A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(38)

He looked very capable and strong and active. Which was unfortunate, because those were all the qualities she found appealing in a man. She’d never grieved over her disastrous London season because the gentlemen had been such disappointments. So idle and useless. She found it so much easier to respect people who did something.

Violet shaded her brow with her hand. “It doesn’t seem to be going very well, does it?”

Kate laughed. “They keep doing the same thing. Just a single line, marching back and forth. Over and over. From this end of the meadow to that. Then they stop, turn around, and do it again.” She looked to Violet. “How many times now?”

“I stopped counting at eight.”

“We shouldn’t be watching them,” Susanna said.

“Why not?” Kate looked at her. “Aren’t they meant to be preparing a field review? A public display?”

“Just the same, let’s continue on our walk.”

“Actually, Miss Finch,” Diana said, “I’m feeling a bit winded. Perhaps a rest would do me good.”

“Oh. But of course.” Unable to argue, Susanna spread her shawl and took a seat on the hillside. All the other ladies did likewise, and no one even bothered to pretend that gathering wildflowers or spotting birds would be the purpose of the moment. They all stared, riveted to the meadow below and the new militia’s halting, sorry drill.

Susanna worried. She’d agreed to keep her ladies apart from Bram’s men. The physical distance separating them at the moment didn’t allay her concerns. Being this far removed only made the ladies feel free to gawk and gossip.

“I recognize that bright green topcoat. That must be Mr. Keane.”

“You would think his sense of rhythm would be better, what with all the singing in church.”

An elbow dug into her side. “Lord Rycliff’s dismounting, look.”

Susanna resolved not to look.

“He’s taking the musket from one of them. Perhaps he means to show them himself just how it’s done.”

Susanna renewed her resolution not to look. The blades of grass beneath her fingertips were more interesting by far. And lo, here was a fascinating ant.

A female sigh. “What’s that small, fluffy thing trotting at his heels? Some kind of dog?”

Drat it, now she had to look. A broad smile stretched her cheeks. “No. That’s His Lordship’s pet lamb. The dear little thing follows him around. He’s named it Dinner.”

All the ladies laughed, and Susanna laughed with them, knowing how it would vex Bram to be teased. Odd—and a bit disconcerting—how she felt so confident predicting his reactions. For that matter, how she kept thinking of him as “Bram.”

“Oh!” In a gesture that strongly recalled her mother, Charlotte pressed a hand to her heart. “They’re removing their coats.”

“Not only their coats.”

As the ladies all sat gawping in silence, the men halted their exercise and removed first their coats, then their waistcoats and cravats.

“Why would they do that?” Charlotte asked.

“They’re working hard,” Diana replied. “Perhaps it’s warm down there.”

Kate laughed. “It’s growing warm up here, too.”

“It’s not the heat,” Susanna said, again surprised how easily she knew his mind. “Their coats are all different colors. Lord Rycliff wants them looking the same, so they’ll act in unison, too.”

Charlotte grabbed the spectacles from Minerva’s hand and lifted them to her own eyes. “Drat. I can’t make out anything.”

“Goose,” Minerva said, giving her little sister an affectionate shove. “I’m farsighted. Those only help with objects up close. And I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss over a few men in shirtsleeves, anyhow. From this distance, they’re just pale, fleshy blurs.”

Except for Bram. There was nothing undefined about his torso. Even from this distance, Susanna could clearly make out the linen-sheathed muscles of his shoulders and arms. She recalled their solid heat beneath her touch.

“We should be heading back to the village.” She rose to her feet, brushing grass from her skirts and folding her Indian shawl into a neat rectangle.

Violet objected, “But Miss Finch, we haven’t yet reached—”

“Miss Highwood is winded,” she clipped, in a tone that would brook no argument. “This is far enough for today.”

The ladies rose in silence, retying bonnet ribbons and preparing to walk home.

“What do you say, Miss Finch?” Kate smiled as the sound of feeble drumming resumed. “How many times do you suppose he’ll make them march that same line?”

Susanna could not have given Kate a number, but she knew the answer just the same.

“Until they do it right.”

“They’ll never get this right,” Thorne muttered. “Bloody hopeless, all of them.”

Bram swore under his breath. For God’s sake, he’d spent all day yesterday just trying to teach these men to march in a straight line. When they mustered on Tuesday morning, he’d decided to make the task even simpler. No strict formations—just marching in time across open land. Left, right, left.

But marching in time was easier with a drummer who could drum in time, and Finn Bright seemed to have been born without a sense of rhythm. Say nothing of Rufus’s ear-stabbing squawks on the fife.