A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove), page 33
Bram fixed his cousin with an accusing gaze. “Nothing untoward?”
Colin raised his open palms. “I swear it on my life. Now if you’d only—”
At that moment, a breathless Rufus dashed into the room. “Lord Payne, your delivery’s arrived. Where did you want the tiger?”
This time, Bram didn’t bother waiting for a denial. He lunged forward and grabbed Colin by the lapels. “Didn’t you learn your lesson after that first debacle? This is precisely why I won’t give you a penny to live on elsewhere, you worthless cur. If you wreak this much havoc in quiet little Spindle Cove, the devil only knows what mischief you’d be up to somewhere else.” He gave his cousin a shake. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Planning your stag night. You dolt.”
Bram froze. Then frowned. “Oh.”
“Satisfied? Now you’ve ruined the surprise.” Colin raised a brow. “Had it not occurred to you that your men might want to give you a party? Or had you forgotten you’re getting married in a matter of days?”
Bram shook his head, chuckling to himself. No, he hadn’t forgotten he was marrying Susanna in a matter of days. He’d spent the past month thinking of little else. And having only just returned to the neighborhood after spending a week in London, he was growing damned well desperate to hold his bride.
What the hell was he doing holding Colin, then?
Bram released his cousin’s lapels. “Very well. I’m going to back out of this room the way I came. And pretend I never saw this.”
“Excellent.” Colin gave him a helpful shove to start him on his way. “Welcome back. Now get out.”
Bram abandoned the long, curving lane to Summerfield and decided to walk overland instead, cutting directly across the bands of farmland and gently rolling meadow.
Just a week since he’d seen Susanna last. Lord, it felt like a year. How had he ever imagined he’d be able to leave her behind while he went to the Peninsula?
Despite the lingering pain in his knee, he picked up his pace as he crested a sloping, grassy hill. Here his path dropped into a little green valley, traversed by a stream. He cast his eyes downward, in order to choose his steps with care.
“Bram!”
Whomp.
Out of nowhere, something launched at him. A soft, warm missile that smelled like a garden and wore a sprigged muslin frock. He was caught off balance on his bad leg, and down they tumbled. He performed some heroic gymnastics to make certain he took the brunt of the fall, hitting the hillside with a dull oof.
She landed atop him. They tangled together on the ground, here in this small depression. The valley’s low ridges walled out any distant landscape. His whole world was blue sky, green grass . . . and her.
“Susanna.” Grinning like a fool, he wrapped his arms around her middle and rolled a bit, so that they faced each other, lying on their sides in the tall grass. “Where did you come from?” He skimmed a touch down her ribs. “You’re not hurt?”
“I’m fine. More than fine.” Gentle fingers smoothed the hair from his brow. “How are you?”
“I don’t know. I think I’m seeing double. Two lips, two eyes . . . a thousand freckles.”
“Nothing a little kiss won’t mend.” A smile curved her sweet lips. Then those sweet lips touched his. “I heard you were down in the village, and I couldn’t wait to see you. Why didn’t you come to Summerfield straightaway?”
“I had to stop in the village first. Had some business with Colin and Thorne. And then I stopped by the forge.”
“You went to see the blacksmith before coming to see me?”
He held up his hand between them and waggled his fingers. “Had to fetch this.”
Her gaze fixed on the ring stuck firmly at the second knuckle of his little finger. She gasped. “Goodness.”
She reached for it, but he teased her by holding the ring back. “Say you’re sorry for doubting me.”
The iris-blue hue of her eyes was sincerity itself. “I never doubted you, not for a second. I was merely impatient. Whether you go to the forge or to London or all the way to Portugal, Bram . . . I know you’ll come home to me.”
“Always.” He captured her lips in a kiss.
“Wait, wait,” she said, pushing away. “Ring first, kisses later.”
