A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(71)

“We’ll plot and scheme together, Bram. You’ll see, it will all come out right.”

She stared up at him, so handsome and strong. Along with all the other firsts he’d given her, he’d now made her first offer of marriage. A forced and unromantic one, but still. She rather treasured the sentiment, and she wanted to repay it somehow.

On impulse, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Thank you. For everything.”

He grasped her elbow, forbidding her to retreat. “What about us?” His words were hot against her ear. “How do matters stand between us?”

“Why, I . . . I still like you.” Nerves fluttered in her chest, but she kept her tone light. “Do you like me?”

A few moments passed in silence. She would have counted them in heartbeats, but her foolish heart had become a most unreliable timepiece. It gave three pounding beats in a flurry, then none at all.

Just when she’d begun to despair, he turned his head, catching her in a passionate, openmouthed kiss. He put both arms around her, fisting his hands in the fabric of her dress, lifting her up and against his chest. So that her body recalled every inch of his, every second of their blissful lovemaking. The now-familiar ache returned—that sweet, hollow pang of desire that only deepened as his tongue flickered over hers. In a matter of seconds, he had her gasping. Needing. Damp.

Then he set her back on her toes. Pressed his brow to hers and released a deep, resonant sigh. And just before turning to leave, he spoke a single word.

He said, “No.”

Nineteen

He did not “like” Susanna Finch. Of this much, Bram was certain.

“Like” was . . . the verbal equivalent of blancmange. Pleasant enough, blandly sweet. Always on the table. Not something a man turned down, but not something he asked for second helpings of, either. The word “like” did not communicate an unspoken connection of similar minds, or an obsessive attention to freckles. It certainly didn’t encompass the sort of wild, reckless, unreasoned lust that had driven him to deflower a virgin on the village green.

No, he did not “like” her. Beyond that, Bram was at a loss to describe his emotional state. Putting labels on feelings was Susanna’s hobby, not his.

And at the moment, she was occupied.

“Mrs. Lange has excellent penmanship,” she muttered, scratching with a pencil on paper as she did. “I’ll put her on invitations.”

She had arrived at the castle early that morning, well in advance of the picnicking girls. Together, they’d convened their council atop the southwest turret of Rycliff Castle’s keep. They’d been sitting here on campstools for hours now, with a backdrop of gulls swooping over the brilliant aquamarine sea, sorting out all the tasks to be accomplished in the next fortnight.

Well, she had been sorting out the tasks. Bram had mostly been staring at her, occasionally stealing sips of whiskey, and trying to sort out the tangle of feelings and impulses churning in his chest.

“Patches will be Charlotte’s task. As well as . . . rolling . . . cartridges.” She scribbled as she spoke, adding to the bottom of a very long list. She kept her gaze stubbornly trained on the paper.

His gaze was riveted to her. He was fascinated. Just when he’d started to think he knew Susanna Finch, the morning light introduced her all over again. Every hour—every minute, perhaps—announced another facet of her beauty. Each tilt of her head invented new alloys of copper and gold. And now—just this second—the advancing veil of sunlight made its way over the crest of her shoulder, and he could see how the skin of her décolletage was so delicate and fair . . . nearly translucent.

And bloody hell. This journeyed far beyond “like,” rocketed straight past “fondness,” and pushed all the way to the brink of absurdity.

He knew all her objections to marriage were logical. She’d built her life and village around happy spinsterhood, and the demands of his military career left no room for a wife. A hasty wedding could mean grief for Sir Lewis, scandal for Susanna, and God knew what for Bram. But he was going to marry her, despite it. Because when he looked at Susanna, all he could think was one word. It wasn’t a particularly elegant or poetic word, any more so than “like.” But it had a straightforward eloquence all its own.

Mine.

No matter what it cost him, he simply had to make her his.

“There,” she said. “I think that’s everything.” She let the list fall to her lap. “It’s so much work. But I think we can do it.”

“I know we can.” He took the list from her and read through it. It was every bit as thorough and well planned as he’d known it would be. He forced himself to focus, setting aside all his lustful desires and marital plans. For the next fortnight or so, these tasks required his full attention. He didn’t want to let Susanna and her father down. Nor the rest of the village, which he was suddenly—and unexpectedly—beginning to care about.

“I think everyone’s arrived by now.” She peered down over the crenellated edge of the turret. Below, the assembled men and women of Spindle Cove were picnicking on the grassy, even ground of the bailey.

“I suppose that means my cousin groveled prettily enough.”

She smiled. “I suppose it does. And what an occasion the rest of your men have made it. You’ve outdone yourselves.”