"An explosively witty and sexy historical romance!"
Reviewed by Audrey Lawrence
Posted October 30, 2011
Romance Historical
It the summer of 1813 and the Napoleonic Wars are still
being fought in Europe. Lieutenant Colonel Victor
Bramwell's life's mission is the military and he was not
going to let a bullet in the knee end it for him.
Unfortunately, more senior officers in the British Army did
not think him sufficiently recovered to resume life on the
battlefield and wants him to join the War Office in
London. Bram definitely is determined not to let them or
silly stubborn sheep stop him.
Stopped on the outskirts of the idyllic vacation village of
Spindle Cove, Bram didn't have enough reconnaissance to
know that that the village is also known as Spinster's Cove
nor that the daughter of the famous military inventor Sir
Lewis Finch, Susanna Finch, had gradually developed over
time a special refuge there both for herself and other well-
bred ladies who didn't quite fit the narrow role for women
as defined by London's Ton. Susanna is a lovely and unusual
woman with a past she liked to hide. Yet, that past had
made her empathic to the needs of the shy, the gawky, and
the intelligent as she makes for them a welcoming vacation
place where they could pursue their own interests and she
can help strengthen them for the future.
As Bram seeks out Sir Lewis to get his commission to resume
active duty, Sir Lewis craftily comes up with a new plan
and title for Bram. Frustrated, but fixed on his mission,
Bram sets out to organize the local militia. In doing so,
he turns the village topsy-turvy and there is hell to pay.
As Susanna and Bran struggle against their mutual raw
sexual attraction, they spar and thwart each other as they
seek to be the winner. Yet, when their battle threatens
the community, can they trust each other enough to work
together?
Right from the get go, you are immediately enchanted and
held spellbound by Tessa Dare's quirky and delightful sense
of humour! As the first book in a new trilogy set in the
British vacation village of Spindle Cove, A NIGHT TO
SURRENDER is a scintillating historical romance filled
with wild pent-up passion, strong characters and amusing
scenes that make you burst out laughing. Filled with
sparkling wit and double entendres as Bram and Susanna wage
the battle between the sexes, the plot also highlights how
difficult life can be, especially for those that don't fit
in. Wanting to know more about what was happening with
Minerva and Colin, I was pleased to learn their story will
be covered in the next book in the trilogy, due out in
March 2012. As I know Dare's fans will want to lap up more
about Spindle Cove after reading this fun read, a special
Christmas novella, Once Upon a Winter's Eve, will be out
November 15, 2011. Put it on your wish list and enjoy!
SUMMARY
Welcome to Spindle Cove, where the ladies with delicate
constitutions come for the sea air, and men in their prime
are . . . nowhere to be found.
Or are they?
Spindle Cove is the destination of choice for certain types
of well-bred young ladies: the painfully shy, young wives
disenchanted with matrimony, and young girls too enchanted
with the wrong men; it is a haven for those who live there.
Victor Bramwell, the new Earl of Rycliff, knows he doesn’t
belong here. So far as he can tell, there’s nothing in this
place but spinsters . . . and sheep. But he has no choice,
he has orders to gather a militia. It’s a simple mission,
made complicated by the spirited, exquisite Susanna Finch—a
woman who is determined to save her personal utopia from the
invasion of Bram’s makeshift army.
Susanna has no use for aggravating men; Bram has sworn off
interfering women. The scene is set for an epic battle…but
who can be named the winner when both have so much to lose?
ExcerptChapter 1 Sussex, England
Summer 1813
Bram stared into a pair of wide, dark eyes. Eyes that
reflected a surprising glimmer of intelligence. This might
be the rare female a man could reason with.
"Now, then," he said. "We can do this the easy way, or
we can make things difficult."
With a soft snort, she turned her head. It was as if
he’d ceased to exist.
Bram shifted his weight to his good leg, feeling the stab
to his pride. He was a lieutenant colonel in the British
Army, and at over six feet tall, he was said to cut an
imposing figure. Typically, a pointed glance from his
quarter would quell the slightest hint of disobedience. He
was not accustomed to being ignored.
"Listen sharp, now." He gave her ear a rough tweak and
sank his voice to a low threat. "If you know what’s good
for you, you’ll do as I say."
Though she spoke not a word, her reply was clear:
You can kiss my great woolly arse.
Confounded sheep.
