A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(97)

“There now,” he murmured. “Be strong, Finn.”

Bram took the strap from Susanna’s grip and yanked it tight, securing it much better than she could have done herself. Obviously, battle had given him a great deal more experience with wounds of this nature than with attacks of asthma. The blood loss instantly decreased.

Rufus knelt at his brother’s head. Susanna could tell he was struggling to hold back tears. “Will he be all right, Miss Finch?”

“He’ll be fine,” she said, trying to convince herself. “But how did this happen?”

Lord Payne shook his head in dismay. “The fireworks. I meant them to be a surprise for tomorrow, but . . .” He turned his head to spit a violent curse. “Seems I can’t touch a damned thing without ruining it. I was distracted, and the boys got it into their heads to test a few.”

“But fireworks could not have caused a blast that strong. Could they?”

“No,” he said. “That was the cannon.”

“The cannon?” Dread sank like a stone to the bottom of her gut.

“After the fireworks, they coaxed Sir Lewis into a demonstration. The thing backfired.”

Oh Lord.

“Where’s my father?” Releasing Finn, she struggled to gain her feet. She stood on tiptoe, craning her neck to view the group. “Papa?”

The men bustled about, preparing a cart to transport Finn to the smithy. Susanna forced her way through the crush of bodies. She found her father in the courtyard, picking through the cannon’s wreckage.

“Damnation,” he said in an anguished voice. “How did this happen?”

“Papa, don’t!” She grabbed his arm just as he reached for a brass fragment. Leaning back with all her might, she tugged him away from the scene. “You’ll burn yourself. You shouldn’t be near this at all, with so much explosive still about.”

Just then, a wafting spark landed in an open crate of fireworks, setting the packing straw alight and sending a rocket shooting sideways.

“Look out!” she cried, pushing her father to the ground and diving after him. She tripped and landed awkwardly, bouncing on her side. A half-buried rock crunched into her rib cage.

Ignoring her smarting ribs, she crawled to her father’s side. “Are you well, Papa? Is your heart paining you?”

“How could it not?” Struggling up on an elbow, he lifted a handkerchief to his face, wiping away a mixture of tears and sweat. “What senseless destruction.”

“It was an accident, Papa.” One that should have never happened.

“I don’t know what went wrong,” he muttered. “Too much powder? A flaw in the casting? I was so certain this time.”

“You’ve been certain several times before.”

“Oh God,” he moaned. “Such a tragedy. My beautiful cannon.”

She stared at him, horrified. “Papa.” Smack. “To the devil with your cannon. Finn could die.”

He blinked at her, stunned. Susanna was stunned, too. God help her, she’d cursed at her own father and smacked him in the face. It was awful. And satisfying.

“I’m sorry, Papa. But you earned that.” She took advantage of his shock to press her hand to his throat and feel for his pulse. For a few horrific seconds, she couldn’t find any heartbeat at all. But at last, her fingers located the elusive rhythm.

The beat was fast, but steady. Healthy and strong.

Tears of relief pressed to her eyes. Her father might be a selfish old man, enslaved to his ambition. Perhaps he’d never loved her the way a motherless, awkward girl yearned to be loved. But he had given her life. Not once, but twice. And he had given her this home she adored so much. He was her father, and she loved him. She didn’t want to lose him today.

She flagged down a passing stable hand. “Take my father in to the housekeeper. Tell her Miss Finch says Sir Lewis must take to his bed and rest. No arguments.”

With that settled, she turned back to the carriage house, where the men were hitching horses to the cart. The beasts stamped and whinnied, made nervous by the explosions and scent of blood.

The groom offered a hand, helping her into the cart to sit at Finn’s knee. Her skirts crushed beneath her as she settled into the straw. Corporal Thorne and Aaron Dawes were already present, crouching on either side of Finn to keep him immobile. Thorne kept his hands clamped tight about the boy’s calf, just above the tourniquet, adding the force of his grip to staunch the flow of blood.

“Go on ahead,” Bram ordered the driver. He and his cousin prepared to mount their horses. “We’ll catch you on the road.”

The cart lurched into motion, turning off Summerfield property and trundling down the dirt lane. They’d nearly covered the distance to the smithy by the time Susanna realized she wasn’t the only woman in the cart.

Diana Highwood was there, holding Finn’s head in her lap and wiping his brow with a lacy white handkerchief. “There, there,” she murmured. “You’re doing so well. The ride’s almost over.”

As they pulled into the smithy’s small yard, Aaron Dawes vaulted from the cart and rushed ahead to throw open the doors. Bram slid from his horse and hurried to lift Finn in his arms and carry him inside. Thorne and Payne flanked him, to assist.

As Susanna alighted from the cart, she winced, feeling a sharp pain where she’d fallen. She paused for a moment, pressing a hand to her bruised side, until the pain subsided. Then she moved to follow the men inside the smithy.