A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(83)

Oh God. Those words . . . they both frightened and aroused her. She opened her mouth to object, to plead with him. Take care, take care. Take care with my heart when you say such things. But then he shifted, thrusting deeper still, and his thumb grazed her flesh just where she needed it. Pleasure racked her body for a second time, and the only sounds from her mouth were primal, desperate moans.

She hadn’t known, hadn’t dreamed she could feel so exposed. With each one of these hasty, stolen couplings, he stripped yet more layers from the woman she’d always believed herself to be. He denuded her of witty banter, of polite virtue, of all the trappings of a gently bred, overly educated spinster. Reducing her to nothing but raw, wild sensation and a fiercely thumping, wholly unguarded heart.

While the last pulses of her climax were still shuddering through her, he withdrew from her body. She felt the hot splash of his seed against her thigh. In the aftermath, he held her, brushing sweet kisses to her temple and cheek.

His breath came in ragged huffs. He pressed his brow to her shoulder and gathered her close. “That gets more difficult every time.”

“I know.” Tugging down her petticoats, she slid free. When she had her clothing rearranged, she slowly turned to face him. The words stuck in her throat, but she forced them out. “Perhaps this time should be the last.”

“Susanna. You know I didn’t mean it that way.” He hiked his breeches from where they hung tangled about his knees. With impatient motions, he began to straighten the falls and fasten the buttons.

She smoothed her hair. “I should go.”

“Wait.” He grasped her wrist, forbidding her to leave. “What do you mean? You can’t mean to run away from me. From this.”

“I’m not running away. You’re the one who’s leaving. And we can’t keep doing this. We’re going to be caught.”

“So what if we are caught?” he said. “You know I plan to marry you. I’d marry you tomorrow.”

“Yes. And then you’d leave me a few days after that.”

With the hint of an ironic smile, he gestured out over the castle ruins. “If I’m not inducement enough, this great, moldering heap of stone could be all yours.”

She sniffed, looking around the jumble of walls and turrets that had once housed all her dreams. “You have no idea the affection I hold for this great, moldering heap of stone. I just wish a resident Lord Rycliff came with it.”

He belonged here in Spindle Cove. Ever since he’d addressed the village the day of the picnic, Susanna had felt certain of it. Bram was strong and capable. A good leader, with an innate sense of loyalty and honor. This place could use a man like him. If he would only trade his military life for a calmer, more peaceful existence, she could see him being so happy, living here as Lord Rycliff.

And she could be so happy—so blissfully, completely happy—as his wife.

“Don’t you want a real home, Bram? You know, a place with a roof and . . . and walls, and those rare luxuries called windows? Upholstery, even. Carpets, drapes. Proper meals and a nice, warm bed.”

“I’ve never been one for homely comforts. Five-course meals on fine china, wallpapered parlors . . . That life just isn’t for me. But I could grow to appreciate a bed, if you’re the one warming it.” He tugged on her wrist, attempting to draw her close.

She resisted. She would never have the strength to say this without the benefit of some distance between them. “A home isn’t only defined by what you need, Bram. It’s also about the people who need you. What am I to do when you’re gone? What about your cousin? What about all the men and women in Spindle Cove who are working so hard for you right now, even as we speak? You’re their lord. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“Yes. It does.” His gaze firmed, and so did his grip. “It means a great deal. And the best way I know how to repay them is by finishing this war. Protecting the freedoms they enjoy and the sovereignty of the land they call home. Susanna, this isn’t a matter of England clinging to some island it probably should have never seized. You know Bonaparte must be defeated.”

“And he can’t possibly be defeated without your personal presence in Spain? That’s a bit arrogant, don’t you think? My father has done more to combat Napoleon’s forces than you ever will, and he hasn’t left Sussex in a decade.”

“Well, I’m not like your father.”

“No, you’re not.” She lifted one shoulder. “And once Napoleon is defeated, what then? There will always be another conflict, another campaign. An outpost somewhere that requires defense. Where does it end?”

“That’s the thing about duty,” he bit out. “It doesn’t.”

She stared at him, slowly shaking her head. “You’re afraid.”

He made a dismissive noise.

“You are. You are a big, strong man with a wounded leg, who feels useless and terrified. You say you don’t need a home or a family or a community or love?” She gave a disbelieving laugh. “Please. You want those things so badly, the yearning just wafts from you like steam. But you’re afraid to truly reach for them. Afraid you’ll fail. You’d rather die chasing your old life than screw up the courage to forge a new one.”

His hand clenched her wrist, tight as a manacle. “Who said anything about dying or failing? Christ, you’re always limiting people, holding them back. Your father’s too old to work. Your friends are too delicate to dance.”