"Ah, the English countryside. So charming. So . . .
fragrant." Colin approached, stripped of his London-best
topcoat, wading hip-deep through the river of wool.
Blotting the sheen of perspiration from his brow with a
handkerchief, he asked, "I don’t suppose this means we can
simply turn back?"
Ahead of them, a boy pushing a handcart had overturned
his cargo, strewing corn all over the road. It was an open
buffet, and every ram and ewe in Sussex appeared to have
answered the invitation. A vast throng of sheep bustled and
bleated around the unfortunate youth, gorging themselves on
the spilled grain—and completely obstructing Bram’s wagons.
"Can we walk the teams in reverse?" Colin asked.
"Perhaps we can go around, find another road."
Bram gestured at the surrounding landscape. "There is no
other road."
They stood in the middle of the rutted dirt lane, which
occupied a kind of narrow, winding valley. A steep bank of
gorse rose up on one side, and on the other, some dozen
yards of heath separated the road from dramatic bluffs. And
below those—far below those—lay the sparkling
turquoise sea. If the air was seasonably dry and clear, and
Bram squinted hard at that thin indigo line of the horizon,
he might even glimpse the northern coast of France.
So close. He’d get there. Not today, but soon. He had
a task to accomplish here, and the sooner he completed it,
the sooner he could rejoin his regiment. He wasn’t stopping
for anything.
Except sheep. Blast it. It would seem they were
stopping for sheep.
A rough voice said, "I’ll take care of them."
Thorne joined their group. Bram flicked his gaze to the
side and spied his hulking mountain of a corporal
shouldering a flintlock rifle.
"We can’t simply shoot them, Thorne."
Obedient as ever, Thorne lowered his gun. "Then I’ve a
cutlass. Just sharpened the blade last night."
"We can’t butcher them, either."
Thorne shrugged. "I’m hungry."
Yes, that was Thorne—straightforward, practical.
Ruthless.
"We’re all hungry." Bram’s stomach rumbled in support of
the statement. "But clearing the way is our aim at the
moment, and a dead sheep’s harder to move than a live one.
We’ll just have to nudge them along."
Thorne lowered the hammer of his rifle, disarming it,
then flipped the weapon with an agile motion and rammed the
butt end against a woolly flank. "Move on, you bleeding
beast."
The animal lumbered uphill a few steps, prodding its
neighbors to scuttle along in turn. Downhill, the drivers
urged the teams forward before resetting their brakes,
unwilling to surrender even those hard-fought inches of
progress.
The two wagons held a bounty of supplies to refit Bram’s
regiment: muskets, shot, shells, wool and pipeclay for
uniforms. He’d spared no expense, and he would see
them up this hill. Even if it took all day, and red-hot
pain screamed from his thigh to his shinbone with every
pace. His superiors thought he wasn’t healed enough to
resume field command? He would prove them wrong. One step
at a time.
"This is absurd," Colin grumbled. "At this rate, we’ll
arrive next Tuesday."
"Stop talking. Start moving." Bram nudged a sheep with
his boot, wincing as he did. With his leg already killing
him, the last thing he needed was a pain in the arse, but
that’s exactly what he’d inherited, along with all his
father’s accounts and possessions: responsibility for his
wastrel cousin, Colin Sandhurst, Lord Payne.
He swatted at another sheep’s flank, earning himself an
indignant bleat and a few inches more.
"I have an idea," Colin said.
Bram grunted, unsurprised. As men, he and Colin were
little more than strangers. But during the few years they’d
overlapped at Eton, his younger cousin had been just full of
ideas. Ideas that had landed him shin-deep in excrement.
Literally, on at least one occasion.
Colin looked from Bram to Thorne and back again, eyes
keen. "I ask you, gentlemen. Are we, or are we not, in
possession of a great quantity of black powder?"
~*~
"Tranquillity is the soul of our community."
Not a quarter mile’s distance away, Susanna Finch sat in
the lace-curtained parlor of the Queen’s Ruby, a rooming
house for gently bred young ladies. With her were the
rooming house’s newest prospective residents, a Mrs.
Highwood and her three unmarried daughters.
"Here in Spindle Cove, young ladies enjoy a wholesome,
improving atmosphere." Susanna indicated a knot of ladies
clustered by the hearth, industriously engaged in
needlework. "See? The picture of good health and genteel
refinement."
In unison, the young ladies looked up from their work and
smiled placid, demure smiles.
