A Night to Surrender

“I can’t offer to bring you with me. The way you describe your life here sounds rather like life on campaign. With one notable difference. Just when I’ve grown close to people, they die.” His own mother had been the first in that succession, but far from the last. He could never put Susanna at risk.



“Perhaps,” she said slowly, teasing her fingers through the hair at his nape, “you and I could grow very, very close. You could promise not to leave. And I could promise not to die. Wouldn’t that be a welcome change for us both?”



He sighed. “I can promise to come back. Eventually.”



“From war? Bram, no one can make such a promise. I wish I understood why returning to field command is so important to you. Is it just a matter of proving you can?”



“Partly.”



“But not entirely.”



She looked up at him, those patient blue eyes sparkling in the night. If he couldn’t talk to her, he couldn’t talk to anyone.



“I just don’t have anything else. I’m an infantry officer, Susanna. It’s all I’ve ever been, all I’ve ever wanted since I was a boy. I wanted it so badly, I left Cambridge the month I turned twenty-one. That was when I could finally access the small legacy my grandfather left me, and I used it to purchase my first commission. My father made a show of being angry, but I know he was secretly pleased that I’d done it on my own. I never relied on his influence. I paid my dues, rose up through the ranks. I made him proud. When news reached me of his death—” He broke off, unsure how to continue.



Beneath the water’s surface, her hand found his. “I’m so sorry, Bram. I can’t even imagine how devastating it must have been.”



She couldn’t imagine, and he didn’t know how to explain. Bram thought of his father’s last letter. He’d received it through the usual mail, a full week after the express informing him of the major general’s death. The letter’s contents were nothing out of the ordinary. But Bram would never forget the closing. Don’t feel rushed in writing back, his father had written. I know you’ve been writing too many letters, of late.



His father had obviously learned of Badajoz, where the allied forces had taken the garrison at human costs so great, Wellington himself wept over the carnage. And therefore he’d known Bram was writing condolence letters by the dozen, to the surviving families of his fallen men—to the point where his hand cramped up and his vocabulary went dry as the inkwell. There were only so many words for “regret.”



His father hadn’t offered any hollow words of comfort or tried to impose meaning on senseless death. He’d simply let Bram know he understood.



Bram couldn’t voice what it meant, to know they’d reached a place where they understood each other as men, as fellow officers. As equals. If he retired from command and became just another privileged lord loafing around England . . . He wasn’t sure his father would still understand that man. Bram wasn’t sure he would understand himself.



“Losing my father was hard,” he said. “Damned hard. But what it made it a little easier was telling myself I’d continue making him proud. Carry the family banner forward. Keep his legacy alive.” He released a breath. “That lasted all of a few months, and then I was shot. Couldn’t be so lucky as to have a glorious, noble death on the battlefield. Now I’m just another lamed soldier with no prospects of returning to command.”



“Oh, Bram.” She brushed his face with her free hand, pushing aside drops of salt water on either cheek. He feared they weren’t all from the sea.



“Sir Lewis was my very last chance. I’ve written to every retired general I could imagine, asking for a good word. I’ve felt out every colonel who might be in need of a lieutenant, hoping one of them would put in a request. Nothing. No one wants me like this.”



The night’s silence was profound.



“Well, I do.”



At her words, his heart seized. He clutched her tight with both arms, as if this tiny cove were a bottomless ocean, and she a life preserver.



“I want you like this,” she said again. Bending her head, she kissed the underside of his jaw. Her lips lingered there for a hot, sensuous moment. Then she ran her tongue down his neck and brought her body flush with his. “Just as you are. Right here, right now.”



Twenty-one



“Right here?” he echoed, his voice breaking with surprise. “Right now?”



Susanna couldn’t help but laugh a little. It felt good to catch him off guard, lighten the sadness in his voice. “It can be accomplished in the water, can’t it?”



He nodded numbly. “It can.”



“Unless you have some objection.”



He shook his head, just as numbly. “I don’t.”



“Good.”



Her hands went to the buttons down the front of her bathing costume. His throat worked as she loosened them one by one. She wriggled her arms free and pushed the garment down into the water so she could step out. Then she tossed the whole sodden heap over a nearby rock.



“Wait, Susanna—” He took her by the waist. “You don’t have to do this just because . . .”



“I’m not.” She put her fingers to his lips. “I’m not.”



When she dropped her hand, placing it flat against his chest, his heartbeat whomped beneath her touch. His palpably anxious response made her own heart flutter.



He needed her right now. He needed to know that someone could see all his weaknesses, all his flaws—and still find him not only desirable, but worthy and strong. Vulnerable as she felt, she couldn’t bring herself to deny him that reassurance. Not when it was the simple truth.



What was more, she needed him, too.



“Don’t look so stunned,” she teased. “I want you, Bram. So much. All the time. When it comes to you, this buttoned-up spinster is just seething with wild, insatiable passion.” She kissed him, teasing her tongue over his lips. “It should hardly come as any surprise. You’ve been telling me so since the very beginning.”



