A Night to Surrender

None of them could be Papa.



She took a relieved gulp of acrid, powder-tinged air. With the burden of dread lifted, her curiosity took the fore. Intrigued, she picked her way down the bank of heather until she stood on the narrow, rutted road. In the distance, the figures of the men ceased moving. They’d noticed her.



Shading her brow with one hand, she peered hard at the men, trying to make out their identities. One of the men wore an officer’s coat. Another wore no coat at all. As she approached them, the coatless man began to wave with vigor. Shouts carried up to her on the breeze. Frowning, Susanna moved closer, hoping to better hear the words.



“Wait! Miss, don’t . . . !”



Whomp.



An unseen force plucked her straight off her feet and slammed her sideways, driving her off the lane entirely. She plowed shoulder-first into the tall grass, tackled to the turf by some kind of charging beast.



A charging beast wearing lobster-red wool.



Together, they bounced away from the road, elbows and knees absorbing the blows. Susanna’s teeth rattled in her skull, and she bit her tongue hard. Fabric ripped, and cool air reached farther up her thigh than any well-mannered breeze ought to venture.



When they rolled to a stop, she found herself pinned by a tremendous, huffing weight. And pierced by an intense green gaze.



“Wh—?” Her breath rushed out in question.



Boom, the world answered.



Susanna ducked her head, burrowing into the protection of what she’d recognized to be an officer’s coat. The knob of a brass button pressed into her cheek. The man’s bulk formed a comforting shield as a shower of dirt clods rained down on them both. He smelled of whiskey and gunpowder.



After the dust cleared, she brushed the hair from his brow, searching his gaze for signs of confusion or pain. His eyes were alert and intelligent, and still that startling shade of green—as hard and richly hued as jade.



She asked, “Are you well?”



“Yes.” His voice was a deep rasp. “Are you?”



She nodded, expecting him to release her at the confirmation. When he showed no signs of moving, she puzzled at it. Either he was gravely injured or seriously impertinent. “Sir, you’re . . . er, you’re rather heavy.” Surely he could not fail to miss that hint.



He replied, “You’re soft.”



Good Lord. Who was this man? Where had he come from? And how was he still atop her?



“You have a small wound.” With trembling fingers, she brushed a reddish knot high on his temple, near his hairline. “Here.” She pressed her hand to his throat, feeling for his pulse. She found it, thumping strong and steady against her gloved fingertips.



“Ah. That’s nice.”



Her face blazed with heat. “Are you seeing double?”



“Perhaps. I see two lips, two eyes, two flushed cheeks . . . a thousand freckles.”



She stared at him.



“Don’t concern yourself, miss. It’s nothing.” His gaze darkened with some mysterious intent. “Nothing a little kiss won’t mend.”



And before she could even catch her breath, he pressed his lips to hers.



A kiss. His mouth, touching hers. It was warm and firm, and then . . . it was over.



Her first real kiss in all her five-and-twenty years, and it was finished in a heartbeat. Just a memory now, save for the faint bite of whiskey on her lips. And the heat. She still tasted his scorching, masculine heat. Belatedly, she closed her eyes.



“There, now,” he murmured. “All better.”



Better? Worse? The darkness behind her eyelids held no answers, so she opened them again.



Different. This strange, strong man held her in his protective embrace, and she was lost in his intriguing green stare, and his kiss reverberated in her bones with more force than a powder blast. And now she felt different.



The heat and weight of him . . . they were like an answer. The answer to a question Susanna hadn’t even been aware her body was asking. So this was how it would be, to lie beneath a man. To feel shaped by him, her flesh giving in some places and resisting in others. Heat building between two bodies; dueling heartbeats pounding both sides of the same drum.



Maybe . . . just maybe . . . this was what she’d been waiting to feel all her life. Not swept her off her feet—but flung across the lane and sent tumbling head over heels while the world exploded around her.



He rolled onto his side, giving her room to breathe. “Where did you come from?”



“I think I should ask you that.” She struggled up on one elbow. “Who are you? What on earth are you doing here?”



“Isn’t it obvious?” His tone was grave. “We’re bombing the sheep.”



“Oh. Oh dear. Of course you are.” Inside her, empathy twined with despair. Of course, he was cracked in the head. One of those poor soldiers addled by war. She ought to have known it. No sane man had ever looked at her this way.



She pushed aside her disappointment. At least he had come to the right place. And landed on the right woman. She was far more skilled in treating head wounds than fielding gentlemen’s advances. The key here was to stop thinking of him as an immense, virile man and simply regard him as a person who needed her help. An unattractive, poxy, eunuch sort of person.



Reaching out to him, she traced one fingertip over his brow. “Don’t be frightened,” she said in a calm, even tone. “All is well. You’re going to be just fine.” She cupped his cheek and met his gaze directly. “The sheep can’t hurt you here.”



Two



“You’re going to be just fine,” she repeated.



Bram believed her. Wholeheartedly. At the moment, he was feeling damned fine indeed. He had a road cleared of sheep, a functioning leg, and a fetching young miss stroking his brow. Why the devil should he complain?



