A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(110)

Her gaze fixed on the ring stuck firmly at the second knuckle of his little finger. She gasped. “Goodness.”

She reached for it, but he teased her by holding the ring back. “Say you’re sorry for doubting me.”

The iris-blue hue of her eyes was sincerity itself. “I never doubted you, not for a second. I was merely impatient. Whether you go to the forge or to London or all the way to Portugal, Bram . . . I know you’ll come home to me.”

“Always.” He captured her lips in a kiss.

“Wait, wait,” she said, pushing away. “Ring first, kisses later.”

He harrumphed and muttered something about feminine priorities. He worked the ring loose from his own finger and slid it onto hers, where it rightly belonged. He loved the look of it there, snug and sparkling. “I thought you might like to have a ring made here, since we’ll be spending so much time in Town. This way, wherever we are, you’ll always carry a little piece of Spindle Cove with you.”

“Oh, Bram.” She blinked furiously, as though she were holding back tears. He hoped they were happy tears.

Suddenly unsure, he pointed out the ring’s features. “I had him use both gold and copper in the band, you see. Because your hair has both shades. And the sapphire reminded me of your eyes. Though your eyes are far more beautiful, of course.” God, this all sounded hopelessly stupid, voiced aloud. “I think Dawes did quality work with it. But if you’d prefer something finer, I can take you to a jeweler in Town or . . .”

She shushed him. “It’s perfect. I adore it. I adore you.”

Ring first, kisses later, she’d said. He claimed his forfeit now, taking her mouth in a deep, thorough, passionate kiss. Letting her know just how much he’d missed her, every minute of every hour of every day they’d been apart.

Some time later, she rested her head to his chest and gave a contented sigh. “Do you know what today is?”

“It’s Wednesday, Miss Finch.” He stroked her molten bronze hair. “But you’re not in the garden.”

She lifted her head. “I didn’t mean the day of the week. I meant, the significance of this particular day.”

He considered. “It’s . . . three days before our wedding?”

“What else?”

“Three days and two weeks before we move house to London.”

“Yes. And . . . ?”

Good Lord, what kind of devilish test was this? “I know. Three days and nine months before the birth of our first child.”

She laughed with surprise.

“What? I plan to be very industrious on our honeymoon. I hope you’re well rested, because you won’t be sleeping much that first week. You didn’t plan on seeing any of the sights in Kent, did you?”

They would be letting a country house for a blissful fortnight before moving to London. In Town, he’d arranged a temporary suite of rooms in the best neighborhood—just until Susanna could choose their house. He couldn’t wait to take her to London, as his wife. He looked forward to showing her more of the world, and watching Susanna come into her own.

“Today,” she informed him, “marks exactly six weeks since my injury. I am not only rested, but officially healed. And that means . . .” Her hand slid coyly down his chest, and she looked up at him through downcast lashes. “We don’t have to be careful anymore.”

Part of him leaped eagerly at her implication. He did his best to ignore it. “Susanna, you know it’s not a matter of how many days or weeks have passed.”

“Mr. Daniels paid a call two days ago. He says I’m cleared to engage in any and all activity.” One of her slender legs twined between his, and she pressed an openmouthed kiss to his ear. Her tongue skimmed the delicate ridge. “Guess which activity I’m most eager to resume?”

Now, that invitation he was powerless to ignore.

They kissed hungrily, giving and taking in turn. He filled his hands with her, relearning her body. Cupping and shaping her every luscious curve. Her fingers did some bold exploring of their own, and he moaned his encouragement.

But when she reached for the closures of his breeches fall, he stayed her hand. “Really,” he said, struggling for breath. “It’s only three more days. I can wait.”

“Well, I can’t. I’ve missed you so much. And I’m tired of playing the invalid. I want to feel alive again.”

A ragged sigh escaped him. How could he deny her that?

Arching her spine, she rubbed her body against his. She found his hand where he cupped her stockinged calf and drew his touch upward, past her knee and ribbon garter. All the way up to the silk of her bared thighs and the enticing heat between them.

He groaned. “God, I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She rolled her hips, pressing into his touch. “And I need you, Bram. So very badly.”

They worked quickly then, the two of them. United in purpose and urgency, pushing aside bothersome folds of buckskin and petticoat, until nothing came between them. Nothing at all. At last he slid into her, fitting himself into that tight, sweet place where he knew he belonged, forever.

“Yes,” she sighed, pulling him close.

It was very good to be home.

Afterword

Regency-era medicine was a bloody business. While doctors surely had good intentions to help their patients, very little was understood about the origins and spread of disease. The preferred treatments of the day—bleeding and purging—had little, if any, real benefit.