And as she worked, the quiet deepened, grew profound. The task was so intimate. In order to cut his hair evenly, she had to sift her fingers through the heavy locks, lifting and angling them for the shears. She touched his ear, his temple, his jaw.
“Wouldn’t it be easier if you removed your gloves?” he asked.
“No.” At the moment, those thin leather gloves were the only thing keeping her sane.
A palpable, sensual tension had thickened the air surrounding them. His breathing was audible, a husky sighing in and out. Her fingers faltered for a moment, and she scraped his ear with one blade of the shears. She was horrified, but he seemed to take no notice. Only the tiniest drop of blood welled at the site, but it took all she had not to press her lips to the wound.
After a few more snips, she laid the shears aside. To test the cut’s evenness, she raised both hands to his hair and dragged her gloved fingertips over his scalp, slowly raking them from his hairline to his nape.
As her fingers made that long, gentle sweep, he made a sound. An involuntary moan. Or perhaps a groan. It originated not in his throat, but deep in his chest, somewhere in the region of his heart.
That rumbling sound was more than a sigh. It was a confession, a plea. With a simple brush of her fingertips, she’d called forth an expression of deep, hidden yearning. Her whole body ached with an instinctive response.
Oh goodness. Oh, Bram.
“Turn around,” she whispered.
When he obeyed, his eyes were closed.
Hers were open. Open to a whole new man. This big, brutish soldier-turned-medieval lord, now shorn close as a yearling—looking vulnerable and lost, in need of care. Her care.
All his staunch denials of emotion echoed in her ears. Did he know how thoroughly he’d just betrayed them? She thought of those passionate kisses yesterday. How he used every excuse to touch her, in every interaction. Heavens, the way he’d taken her measurements . . . Sensation rippled down her spine, as though she could still feel the deliberate sweep of his thumb. She’d thought him merely trying to rattle her.
But now she saw his motives clear. Here it was, his secret. No childhood trauma, no ravages of war. Just a deep, unspoken desire for closeness. Oh, he’d rather die than admit it in such terms, but that low, yearning sound told all.
That was the sound a great shaggy beast made when the nettle in his paw was plucked.
Here was a man who needed touch, craved tenderness—and he was starved for them both. Just how much would he allow her to give? She teased her fingers through the clipped fringe at his temples. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. She let a single gloved fingertip skim the ridge of his cheekbone.
“That’s enough.” His eyes snapped open, cool and defiant.
Wounded by his sharp tone, she withdrew her touch.
“Well, Miss Finch.” Stepping back, he ran a hand over his dark, now short hair. “Tell me, how do the men look?”
Susanna let her gaze wander the green. Everywhere she looked, she saw newly revealed, blinding-white scalp. “Like a flock of yearlings, freshly shorn.”
“Wrong,” he said. “They do not look like sheep. They look like soldiers. Men with a common purpose. A team. Soon I’ll have them acting like one, too.”
Taking her by the waist, he lifted her off the table and put her back on firm ground. Oddly enough, the world still felt unsteady.
“Have a good look at them. In a month’s time, I’ll have a militia. These will become men of duty, action. I’ll have shown all your prim, sheltered spinsters precisely what real men can do.” The corner of his mouth quirked. “Spindle Cove will be a much different place. And you, Miss Finch, will thank me.”
She shook her head. He’d revealed too much. That brute male swagger couldn’t intimidate her now, and she would not let such a challenge pass without a strong, confident response.
She calmly brushed stray snips of hair from his lapel. “In a month’s time, this community I love, and this atmosphere we’ve worked so hard to foster, will be the same. Everything I see here today will remain unaltered, except for one thing. Spindle Cove will change you, Lord Rycliff.
“And if you threaten my ladies’ health and happiness?” She laid a sweet touch to his cheek. “I will bring you to your knees.”
Eleven
“On Mondays, we always have country walks.”
Susanna paced the Highwood sisters on the sloping footpath. Together, they trailed behind the larger group. The ladies made a rainbow-hued column of muslin, filing up the path.
“The Downlands are beautiful this time of year. When we reach the top of the ridge, you can see for miles. It feels like being on top of the world.”
Thank heaven for scheduled activities. After yesterday’s . . . excitement . . . on the green and yet another restless night, Susanna was grateful for the distraction. She walked with vigor and purpose, inhaling deep lungfuls of the green-scented air.
“The wildflowers are lovely.” Charlotte plucked a stalk of lavender-tipped rampion from the hillside and twirled it between her fingertips.
Minerva tromped along at Susanna’s side. “Miss Finch, you cannot know how much I hate to sound like my mother. But are you certain this exertion is good for Diana’s health?”
“Absolutely. Exercise is the only way she’ll grow stronger. We’ll go slowly at first, and no farther than is comfortable.” She touched Diana’s arm. “Miss Highwood, you are to tell me if you feel the slightest hint of difficulty with your breathing. We’ll stop and rest at once.”
Her straw bonnet bobbed in agreement.
“And”—Susanna reached into her pocket and withdrew a small, capped bottle—“I have a special tincture for you. Keep it in your reticule at all times. It’s too strong to be taken every day, mind. Only when you feel you truly need it. The cap measures the proper dose. Aaron Dawes fashioned it specially at his forge. He’s so clever with these small things.”
Miss Highwood accepted the small vial. “What’s in it?”
“The layman’s name is shrubby horsetail. Rather common-sounding, but its ability to open the lungs is unique indeed. The plant normally grows in warmer climes, but our coastal weather is mild enough that I’m able to cultivate it here.”
“You made this?”
“Yes,” Susanna answered. “I dabble in apothecary.”
Minerva eyed the bottle warily. As they all continued their slow, steady climb, she drew Susanna aside. “Forgive me, Miss Finch, but my sister has suffered greatly. I don’t like the idea of entrusting her health to a ‘dabbler.’ ”