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.”

Bram scrubbed a hand over his face, absorbing the censure. “Just shut up and ride.”

Joshua Daniels and Susanna Finch were two of the most intelligent people Bram had ever known. If the two of them agreed on something, that pretty well guaranteed Bram was wrong. Damn it all. If he hadn’t torn off in such a hurry, he likely would have come around to reason, eventually. But he’d gone a little mad at the idea of just standing by helpless, allowing Finn to be permanently lamed. Susanna was right; after all his own struggles to recover his strength, it had hit too close to home.

But Susanna was stubborn, he told himself. Headstrong and brave. She’d never listened to him when it didn’t suit her, so why should she start now? No matter what dire proclamations he’d made, surely she wouldn’t have heeded them. Not if Finn’s life hung in the balance. But then again, he’d told Thorne to use any means necessary to prevent an amputation. And Thorne had some formidable, ruthless means at his disposal.

Jesus Christ, what had he done?

Day was breaking as they rode over the crest and caught their first glimpse of Spindle Cove. His heart lurched at the sight. The charming little village, nestled snug in its valley. The ancient castle ruins, standing sentinel on the bluffs. The cove, calm and blue, studded with small fishing crafts. Warm, buttery sunlight melting over the ridge.

Susanna was right. He was lord of this quiet little nook of England, and there was pride in that. Spindle Cove had a claim on his honor and his heart. And for the first time in his life, Bram knew he had a true home. He could only hope she’d see fit to welcome him back.

They reached the smithy in a matter of minutes. He launched himself from the saddle the moment his gelding slowed to a walk. While the horses made good use of a nearby trough of rainwater, Bram led Daniels into the small, timber-framed building. They found the forge empty of all souls, save one. Finn Bright lay stretched on a long table in the center of the room, draped with linen from the neck down. Eyes closed.

The boy was as pale as the sheet that covered him. The smells of blood and singed flesh hung in the air. For a moment, Bram feared the worst had happened, and this new day would mean the boy’s death on his conscience.

“He’ll live.” Dawes stood in the opposite entry, filling the entire doorway. He looked to have recently bathed. Damp hair clung to his brow, and he was still pulling down a fresh shirt. “Provided he doesn’t go septic,” the man qualified, “he’ll live.”

“Thank God.” Bram sucked in a breath. “Thank God.”

He knew he tossed out that phrase all the time, but this time he meant it. He was really, truly thankful to God. And unsure how he’d ever repay the debt.

“But there was no saving his foot, my lord. The blast had done most of the work already. I just did my best to make it clean.”

“I understand. You did right.”

Bram stared down at the boy’s blood-drained, perspiring face. Fortunately, he looked to have been dosed with enough laudanum to take him beyond the pain. For now. When he woke, Finn would find himself in a vivid, burning hell. That much, Bram had experienced.

Clearing his throat, he introduced Daniels. “He’s a surgeon and a friend of mine. He’ll see to the boy from here.”

Daniels threw back the linen drape from Finn’s leg. Bram winced.

“It’s not pretty, but it ought to heal cleanly,” Daniels said, assessing the stump. “You do good work, Mr. Dawes.”

Dawes nodded his thanks, wiping his hands on a small towel. Bram looked past the man, to the cottage adjacent. A fair-haired woman was sleeping at the table, her head bent over an extended arm.

He walked toward Dawes, giving Daniels some space to examine the boy. “Is that Miss Highwood?”

Dawes shot a glance over his shoulder and exhaled roughly. “Yes.”

“What is she doing here?”

“Honestly, my lord? Damned if I know. But she’s been here all night, and all the screaming and blood in the world couldn’t persuade her to leave. Golden hair and an iron will, that one. Lord Payne’s gone to borrow Keane’s curricle, so he can drive her home.”

“What about Miss Finch? Where is she?”

“Lord Rycliff.” A thin, weak voice called to him. “Is that you?”

“Aye, Finn. It’s me.” Bram hurried back to the table and crouched at the boy’s eye level. “How are you feeling?”

Stupid question.

“S-s-sorry,” the wide-eyed lad scraped out. “My fault. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, no.” Guilt twisted in Bram’s chest. “You’re not to blame, Finn. It was an accident.” An accident that should have never occurred. “Don’t try to talk. There’ll be time enough for that later.”

He reached for the flask of whiskey in his breast pocket, with every intent of gifting it to Finn. The flask had nursed Bram through his own leg injury, and the youth had earned his right to drink like a man. But then he thought better of the gift, considering the absent Mr. Bright’s struggles with liquor. He didn’t want to send the boy down the same troubled path.

