A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(66)

It was so wrong, that the world forced her to keep quiet. But Susanna had long ago resigned herself to the fact that she could not single-handedly change the world. At best, she could protect her small corner of it.

Tonight, she’d failed at even that.

“On my way into the village, I had a tumble,” she said, “and my gown took the brunt of it. That’s all.” She rose from her chair, preparing to leave. “I’m going home to rest. I suggest you all do the same. I know it’s been an unusual evening, but I hope to see you all in the morning. It’s Thursday, and we do have our schedule.”

Eighteen

Mondays are country walks. Tuesdays, sea bathing. Wednesdays, you’d find us in the garden.

“And on Thursdays . . .” Bram said aloud, “they shoot.”

Of course they did.

He stood with Colin on the edge of a green, level meadow near Summerfield. The two of them watched as the assembled fragile-flower ladies of Spindle Cove donned doeskin gloves and arranged themselves in a rail-straight line, facing down a distant row of targets. Behind the women sat a long wooden table, atop which lay bows, arrows, pistols, flintlock rifles. Quite the buffet of weaponry.

At the head of the line, Susanna announced the first course. “Bows up, ladies.” She herself fitted an arrow to her bowstring and drew it back. “On three. One . . . Two . . .”

Thwack.

In unison, the ladies released arrows that flew true to their targets.

Bram craned his neck to see how Susanna’s had landed. Dead center, of course. He wasn’t surprised. At this point, very little would surprise him, where Susanna Finch was concerned. She could tell him she ran an elite espionage ring out of her morning room, and he would believe it.

The ladies walked briskly across the meadow to retrieve their arrows. Bram’s eyes were fixed on Susanna as she crossed the ground in smooth, confident strides. She moved through the tallish grass like an African gazelle, all long legs and graceful strength.

“Pistols, please,” she said, once they’d all returned. She traded her bow and arrow for a single-barreled weapon.

Each lady in line lifted a similar firearm and held it in braced, outstretched arms, staring down her respective bull’s-eye. When Susanna cocked her pistol, the others followed suit. The chorus of clicks raced down Bram’s spine.

“I find this scene wildly arousing,” Colin murmured, echoing Bram’s own thoughts. “Is that wrong?”

“If it is, I can promise you company in hell.”

His cousin made an amused sound. “And you thought we have nothing in common.”

Susanna leveled her pistol and took aim. “One . . . Two . . .”

Crack.

Neat, smoking holes appeared on each of the targets. In unison, the girls lowered their pistols and set them aside. Bram whistled low, admiring the accuracy of the ladies’ marksmanship.

“Rifles next,” Susanna called out, shouldering her own firearm. “One . . . Two . . .”

Bang.

Once again, true shots, all. One of the targets exploded with a little burst of paper, rather than the usual batting and straw. A breeze carried a scrap of it to land at Bram’s boots.

“What’s this?” Colin asked. He bent to retrieve it. “A page from some book. By a Mrs. Worthington?”

The name was oddly familiar to Bram, but he couldn’t think why.

Colin shook his head. “I’ve no idea why this place is called Spinster Cove. It ought to be Amazon Inlet. Or Valkyrie Bay.”

“No doubt.” Here Bram had been straining and sweating through his effort to round up the local men and train them into a fighting force. Meanwhile, Susanna had already organized her own army. An army of females, no less.

She was, quite simply, the most amazing woman he’d ever known. More the pity that this morning, as she stared down that target, she was probably envisioning Bram’s face on it—if not his nether regions.

Steeling his nerve, he strode forward into the breach. As he walked the line of markswomen, he had the distinct sensation of being a moving target. Susanna caught sight of him and stopped short.

As he neared her, he held up his open hands in a gesture of peace. “I told you I’d risk a firing squad.”

She wasn’t amused. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching. Admiring.” He flicked a glance toward the women. “You’ve trained your ladies well. I’m impressed. Impressed, but not surprised.”

A blush climbed her throat. “I’ve always believed a woman should know how to protect herself.” She reached for the powder horn and a gleaming, polished example of the pistol with which she shared a name.

“The men have been working since sunup to put the tea shop back to rights,” he said. He nodded toward his cousin. “And I’ve brought Payne along to apologize. If he doesn’t do a fair job of it, you can use him for target practice.”

She didn’t smile. “Unfortunately, the tea shop is the least of the damage incurred. And it’s not me who deserves his apology.”

Concerned, he looked around the shooting party. “Is Miss Highwood still feeling poorly?”

She poured a measure of powder into the pistol, following the charge with a patch-wrapped ball. “I stopped by early this morning. She’s resting for caution’s sake, but I don’t think she’ll suffer any lasting effects from the incident.”