He harrumphed and muttered something about feminine priorities. He worked the ring loose from his own finger and slid it onto hers, where it rightly belonged. He loved the look of it there, snug and sparkling. “I thought you might like to have a ring made here, since we’ll be spending so much time in Town. This way, wherever we are, you’ll always carry a little piece of Spindle Cove with you.”
“Oh, Bram.” She blinked furiously, as though she were holding back tears. He hoped they were happy tears.
Suddenly unsure, he pointed out the ring’s features. “I had him use both gold and copper in the band, you see. Because your hair has both shades. And the sapphire reminded me of your eyes. Though your eyes are far more beautiful, of course.” God, this all sounded hopelessly stupid, voiced aloud. “I think Dawes did quality work with it. But if you’d prefer something finer, I can take you to a jeweler in Town or . . .”
She shushed him. “It’s perfect. I adore it. I adore you.”
Ring first, kisses later, she’d said. He claimed his forfeit now, taking her mouth in a deep, thorough, passionate kiss. Letting her know just how much he’d missed her, every minute of every hour of every day they’d been apart.
Some time later, she rested her head to his chest and gave a contented sigh. “Do you know what today is?”
“It’s Wednesday, Miss Finch.” He stroked her molten bronze hair. “But you’re not in the garden.”
She lifted her head. “I didn’t mean the day of the week. I meant, the significance of this particular day.”
He considered. “It’s . . . three days before our wedding?”
“What else?”
“Three days and two weeks before we move house to London.”
“Yes. And . . . ?”
Good Lord, what kind of devilish test was this? “I know. Three days and nine months before the birth of our first child.”
She laughed with surprise.
“What? I plan to be very industrious on our honeymoon. I hope you’re well rested, because you won’t be sleeping much that first week. You didn’t plan on seeing any of the sights in Kent, did you?”
They would be letting a country house for a blissful fortnight before moving to London. In Town, he’d arranged a temporary suite of rooms in the best neighborhood—just until Susanna could choose their house. He couldn’t wait to take her to London, as his wife. He looked forward to showing her more of the world, and watching Susanna come into her own.
“Today,” she informed him, “marks exactly six weeks since my injury. I am not only rested, but officially healed. And that means . . .” Her hand slid coyly down his chest, and she looked up at him through downcast lashes. “We don’t have to be careful anymore.”
Part of him leaped eagerly at her implication. He did his best to ignore it. “Susanna, you know it’s not a matter of how many days or weeks have passed.”
“Mr. Daniels paid a call two days ago. He says I’m cleared to engage in any and all activity.” One of her slender legs twined between his, and she pressed an openmouthed kiss to his ear. Her tongue skimmed the delicate ridge. “Guess which activity I’m most eager to resume?”
Now, that invitation he was powerless to ignore.
They kissed hungrily, giving and taking in turn. He filled his hands with her, relearning her body. Cupping and shaping her every luscious curve. Her fingers did some bold exploring of their own, and he moaned his encouragement.
But when she reached for the closures of his breeches fall, he stayed her hand. “Really,” he said, struggling for breath. “It’s only three more days. I can wait.”
“Well, I can’t. I’ve missed you so much. And I’m tired of playing the invalid. I want to feel alive again.”
A ragged sigh escaped him. How could he deny her that?
Arching her spine, she rubbed her body against his. She found his hand where he cupped her stockinged calf and drew his touch upward, past her knee and ribbon garter. All the way up to the silk of her bared thighs and the enticing heat between them.
He groaned. “God, I love you.”
“I love you, too.” She rolled her hips, pressing into his touch. “And I need you, Bram. So very badly.”
They worked quickly then, the two of them. United in purpose and urgency, pushing aside bothersome folds of buckskin and petticoat, until nothing came between them. Nothing at all. At last he slid into her, fitting himself into that tight, sweet place where he knew he belonged, forever.
“Yes,” she sighed, pulling him close.
It was very good to be home.
