A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(103)

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

Susanna 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.