A Night to Surrender (11 page)

“Well?” Colin asked, looking up at Bram.

“You heard the lads. They’re over fifteen.”

The boys grinned as they completed the questions for Colin and proceeded to Thorne’s table for measuring and firearms. Bram didn’t even feel a twinge of guilt about putting muskets in the boys’ hands. If they didn’t already know how to handle a weapon and shoot, it was high time they learned.

One by one, the men worked through the line, giving Colin their names, ages, and other vital information before proceeding to Thorne to be measured for coats and issued firearms. As the morning progressed, Bram’s knee began to ache. Then it started to throb. Before long, the damned joint was screaming with pain—so loud, he was surprised no one else could hear.

When Colin finished with the next recruit, Bram nudged his cousin aside. “You’re too slow. Go help Thorne.”

Lowering himself onto Colin’s vacant campstool, Bram winced. He performed a surreptitious flex of his leg beneath the table, trying to ease the pain and focus on the enrollment list before him. He took his time dipping the quill.

“Now, then. Name?”

“Finch.”

Ten

B
ram froze, quill poised above the paper, praying his ears deceived him.

“That’s F-I-N-C-H,” she spelled helpfully. “Finch. Like the bird.”

He looked up. “Susanna, what the devil are you doing?”

“I don’t know who Susanna is. But I,
Stuart
James Finch, am volunteering for your militia.”

Gone was that frothy, leaf-green muslin frock he’d admired in church. In its place she’d donned a pair of nankeen breeches that fit her surprisingly well, a crisp linen shirt cuffed at the wrists, and a cobalt-blue topcoat that oddly enough did lovely things for her eyes.

And gloves, of course. Men’s gloves. Heaven forbid Miss Finch appear in public without her gloves.

She went on, “My birth date is the fifth of November, 1788. And that’s the God’s honest truth, my lord.”

Her hair was bound in a tight queue, and she was dressed in man’s clothing, but there was absolutely nothing that wasn’t feminine about her. Her voice, her bearing . . . God, even her scent. She couldn’t fool a blind man.

Of course, she didn’t mean to
fool
Bram. The interfering minx simply wanted to make a point. And she intended to make that point in front of scores of people. The entire village crowded around them, men and women alike, eager to see how this scene would unfold. They all wondered, who would emerge the victor?

He
would. If he let her get the better of him today, he would never have the men’s respect. What’s more, he wouldn’t deserve it.

“Write my name,” she urged.

“You know I won’t. Only men are eligible to serve.”

“Well, I’m a man,” she said.

He blinked at her.

“What?” Her voice dripped with mock innocence. “You took Rufus and Finn at their word. Why can’t you take me at mine?”

He lowered his voice and leaned forward over the table. “Because in this case, I have firsthand knowledge that contradicts your word. Would you like me to tell all these people precisely
how
I know you’re a woman?”

“Be my guest,” she whispered through a tight smile. “If you’d rather be planning a wedding than a militia.” She cast a glance to either side. “In a village
this
small, filled
this
chockablock with ladies, an announcement like that is sure to incite matrimonial panic.”

They stared one another down for a long moment.

“If you accept Finn and Rufus,” she said, “you have to accept me.”

“Very well,” he said, dipping the quill again. He would see just how far she was prepared to take this. “Stuart James Finch, born November fifth, 1788.” He turned the paper and shoved it toward her. “Sign here.”

She took the pen in her gloved hand and made a flowery signature, complete with flourish.

“Next,” he said, rising from the table and gesturing toward Thorne, “we’ll need to measure you for a uniform.”

“But of course.”

Bram walked her over to the second table and ripped the measuring tape straight from Thorne’s hand. “I believe I’ll see to this recruit myself.” He held up the tape for Susanna’s inspection. “You have no objection, Finch?”

“None at all.” She hiked her chin.

“Remove your coat, then.”

She complied without argument.

He found himself without words.

Sweet heaven.

Bram wasn’t fond of ladies’ current fashions, with their high, empire waists and draped columns of skirt. While he approved of the way such designs served up the bosom for a man’s appreciative view—what man didn’t appreciate a nice view of plump breasts?—he didn’t like the way they obscured the remainder of a woman’s body. He liked shapely legs, trim ankles, generous hips. He had a particular fondness for a round, cuppable arse.

