A Night to Surrender

“Papa, please stop jesting,” she said lightly. “We don’t want to waste the gentlemen’s time. You know very well, a militia would be useless here.”



“Useless?” Bramwell cut her a look. “Militias aren’t useless. To the contrary, they’re essential. In case you were unaware, Miss Finch, England is at war.”



“Naturally, I’m aware of that. But everyone knows the threat of French invasion has passed. They’ve had no real naval clout since Trafalgar, and Bonaparte’s forces are so depleted after that drubbing in Russia, he hasn’t the strength to invade anyone. As matters stand, it’s all he can do to hold Spain. With Wellington’s forces on the march, even that grasp is tenuous.”



The room went silent, and Bramwell frowned at her, intently. Yet another instance of Mrs. Worthington’s Wisdom proved wrong. If a woman’s intellect was in any way analogous to her undergarments, men should thrill to see it revealed. Strangely enough, Susanna had never known it to work that way.



“You know a great deal about current events,” he said.



“I am an Englishwoman with an interest in the war’s outcome. I take the trouble to inform myself.”



“If you’re so well informed, you should also know we’re at war with not only France, but America. Not to mention, the coastline is rife with privateers and smugglers of every stripe.” With a single fingertip, he drew the model toward him. “I’m astonished this Rycliff Castle has gone unsecured so long.”



“There’s nothing astonishing about it.” Reaching out, she tugged the model right back. “No one would attempt to come ashore here. As my father said, the coast has changed since the Normans invaded. The landslide formed a sort of reef. Only the smallest fishing boats can navigate it, even at high tide. Many a ship has foundered and wrecked in that cove. Not even the smugglers trouble with it.” She looked up at him, pointedly. “Nature affords us protection enough. We don’t need uniformed men. Not here.”



Their gazes locked and held. Something defensive flared in those bold green eyes, and she wondered at the thoughts crossing his mind. Not thoughts of kissing her, she’d wager.



“I’m afraid,” Sir Lewis said, chuckling, “this happens to be a disagreement of the most vexing sort.”



Susanna smiled. “The sort where the woman has the right of it?”



“No, my dear. The sort where both sides have equal merit.”



“How do you mean?”



Her father motioned toward the chairs, directing them all to sit. “Susanna, you are correct,” he said, once all were settled. “The chances of any enemy invading Spindle Cove are so small as to be infinitesimal. However—”



Suddenly, Lord Payne choked and sputtered, replacing his teacup with an abrupt crack.



“What’s the matter with you?” Bramwell asked.



“Nothing, nothing.” Payne dabbed at his spattered waistcoat. “Sir Lewis, did you say Spindle Cove?”



“Yes.”



“This place, here. Is Spindle Cove.”



“Yes,” Susanna echoed slowly. “Why?”



“Oh, no reason.” Payne rubbed his mouth with one hand, as if massaging away a laugh. “Please, do go on.”



“As I was saying,” Sir Lewis continued, “chances of invasion are slim indeed. However, Bramwell here will tell you that a solid defense is based on the appearance of readiness, not the probability of attack. Similar points along the coast have been fortified with Martello towers, defended by local volunteer militias. Spindle Cove cannot appear to be the weak link in the chain.”



“There’s nothing weak about our village, Papa. Visitors know it to be perfectly safe. If this militia comes to pass, that reputation can only suff—”



“Susanna, dear.” Her father sighed loudly. “That’s quite enough.”



It wasn’t nearly enough. Papa, do you know what kind of man this is? she longed to argue. He’s a bomber of defenseless sheep, an enemy of flounced muslin frocks, and a kisser of unsuspecting women! A perfect beast. We can’t have him here. We can’t.



Only deep, abiding respect for her father kept her quiet.



He went on, “To be perfectly honest, there is another reason. I am the only other local gentleman, you see. This duty should have been mine. The Duke of Tunbridge is responsible for the Sussex militia, and he’s been hounding me for over a year now to provide a display of our local readiness.” His eyes fell to the carpet. “And so I have promised him one, at this year’s midsummer fair.”



“The midsummer fair? Oh, but that’s not even a month away,” Susanna said, dismayed. “And we’ve always made the fair a children’s festival. Suits of armor, crossbows. A few melons fired out to sea with the old trebuchet.”



“I know, dear. But this year, we’ll have to treat our neighbors—and the duke—to a proper military review instead.” He leaned forward, bracing his arms on his knees. “If Bramwell agrees, that is. If he doesn’t embrace the Rycliff title and take on this militia as his duty . . . the task will fall to me.”



“Papa, you can’t.” The thought alone made Susanna wilt. Her father could not be responsible for embodying a militia company. He was aging, and his heart was weak. And he was her only family. She owed him her life, in more ways than one. The prospect of welcoming this horrid Bramwell and his friends into their safe, secure community filled her with dread. But if the only alternative would endanger her father’s health, how could she argue against this militia scheme?



The answer was plain. She couldn’t.



Her father addressed the officer. “Bramwell, you’ve led entire regiments into battle. I’m asking you to train a company of four-and-twenty men. Believe me, I know full well this is like asking an African lion to serve a barn cat’s purpose. But it is a position of command, and one I’m free to offer you. And it’s only a month. If you do well with it . . . after midsummer, it could lead to something more.”



