A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(77)

A bolt of bliss streaked from the spot, rushing straight for his core. Bloody hell. A tiny kiss on his palm. He felt it everywhere. His knees went weak. He wanted to fall at her feet, lay his head in her lap for hours. I am your slave.

He withdrew his hand, flexing it to disperse the sensation and get a grip on himself. Who could have guessed a fully grown man could be utterly felled by such a tiny, precise assault? Did the army know this? Maybe they ought to issue plate armor to protect soldiers’ vulnerable palms.

“Susanna.” He reached for her.

Quick as a fish, she wriggled away. “If you want more, you must work for them.”

He retreated again, making his way to the boulder more slowly this time. Partly out of fatigue, but mostly because he needed time to calm himself. His heart thudded loudly in his chest, battering his ribs. He couldn’t let her see, didn’t dare let her know that with those two tiny kisses, she’d shaken him to his soul.

On his way back to her, he tried to shrug off the sensation and find a way to regain control. He was a soldier, he told himself. Not a supplicant. As he slashed his way through the water, his blood rushed through his limbs, hot and powerful.

But just as he neared her, he misjudged his step. The chain caught on a rock, and his ankle turned. He lunged forward, loosing an involuntary growl of pain.

She dashed to him, fighting her way through the water. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” he said, denying the fresh stab of agony. It wasn’t his knee that hurt so fiercely, but his pride. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“You’ve done enough for tonight.” She unlooped the ribbon and key from his neck and disappeared beneath the water. After a bit of tugging, he felt the cuff release.

“Put it back,” he said, once she’d surfaced. “I can do more. I’m not even fatigued.”

“Be patient with yourself.” She pushed the water from her face. “You’ve made a remarkable recovery, and you’ll get stronger still. But you were shot, Bram. You have to accept that your leg will never be quite the same.”

“It will be the same. It has to be. I can’t accept anything less than a complete recovery.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to lead.”

She choked on a laugh. “You don’t need a perfect knee for that. You have more leadership in your great toe than most men have in their whole bodies.”

He made a pained face that was meant to indicate modesty.

She took it as Do go on, please. “Truly. People just naturally want to please you. Take Rufus and Finn. You don’t know them well enough to see it yet. But I do, and those boys worship the ground you limp on.”

“Those boys just need a man to look up to.”

“Well, they couldn’t have chosen a better one.” She wreathed her arms around his neck.

Cool water swirled around them, emphasizing the heat where their bodies met. Right now, he felt closer to her than ever, and still he wanted more. Every cell in his body craved that perfect union of bodies they’d achieved under the willow tree. But if he ignored the frantic clamor in his loins and took time to hear the insistent, steady message of his heart . . . simply holding her was lovely. Peaceful. Right.

“If I’m such a remarkable leader,” he said, “why is it I can’t bring you in line?”

“Because you don’t want to. You like me this way.” She smiled the smug little smile of a woman who was utterly convinced she was right.

But she was wrong. He didn’t like her this way.

He thought he might love her this way.

Damn. Love. It wasn’t something Bram had much experience handling. The very idea of it seemed dangerous, unsafe. So he dealt with it the same way he treated other hazardous, explosive things. He tucked it away in a cool, dark place inside him—to be examined and measured at some later time. When his hands weren’t trembling, and his loins weren’t aching with unspent lust. And his heart wasn’t pounding so damned loud.

“I’m going to marry you,” he said.

“Oh, Bram.” Her features screwed into an expression of dismay.

“No, no. Don’t make that face. Every time I propose to you, you make that twisty, unhappy face. It wears on a man’s confidence.”

“I might be making a different, much more pleasant face—if only you were planning to stay. Not just marry me before you leave and get on with the rest of your life.” She glanced out toward the open sea. “There’s a peculiar curse to residing in a holiday locale. Friendships are abundant, but brief. Ladies stay for a month or two, then they go home. Just when I’ve grown close to people, they leave. It’s bearable, for a friendship.” She eyed him. “Perhaps even for a scandalous, clandestine affair. But a marriage?”

“I can’t offer to bring you with me. The way you describe your life here sounds rather like life on campaign. With one notable difference. Just when I’ve grown close to people, they die.” His own mother had been the first in that succession, but far from the last. He could never put Susanna at risk.

“Perhaps,” she said slowly, teasing her fingers through the hair at his nape, “you and I could grow very, very close. You could promise not to leave. And I could promise not to die. Wouldn’t that be a welcome change for us both?”