Who could have guessed that gentlemen’s attire would perfectly hug Susanna Finch’s every last feminine curve?

Her borrowed waistcoat wouldn’t button at the top, due to the ample swell of her breasts. It did, however, fit snugly around her middle, emphasizing her slender waist and the sweet flare of her hips. Her breeches ended at the knee. Below them, white stockings clung to every contour of her long, lean calves and ankles.

“Turn around,” he croaked.

She obeyed. And as she turned, she flipped her long queue of hair forward, giving him a clear view of her back . . . and backside. Those nankeen breeches stretched tight over a sweet, round arse. God, she was
made
for his hands. And stubborn, headstrong thing that she was, she’d given him the perfect excuse to touch her.

He began with her shoulders, placing the measuring tape at one shoulder and stretching it slowly across her back to the other. He took his time, allowing his touch to skim along the elegant slopes and ridges of her shoulder blades. As though he were touching her not for tailoring purposes, but for his pleasure and hers.

Her shoulder trembled under his touch. His heart kicked.

“Seventeen inches,” he read aloud.

He measured her arm length next, beginning at the top of her shoulder and stretching the tape down the length of her arm, all the way to her wrist, before reading aloud the measurement.

“Stand tall, Finch.”

As her shoulders squared, he fitted one end of the tape at the nape of her neck, just at the top of her collar. Then he stretched the narrow strip of marked fabric down the length of her spine, touching each individual vertebra. Then dipping lower, halfway down the delectable curve of her backside. He heard her sudden intake of breath, and it echoed in his groin.

“Twenty-six inches, for the coat length.” As he stood, he pulled on the front of his own coat, hoping no one would notice he’d gained several inches in his personal measurements. This scene had him so aroused, he’d completely forgotten the pain in his knee.

“Face me, Finch.”

She performed a slow, sensual about-face. Almost as though they were dancing.

“Arms up,” he directed. “I’ll measure your chest now.” His blood heated at the mere thought of sliding his hands around the circumference of that lush bosom.

Her eyes flashed, and she crossed her arms, impeding him. “I believe I know that measurement. It’s thirty-four inches.”

He sighed gruffly. “Perfect.” Damn, how he wanted to feel that body under his again.
Yearned
for it.

“Are we done?” she asked, shrugging back into her coat.

“Weapons next,” he said, struggling to regain his composure. “I’ll need to issue you a musket, Mr. Finch.”

If she hadn’t balked at the public measurements, perhaps forcing her to handle weaponry would do the trick. Even though her father invented the things, most gently bred ladies were reluctant to touch firearms, if not outright terrified of them.

He selected a musket and held it out to her.

“This is a flintlock,” he said, ladling out his words in slow, patronizing increments. “The ball shoots from this barrel, see? Here is the trigger, in the middle. And the other end fits against your shoulder, like this.”

“Is that so?” she said wonderingly. She reached for the weapon. “May I try?”

“Slowly there.” He moved behind her. “I’ll show you how to hold it.”

“That won’t be necessary.” She smiled. “Your instructions were so lucid and crisp.”

And then as he—and Thorne and Colin, and the entire population of Spindle Cove—looked on, Susanna Finch took a cartridge from the table, ripped it open with her neat, straight teeth, and spat both paper nub and ball to the ground. Setting the gun at half cock, she sprinkled a bit of powder in the pan and closed the frizzen. Then she poured the remainder of the powder charge down the barrel and tamped it down with the ramrod.

Bram had seen soldiers’ wives clean and assemble their husbands’ firearms. But he’d never witnessed anything like this. Susanna didn’t just know the proper sequence, she
understood
the piece. Those gloved hands moved confidently, handling the weapon with ruthless, arousing grace. His desire, and his loins, had already been stirred by that measuring exercise. Now his arousal approached rifle-barrel proportions.

She shouldered the musket, cocked the hammer, and fired the blank charge. The weapon gave a violent kick against her shoulder, but she didn’t even flinch.

“Have I caught the trick of it, do you think?” she asked coyly, lowering the musket.

