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.