A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(14)

“I’m not a militiaman,” Payne said. “And I don’t camp.”

Susanna would guess he didn’t. Not in those fine boots, at least.

“Well, you camp now,” Rycliff said. “And you’re a militiaman now, as well.”

“Oh no. Think again, Bram. You’re not pulling me into your tin soldier brigade.”

“I’m not leaving you a choice. You need to learn some discipline, and this is the perfect opportunity.” He cast a glance around. “Since you’re so fond of setting blazes, see if you can start a fire.”

Susanna put a hand on Rycliff’s sleeve, hoping to claim his attention.

She got it. His full, unwavering attention. His intent gaze ranged over her face, searching out her every feature and flaw.

“Forgive the interruption,” she said, releasing his sleeve. “But surely camping isn’t necessary. My father may not have made the express invitation as yet, but I’m certain he intends to offer you lodging at Summerfield.”

“Then give your father my thanks. But I will respectfully decline.”

“Why?”

“I’m meant to be defending the coast. Difficult to do that from a mile inland.”

“But my lord, you do understand this militia business is all for show? My father’s not truly concerned about an invasion.”

“Perhaps he should be.” He glanced at his cousin, who was currently snapping dead branches from an ivy-covered wall. With a tilt of his head, Rycliff drew her aside. “Miss Finch, it’s not wise for officers to quarter in the same house with an unmarried gentlewoman. Have a care for your reputation, if your father does not.”

“Have a care for my reputation?” She had to laugh. Then she lowered her voice. “This, from the man who flattened me in the road and kissed me without leave?”

“Precisely.” His eyes darkened.

His meaning washed over her in a wave of hot, sensual awareness. Surely he wasn’t implying . . .

No. He wasn’t implying at all. Those hard jade eyes were giving her a straightforward message, and he underscored it with a slight flex of his massive arms: I am every bit as dangerous as you suppose. If not more so.

“Take your kind invitation and run home with it. When soldiers and maids live under the same roof, things happen. And if you happened to find yourself under me again . . .” His hungry gaze raked her body. “You wouldn’t escape so easily.”

She gasped. “You are a beast.”

“Just a man, Miss Finch. Just a man.”

Four

Bram told himself he was looking out for Miss Finch’s safety as he watched her picking her way down the rocky slope. He told himself a lie. In truth, he was utterly entranced by her figure in retreat, the way her curves gave a saucy little bounce with each downward step.

He would dream of those br**sts tonight. How they’d felt trapped beneath him, so soft and warm.

Blast. This day had not gone as planned. By this time, he was supposed to be well on his way to the Brighton Barracks, preparing to leave for Portugal and rejoin the war. Instead, he was . . . an earl, suddenly. Stuck at this ruined castle, having pledged to undertake the military equivalent of teaching nursery school. And to make it all worse, he was plagued with lust for a woman he couldn’t have. Couldn’t even touch, if he ever wanted his command back.

As if he sensed Bram’s predicament, Colin started to laugh.

“What’s so amusing?”

“Only that you’ve been played for a greater fool than you realize. Didn’t you hear them earlier? This is Spindle Cove, Bram. Spindle. Cove.”

“You keep saying that like I should know the name. I don’t.”

“You really must get around to the clubs. Allow me to enlighten you. Spindle Cove—or Spinster Cove, as we call it—is a seaside holiday village. Good families send their fragile-flower daughters here for the restorative sea air. Or whenever they don’t know what else to do with them. My friend Carstairs sent his sister here last summer, when she grew too fond of the stable boy.”

“And so . . . ?”

“And so, your little militia plan? Doomed before it even starts. Families send their daughters and wards here because it’s safe. It’s safe because there are no men. That’s why they call it Spinster Cove.”

“There have to be men. There’s no such thing as a village with no men.”

“Well, there may be a few servants and tradesmen. An odd soul or two down there with a shriveled twig and a couple of currants dangling between his legs. But there aren’t any real men. Carstairs told us all about it. He couldn’t believe what he found when he came to fetch his sister. The women here are man-eaters.”

Bram was scarcely paying attention. He focused his gaze to catch the last glimpses of Miss Finch as her figure receded into the distance. She was like a sunset all to herself, her molten bronze hair aglow as she sank beneath the bluff’s horizon. Fiery. Brilliant. When she disappeared, he felt instantly cooler.

And then, only then, did he turn to his yammering cousin. “What were you saying?”

“We have to get out of here, Bram. Before they take our bollocks and use them for pincushions.”

Bram made his way to the nearest wall and propped one shoulder against it, resting his knee. Damn, that climb had been steep. “Let me understand this,” he said, discreetly rubbing his aching thigh under the guise of brushing off loose dirt. “You’re suggesting we leave because the village is full of spinsters? Since when do you complain about an excess of women?”