A Night to Surrender

“I imagine Thorne could have scared them off with a look.” She traced a scar on the side of his knee, a thin line that stood out against the gnarled mess. “But someone operated here. Someone skilled.”



He nodded. “Took three days, but we found a surgeon who promised not to amputate.”



She traced a horizontal line across his thigh, above the bullet wound. There was no scar tissue there, but a leather strap had worn him bald in a telltale stripe of pale, baby-smooth skin. A matching band of hairless skin circled his upper calf. She touched that, too. He winced, not at the pain, but at the exposure. He hoped she wouldn’t understand the significance of those bands.



“You’ve been wearing a brace,” she said.



He didn’t respond.



“Why did you remove it? Bram, you can’t simply ignore an injury of this magnitude.”



He had to ignore it. His purpose was not only training men, but leading them, inspiring them. How could he accomplish that with such an obvious weakness?



“I’m healed,” he told her. “It scarcely pains me anymore.”



She made a gruff, incredulous noise. “Liar. You’re in great pain. And more than the usual amount today, I’d wager, after all that marching about the countryside. The water must have felt good.”



“It did. But not as good as you.” He reached for her, suddenly eager to take the aggressive role. He’d been lying here helplessly for much too long.



She batted his hand aside. “You should still be wearing the brace. Look at this swelling.” Her fingertip traced his red, misshapen knee. “You’re not ready to march without it.”



Her pitying touch, those limiting words . . . Something in him snapped.



He seized her wrist in a grip so tight, she gasped. “Don’t tell me what I’m ready to do.” He squeezed harder still. “Do you hear me? Don’t ever tell me what I can’t do. Those surgeons told me I’d never walk again. I proved them wrong. My superiors think I can’t command troops. I’ll prove them wrong, too. If you mean to treat me like an invalid—a man you can coddle and nurse and stroke without any hint of danger . . .” He yanked on her wrist, pulling her atop him. He cinched his other arm around her waist. “I’ll have to prove you wrong, as well.”



Her eyes flashed. “Release me.”



“Not a chance.”



She struggled in his grip, and her short, quick breaths gave him a luscious display of her breasts.



“That won’t work, love. My leg might be injured, but I’m strong as a bull everywhere else.”



“Even bulls have their weaknesses.” He felt her wriggling, insinuating one of her lithe, slender legs between his. The hot friction of their bodies, through just the thin layers of her frock and a linen sheet, had him aching. She made a quick strike, trying to knee him in the groin. Oh, she understood how to hurt a man. But he was one move ahead of her. He scissored his good leg over hers, trapping her lower body. Then he flipped them both, putting her on her back.



“There. I have you,” he said, pinning one hand over her head. “And what will you do now?”



“I’ll scream. There are two footmen just outside this room. My father’s sleeping down the corridor.”



“Go ahead, scream. Call the footmen and your father in. We’ll be found in a very compromising position. My career will be over, you’ll be ruined, and we’ll be stuck together for life. We can’t have that, now can we?”



“Lord, no.”



Bram stared down at her. Odd. He’d spent his entire adulthood avoiding romantic entanglements. But here he was, completely tangled with this woman, and the idea of being forced to marry her didn’t horrify him the way it ought. In fact, if he let himself envision spending a lifetime of nights in a graciously appointed bedchamber, atop a soft, clean mattress, with her lovely scent of herbs in the air and her pale body writhing under his . . .



It was the strangest, most foreign and unlikely image. But curiously, he didn’t hate it.



She squirmed beneath him. “Brute. Beast.”



Chuckling, he kissed her on the forehead. “That’s more like it.” He’d much rather have her scorn than her pity. Pity made him feel helpless. Provoking her ire made him feel alive. And she was so wonderfully easy to provoke.



“God, having you under me, in a bed . . .” He kissed her, just at the corner of her lips. “You drive me mad with wanting, Susanna. We’d be so good together.”



He gentled his grip on her wrist, but kept it pinned with just the weight of his arm atop hers. He slid one thumb along the line of her jaw, covering her racing pulse. Then dipping lower, caressing the tender slope of her throat. Her skin was so soft. Had she bathed? he wondered. Or would she still taste of the sea?



“Very well,” she said. “You’ve made your point. You’re a big, strong man, and I’m a helpless female. Now let me go.”



“I’ll release you, if that’s truly what you want. But I don’t think it is.”



Flipping his hand, he slid the backs of his fingers down her chest, all the way to her bosom. He skimmed the exposed edge of her chemise. The sheer, lacy fabric rose and fell with her rhythmic breaths, like froth riding the edge of a wave.



If she wanted him to stop, she could stop him. Her arms were virtually unrestrained. He levered his weight onto one elbow. A quick dart to the side, and she’d be free.



She glanced in that very direction, obviously thinking the same.



But she didn’t move. She wanted this, too.



In a slow, sure claiming, he fitted his palm over her breast. She bit back a gasp.



Bram struggled to contain his own groan of pleasure. The soft, round swell fit his hand so perfectly, warming under his touch. As he held her, her nipple tightened to a knot, pressing against the center of his palm. Just a small, concentrated dot of sensation, but unspeakably arousing. Her body was responding to his, calling to his. His cock answered, stiffening to a painful degree.