Excellent. She gave them an approving nod.
Ordinarily, the ladies of Spindle Cove would never waste
such a beautiful afternoon stitching indoors. They would be
rambling the countryside, or sea-bathing in the cove, or
climbing the bluffs. But on days like these, when new
visitors came to the village, everyone understood some
pretense at propriety was necessary. Susanna was not above
a little harmless deceit when it came to saving a young
woman’s life.
"Will you take more tea?" she asked, accepting a fresh
pot from Mrs. Nichols, the inn’s aging proprietress. If
Mrs. Highwood examined the young ladies too closely, she
might notice that mild Gaelic obscenities occupied the
center of Kate Taylor’s sampler. Or that Violet
Winterbottom’s needle didn’t even have thread.
Mrs. Highwood sniffed. Although the day was mild, she
fanned herself with vigor. "Well, Miss Finch, perhaps this
place can do my Diana some good." She looked to her eldest
daughter. "We’ve seen all the best doctors, tried ever so
many treatments. I even took her to Bath for the cure."
Susanna gave a sympathetic nod. From what she could
gather, Diana Highwood had suffered bouts of mild asthma
from a young age. With flaxen hair and a shy, rosy curve of
a smile, the eldest Miss Highwood was a true beauty. Her
fragile health had delayed what most certainly would be a
stunning ton debut. However, Susanna strongly suspected the
many doctors and treatments were what kept the young lady
feeling ill.
She offered Diana a friendly smile. "I’m certain a stay
in Spindle Cove will be of great benefit to Miss Highwood’s
health. Of great benefit to you all, for that matter."
In recent years, Spindle Cove had become the seaside
destination of choice for a certain type of well-bred young
lady: the sort no one knew what to do with. They included
the sickly, the scandalous, and the painfully shy; young
wives disenchanted with matrimony and young girls too
enchanted with the wrong men . . . All of them delivered
here by the guardians to whom they presented problems, in
hopes that the sea air would cure them of their ills.
As the only daughter of the only local gentleman, Susanna
was the village hostess by default. These awkward young
ladies no one knew what to do with . . . she knew what to do
with them. Or rather, she knew what not to do with them.
No "cures" were necessary. They didn’t need doctors
pressing lancets to their veins, or finishing school matrons
harping on their diction. They just needed a place to be
themselves.
Spindle Cove was that place.
Mrs. Highwood worked her fan. "I’m a widow with no sons,
Miss Finch. One of my daughters must marry well, and soon.
I’ve had such hopes for Diana, lovely as she is. But if
she’s not stronger by next season . . ." She made a
dismissive wave toward her middle daughter, who sat in dark,
bespectacled contrast to her fair-haired sisters. "I shall
have no choice but to bring out Minerva instead."
"But Minerva doesn’t care about men," young Charlotte
said helpfully. "She prefers dirt and rocks."
"It’s called geology," Minerva said. "It’s a
science."
"It’s certain spinsterhood, is what it is! Unnatural
girl. Do sit straight in your chair, at least." Mrs.
Highwood sighed and fanned harder. To Susanna, she said, "I
despair of her, truly. This is why Diana must get well, you
see. Can you imagine Minerva in society?"
Susanna bit back a smile, all too easily imagining the
scene. It would probably resemble her own debut. Like
Minerva, she had been absorbed in unladylike pursuits, and
the object of her female relations’ oft-voiced despair. At
balls, she’d been that freckled Amazon in the corner, who
would have been all too happy to blend into the wallpaper,
if only her hair color would have allowed it.
As for the gentlemen she’d met . . . not a one of them
had managed to sweep her off her feet. To be fair, none of
them had tried very hard.
She shrugged off the awkward memories. That time was
behind her now.
Mrs. Highwood’s gaze fell on a book at the corner of the
table. "I am gratified to see you keep Mrs.
Worthington close at hand."
"Oh yes," Susanna replied, reaching for the blue,
leather-bound tome. "You’ll find copies of Mrs.
Worthington’s Wisdom scattered everywhere throughout
the village. We find it a very useful book."
"Hear that, Minerva? You would do well to learn it by
heart." When Minerva rolled her eyes, Mrs. Highwood said,
"Charlotte, open it now. Read aloud the beginning of
Chapter Twelve."
Charlotte reached for the book and opened it, then
cleared her throat and read aloud in a dramatic voice.
