A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(33)

“But of course.”

Bram walked her over to the second table and ripped the measuring tape straight from Thorne’s hand. “I believe I’ll see to this recruit myself.” He held up the tape for Susanna’s inspection. “You have no objection, Finch?”

“None at all.” She hiked her chin.

“Remove your coat, then.”

She complied without argument.

He found himself without words.

Sweet heaven.

Bram wasn’t fond of ladies’ current fashions, with their high, empire waists and draped columns of skirt. While he approved of the way such designs served up the bosom for a man’s appreciative view—what man didn’t appreciate a nice view of plump br**sts?—he didn’t like the way they obscured the remainder of a woman’s body. He liked shapely legs, trim ankles, generous hips. He had a particular fondness for a round, cuppable arse.

Who could have guessed that gentlemen’s attire would perfectly hug Susanna Finch’s every last feminine curve?

Her borrowed waistcoat wouldn’t button at the top, due to the ample swell of her br**sts. It did, however, fit snugly around her middle, emphasizing her slender waist and the sweet flare of her hips. Her breeches ended at the knee. Below them, white stockings clung to every contour of her long, lean calves and ankles.

“Turn around,” he croaked.

She obeyed. And as she turned, she flipped her long queue of hair forward, giving him a clear view of her back . . . and backside. Those nankeen breeches stretched tight over a sweet, round arse. God, she was made for his hands. And stubborn, headstrong thing that she was, she’d given him the perfect excuse to touch her.

He began with her shoulders, placing the measuring tape at one shoulder and stretching it slowly across her back to the other. He took his time, allowing his touch to skim along the elegant slopes and ridges of her shoulder blades. As though he were touching her not for tailoring purposes, but for his pleasure and hers.

Her shoulder trembled under his touch. His heart kicked.

“Seventeen inches,” he read aloud.

He measured her arm length next, beginning at the top of her shoulder and stretching the tape down the length of her arm, all the way to her wrist, before reading aloud the measurement.

“Stand tall, Finch.”

As her shoulders squared, he fitted one end of the tape at the nape of her neck, just at the top of her collar. Then he stretched the narrow strip of marked fabric down the length of her spine, touching each individual vertebra. Then dipping lower, halfway down the delectable curve of her backside. He heard her sudden intake of breath, and it echoed in his groin.

“Twenty-six inches, for the coat length.” As he stood, he pulled on the front of his own coat, hoping no one would notice he’d gained several inches in his personal measurements. This scene had him so aroused, he’d completely forgotten the pain in his knee.

“Face me, Finch.”

She performed a slow, sensual about-face. Almost as though they were dancing.

“Arms up,” he directed. “I’ll measure your chest now.” His blood heated at the mere thought of sliding his hands around the circumference of that lush bosom.

Her eyes flashed, and she crossed her arms, impeding him. “I believe I know that measurement. It’s thirty-four inches.”

He sighed gruffly. “Perfect.” Damn, how he wanted to feel that body under his again. Yearned for it.

“Are we done?” she asked, shrugging back into her coat.

“Weapons next,” he said, struggling to regain his composure. “I’ll need to issue you a musket, Mr. Finch.”

If she hadn’t balked at the public measurements, perhaps forcing her to handle weaponry would do the trick. Even though her father invented the things, most gently bred ladies were reluctant to touch firearms, if not outright terrified of them.

He selected a musket and held it out to her.

“This is a flintlock,” he said, ladling out his words in slow, patronizing increments. “The ball shoots from this barrel, see? Here is the trigger, in the middle. And the other end fits against your shoulder, like this.”

“Is that so?” she said wonderingly. She reached for the weapon. “May I try?”

“Slowly there.” He moved behind her. “I’ll show you how to hold it.”

“That won’t be necessary.” She smiled. “Your instructions were so lucid and crisp.”

And then as he—and Thorne and Colin, and the entire population of Spindle Cove—looked on, Susanna Finch took a cartridge from the table, ripped it open with her neat, straight teeth, and spat both paper nub and ball to the ground. Setting the gun at half cock, she sprinkled a bit of powder in the pan and closed the frizzen. Then she poured the remainder of the powder charge down the barrel and tamped it down with the ramrod.

Bram had seen soldiers’ wives clean and assemble their husbands’ firearms. But he’d never witnessed anything like this. Susanna didn’t just know the proper sequence, she understood the piece. Those gloved hands moved confidently, handling the weapon with ruthless, arousing grace. His desire, and his loins, had already been stirred by that measuring exercise. Now his arousal approached rifle-barrel proportions.

She shouldered the musket, cocked the hammer, and fired the blank charge. The weapon gave a violent kick against her shoulder, but she didn’t even flinch.