Remarkable. Bram fought the urge to applaud. He hadn’t been timing, but he would have guessed the elapsed time to be under twenty seconds. Perhaps as few as fifteen. There were elite riflemen who couldn’t load and shoot in fifteen seconds.

“Where did you learn to do that?”

“My father, of course.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Don’t most men learn such things from their fathers?”

Yes. Most
men
did. Bram himself had learned everything about shooting from his father. He’d begged for his first fowling piece almost as soon as he’d been able to form the words. Not because he’d loved guns so very much, but because he’d worshipped his father. He’d always looked for any excuse to spend more time with the man. Those solemn, patient lessons on safety and cleaning and marksmanship . . . they were now some of Bram’s most cherished memories. He wondered if it had been the same for her. If she’d sat through similar lessons at Sir Lewis’s side. Mastered this weapon, learned its workings inside and out, drilled and practiced until she could fire by instinct—all as a way to feel closer to him.

And now Bram felt closer to
her
, in a way he’d never expected to feel. Strange. And damned inconvenient. He scrunched his shoulders together, trying to shake the feeling off.

“Did you want to see me fix a bayonet next?” she asked.

“That won’t be necessary.”

He stared at her—standing tall, musket propped against her shoulder, braced in perfect position. He’d thought himself so clever, letting her proceed with this “I’m a man” charade. The joke was on him. Male or not, she was his most promising recruit. He was tempted to punish her by letting her enlist.

But she would be too great a distraction. For all the men, but for Bram most of all. Spending all day with her, while she wore those form-fitting breeches? He couldn’t be leading drills with his staff at full, rigid attention.

And more importantly, he could not let her best him in front of the whole village. He would have to release her from duty somehow, without losing the Bright boys in the exchange.

His eye fell to the table. The answer gleamed up at him, polished and sharp.

“There’s one more thing, Miss . . .
Mr.
Finch. One more requirement for volunteers.”

“Really? And what’s that?”

Bram turned to the row of ladies sitting at the edge of the green. “Ladies, I must prevail on you for your assistance. I need each one of you to locate a pair of scissors and bring it here, as soon as possible.”

The women looked to one another. Then quite the scuffle ensued, as they ducked into the Queen’s Ruby to raid their dressing tables and sewing boxes. In similar fashion, the storeroom of All Things was turned out like a pocket.

When every available pair of scissors and shears had apparently been unearthed, and all the ladies were armed and assembled on the green, Sally Bright stepped forward. “What would you like us to do with them, Lord Rycliff?”

“Put them to use,” he answered. “In my militia, all volunteers must have short hair. Above the collar in back. At the sides, above the ear.”

He looked to Susanna. She paled a shade, and those freckles fairly danced off her face.

Turning to the recruits, he made a sweep of his arm. “The ladies have chosen their weapons. Men, choose your lady.”

The women exchanged surprised glances. Equally stunned, the men hung back. Some pairings were obvious, of course. A woman he reckoned to be Mrs. Fosbury already had her husband by the collar, tugging him over to sit on a stump and submit to the will of her shears. But the unmarried men and women of Spindle Cove stood about regarding one another in silence. Like Quakers at meeting, waiting on some signal from above. Good Lord, he needed to teach these men to take some initiative.

Bram turned to his cousin. “Aren’t you always the one to start off the dance? Do the honors now.”

Colin shot him a look. “I’m not a volunteer.”

“No, you’re not. You’re indebted and compelled. You have no choice whatsoever.”

Colin rose slowly, pulling down the front of his waistcoat. “Very well. As you say, I do like to have first pick of the ladies.” He strode forward, doffing his hat with a broad, theatrical sweep and coming to kneel at Miss Diana Highwood’s feet. “Miss Highwood, would you be so kind?”

The fair-haired lady blushed. “Er, yes. Certainly, Lord Payne. I would be honored.”

The ladies tittered among themselves, surely interpreting this as partiality on Colin’s part. Susanna was right about the matrimonial fervor. They’d be rumoring an engagement by noon. If only there were a bit of truth to it. Colin was welcome to enter an engagement, and then he wouldn’t be Bram’s problem anymore.