"’Chapter Twelve. The perils of excessive education. A
young lady’s intellect should be in all ways like her
undergarments. Present, pristine, and imperceptible to the
casual observer.’"
Mrs. Highwood harrumphed. "Yes. Just so. Hear and
believe it, Minerva. Hear and believe every word. As Miss
Finch says, you will find that book very useful."
Susanna took a leisurely sip of tea, swallowing with it a
bitter lump of indignation. She wasn’t an angry or
resentful person, as a matter of course. But once provoked,
her passions required formidable effort to conceal.
That book provoked her, no end.
Mrs. Worthington’s Wisdom for Young Ladies was
the bane of sensible girls the world over, crammed with
insipid, damaging advice on every page. Susanna could have
gleefully crushed its pages to powder with a mortar and
pestle, labeled the vial with a skull and crossbones, and
placed it on the highest shelf in her stillroom, right
beside the dried foxglove leaves and deadly nightshade
berries.
Instead, she’d made it her mission to remove as many
copies as possible from circulation. A sort of quarantine.
Former residents of the Queen’s Ruby sent the books from
all corners of England. One couldn’t enter a room in
Spindle Cove without finding a copy or three of Mrs.
Worthington’s Wisdom. And just as Susanna had told
Mrs. Highwood, they found the book very useful indeed. It
was the perfect size for propping a window open. It also
made an excellent doorstop or paperweight. Susanna used her
personal copies for pressing herbs. Or, occasionally, for
target practice.
She motioned to Charlotte. "May I?" Taking the volume
from the girl’s grip, she raised the book high. Then, with
a brisk thwack, she used it to crush a bothersome gnat.
With a calm smile, she placed the book on a side table.
"Very useful indeed."
~*~
"They’ll never know what hit them." With his boot heel,
Colin tamped a divot over the first powder charge.
"Nothing’s going to hit them," Bram said. "We’re not
using shells."
The last thing they needed was shrapnel zinging about.
The charges he prepared were mere blanks—black powder
wrapped in paper, for a bit of noise and a spray of dirt.
"You’re certain the horses won’t bolt?" Colin asked,
unspooling a length of slow-burning fuse.
"These are cavalry-trained beasts. Impervious to
explosions. The sheep, on the other hand . . ."
"Will scatter like flies." Colin flashed a reckless grin.
"I suppose."
Bram knew bombing the sheep was reckless, impulsive, and
inherently rather stupid, like all his cousin’s boyhood
ideas. Surely there were better, more efficient solutions
to a sheep barricade that didn’t involve black powder.
But time was wasting, and Bram was impatient to be moving
on, in more ways than one. Eight months ago, a lead ball
had ripped through his right knee and torn his life apart.
He’d spent months confined to a sickbed, another several
weeks clanking and groaning his way down corridors like a
ghost dragging chains. Some days during his convalescence,
Bram had felt certain he would explode.
And now he was so close—just a mile or so—from
Summerfield and Sir Lewis Finch. Just a mile from finally
regaining his command. He bloody well wouldn’t be thwarted
by a flock of gluttonous sheep, whose guts were likely to
burst if they weren’t scared off that corn.
A good, clean blast was just what they all needed right
about now.
"That’ll do," Thorne called, embedding the last charge at
the top of the rise. As he pushed his way back through the
sheep, he added, "All’s clear down the lane. I could see a
fair distance."
"There is a village nearby, isn’t there?" Colin
asked. "God, tell me there’s a village."
"There’s a village," Bram answered, packing away the
unused powder. "Saw it on the map. Somesuch Bay, or
Whatsit Harbor . . . Can’t exactly recall."
"I don’t care what it’s called," Colin said. "So long as
there’s a tavern and a bit of society. God, I hate the
country."
Thorne said, "I saw the village. Just over that
rise."
"It didn’t look charming, did it?" Colin raised a brow as
he reached for the tinderbox. "I should hate for it to be
charming. Give me a dank, seedy, vice-ridden pustule of a
village any day. Wholesome living makes my skin crawl."
The corporal gave him a stony look. "I wouldn’t know
about charming, my lord."
"Yes. I can see that," Colin muttered. He struck a flint
and lit the fuse. "Fair enough."
~*~
"Miss Finch, what a charming village." Diana Highwood
clasped her hands together.
"We think so." Smiling modestly, Susanna led her guests
onto the village green. "Here we have the church, St.
