A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(25)

She growled to herself. He was such a . . . Such a man. Crooning sweetly to his weaponry, then barking at her. As her father’s daughter, Susanna understood that an ambitious man could seem married to his work. But this was ridiculous.

She squared her shoulders. “Lord Rycliff, I have an interest in maintaining village harmony, and I’m afraid we’re not off to a neighborly start.”

“And yet”—he crossed his arms over his chest—“here you are.”

“Here I am. Because I won’t be treated this way, do you see? And I won’t let you terrorize my friends, either. Despite the awkwardness of our initial meeting, I have tried to be friendly. You, on the other hand, have been a perfect beast. The way you spoke to me last night. The way you behaved down in the tea shop. Even right now, this moment . . . I can tell by your gruff tone and that stern posture you mean to seem intimidating. But look.” She gestured at the lamb. “Not even Dinner is frightened. I’m not, either.”

“Then you’re fools, the two of you. I could make a meal of you both.”

She shook her head, stepping toward him. “I don’t think so. I know you didn’t expect to take up residence here, but people always come to Spindle Cove to get well. If I may say it, Lord Rycliff, I think you’re hurting. You’re like a great shaggy lion with a nettle in its paw. Once it’s plucked, your good humor will be restored.”

A prolonged pause ensued.

One dark brow quirked. “You mean to pluck my nettle?”

Flushing with heat, she bit her lip. “Not in so many words.”

With a hollow chuckle, he stepped back, pushing a hand through his hair. “You need to leave. We can’t have this discussion.”

“Is it so very painful?” she asked, in a quiet voice. “Are you haunted by some tragedy? Did the ravages of war embitter you toward your fellow man?”

“No.” He wiped the powder measure clean and banged it on a shelf. “And no, and no. The only thing paining me right now”—he turned—“is you.”

“Me?” Her breath caught. “That’s ridiculous. I’m not a nettle.”

“Oh no. You’re something far, far worse.”

“A burr?” she said helpfully. “A thistle perhaps? Roses have thorns, but I don’t possess the right sort of beauty for that comparison.” When he didn’t laugh, she said, “Lord Rycliff, I fail to see how I’m causing you any problems.”

“Let me explain for you, then.” He spoke low and even. “I ought to be headed for Spain right now, on the way to rejoin my regiment. Instead, I have an earldom I didn’t ask for, a castle I don’t want, and a cousin determined to drive me mad, insolvent, or both. But your father’s given me a chance to move on, leave it all behind. The only thing I need do is gather two dozen local men—equip them, arm them, and drill them into a respectable militia. Easy enough task, in a month’s time. Almost insulting in its simplicity.” He raised a single finger. “But there’s a snag, isn’t there? There are no local men. No real men, at any rate. Just spinsters and teacakes and poetry.”

“There are men here. And if you need any help rounding them up, you only have to ask.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” He chuckled. “ ‘Ask Miss Finch.’ Do you know how many times I heard those words this morning?”

She shook her head.

“More than I care to count.” He began circling her with slow, heavy steps. “When I asked the Bright twins if there are seamstresses in the neighborhood, to sew uniforms . . . They said, ‘Ask Miss Finch.’ When I inquired with the smith where I might find stonemasons to do some work here at the castle . . . Well, Miss Finch would know that too. Ask her.” He walked on. “Where do I find the parish register, for a list of all the local families? Well, your dandified vicar tells me, Miss Finch has been doing a study of the local birth records, and I will have to inquire with her. Ask. Miss. Finch. There’s no escaping you. It’s like you have the whole village playing some ceaseless round of Mother, May I.”

Susanna squared her shoulders as he completed his circle and came to stand before her—a fraction too close. The intensity in his eyes told her he meant to draw closer still.

No, you may not, she silently willed. You may not take two steps forward.

He took them anyway.

“I try to be helpful,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with that. And it’s natural the villagers show me a certain deference, out of respect for my father. He is the local gentleman of rank.”

“Your father is the local gentleman of rank?” He stood tall. “Well, now. I happen to be the local lord.”

“Oh,” she said, smiling with relief. “Now I understand. Your pride is wounded. That’s your problem. Yes, I can see how that would be disappointing, to be given the title and feel so little influence with the local residents. But with time, I’m sure the villagers—”

He shook his head. “My pride’s not wounded, for God’s sake. And no, I’m not disappointed. Nor haunted, nor embittered, nor threatened. Stop trying to pin all these emotions on me like frilly pink ribbons. I’m not one of your delicate spinsters, Miss Finch. This isn’t about my tender feelings. I have things to accomplish, and you”—he poked a single finger into her shoulder—“are hindering me.”