“May I?” he asked, reaching for it.
“Of course.”
Bram picked up the firelock and turned it over in his hands, inspecting the intricate bit of machinery.
“It’s meant to be an improved rifle lock,” Sir Lewis said. “I almost have it perfected, I think. But I’ve left it alone for the moment, to work on the blasted cannon again. I’ve been agonizing over this one for years.”
“A cannon?” He noticed the wooden scale model on the worktable. “Tell me about it.”
Sir Lewis mussed his hair and made a sound of frustration. “I’ve been tinkering with this idea on and off for decades. It’s a rifled cannon.”
Bram whistled through his teeth, impressed. All cannons had smooth-bored barrels. They were the artillery equivalent of muskets—decent range and power, but only middling accuracy. But if a cannon could be grooved inside, like a rifle barrel, its projectiles would not only fly farther and faster, but their aim would be much more accurate. A rifled cannon would give the British army a keen advantage in any siege situation. It could be just the ace Wellington needed to boot Napoleon out of Spain.
“I must have tried a dozen variations on the design,” Sir Lewis said, gesturing toward the miniature cannon on the tabletop. “And hundreds of concepts never left the drafting table. But I have a good feeling about this one.” He patted the model. “This is it. I feel it in my old, creaky bones.”
The older man smiled at Bram. “I understand you, Rycliff. Better than you know. We’re both men of purpose and action, in our own separate ways. Neither of us is ready to retire the field just yet. I know it’s difficult, being stuck in this quaint, tiny village while wars are being waged. Must be torture for you.”
“Torture pretty well describes it.” Sweet, freckled torture of the purest kind.
“Is my Susanna giving you trouble?”
Bram choked on his tongue. He felt his face heating as he coughed into his sleeve.
“Don’t worry, you can be candid with me.” Sir Lewis patted him on the back. “The dear girl means well, but I know she has a tendency to overreach. Clever as she is, she has the whole village hanging on her advice. She likes to help.”
Yes, Bram thought. He was beginning to understand that Susanna Finch was driven to care for those around her. Whether it meant offering food, encouragement, healing salve . . . or the sweetest, most generous embrace a man could ever hope to know.
You don’t have to attack me every time you wish to be touched. To be held.
He swallowed hard, trying to clear her taste from his mouth.
Sir Lewis went on, “But my daughter doesn’t always understand a man’s need to feel useful. To keep striving, working toward his goals.” He spread his arms, indicating the workshop. “Susanna would rather I give this up entirely. But I can’t do that, not a day before I give up breathing. I know you understand.”
He nodded. “I do.”
Bram did understand Sir Lewis perfectly. And it came as a great relief to finally feel understood. In the months since his injury, none of his peers—nor his superiors, for that matter—had sympathized with his unwavering determination to return to command. They all seemed to think Bram should be content, if not outright grateful, to retire and get on with the rest of his life. They couldn’t comprehend that this was his life.
“For men like us, it’s not enough to merely live. We need to leave a legacy behind.” Sir Lewis touched a fingertip to the scale model cannon. “This cannon will be mine. I may be old and balding, but my greatest invention is yet to be unveiled.”
His keen blue eyes met Bram’s. “And you may be wounded, but I know your finest battles are yet to be fought. I want to give you every chance I can. I’ve written Generals Hardwick and Cummings and invited them to attend the militia’s field review. I feel certain they’ll see what I do. That you’re your father’s son. A man who won’t remain hobbled. They’ll doubtless agree England needs you back in command.”
Emotion thickened his throat. “Sir Lewis . . . I don’t know what to say. I don’t how to thank you.”
That was a lie. Bram knew exactly how to thank the man—and that was by keeping his head on straight, doing his duty, drilling a militia to pin-sharp precision, and staying the hell away from Susanna Finch.
A clock on the wall chimed eight.
“Can I interest you in dinner, Rycliff?”
Bram’s stomach answered for him, loudly. “I appreciate the invitation, but . . . I’m not properly dressed.”
“Neither am I.” Sir Lewis laughed and indicated his own disheveled attire. “We don’t stand on ceremony in this house, Rycliff.”
“If that’s the case, I wish you’d just call me Bram.”
“Bram it is.” The older man untied his apron and laid it aside. Then he clapped Bram on the shoulder. “Let’s go find something to eat, son.”
The old man ushered him out of the workshop, down the corridor, and up a half flight of stairs.
As they wound through the house, rich, dark paneling welcomed Bram from room to room, and the collective warmth of dozens of candles seemed to seep into his bones. Not since his infancy had he resided in a house like this. For years now, he’d slung his campaign-weary bones in tents and barracks and officers’ quarters. Then hospital beds and finally, in London, simple bachelor’s rooms. He’d always avoided family residences such as Summerfield, purposely. Because they were more than houses. They were homes, and they weren’t for him. They made him feel out of place, and strangely achy inside.
“Susanna will be pleased to see us, no matter what we’re wearing,” Sir Lewis said. “Most evenings I don’t make it to the dining room at all. She’s always after me to eat more, take care of myself.”
Bram drew a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, trying to purge all improper thoughts of Susanna from his mind, body, heart and soul. Dinner was perfect. A completely civilized, chaperoned setting in which to see her, converse with her, and learn how to act like a normal human in her presence, rather than a slavering beast. His behavior over the last few days had been reprehensible. Beneath this warrior’s coat, he was a gentleman by birth. He’d lost sight of it somehow in all those freckles, but unless he meant to throw away this chance at redemption and Sir Lewis’s goodwill, it was time to start acting the part.