Granted, the fetching young miss thought he was a blithering idiot. But that was a mere quibble. Truth be told, he was still gathering his wits.



In those moments following the blast, his first, admittedly selfish thought had been for his knee. He was almost certain he’d ripped the joint apart again, what with that ungainly rescue attempt. Before his injury, he would have managed to scoop this girl off the road with more grace. She was lucky he’d been standing to the side of the lane and not down the hill with the others, or he never could have reached her in time.



Once a few moments’ assessment and a trial flex or two had assured him his knee remained intact, his thoughts had all centered on her. How the irises of her eyes were the same blue as . . . well, irises. How she smelled like a garden—a whole garden. Not just blossoms and herbs, but the juice of crushed green leaves and the rich, fertile essence of the earth. How she made the perfect place to land, so warm and so soft. How it had been a stupidly long time since he’d had a woman under him, and he couldn’t recall one ever caressing him so sweetly as this.



God, had he truly kissed her?



He had. And she was lucky he hadn’t done more. For a moment there, he’d been well and truly dazed. He supposed the blast was to blame for that. Or maybe it was just her.



She sat up a bit further. Wisps of loosened hair tumbled about her face. Her hair was a striking shade of gold, touched with red. It made him think of molten bronze.



“Do you know what day it is?” she asked, peering at him.



“Don’t you?”



“Here in Spindle Cove, we ladies have a schedule. Mondays are country walks. Tuesdays, sea bathing. Wednesdays, you’d find us in the garden.” She touched the back of her hand to his forehead. “What is it we do on Mondays?”



“We didn’t get to Thursdays.”



“Thursdays are irrelevant. I’m testing your ability to recall information. Do you remember Mondays?”



He stifled a laugh. God, her touch felt good. If she kept petting and stroking him like this, he might very well go mad.



“Tell me your name,” he said. “I promise to recall it.” A bit forward, perhaps. But any chance for formal introductions had already fallen casualty to the powder charge.



Speaking of the powder charge, here came the brilliant mastermind of the sheep siege. Damn his eyes.



“Are you well, miss?” Colin asked.



“I’m well,” she answered. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same for your friend.”



“Bram?” Colin prodded him with a boot. “You look all of a piece.”



No thanks to you.



“He’s completely addled, the poor soul.” The girl patted his cheek. “Was it the war? How long has he been like this?”



“Like this?” Colin smirked down at him. “Oh, all his life.”



“All his life?”



“He’s my cousin. I should know.”



A flush pressed to her cheeks, overwhelming her freckles. “If you’re his cousin, you should take better care of him. What are you thinking, allowing him to wander the countryside, waging war on flocks of sheep?”



Ah, that was sweet. The lass cared. She would see him settled in a very comfortable asylum, she would. Perhaps Thursdays would be her day to visit and lay cool cloths to his brow.



“I know, I know,” Colin replied gravely. “He’s a certifiable fool. Completely unstable. Sometimes the poor bastard even drools. But the hell of it is, he controls my fortune. Every last penny. I can’t tell him what to do.”



“That’ll be enough,” Bram said. Time to put a stop to this nonsense. It was one thing to enjoy a moment’s rest and a woman’s touch, and another to surrender all pride.



He gained his feet without too much struggle and helped her to a standing position, too. He managed a slight bow. “Lieutenant Colonel Victor Bramwell. I assure you, I’m in possession of perfect health, a sound mind, and one good-for-nothing cousin.”



“I don’t understand,” she said. “Those blasts . . .”



“Just powder charges. We embedded them in the road, to scare off the sheep.”



“You laid black powder charges. To move a flock of sheep.” Pulling her hand from his grip, she studied the craters in the road. “Sir, I remain unconvinced of your sanity. But there’s no question you are male.”



He raised a brow. “That much was never in doubt.”



Her only answer was a faint deepening of her blush.



“I assure you, all the lunacy is my cousin’s. Lord Payne was merely teasing, having a bit of sport at my expense.”



“I see. And you were having a bit of sport at my expense, pretending to be injured.”



“Come, now.” He leaned toward her and murmured, “Are you going to pretend you didn’t enjoy it?”



Her eyebrows lifted. And lifted, until they formed perfect twin archer’s bows, ready to dispatch poison-tipped darts. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”



She tugged on her glove, and he swallowed reflexively. A few moments ago, she’d pressed that hand to his bared throat, and he’d kissed her lips. All pretending aside, they’d shared a moment of attraction. Sensual. Powerful. Real. Perhaps she’d prefer to deny it, but she couldn’t erase his memory of her sweet, lush mouth.



And she couldn’t hide that hair. God, that hair. Now that she stood tall, wreathed by midday light, she all but blazed with beauty. Red flames and golden sunlight, each striving to outshine the other.



“You never did tell me your name,” he said. “Miss . . . ?”



Before she could answer, a closed-top coach hurtled over the crest of the hill, headed their way. The driver didn’t bother to slow, just whipped the team faster as the coach and four bore down on them. All present had to scramble to one side, to avoid being crushed beneath its wheels.



In a protective gesture, Bram positioned himself between the lady and the road. As the carriage went by, he glimpsed a crest painted on its side.