A meaningful look passed between the men, and Bramwell—now Lord Rycliff, she supposed—was silent for a long moment. Susanna held her breath. A half hour ago, she’d wished for nothing more than to see the back of this man and his party. And now, she found herself forced into a most unpleasant occupation.



Hoping he would stay.



At length, he stood, pulling on the front of his coat. “Very well, then.”



“Excellent.” Rising to his feet, Papa clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly. “I’ll write to the duke forthwith. Susanna, you’re always fond of walking, and there’s ample time before dinner. Why don’t you show the man his castle?”



“This is the way,” Susanna said, leading the men off the dirt lane and onto an ancient road grown over with grass.



The path was a familiar one. Over the years she’d resided in Spindle Cove, Susanna must have walked it thousands of times. She knew each curve of the land, every last mottled depression in the road. More than once, she’d covered this distance in the dark of night with nary a misstep.



Today, she stumbled.



He was there, catching her elbow in his strong, sure grip. She hadn’t realized he was following so close. Just when she thought she’d regained her balance, his heat and presence unsteadied her all over again.



“Are you well?”



“Yes. I think so.” In an effort to dispel the awkwardness, she joked, “Mondays are country walks; Tuesdays, sea bathing . . .”



He didn’t laugh. Nor even smile. He released her without comment, moving on ahead to take the lead. His strides were long, but she noticed he was still favoring that right leg.



She did what a good healer ought never do. She hoped it hurt.



Perhaps, with that swooping tackle in the road, he had saved her from losing a few toes. But if not for him, there would have been no danger in the first place. If not for him, right now she would be seeing the Highwoods settled in at the rooming house. Poor Diana. Poor Minerva, for that matter. Charlotte was young and resilient, at least.



They climbed the rest of the way in silence. Once they crested the sandstone ridge, Susanna pulled to a stop. “Well,” she said between deep inhalations, “there it is, my lord. Rycliff Castle.”



The castle ruins sat perched at the tip of an outcropping, an arrowhead of green heath jutting over the sea. Four stone turrets, a few standing arches . . . here and there, a bit of wall. This was all that remained. In the background spread the English Channel, now turning a lovely shade of periwinkle in the dimming afternoon.



Silence reigned for a long minute as the men took in the scene. Susanna kept quiet, too, as she tried to see the ancient fortress through fresh eyes. As a young girl, she’d been taken with the romance of it. When one viewed the castle as a picturesque ruin, the absent walls and ceilings were the best features. The missing parts were invitations to dream; they inspired the imagination. Looking upon this as a prospective residence, however, she could only imagine the missing parts would inspire grave misgivings. Or perhaps hives.



“And the village?” he asked.



“You can see it from here.” She led them through a standing fragment of arched corridor, across an open expanse of grass that had once been the castle’s courtyard, to the bluff, where they could overlook the crescent-shaped cove and the valley that sheltered her beloved community. From here, it looked so small and insignificant. With any luck, it would remain beneath his notice entirely.



He said, “I’ll be needing a closer look tomorrow.”



“It’s nothing special,” she hedged. “Just an average English village. Hardly worth your time. Cottages, a church, a few shops.”



“Surely there’s an inn,” Lord Payne said.



“There is a rooming house,” Susanna said, leading them back from the edge of the bluff. “The Queen’s Ruby. But I’m afraid it is completely occupied at this time of year. Summer visitors, you understand, come to enjoy the sea.” And to escape men like you.



“An inn won’t be necessary.” Lord Rycliff walked slowly about the ruins. He propped a hand against a nearby wall and leaned on it, as if to test the wall’s soundness. “We’ll be staying here.”



This statement was received with universal incredulity. Even the stones seemed to throw it back at him, rejecting the words as false.



“Here,” the corporal said.



“Yes,” Lord Rycliff said. “Here. We’ll need to begin settling in, if we’re to make camp before nightfall. Go see to the carts, Thorne.”



Thorne nodded his compliance and quit the place immediately, descending the way they’d come.



“You can’t mean to stay here,” Lord Payne said. “Have you seen here?”



“I have,” Rycliff answered. “I’m looking at it. So we’ll be camping. That’s what militiamen do.”



“I’m not a militiaman,” Payne said. “And I don’t camp.”



Susanna would guess he didn’t. Not in those fine boots, at least.



“Well, you camp now,” Rycliff said. “And you’re a militiaman now, as well.”



“Oh no. Think again, Bram. You’re not pulling me into your tin soldier brigade.”



“I’m not leaving you a choice. You need to learn some discipline, and this is the perfect opportunity.” He cast a glance around. “Since you’re so fond of setting blazes, see if you can start a fire.”



Susanna put a hand on Rycliff’s sleeve, hoping to claim his attention.



She got it. His full, unwavering attention. His intent gaze ranged over her face, searching out her every feature and flaw.



“Forgive the interruption,” she said, releasing his sleeve. “But surely camping isn’t necessary. My father may not have made the express invitation as yet, but I’m certain he intends to offer you lodging at Summerfield.”