He bent his head and pressed his lips to her bared throat, kneading the taut globe of her breast as he kissed a slow trail downward. She did taste of salt, and of sweet femininity. He licked her, sliding his tongue in a lazy, serpentine path over her collarbone. Then dipping down, to trace the border of her décolletage. There, her close-fitted bodice thwarted him. He slipped a single finger between fabric and skin, forcing the neckline to give, just a little. He needed to touch her there, feel that tight bead of her nipple press against the pad of his fingertip.



Working in tiny arcs, he skimmed his touch lower, exploring the warm satin of her skin. Learning the unique geography of the plump, delectable globe. His thumb finally grazed the textured edge of her areola, and triumph surged through him. He felt like a conquistador discovering a new territory. An enticing round island of promise, bordered by rippling dunes and capped with an upward-thrusting peak. He climbed it in increments, panting for breath. God, just a little further . . .



There.



She gave a startled, breathy cry, and her whole body bowed against his. Her passionate response nearly undid him. His thoughts unraveled, leaving him with just one thread of concentration.



More.



That was all he could think, all he could understand. More. He needed more of her. How could he stroke more, touch more, kiss more? He still had one of her arms pinned overhead. If he lowered it to her side, he reasoned, her neckline would have more give. He would make it yield to him, so he could take that delicious, straining peak into his mouth. But when he rose up a bit, meaning to draw her arm down to her side . . .



“Jesus.”



He froze, staring. Struggling to make sense of what he beheld. From wrist to elbow, her delicate skin was a crosshatch of scars.



With a sharp mental tug, he reined in the arousal charging through his body. So here was the reason she always wore those enticing, buttoned gloves. She was hiding something, too.



Something much more serious than a nettle in her paw.



“Susanna fair,” he said, skimming a touch over her marked skin. “What happened here?”



Susanna winced at his touch. Inside, she crumpled. She ought to have known she couldn’t hide them forever. That she would never get this close to a man without those dratted scars ruining everything, one way or another.



“How old are these?” he asked, tracing a thin, healed line with his fingertip.



“Quite old,” she said dismissively. “They’re nothing. From gardening.”



“Gardening? Did you pick a death match with a rosebush?”



“No.” She arched her back, rubbing her breasts against his chest. His touch had felt so good. So right. “Couldn’t we just go back to where we left off?”



Apparently not.



As she wriggled beneath him, he used his weight and strength to keep her pinned. Not out of conquest, it seemed, but out of concern. “What happened? Tell me the truth.”



“I . . .” She hesitated. Then she took a deep breath and decided to just be honest. He could make of the truth what he would. “They’re from bloodletting.”



“So many?” He cursed softly, running his fingertips over the ladder of scarred skin. “I thought you said you weren’t ill as a child.”



“I wasn’t ill. That didn’t stop the surgeons from trying to cure me.”



“Tell me,” he said.



Her gaze slanted to the corner. A wild pulse pounded in her ears, like a warning.



“You’ve seen my scars,” he reminded her, easing aside to give her space. “I’ve told you everything.”



“It was the year after my mother died.” Her own voice sounded flat, remote. “Papa thought I needed feminine influence—someone to see that I grew into a young lady. So he sent me to Norfolk, to stay with relations.”



“And you took ill there?”



“Only with homesickness. But my cousins didn’t know what to do with me. They saw it their duty to make me ready for society, but they lamented that I would never fit in. I was tall and freckled, and my hair gave them the vapors. Not to mention, my behavior left much to be desired. I was . . . difficult.”



“Of course you were.”



She felt a stab of hurt at the flip comment. It must have been evident, for he quickly qualified his remark.



“I only mean,” he said, “that was perfectly natural. You were sent to live with virtual strangers, and your mother had just died.”



She nodded. “They understood that, at first. But when weeks went by and my comportment failed to improve . . . they thought something more must be wrong. That was when they called in the doctors.”



“Who bled you.”



“To begin with. They prescribed a variety of treatments, over time. I didn’t respond as they hoped, you see. I do have an obstinate streak.”



“I believe I’ve noticed that.” He smiled a little. The warmth in his eyes gave her strength to continue.



“The doctors bled me more, dosed me with emetics and purgatives. After that, I refused my meals, took to hiding in the cupboards. They called the doctors back again, and again. When I fought them, they decided I suffered from hysteria. My treatments increased. Two footmen would restrain me, so the doctor could take yet more blood, dose me with more poison. They would bind me in blankets until I was drenched with sweat, and then force me to bathe in ice-cold water.”



The painful memories rushed in on her, but they weren’t as difficult to voice as she’d thought they’d be. After all this time, the words just flowed out of her, as if—



Oh, now there was an ironic thought.



As if she’d opened a vein.



“They . . .” She swallowed hard. “They shaved off all my hair and applied leeches to my scalp.”



“Oh God.” Guilt twisted his features. “The other day on the green, when I threatened to cut your hair . . .”