Ursula’s—a prized example of medieval architecture. Of
course, the green itself is lovely." She refrained from
pointing out the grass oval they used for cricket and lawn
bowls, and quickly swiveled Mrs. Highwood away, lest she spy
the pair of stockinged legs dangling from one of the trees.
"Look up there." She pointed out a jumble of stone
arches and turrets decorating the rocky bluff.
"Those are the ruins of Rycliff Castle. They make an
excellent place to paint and sketch."
"Oh, how perfectly romantic." Charlotte sighed.
"It looks damp," Mrs. Highwood pronounced.
"Not at all. In a month’s time, the castle will be the
site of our midsummer fair. Families come from ten
parishes, some from as far away as Eastbourne. We ladies
dress in medieval attire, and my father puts on a display
for the local children. He collects ancient suits of armor,
you see. Among other things."
"What a delightful notion," Diana said.
"It’s the highlight of our summer."
Minerva peered hard at the bluffs. "What’s the
composition of those cliffs? Are they sandstone or chalk?"
"Er . . . sandstone, I think." Susanna directed their
attention to a red-shuttered façade across the lane. Wide
window boxes spilled over with blossoms, and a gilt-lettered
sign swung noiselessly in the breeze. "And there’s the tea
shop. Mr. Fosbury, the proprietor, makes cakes and sweets to
rival any London confectionery’s."
"Cakes?" Mrs. Highwood’s mouth pursed in an unpleasant
manner. "I do hope you aren't indulging in an excess of
sweets."
"Oh no," Susanna lied. "Hardly ever."
"Diana has been strictly forbidden to indulge. And that
one"—she pointed out Minerva—"is tending toward stoutness, I
fear."
At her mother’s slight, Minerva turned her gaze to her
feet, as if she were intently studying the pebbles beneath
them. Or as if she were begging the ground to swallow her
whole.
"Minerva," her mother snapped. "Posture."
Susanna put an arm about the young woman, shoring her up.
"We have the sunniest weather in all England, did I mention
that? The post comes through two times a week. Can I
interest you all in a tour of the shops?"
"Shops? I only see one."
"Well, yes. There is only one. But it's all we have
need of, you see. Bright's All Things shop has everything a
young lady could wish to buy."
Mrs. Highwood surveyed the street. "Where is the doctor?
Diana must have a doctor nearby at all times, to bleed her
when she has her attacks."
Susanna winced. No wonder Diana’s health never fully
returned. Such a useless, horrific practice, bleeding. A
"remedy" more likely to drain life than preserve it, and one
Susanna had barely survived herself. Out of habit, she
adjusted her long, elbow-length gloves. Their seams chafed
against the well-healed scars beneath.
"There is a surgeon next town over," she said. A surgeon
she wouldn't allow near cattle, much less a young lady.
"Here in the village, we have a very capable apothecary."
She hoped the woman would not ask for specifics there.
"What about men?" Mrs. Highwood asked.
"Men?" Susanna echoed. "What about them?"
"With so many unwed ladies in residence, are you not
overrun with fortune hunters? Bath was teeming with them,
all of them after my Diana’s dowry. As if she would marry
some smooth-talking third son."
"Definitely not, Mrs. Highwood." On this point, Susanna
need not fudge. "There are no debt-ridden rakes or
ambitious officers here. In fact, there are very few men in
Spindle Cove at all. Aside from my father, only tradesmen
and servants."
"I just don’t know," Mrs. Highwood sighed, looking about
the village once again. "It’s all rather common, isn’t it?
My cousin, Lady Agatha, told me of a new spa in Kent.
Mineral baths, purging treatments. Her ladyship swears by
their mercury cure."
Susanna’s stomach lurched. If Diana Highwood landed in a
spa like that, it might truly be the end of her. "Please,
Mrs. Highwood. One cannot underestimate the healthful
benefits of simple sea air and sunshine."
Charlotte tugged her gaze from the ruined castle long
enough to plead, "Do let’s stay, Mama. I want to take part
in the midsummer fair."
"I believe I feel better already," Diana said, breathing
deep.
Susanna left Minerva’s side and approached the anxious
matriarch. Mrs. Highwood might be a misguided, overwrought
sort of woman, but she obviously loved her daughters and had
their best interests at heart. She only needed a bit of
reassurance that she was doing the right thing.
