A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(81)

“He’s here,” the man hedged, “but . . .”

“Lord Rycliff!” she called, striding past the soldier.

Dinner greeted her as she crossed the bailey, with a friendly bleat and a questing nudge at her pocket.

“Someone’s been spoiling you.” Pausing to spare the lamb a brief pat, she passed into the grassy, open center of the castle grounds, drew to a halt, and lifted her voice. “Lord Rycliff, I need a word.”

“Up here, Miss Finch.”

She tilted her head to view the keep.

“On the parapet,” he called.

Shading her eyes, she let her gaze climb higher still. From atop the southwest turret, between the crenellated notches of the battlement, he lifted a hand in salutation. The sinking, amber sun lit him from the back, bathing him in a glowing corona of light. Like a halo of fire—perfectly befitting the handsome, tormenting devil.

“I’d appreciate if you’d come down, my lord,” she called. “We need to talk.”

“It’s my turn on watch.”

“You’re the commander. Can’t you make it someone else’s turn?”

“I don’t shirk my duty that way, Miss Finch.”

Susanna marched through the keep’s open door, crossed the roofless, ancient hall, and went straight for the spiral staircase of the southwest tower. If he refused to come down and talk to her, she would simply climb up to confront him.

As she ascended the stone risers, she called out, “What’s the meaning of all these missives? The seamstresses are tying their fingers in knots, trying to appease your absurd demands with the uniforms. First, you send a note demanding the coat lining should be bronze silk. We’re twelve pieces into the cutting, and now another note: Not bronze anymore, but blue. Not just any blue, mind. Iris blue. Well, no sooner do we have the blue laid out, than the next missive arrives. ‘I want pink,’ it says. Pink, of all colors! Are you serious?”

Lord, there were a great many stairs. Her brain whirled with the constant circling. She paused a moment, leaning a hand on the stone wall and gathering breath for the remainder of the climb. As well as for the remainder of her complaints.

“It’s my militia, Miss Finch,” he called down to her. “I want what I want.”

“It’s not as though we have nothing else to do, you realize,” she went on. “It’s not only the uniforms. We’ve only a matter of days before the field review. I have the ladies rolling cartridges. Miss Taylor is struggling valiantly to repair Finn and Rufus’s sense of rhythm. With marksmanship practice scheduled to last all tomorrow morning, we simply don’t have time for your capricious whims regarding coat lining and—”

No sooner had she gained the top of the stairs than he had her wrapped in his arms. He swept her straight off her feet.

In a swift motion, he carried her to the opposite side of the tower and pressed her against the parapet of cool, hard stone. At her back, the top edge of the wall caught her just beneath the shoulder blades. From the front, his solid heat and brute strength trapped her. Excited her. She’d already been short of breath, but this . . . ? This was dizzying.

“I told you,” he said in a low, possessive growl, “I want what I want. And what I want right now, so fiercely I can scarcely see straight, is you.” His kiss bruised her mouth. “I can’t believe it took three of those ridiculous notes to get you up here. Stubborn girl.”

“That was your purpose? Bram, you might have just said so.”

“I did say so.” His lips traced the curves of her neck. “Those notes were all about you. This shimmering bronze hair. Your iris-blue eyes.” He licked the underside of her jaw. “All your many, many, luscious shades of pink.”

A sigh of pleasure eased past her lips. “Bram.”

She should have been angry, but his embrace felt so good. So necessary. In the week since their tryst in the cove, they’d managed to steal a few hours together nearly every evening, making love beneath the night sky and then conversing on every topic under the stars. Still, she couldn’t be parted from him for a minute without missing him. These big, grasping hands and these hot, hungry kisses.

“What about the uniforms?” she asked.

“To the devil with the uniforms. Make the coat linings any color you wish. I don’t give a damn about any of it.”

He slid his hands to her bottom and pulled her flush against him, bringing her belly in contact with his prominent arousal. The evident, intense hunger in his eyes sent desire racing through her.

“I want you,” he said. Rather redundantly.

She wet her lips. “Perhaps tonight I can slip away from Summerfield.”

“No. Not tonight.” He kneaded her backside with both hands, lifting and molding her body to his. “Here. Now.”

The idea made her heart race, and made her intimate places go soft with longing. She glanced to either side. “We couldn’t possibly.”

“No one can see us,” he said, guessing her question. “Not on this side of the tower. There’s only rocks and sea below us here.”

The other three parapets were unoccupied. All the men were down the slope, at drill. He was right, there was no one to see. A mild breeze whipped around and between them. The purpling sky hung so close overhead, she felt as though she could brush it with her fingertips. They stood on top of the world, alone.