say about it, shall we?”

The pair entered the smithy, and Bram’s jaw dropped.

“I tried to stop her,” Thorne said, throwing a gesture of disgust.

Her?

Her. Yes, of course. He recognized her easily by the port-wine birthmark at her temple. But in every other respect, Miss Kate Taylor was dressed the part of a drummer boy. With her petite height and her light, slender figure, she easily fit the militia uniform.

“What are you doing?” Bram asked. He waved at the red coat and buff breeches. “Whose are these?”

“Finn’s, of course,” she said. “I’m him today. You need a drummer, and I’m the only one who can stand in.”

“Miss Taylor, I can’t ask you to—”

“You haven’t asked me. I’ve offered.”

Thorne caught Bram’s eye. The man steeled his jaw. “No,” he said. “You can’t allow it.”

For more than five years, Thorne had served under Bram’s leadership. He’d been not only Bram’s right hand, but his right leg, when he’d needed one. And never—not once, in those five years of drilling, marching, digging, and fighting—had Thorne so much as hesitated to obey Bram’s smallest command. He’d certainly never issued one of his own.

Until today.

“We’re wasting time here,” Miss Taylor said, earnestly approaching him. “We have only a few hours to prepare for the drill, and you must let me join you. Unlike the other ladies here, I have no family, no guardian. Spindle Cove is my only home, and I want to help in any way I can. I didn’t do this for nothing.”

With a dramatic sweep, she doffed her tall, black shako headgear to reveal her hair. Or the lack of it. The girl had clipped her chestnut-brown locks to collar length, and pinned them back to imitate a boyish crop.

“Christ Almighty,” Thorne muttered. “What have you done to yourself?”

Miss Taylor touched a fingertip to her earlobe and bravely blinked tears from her eyes. “It will grow back. It’s only hair.”

It’s only hair.

Bram’s heart pinched in his chest. She reminded him so much of Susanna that day on the green, bravely offering her long, lovely hair if it meant keeping Finn and Rufus off the volunteer rolls. If only he’d listened to her.