Well, Susanna could give her that reassurance truthfully.
All three of the Highwood sisters needed this place. Diana
needed a reprieve from quack medical treatments. Minerva
needed a chance to pursue her own interests without censure.
Young Charlotte just needed a place to be a girl, to
stretch her growing legs and imagination.
And Susanna needed the Highwoods, for reasons she
couldn’t easily explain. She had no way to go back in time
and undo the misfortunes of her own youth. But she could
help to spare other young ladies the same friendless misery,
and that was the next best thing.
"Trust me, Mrs. Highwood," she said, taking the woman’s
hand. "Spindle Cove is the perfect place for your
daughters’ summer holiday. I promise you, here they will be
healthy, happy, and perfectly safe."
Boom. A distant blast punched the air.
Susanna’s ribs shivered with the force of it.
Mrs. Highwood clutched her bonnet with a gloved hand.
"My word. Was that an explosion?"
Drat, drat, drat. And this had all been going so well.
"Miss Finch, you just claimed this place was safe."
"Oh, it is." Susanna gave them her most calming,
reassuring smile. "It is. No doubt that’s just a ship in
the Channel, sounding its signal cannon."
She knew very well there was no ship. That blast could
only be her father’s doing. In his day, Sir Lewis Finch had
been a celebrated innovator of firearms and artillery. His
contributions to the British Army had earned him acclaim,
influence, and a sizable fortune. But after those incidents
with the experimental cannon, he’d promised Susanna he would
give up conducting field tests.
He'd promised.
As they moved forward into the lane, a strange, low
rumble gathered in the air.
"What is that noise?" Diana asked.
Susanna feigned innocence. "What noise?"
"That noise," Mrs. Highwood said.
The rumble grew more forceful with each second. The
paving stones vibrated beneath her heeled slippers. Mrs.
Highwood squeezed her eyes shut and emitted a low, mournful
whimper.
"Oh, that noise," Susanna said lightly, herding
the Highwoods across the lane. If she could only get them
indoors . . . "That noise is nothing to be concerned about.
We hear it all the time here. A fluke of the weather."
"It cannot be thunder," Minerva said.
"No. No, it’s not thunder. It’s . . . an atmospheric
phenomenon, brought on by intermittent gusts of . . ."
"Sheep!" Charlotte cried, pointing down the lane.
A flock of deranged, woolly beasts stormed through the
ancient stone arch and poured into the village, funneling
down the lane and bearing down on them.
"Oh yes," Susanna muttered. "Precisely so. Intermittent
gusts of sheep."
She hurried her guests across the lane, and they huddled
in the All Things shop’s doorway while the panicked sheep
passed. The chorus of agitated bleats grated against her
eardrums.
If her father had hurt himself, she was going to kill him.
"There's no cause for alarm," Susanna said over the din.
"Rural life does have its peculiar charms. Miss Highwood,
is your breathing quite all right?"
Diana nodded. "I’m fine, thank you."
"Then won’t you please excuse me?"
Without waiting for an answer, Susanna lifted her hem and
made a mad dash down the lane, weaving around the few
lingering sheep as she made her way straight out of the
village. It didn't take but a matter of seconds. This was,
after all, a very small village.
Rather than take the longer, winding lane around the
hill, she climbed it. As she neared the top, the breeze
delivered to her a few lingering wisps of smoke and
scattered tufts of wool. Despite these ominous signs, she
crested the hill to find a scene that did not resemble one
of her father’s artillery tests. Down at the bottom of the
lane, two carts were stalled in the road. When she
squinted, she could make out figures milling around the
stopped conveyances. Tall, male figures. No short, stout,
balding gentlemen among them.
None of them could be Papa.
She took a relieved gulp of acrid, powder-tinged air.
With the burden of dread lifted, her curiosity took the
fore. Intrigued, she picked her way down the bank of
heather until she stood on the narrow, rutted road. In the
distance, the figures of the men ceased moving. They’d
noticed her.
Shading her brow with one hand, she peered hard at the
men, trying to make out their identities. One of the men
wore an officer’s coat. Another wore no coat at all. As
she approached them, the coatless man began to wave with
vigor. Shouts carried up to her on the breeze. Frowning,
Susanna moved closer, hoping to better hear the words.
"Wait! Miss, don’t . . . !"
Whomp.
An unseen force plucked her straight off her feet and
slammed her sideways, driving her off the lane entirely.