“I know,” he said wonderingly. “I know. The surprise is that you listened.” He cradled her neck in one hand and claimed her mouth in a deep, masterful kiss.



She reveled in the sensual surrender for a few moments. Then she gently pushed away. “Wait,” she said, panting. “This is my turn tonight. I want to touch you, everywhere.”



He spread his arms in invitation. “I won’t stop you.”



She began by running her hands over those massive, muscled arms, tracing every cord and sinew. Then skimming up to his shoulders and down his chest—rock-hard and lightly covered with damp, dark whorls of hair. She trailed her fingers down his tensed, ridged abdomen and through a rougher thicket of hair before finally claiming her prize.



With a single fingertip, she traced the smooth, flared crown of his erection. When she slid her palm along the underside, skimming down the thick, ridged column, he jerked and bobbed away from her touch.



Come back here, you. She wrapped both hands around him, stacking her grips in an attempt to envelop his full length. She couldn’t, not quite—so she treated them both to a long, luxuriant stroke, dragging her touch from his base to his tip.



“God.” He gave a strangled groan. “Couldn’t you kiss me when you do that?”



Her mouth watered at the mere suggestion. She moved forward, angling to kiss his jaw, his throat. With her tongue, she traced the ridge of his collarbone before dipping just beneath the water’s surface to graze his nipple. The salty tang of the seawater mingled with the earthy musk of his skin.



Arousal built within her, and she could feel his erection swelling even larger in her hands. But they made the unspoken decision not to rush. To continue exploring each other as long as they could resist the temptation for more.



As she caressed him below the water, he fondled her breasts. First kneading them separately, then pushing them together so he could bend his head and nuzzle both tips. He mouthed each peak thoroughly, teasing her with the alternating hot and cold sensations.



Then he pulled back, studying her in the dark. “Have you noticed,” he said conversationally, “that your right breast is a bit larger than the left?”



Susanna was sure her cheeks must be glowing in the dark, her blush came so fast and fierce. “They’re my breasts. Of course I’ve noticed.” And I’ve only been self-conscious about it all my adult life, thank you very much.



“It’s like they have two different personalities. One’s generous and nurturing.” He lifted the other. “And the other . . . it’s saucy, isn’t it? It wants a tweak.” He gave her left nipple a pinch.



“Bram.” What a conversation. Hoping to distract him, she slid her hand down his shaft and teased her fingers lower, until she cupped the soft, vulnerable sac beneath. He groaned and shivered, encouraging her as she explored, rolling the two pendulous weights in her palm.



Interesting. He wasn’t symmetrical everywhere, either.



“Don’t be vexed,” he said, still fondling her breasts. “I meant it as a compliment. I quite adore them both.”



That was some comfort, she supposed. “I didn’t know there were men with penchants for mismatched breasts.”



“I adore them because they’re yours, Susanna. I adore every bit of you.” His hands roamed lower. “These hips make me wild. This round, cuppable arse was made for my hands. And your long, shapely legs . . .” He kissed her deeply, skimming a hand down her leg and lifting it to drape over his hip, pulling their bodies into intimate contact. “God, I love that you’re tall.”



“Truly?” She’d been in the habit of thinking it her greatest detraction where suitors were concerned. Well, aside from the freckles. And the hair. And her habit of voicing contrary opinions when she ought to dispense demure nods. “Why would you say that?”



“Because I’m tall,” he said, nuzzling her throat. “With a short woman, it’s always deuced awkward. Bits don’t align the way they should.”



Lord. That would teach her to ask. How she hated the idea of him “aligning bits” with petite, delicate beauties. The very thought made her ill.



“And I love this.” His fingers found her cleft, parting her to slip deep inside. “I love feeling how tight you are. Knowing that there haven’t been others.”



She laughed a little, still feeling the stab of jealousy. “Of course there haven’t been others. Could you tell me the same?”



Pulling back, he stared deep into her eyes with a bone-melting, erotic sincerity. “I can tell you this. There’s never been anyone like you.”



“Oh,” she sighed, as his fingers plunged deep.



“Say it.” His teasing tone took on a rougher undercurrent. “Say the words. Say you’re mine.”



Alarms clanged in her heart. She knew he needed to feel strong and powerful right now, but truly. There was possessive, and then there was . . . medieval. “It’s so belittling, Bram. I wish you wouldn’t say that.”



“You just wish you didn’t like it so much.” He added a second finger to the first. “Mine. Mine. Mine.” He thrust his fingers deeper with each repetition. Her intimate muscles clenched around them, and she gasped with pleasant shock.



“See?” he gloated.



Drat it. For a man, he was right entirely too often. It did feel so good. But ever since her illness and those horrid treatments, she’d set a great of deal of comfort in the idea that her body was hers. No one else’s.



“Say it,” he whispered, nuzzling her ear. His thumb circled her pearl. “Susanna fair. I want to hear you say you’re mine.”



She framed his face in her hands and looked him in the eye. “I’ll say this. I claim sole possession of my body, my heart, and my soul. And tonight, I choose to share them all with you.”