A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(107)

“Recovering well, Daniels tells me. He’s in a great deal of pain, but it’s mitigated by a great deal of female attention.”

She smiled. “I can imagine. What day is it?”

He rubbed his face with one hand. “Tuesday, I think.”

Tuesday. There was something important about Tuesday.

“Oh no.” She pushed herself up on the pillows, wincing. “Bram, your orders. The ship. I thought it left today.”

He shrugged. “It probably did.”

“But . . . you didn’t leave.”

“You didn’t die.” Finally, he smiled a little. “One kept promise deserves another.”

He sat there, at her bedside, unmoving. As he likely had remained for days now. And she lay there, gazing at him in the warm light of day—his hair askew, shirt rumpled, jaw unshaven, and eyes rimmed with red. Only a man could be so unkempt and manage to look more endearingly handsome than ever.

“Goodness,” she said with sudden horror. She reached up with one hand to investigate her hair. Just as she’d feared, she found it a hopeless tangle. And after all those days of illness—the blood loss, fever . . . “I must look a perfect fright.”

“Are you mad? Susanna, you’re alive and awake. You’re the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

She pressed her cracked lips together. “Then why don’t you touch me? Hold me?”

“It’s not for lack of wanting to.” He reached one hand toward her face, then hesitated for a moment—before finally brushing a single fingertip down her cheek. “Love, you have at least three cracked ribs and a chest wound. I’m not permitted to hold you. In fact, Daniels put me under strict orders if you awoke. I’m not to hold you, kiss you, touch you. I’m not to make you laugh, make you cry, make you angry, or excite your emotions in any way. Which means”—he inched his chair closer to the head of the bed—“that if we’re going to talk at all right now . . .”

“Of course we are.”

“. . . we have to make this a very calm, completely dispassionate conversation.”

She nodded, making her tone serious. “I can do that.”

“You see . . .” He tenderly clasped her hand. “I have a question to ask Miss Finch.”

“Oh.” She adopted a formal tone. “And what would that question be, Lord Rycliff?”

“I’m wondering if you, Miss Finch, with your keen eye and discerning taste, would be so good as to help me choose some fabrics for upholstery.”

She blinked at him. “Upholstery?”

He nodded. “I think it would be a safe enough occupation for you, while you convalesce. I’ll have some samples sent over.”

“Very well,” she said slowly. “Is that all you mean to ask of me?”

“No. Of course not. If all goes well and your recovery permits, by next week perhaps you can advance to draperies.”

“Draperies.” She narrowed her eyes. “Bram, I know you’ve been forbidden to provoke me. But did Mr. Daniels say nothing about the dangers of confusing me?”

“I’ll start again.” He paused, staring down at their linked hands. “I’ve written to my superiors.”

“About upholstery? Or draperies?”

“Neither. About my commission.”

She gasped. “Bram, you didn’t. You didn’t resign.”

“Hush,” he warned, squeezing her fingers. “Very calm, completely dispassionate. Remember?”

She nodded, pausing to draw a cautious breath.

“I didn’t resign.” His thumb traced a circle on the back of her hand. “I accepted a promotion I was offered some time ago. I’ll be assigned to the War Office, making sure the infantry regiments have the supplies they need at the front. It’s not field command, but it’s important work.”

“It is. Oh, and you’ll be brilliant at it. You’ve spent so much time at the front. Who knows better than you what they need?”

“There will be some travel involved. But for the most part, I’ll be working in Town. So I’ll need a house there, I suppose. I’ve never bought a house before. When you’re well, I’m hoping you’d help me choose one. And then, I was hoping you’d help me make it a proper home. You know, with upholstery. And draperies. And . . . perhaps babies, eventually.”

“Oh. Babies.” A helpless giggle rose in her throat. “Do you plan to send over samples of those?”

“Don’t laugh.” He shushed her, putting a hand to her shoulder to keep her still. “Don’t laugh.”

“I can’t help it.” She stifled the impulse as best she could. Then, with a trembling hand, she wiped tears from her eyes.

Panic overtook his expression. “Bloody hell. Now you’re crying. Daniels will kill me.”

“It’s fine,” she assured him. “It’s fine. The laughter, the tears . . . they’re worth any pain. I’m so happy. Just miserably, painfully full of joy.”

His dark eyebrows lowered, and beneath them his eyes went very grave. “You”—he squeezed her hand in both of his—“gave me the scare of a lifetime.”

“I was frightened, too,” she admitted. “But you helped me through it. And here we are. If we can survive that, I imagine we can come through anything.”