A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(84)

“Limiting people? After all you’ve learned of me and this place, you would accuse me of holding these young women back?” A lump formed in her throat. “How can you say such a thing?”

“After all you’ve learned of me, you still can’t trust me? Marry me, and trust that I’ll finish this war and come back to you. For God’s sake, Susanna—” His voice broke, and he looked away briefly before continuing. “I’m no stranger to doubt, this past year. But of all people, I thought you believed in me.”

“I do.” A tear trickled down her cheek, and she dabbed it with the heel of her free hand. “I do believe in you, Bram. I believe in you more than you believe in yourself. Do I believe you can be a capable field commander? Of course I do. But I also believe you could be so much more. A leader off the battlefield, as well as on. A respected lord, essential to his community . . . perhaps even a voice for your soldiers in Parliament.” She pressed a fist to her belly. “I believe you’d make a wonderful husband and father.”

His grip on her arm gentled. “Then why—”

“I just can’t marry you, not like this.” She tugged her wrist from his clasp. With her other hand, she cradled it, rubbing away the red marks of his grip and cursing the scars that would never, ever fade. She stumbled a pace in retreat. “Can’t you understand? I won’t be abandoned again.”

The world was suddenly so quiet. No crashing waves, no gusting breeze. No calling gulls.

When she finally gathered the strength to look at him, his eyes were intense, searching. And his question pierced her straight through the heart.

“Who’s afraid now?”

She let action be her answer. She turned and fled.

Twenty-three

A few evenings later, Bram stood watch on the very same turret. It was a dark, cloudy night, and there was nothing but shifting mist to see. With so little to occupy his thoughts, he once again found himself reliving that last encounter with Susanna. Again and again, the night brought her words back to him.

I won’t be abandoned again.

God above, he did not intend to abandon her. All he wanted was to marry the woman, so that no matter how far apart the world flung them, there would always be a tether connecting her life to his.

She needed a man like him. A man sure enough of himself to enjoy her cleverness, rather than be cowed by it. A man brave enough to challenge her, to push her beyond the boundaries she’d set for herself. A man strong enough to protect her, if she ventured a little too far. Those were all the things she needed, as the remarkable woman she’d become.

But somewhere inside that woman huddled an awkward, frightened, wounded girl, who desperately craved something else: a man who would tuck neatly into her safe, scheduled life and promise to never, ever leave her alone. Bram just didn’t think he could—or even should—be that man for her.

When Thorne came to relieve him at the pitch-black hour of two, Bram accepted the torch his corporal silently offered and made his way down the winding stairs. Moths fluttered around him, drawn to the heat and flame.

He emerged onto the bailey and surveyed the neat rows of tents. The sounds of snoring and the occasional cough kept the night from growing too still. A fluffy ghost of a creature wandered toward him, emerging from the shadows.

Bram stared down at the lamb.

The lamb stared up at him.

He gave in and withdrew a handful of corn from his pocket, strewing it on the ground. “Why can’t I eat you?” he asked irritably. Though he knew the answer well enough. “Because she named you, you miserable thing. And now I’m stuck with a pet.”

Ever since he’d arrived here, Susanna had been busy as a spider, spinning little wisps of sentiment, connecting him to this place in ways he had no wish to be connected. If he didn’t leave soon, he’d begin to feel trapped.

He approached the tent he knew to be Colin’s and softly cleared his throat. A rustle moved through the tent. There was a muffled banging noise, and one of the tent poles shivered. Good, he was awake.

“It’s Bram,” he whispered. “I need to speak with you about the artillery demonstration.”

No reply. No further movement.

Bram crouched and held his torch near the canvas flap, knowing the light would shine through. “Colin.” He nudged the canvas with his elbow. “Colin. We need to discuss the artillery demonstration. Sir Lewis has a new—”

Someone standing behind him tapped his shoulder. “What do you want?”

Bram jumped in his skin, nearly dropping his torch. “Jesus.” He rose to a standing position, turned, and lifted his torch to illuminate . . .

Colin.

His cousin stood next to him, the picture of nonchalance, dressed in an unbuttoned, uncuffed shirt and loose trousers. In one hand, he clutched a bottle of wine by its slender neck. “Yes, Bram? What can I do for you?”

Bram looked at Colin. Then he looked at the tent. “If you’re out here with me,” he said, waving his torch at his cousin, “then . . . who’s in your tent?”

“A friend. And I’d like to get back to entertaining her, if you don’t mind.” Colin uncorked the wine bottle with his teeth and spat the cork aside. “What is it that can’t wait for morning?”

“What the devil are you doing with a woman in your tent?”