She plowed shoulder-first into the tall grass, tackled to
the turf by some kind of charging beast.
A charging beast wearing lobster-red wool.
Together, they bounced away from the road, elbows and
knees absorbing the blows. Susanna’s teeth rattled in her
skull, and she bit her tongue hard. Fabric ripped, and cool
air reached farther up her thigh than any well-mannered
breeze ought to venture.
When they rolled to a stop, she found herself pinned by a
tremendous, huffing weight. And pierced by an intense green
gaze.
"Wh—?" Her breath rushed out in question.
Boom, the world answered.
Susanna ducked her head, burrowing into the protection of
what she’d recognized to be an officer’s coat. The knob of a
brass button pressed into her cheek. The man’s bulk formed
a comforting shield as a shower of dirt clods rained down on
them both. He smelled of whiskey and gunpowder.
After the dust cleared, she brushed the hair from his
brow, searching his gaze for signs of confusion or pain.
His eyes were alert and intelligent, and still that
startling shade of green—as hard and richly hued as jade.
She asked, "Are you well?"
"Yes." His voice was a deep rasp. "Are you?"
She nodded, expecting him to release her at the
confirmation. When he showed no signs of moving, she
puzzled at it. Either he was gravely injured or seriously
impertinent. "Sir, you’re . . . er, you’re rather heavy."
Surely he could not fail to miss that hint.
He replied, "You’re soft."
Good Lord. Who was this man? Where had he come from?
And how was he still atop her?
"You have a small wound." With trembling fingers, she
brushed a reddish knot high on his temple, near his
hairline. "Here." She pressed her hand to his throat,
feeling for his pulse. She found it, thumping strong and
steady against her gloved fingertips.
"Ah. That’s nice."
Her face blazed with heat. "Are you seeing double?"
"Perhaps. I see two lips, two eyes, two flushed cheeks .
. . a thousand freckles."
She stared at him.
"Don’t concern yourself, miss. It’s nothing." His gaze
darkened with some mysterious intent.
"Nothing a little kiss won’t mend."
And before she could even catch her breath, he pressed
his lips to hers.
A kiss. His mouth, touching hers. It was warm and firm,
and then . . . it was over.
Her first real kiss in all her five-and-twenty years, and
it was finished in a heartbeat. Just a memory now, save for
the faint bite of whiskey on her lips. And the heat. She
still tasted his scorching, masculine heat. Belatedly, she
closed her eyes.
"There, now," he murmured. "All better."
Better? Worse? The darkness behind her eyelids held no
answers, so she opened them again.
Different. This strange, strong man held her in
his protective embrace, and she was lost in his intriguing
green stare, and his kiss reverberated in her bones with
more force than a powder blast. And now she felt different.
The heat and weight of him . . . they were like an
answer. The answer to a question Susanna hadn’t even been
aware her body was asking. So this was how it would be, to
lie beneath a man. To feel shaped by him, her flesh giving
in some places and resisting in others. Heat building
between two bodies; dueling heartbeats pounding both sides
of the same drum.
Maybe . . . just maybe . . . this was what she’d been
waiting to feel all her life. Not swept her off her
feet—but flung across the lane and sent tumbling head over
heels while the world exploded around her.
He rolled onto his side, giving her room to breathe.
"Where did you come from?"
"I think I should ask you that." She struggled
up on one elbow. "Who are you? What on earth are
you doing here?"
"Isn’t it obvious?" His tone was grave. "We’re bombing
the sheep."
"Oh. Oh dear. Of course you are." Inside her, empathy
twined with despair. Of course, he was cracked in the head.
One of those poor soldiers addled by war. She ought to
have known it. No sane man had ever looked at her
this way.
She pushed aside her disappointment. At least he had
come to the right place. And landed on the right woman.
She was far more skilled in treating head wounds than
fielding gentlemen’s advances. The key here was to stop
thinking of him as an immense, virile man and simply regard
him as a person who needed her help. An unattractive, poxy,
eunuch sort of person.
Reaching out to him, she traced one fingertip over his
brow. "Don’t be frightened," she said in a calm, even tone.
"All is well. You’re going to be just fine." She cupped
his cheek and met his gaze directly. "The sheep can’t hurt
you here."
What do you think about this review?
Comments
No comments posted.
Registered users may leave comments.
Log in or register now!
|