A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(99)

She grabbed his arm, forcing him to face her. “It’s not my fears that are putting Finn at risk. It’s yours, don’t you see? You’re still so caught on this notion that you can’t be a whole man, can’t be worth anything unless you prove you have two strong, perfectly functioning legs to carry you into battle. You’d even drag me along to Portugal before you’d admit otherwise. But this is not about you, Bram.”

He shot her a defensive glare. “I hadn’t planned to drag you anywhere, Susanna. I’d planned to take you willingly, happily—or not at all. Are you telling me you don’t want to come?”

How could he put such choices to her, at a time like this?

“I love you. I want to be with you. But dashing off to Portugal next Tuesday, just because my father’s a selfish, unfeeling old stick? It sounds romantic, to be sure . . . but also a bit juvenile. Aren’t we both a little too old to be running away from home?”

“This may be your home, but it will never be mine.”

“You’re wrong, Bram. Home is where people need you.” She gestured at the smithy. “And right now, the people in there need you desperately. Aaron Dawes needs every strong pair of hands to help. Finn needs you to stand beside him, and help him to be brave. To show him a man can be a man, whether he has two good legs or one. And after all is said and done, I’m going to need you to hold me. Because helping with this surgery is going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

When he still didn’t cease his preparations, a knot of fear formed in her throat. “Bram,” she said, her voice breaking. “You can’t do this. Not an hour ago, you promised to never leave me.”

He ceased wrestling with the saddle and released an angry sigh. “Susanna. Not an hour ago, you claimed to trust me with your life.”

“We’re not off to a very good start then, are we?”

“I suppose we’re not.”

They stared at each other. Then he turned, placed his foot in the stirrup, and swiftly mounted his horse.

That pain in her side returned. Though logically, she knew the pain to be placed too low, she couldn’t help but suspect her heart was breaking. “I can’t believe you’re actually going.”

“I never had a thought of doing otherwise, Susanna.” The horse danced under him, sensing its rider’s impatience to be off. “The only question is whether I have a reason to return. If you let them take that boy’s foot while I’m gone . . . I’ll never be able to look at you again.”

With that, he turned his horse and left.

She stood watching him until he disappeared into the darkening night. Then she turned and walked numbly back to the forge.

When she entered alone, all present turned to her.

“Lord Rycliff has gone,” she said, although it hardly seemed to need saying. “How is Finn?”

“Weakening.” Aaron Dawes’s face was grave. “I have to do it soon.”

Everyone looked to Thorne, who’d been ordered by Bram to stop them. The grim, stalwart officer who had once kept vigil at a wounded Bram’s bedside, pistol cocked, ready to fire at the first gleam of a bone saw. Would he fight them now? Between Dawes and Payne, she supposed they had the corporal outnumbered. But even if they had a dozen men, the smart odds would still seem to favor Thorne.

“Corporal Thorne,” she said, “I know you are loyal to your lord. But angry as he is right now, if he returns to find this boy dead, he’ll be devastated. We must allow Mr. Dawes to operate.”

She hadn’t stopped loving Bram when he rode away from her. No matter what threats or ultimatums he’d given, she was looking out for Finn’s well-being and his.

“Do you understand?” she asked. “We have to save Finn’s life, or Bram will always feel responsible. We all care about him. And we don’t want him to live under that burden of guilt.”

Recognition gleamed sharp in the corporal’s eyes. And Susanna found herself wondering just what burdens of guilt this quiet, ruthless man shouldered.

Thorne nodded. “Do it, then.”

Twenty-seven

Bram spent the three-hour ride to Brighton steaming with righteous anger, feeling like a misunderstood, maligned hero.

He spent the three-hour ride back to Spindle Cove swamped with fierce regret, feeling like a perfect jackass.

Daniels wasn’t helping.

“Let me understand this,” his friend said, when they stopped to change horses halfway. “Now that I’m more than half awake.”

Daniels paced the lit area in front of the coaching house stables, pushing a hand through his wild black hair. “A boy got his foot blown apart in a cannon explosion. You had a capable blacksmith and an experienced apothecary all prepared to amputate. But you told them all to hold off for eight or nine hours. So you could ride breakneck to the Brighton Barracks . . .” He motioned to the right. “Haul me out of a warm bed, and drag me all the way back . . .” He waved the same hand to the left. “To do what, exactly? Pronounce the boy dead?”

“No. You’re going to save his leg. The way you saved mine.”

“Bram.” The surgeon’s flint-gray eyes were unforgiving. “A lone bullet passed through your knee in a straight, clean trajectory. To be sure, it tore your ligaments up—but at least it left edges that could be sewn together. Heavy artillery wounds are like shark attacks. All that’s left is chum. You’ve seen battle. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”