A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(36)

“Why the delay?” he taunted. “Are you afraid?”

“No.” With a steady hand, she raised the shears. Grasping the queue of hair firmly in the other hand, she aimed . . . and snipped. “Oh dear.” She dangled the lopped-off coil before his face, then dropped it to the ground without ceremony. “Pity.”

He only chuckled, but she thought she caught a hint of bruised pride in his laughter. “I see you’re enjoying your chance to play Delilah.”

“You’d better hope I don’t decide to play Judith. I’m holding shears at the moment, and I’d advise you to be still. I need to concentrate.” Setting the scissors aside for a moment, she pulled back her own locks and wound them into a simple knot. Then she set about the work of clipping his hair, and they both went quiet.

And as she worked, the quiet deepened, grew profound. The task was so intimate. In order to cut his hair evenly, she had to sift her fingers through the heavy locks, lifting and angling them for the shears. She touched his ear, his temple, his jaw.

“Wouldn’t it be easier if you removed your gloves?” he asked.

“No.” At the moment, those thin leather gloves were the only thing keeping her sane.

A palpable, sensual tension had thickened the air surrounding them. His breathing was audible, a husky sighing in and out. Her fingers faltered for a moment, and she scraped his ear with one blade of the shears. She was horrified, but he seemed to take no notice. Only the tiniest drop of blood welled at the site, but it took all she had not to press her lips to the wound.

After a few more snips, she laid the shears aside. To test the cut’s evenness, she raised both hands to his hair and dragged her gloved fingertips over his scalp, slowly raking them from his hairline to his nape.

As her fingers made that long, gentle sweep, he made a sound. An involuntary moan. Or perhaps a groan. It originated not in his throat, but deep in his chest, somewhere in the region of his heart.

That rumbling sound was more than a sigh. It was a confession, a plea. With a simple brush of her fingertips, she’d called forth an expression of deep, hidden yearning. Her whole body ached with an instinctive response.

Oh goodness. Oh, Bram.

“Turn around,” she whispered.

When he obeyed, his eyes were closed.

Hers were open. Open to a whole new man. This big, brutish soldier-turned-medieval lord, now shorn close as a yearling—looking vulnerable and lost, in need of care. Her care.

All his staunch denials of emotion echoed in her ears. Did he know how thoroughly he’d just betrayed them? She thought of those passionate kisses yesterday. How he used every excuse to touch her, in every interaction. Heavens, the way he’d taken her measurements . . . Sensation rippled down her spine, as though she could still feel the deliberate sweep of his thumb. She’d thought him merely trying to rattle her.

But now she saw his motives clear. Here it was, his secret. No childhood trauma, no ravages of war. Just a deep, unspoken desire for closeness. Oh, he’d rather die than admit it in such terms, but that low, yearning sound told all.

That was the sound a great shaggy beast made when the nettle in his paw was plucked.

Here was a man who needed touch, craved tenderness—and he was starved for them both. Just how much would he allow her to give? She teased her fingers through the clipped fringe at his temples. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. She let a single gloved fingertip skim the ridge of his cheekbone.

“That’s enough.” His eyes snapped open, cool and defiant.

Wounded by his sharp tone, she withdrew her touch.

“Well, Miss Finch.” Stepping back, he ran a hand over his dark, now short hair. “Tell me, how do the men look?”

Susanna let her gaze wander the green. Everywhere she looked, she saw newly revealed, blinding-white scalp. “Like a flock of yearlings, freshly shorn.”

“Wrong,” he said. “They do not look like sheep. They look like soldiers. Men with a common purpose. A team. Soon I’ll have them acting like one, too.”

Taking her by the waist, he lifted her off the table and put her back on firm ground. Oddly enough, the world still felt unsteady.

“Have a good look at them. In a month’s time, I’ll have a militia. These will become men of duty, action. I’ll have shown all your prim, sheltered spinsters precisely what real men can do.” The corner of his mouth quirked. “Spindle Cove will be a much different place. And you, Miss Finch, will thank me.”

She shook her head. He’d revealed too much. That brute male swagger couldn’t intimidate her now, and she would not let such a challenge pass without a strong, confident response.

She calmly brushed stray snips of hair from his lapel. “In a month’s time, this community I love, and this atmosphere we’ve worked so hard to foster, will be the same. Everything I see here today will remain unaltered, except for one thing. Spindle Cove will change you, Lord Rycliff.

“And if you threaten my ladies’ health and happiness?” She laid a sweet touch to his cheek. “I will bring you to your knees.”

Eleven

“On Mondays, we always have country walks.”

Susanna paced the Highwood sisters on the sloping footpath. Together, they trailed behind the larger group. The ladies made a rainbow-hued column of muslin, filing up the path.

“The Downlands are beautiful this time of year. When we reach the top of the ridge, you can see for miles. It feels like being on top of the world.”