A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(35)

“No exceptions.”

Her eyes pleaded with him. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “They’re boys. Finn and Rufus, I mean. Their mother is anxious for them. Try to understand.”

“Oh, I understand.” He understood that she was ostensibly trying to shield those boys from harm. But he also understood her other purpose—clinging to her position of power in this village. On that score, he could not let her win. “Perhaps neither you nor I wanted it, but I’m the lord now. My militia. My village. My rules.” He held out the scissors. “Shear or be shorn.”

After a long moment, she removed her borrowed hat and set it aside. Reaching both hands behind her neck, she unbound her long queue of hair, then shook out the locks with a sensual toss of her head. The newly freed hair tumbled about her shoulders in lush, golden-red waves that shimmered in the sunlight, dazzling him into a near stupor.

In that instant, Bram knew he’d made a grave tactical error.

With a resigned sigh, she met his gaze. “Very well. It’s just hair.”

It’s just hair.

Good Lord. That molten bronze aura framing her face was most definitely not “just hair.” It was living, flowing beauty. It was a crown of glory. It was . . . like the righteous breath of angry angels. Some kind of religious experience, and he was probably damned just for daring to look upon it.

A faint, wistful noise scraped from his throat. He covered it with a cough.

Let her cut it, he told himself. You have no choice. If she wins this battle, it’s all over. You’re done for.

“Let me have them,” she said. “I’ll do it myself.” She reached for the shears.

He gripped them tight. “No.”

“No?” Susanna repeated, trying not to betray her panic. A brave front was important here.

She truly didn’t want to cut her hair—“that hair,” as her cousins had less than affectionately cursed it. Wild and unfashionable as it might be, it suited her now, and it was one thing she had of her mother’s. But Susanna would make the sacrifice, if it meant keeping Finn and Rufus safe.

If it meant besting him.

It would grow back, she told herself. It had all grown back once before, after that dreadful summer in Norfolk. Only she wanted to cut it herself this time. Quickly, and with as little thought as possible. She didn’t think she could bear to stand still while another held the shears.

“Just give me them.” Growing close to desperate, she tugged on the scissors handles. “I’ll do it now.”

He wouldn’t let go.

“Finn and Rufus.” He spoke low, only to her. “I’ll make them drummer and fifer. They’ll be in the militia, attend drill and draw wages. But they won’t be armed. Will that suffice?”

She was stunned. He had her just where he wanted her—on the verge of public humiliation—and now he wished to compromise? “I . . . I suppose that will do. Yes.”

“Very well, then. Does this mean you’re a lady again?”

“I’ll go change straightaway.”

“Not so fast,” he said, still clutching the scissors handles tight. He gave her a bold look. “Before you leave, you’ll do a service for me. Just like the other ladies are doing.”

Indeed, all around them the men and women of Spindle Cove were pairing off. As Diana busied herself with Lord Payne, the blacksmith made his way to the widowed Mrs. Watson and her shears. Finn and Rufus seemed to be arguing over which of them would be stuck with Sally.

“You want me to cut your hair?” Her mind’s eye went to that long, overgrown tail of hair always dangling between his shoulders, taunting her.

“As I said, no exceptions.” He pressed the shears into her hand. “Go on, then. I’m all yours.”

Susanna cleared her throat. “I believe you’ll have to kneel.”

“Kneel?” He snorted. “Not a chance, Miss Finch. There’s precisely one reason I will kneel before a woman, and this isn’t it.”

“Proposing marriage, I hope you mean.”

A devilish spark lit his eyes. “No.”

Awareness raced through her body. She glanced around them. All around the green, the business of clipping hair had occupied her friends and neighbors. This had become a private conversation. And a fortunate thing, too, considering what took place next.

“If you don’t mean to kneel,” she said, angling on tiptoe, “I don’t know how you expect me to cut your hair. All the chairs are in use. I may be tall, but there’s no way I can reach—oh!”

He framed her rib cage in both hands and lifted her into the air. The brute power in the motion thrilled her. This made two times in three days that he’d swept her off her feet. Three, if she counted yesterday’s kiss.

Why was she counting? She shouldn’t be counting.

He set her down atop the table, making her the taller of the two. “Steady?”

At her mute nod, he slid his hands from her waist. Now she was lost in memories of their embrace yesterday, the press of his body against hers . . . Their gazes clashed. The now-familiar sparks flew.

Susanna swallowed hard. “Turn around, if you will.”

Thank God. For once, he obeyed.

She took it in her hand, that thick, dark hank at his nape, bound with a bit of leather cord. His hair was lush, soft. Probably the softest thing on this man, she mused. Once it was cut, he would be all angles and sinew, hard all over.