Afterword
Regency-era medicine was a bloody business. While doctors surely had good intentions to help their patients, very little was understood about the origins and spread of disease. The preferred treatments of the day—bleeding and purging—had little, if any, real benefit.
Women’s reproductive health presented an especially difficult puzzle, it seems. In researching Susanna’s character, I read several Regency and early Victorian case histories of young women diagnosed with “hysteria.” Their symptoms ranged from moodiness to muscle weakness, headaches to seizures. All manner of feminine complaints were attributed to irregular menstruation or some vague dysfunction of the reproductive organs. Prescribed treatments ranged from the standard bleeding and purging, to the application of pustule-inducing salves and leeches on . . . let’s just say, delicate areas.
It all made me extremely grateful for my twenty-first-century doctors. But even with the advances in modern medicine, today’s researchers are still striving to understand and cure diseases that affect tens of thousands of women each year. For that reason, I was honored to learn A Night to Surrender would be part of Avon’s partnership with the Ovarian Cancer National Alliance, an organization dedicated to raising public awareness, finding a cure, and encouraging women to be their own health advocates. Please visit www.ovariancancer.org for more information.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I’m deeply grateful to my husband and children. Having a writer in the family can’t be easy, but they seem to take it all in stride. As do the staff at my children’s wonderful childcare center. Leave it to the romance author’s daughter to liven up a chapel lesson on “temptation.”
My editor, Tessa Woodward, and my agent, Helen Breitwieser, have my infinite gratitude for their patience, faith, and excellent advice. I am indebted, as always, to Courtney Milan and Amy Baldwin for their friendship and support. Bren, I could not have finished this book without you! Thanks for listening, and for making all those long days and nights in “the office” so much fun.
I’m grateful to Elyssa, Leigh, Jennifer, and Jackie for offering critique and subject expertise. Ben Townsend, thank you for pointing the way on all matters military. Thanks to copy editors Eleanor Mikucki and Martha Trachtenberg for catching all my many mistakes, and to Kim Castillo for keeping my act together. Everyone at Avon has been wonderful.
Finally, I want to thank my chaptermates in the Orange County Chapter of Romance Writers of America. I can’t list every name, but you know who you are. Our chapter motto might be “One hand reaching forward, one hand reaching back,” but while I was writing this book, I know I felt both arms wrapped around me. I’m truly blessed to be part of such a generous, talented group.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at the next delightful book in Tessa Dare’s Spindle Cove series,
A WEEK TO BE WICKED
When a girl trudged through the rain at midnight to knock at the Devil’s door, the Devil should at least have the depravity—if not the decency—to answer.
Minerva gathered the edges of her cloak with one hand, weathering another cold, stinging blast of wind. She stared in desperation at the closed door, then pounded it with the flat of her fist.
“Lord Payne,” she shouted, hoping her voice would carry through the thick oak planks. “Do come to the door! It’s Miss Highwood.” After a moment’s pause, she clarified, “Miss Minerva Highwood.”
Rather nonsensical, that she needed to state just which Miss Highwood she was. From Minerva’s view, it ought to be obvious. Her younger sister, Charlotte, was an exuberant yet tender fifteen years of age. And the eldest of the family, Diana, possessed not only angelic beauty, but the disposition to match. Neither of them were at all the sort to slip from bed at night, steal down the back stairs of the rooming house, and rendezvous with an infamous rake.
But Minerva was different. She’d always been different. Of the three Highwood sisters, she was the only dark-haired one, the only bespectacled one, the only one who preferred sturdy lace-up boots to silk slippers, and the only one who cared one whit about the difference between sedimentary and metamorphic rocks.
The only one with no prospects, no reputation to protect.
Diana and Charlotte will do well for themselves, but Minerva? Plain, bookish, distracted, awkward with gentlemen. In a word, hopeless.
The words of her own mother, in a recent letter to their cousin. To make it worse, Minerva hadn’t discovered this stinting description by snooping through private correspondence. Oh, no. She’d transcribed the words herself, penning them at Mama’s dictation.
