A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(24)

She swallowed hard. From across a room, Thorne was an intimidating presence. Up close, he was terrifying. But Susanna’s anger and curiosity were too greatly piqued. Together, they overrode all sense of etiquette or caution.

“What’s the matter with that man?” she asked the corporal.

His eyes hardened.

“That man.” She gestured down the lane. “Rycliff. Bramwell. Your superior.”

His jaw hardened.

“You must know him quite well. You’ve probably worked alongside him for several years, his closest confidant. Tell me, then. Did it start in childhood? Was he neglected by his parents, mistreated by a governess? Locked away in an attic?”

Now the man’s entire face turned to stone. A stone etched with unfriendly frown lines and a ruthless slash where the mouth should be.

“Or was it the war? He’s haunted by memories of battle, perhaps. Was his regiment ambushed, at great loss of life? Was he captured and held prisoner behind enemy lines? I do hope he has some excuse.”

She waited, watched. The corporal’s face surrendered no clues whatsoever.

“He has a paralyzing fear of tea,” she blurted out. “Or enclosed spaces. Spiders, that’s my final guess. Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

He didn’t blink at all.

“Never mind,” she said, exasperated. “I’ll just have to drag it from him myself.”

Some thirty huffing, panting minutes later, Susanna reached the top of the bluffs and the perimeter of Rycliff Castle. Naturally Lord Rycliff had arrived well ahead of her. She found his mount already unsaddled and grazing in the bailey.

“Lord Rycliff?” she called. Her shout echoed off the stones.

No answer.

She tried again, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Lord Rycliff, may I have a word?”

“Only one, Miss Finch?” The faint answer came from the direction of the keep. “I couldn’t be that lucky.”

She advanced toward the collection of stone towers, training her ears for his voice. “Where are you?”

“The armory.”

The armory?

Following the sound of his reply, she made for the keep’s arched entryway. Once inside, Susanna turned left and entered the hollow stone turret on the northeast corner. Now the armory, it would seem. She supposed it did make a suitable place to store powder and weaponry. Cool, dark, enclosed by stone. The crunch of dry gravel beneath her feet indicated the tower’s roof was sufficiently intact to keep out the rain.

She stood in the entry, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. Slowly, the scene came into focus, and as it did, her heart sank.

She’d been half hoping—fully hoping, she supposed—that he would take this militia task lightly, limit his efforts to the bare minimum. The occasion required only a bit of show, she’d reasoned. Rycliff couldn’t earnestly mean to scrape together a true fighting force in Spindle Cove.

But looking on this scene, she couldn’t deny the truth. The man was serious about this militia. This was a serious amount of weaponry.

A row of Brown Bess muskets lined one side of the tower. To the other direction, cannonballs and grapeshot were stacked. A few newly constructed shelves on the far side held kegs of powder. And by them, with his back to her, stood Lord Rycliff.

He’d undressed on arrival and now wore only a loose shirt, breeches, and boots—no coat or cravat. The pale linen gleamed in the dim light, stretching over the muscled contours of his arms and back. Susanna wasn’t a doctor, but she knew human anatomy well enough. Well enough to recognize what an excellent specimen of it he was. Without the hindrance of a coat, for example, she could appreciate that his backside was particularly well formed. Tight and muscled and . . .

And a completely inappropriate object of her attention. What was happening to her? She pulled her gaze upward, allowing a moment to compose herself before she called his attention. His hair was a long, dark queue, bound with twine. Its end hung just between his shoulder blades, where it curled like a fishhook, baiting her.

“Lord Rycliff?” she ventured. He did not turn. She took a deep breath and tried once again, putting some force into her voice. “Lord—”

“I know you’re there, Miss Finch.” His voice was quiet and controlled as he remained with his back to her, bending over something she could not see. “Hold your peace a moment. I’m measuring powder.”

Susanna took a step into the room.

“There now,” he murmured, low and seductive. “Yes. That’s the way.”

Good heavens. The sultry rasp in his voice had persuasive force. It moved her center of balance, rocking her from her toes to her heels. She took a step in reverse, and her back met the wall of ancient stone. A cool ridge calmed the place between her shoulder blades.

Without turning, he said, “Well, Miss Finch? What is it you’re wanting?”

What a dangerous question.

She realized she was still hugging the wall. Pride propelled her two steps forward. As she advanced, something bleated at her, as though chastising her for trespassing. She stopped midstep and peered at it. “Did you know there’s a lamb in here?”

“Never mind it. That’s dinner.”

She gave it a smile and a friendly pat. “Hullo, Dinner. Aren’t you a sweet thing?”

“It’s not his name, it’s his . . . function.” With an impatient oath, he turned, wiping his hands with a cloth. His palms were dusted with charcoal-colored powder, and his eyes, so dilated in the cool, dark stillness, glittered black as jet. “If there’s something you mean to say, say it. Otherwise, be on your way.”