He gave Finn a warm pat on the shoulder instead. “I know it’s hell, but you’ll come through it. You’re strong.”

“I’m worried,” Finn said through gritted teeth. “How am I to help Mum and Sally with the shop now?”

“In a hundred ways. We’ll see you fitted with the best false foot possible—no pirate peg leg. You’ll be walking and working again in no time. Or I’ll send you to school, if you like. There are plenty of ways for a man to be useful that don’t involve unloading crates.” Or marching into battle, he thought.

“Cor, school? But I couldn’t accept . . .”

“No arguments, Finn. I’m the lord, and this is my militia. I won’t let it be said my wounded men don’t have an excellent pension.”

“One good thing’s come of it.” With a weak flash of humor, Finn glanced in the direction of his amputated foot. “No one will ever confuse me with Rufus now, will they?”

“No.” A smile warmed Bram’s face. “No, they won’t. And I’ll tell you a secret. The ladies find a wounded soldier hopelessly romantic. They’ll be buzzing after you like honeybees.”

“Suppose they will. Rufus may have two feet, but I’m still the one what danced with Miss Charlotte. Twice.” He broke off, coughing.

Bram took the cup of water Dawes offered and held it to Finn’s lips, helping him lift his head to drink.

“Does my mother know?” the youth asked, reclining again with a wince.

“Yes,” Dawes said. “She was here earlier, during the surgery. But Sally and Rufus had to take her home, she was so overset.”

“I’ll take her word that you’re well and asking for her,” Bram said.

“Tell her to make certain little Daisy don’t bang on my drum.” The lad’s eyes flew open. “Cor. The review. It’s meant to be today, isn’t it?”

“Don’t you worry about that.”

“But how can the men march if I can’t drum?”

“They won’t,” Bram told him. “We’ll cancel the review.” Nothing lost there, really. After the revelation of Sir Lewis’s deceit, he knew the militia never had much purpose, aside from providing fanfare for a doomed cannon’s debut.

“But the review must go on,” Finn said. “Don’t call it off on my account. Everyone’s worked so hard.”

“Yes, but—”

With a grimace of pain, Finn struggled up on his elbow. “If the militia’s found lacking, Miss Finch said the ladies would be called home. They need this place, and my family’s store needs them. We’ve worked too hard to give up now, my lord. All of us . . .” He slumped back to the table, overtaxed by the effort of his speech.

“Rest, Finn.” Bram dragged a hand through his hair. Guilt consumed him. After all their hard work, he didn’t know how to tell the villagers the task had been rather meaningless all along. Just an exercise in bloated pride for a fool man.

Make that two fool men, if he included himself.

From outside the forge, hurried footsteps approached.

“You can’t do this.” That was Thorne’s voice, rough and low.

“Yes I can.” A female voice, drawing closer.

“Damn it, woman. I told you no.”

“Well, let’s see what Lord Rycliff has to say about it, shall we?”

The pair entered the smithy, and Bram’s jaw dropped.

“I tried to stop her,” Thorne said, throwing a gesture of disgust.

Her?

Her. Yes, of course. He recognized her easily by the port-wine birthmark at her temple. But in every other respect, Miss Kate Taylor was dressed the part of a drummer boy. With her petite height and her light, slender figure, she easily fit the militia uniform.

“What are you doing?” Bram asked. He waved at the red coat and buff breeches. “Whose are these?”

“Finn’s, of course,” she said. “I’m him today. You need a drummer, and I’m the only one who can stand in.”

“Miss Taylor, I can’t ask you to—”

“You haven’t asked me. I’ve offered.”

Thorne caught Bram’s eye. The man steeled his jaw. “No,” he said. “You can’t allow it.”

For more than five years, Thorne had served under Bram’s leadership. He’d been not only Bram’s right hand, but his right leg, when he’d needed one. And never—not once, in those five years of drilling, marching, digging, and fighting—had Thorne so much as hesitated to obey Bram’s smallest command. He’d certainly never issued one of his own.

Until today.

“We’re wasting time here,” Miss Taylor said, earnestly approaching him. “We have only a few hours to prepare for the drill, and you must let me join you. Unlike the other ladies here, I have no family, no guardian. Spindle Cove is my only home, and I want to help in any way I can. I didn’t do this for nothing.”

With a dramatic sweep, she doffed her tall, black shako headgear to reveal her hair. Or the lack of it. The girl had clipped her chestnut-brown locks to collar length, and pinned them back to imitate a boyish crop.