Truly. Her own mother.
The wind caught her hood and whisked it back. Cold rain pelted her neck, adding injury to insult.
Swiping aside the hair matted to her cheek, Minerva stared up at the ancient stone turret—one of four that comprised the Rycliff Castle keep. Smoke curled from the topmost vent.
She raised her fist again, pounding at the door with renewed force. “Lord Payne, I know you’re in there.”
Vile, teasing man.
Minerva would root herself to this spot until he let her in, even if this cold spring rain soaked her to the very marrow. She hadn’t climbed all this distance from the village to the castle, slipping over mossy outcroppings and tracing muddy rills in the dark, just to trudge the same way back home, defeated.
However, after a solid minute of knocking to no avail, the fatigue of her journey set in, knotting her calf muscles and softening her spine. Minerva slumped forward. Her forehead met wood with a dull thunk. She kept her fist lifted overhead, beating on the door in an even, stubborn rhythm. She might very well be plain, bookish, distracted, and awkward—but she was determined. Determined to be acknowledged, determined to be heard.
Determined to protect her sister, at any cost.
Open, she willed. Open. Open. Op—
The door opened. Swiftly, with a brisk, unforgiving woosh.
“For the love of tits, Thorne. Can’t it wait for—”
“Ack.” Caught off-balance, Minerva stumbled forward. Her fist rapped smartly against—not the door, but a chest.
Lord Payne’s chest. His masculine, muscled, shirtless chest, which proved only slightly less solid than a plank of oak. Her blow landed square on his flat, male nipple, as though it were the Devil’s own door-knocker.
At least this time, the Devil answered.
“Well.” The dark word resonated through her arm. “You’re not Thorne.”
“Y-you’re not clothed.” And I’m touching your bare chest. Oh . . . Lord.
The mortifying thought occurred to her that he might not be wearing trousers either. She righted herself. As she removed her spectacles with chilled, trembling fingers, she caught a reassuring smudge of dark wool below the flesh-colored blur of his torso. She huffed a breath on each of the two glass discs connected by brass, wiped the mist from them with a dry fold of her cloak lining, and then replaced them on her face.
He was still half-naked. And now, in perfect focus. Devious tongues of firelight licked over every feature of his handsome face, defining him.
“Come in, if you mean to.” He winced at a blast of frost-tipped wind. “I’m shutting the door, either way.”
She stepped forward. The door closed behind her with a heavy, finite sound. Minerva swallowed hard.
“I must say, Melinda. This is rather a surprise.”
“My name’s Minerva.”
“Yes, of course.” He cocked his head. “I didn’t recognize your face without the book in front of it.”
She exhaled, letting her patience stretch. And stretch. Until it expanded just enough to accommodate a teasing rake with a sieve-like memory. And stunningly well-defined shoulders.
“I’ll admit,” he said, “this is hardly the first time I’ve answered the door in the middle of night and found a woman waiting on the other side. But you’re certainly the least expected one yet.” He sent her lower half an assessing look. “And the most muddy.”
She ruefully surveyed her mud-caked boots and bedraggled hem. A midnight seductress she was not. “This isn’t that kind of visit.”
“Give me a moment to absorb the disappointment.”
“I’d rather give you a moment to dress.” Minerva crossed the round chamber of windowless stone and went straight for the hearth. She took her time tugging loose the velvet ties of her cloak, then draped it over the room’s only armchair.
Payne hadn’t wasted the entirety of his months here in Spindle Cove, it seemed. Someone had put a great deal of work into transforming this stone silo into a warm, almost comfortable home. The original stone hearth had been cleaned and restored to working order. In it blazed a fire large and fierce enough to do a Norman warrior proud. In addition to the upholstered armchair, the circular room contained a wooden table and stools. Simple, but well-made.
No bed.
