No, he did not “like” her. Beyond that, Bram was at a loss to describe his emotional state. Putting labels on feelings was Susanna’s hobby, not his.
And at the moment, she was occupied.
“Mrs. Lange has excellent penmanship,” she muttered, scratching with a pencil on paper as she did. “I’ll put her on invitations.”
She had arrived at the castle early that morning, well in advance of the picnicking girls. Together, they’d convened their council atop the southwest turret of Rycliff Castle’s keep. They’d been sitting here on campstools for hours now, with a backdrop of gulls swooping over the brilliant aquamarine sea, sorting out all the tasks to be accomplished in the next fortnight.
Well, she had been sorting out the tasks. Bram had mostly been staring at her, occasionally stealing sips of whiskey, and trying to sort out the tangle of feelings and impulses churning in his chest.
“Patches will be Charlotte’s task. As well as . . . rolling . . . cartridges.” She scribbled as she spoke, adding to the bottom of a very long list. She kept her gaze stubbornly trained on the paper.
His gaze was riveted to her. He was fascinated. Just when he’d started to think he knew Susanna Finch, the morning light introduced her all over again. Every hour—every minute, perhaps—announced another facet of her beauty. Each tilt of her head invented new alloys of copper and gold. And now—just this second—the advancing veil of sunlight made its way over the crest of her shoulder, and he could see how the skin of her décolletage was so delicate and fair . . . nearly translucent.
And bloody hell. This journeyed far beyond “like,” rocketed straight past “fondness,” and pushed all the way to the brink of absurdity.
He knew all her objections to marriage were logical. She’d built her life and village around happy spinsterhood, and the demands of his military career left no room for a wife. A hasty wedding could mean grief for Sir Lewis, scandal for Susanna, and God knew what for Bram. But he was going to marry her, despite it. Because when he looked at Susanna, all he could think was one word. It wasn’t a particularly elegant or poetic word, any more so than “like.” But it had a straightforward eloquence all its own.
Mine.
No matter what it cost him, he simply had to make her his.
“There,” she said. “I think that’s everything.” She let the list fall to her lap. “It’s so much work. But I think we can do it.”
“I know we can.” He took the list from her and read through it. It was every bit as thorough and well planned as he’d known it would be. He forced himself to focus, setting aside all his lustful desires and marital plans. For the next fortnight or so, these tasks required his full attention. He didn’t want to let Susanna and her father down. Nor the rest of the village, which he was suddenly—and unexpectedly—beginning to care about.
“I think everyone’s arrived by now.” She peered down over the crenellated edge of the turret. Below, the assembled men and women of Spindle Cove were picnicking on the grassy, even ground of the bailey.
“I suppose that means my cousin groveled prettily enough.”
She smiled. “I suppose it does. And what an occasion the rest of your men have made it. You’ve outdone yourselves.”
“Hardly.” But Bram had taken the picnic invitation in earnest. In anticipation of their guests, his militia volunteers had set out canopies and blankets and heaped a table with refreshments, courtesy of the Blushing Pansy. At least, he assumed the Fosburys’ establishment was back to being the Blushing Pansy. The building was returned to rights, but last he’d been in the village, no sign at all had swung above the red-painted door.
“Rufus and Finn seem to have mended their differences,” she observed.
“They’ve learned their lesson. That they’ll catch more female attention united in mischief than divided by rancor.”
The twins had tied a scarf to that dratted lamb, and offered a prize to the first girl to remove it. Giving chase, Charlotte dashed after Dinner for the full length of the keep, only to catch her toe on a rock and sprawl to the ground.
Beside him, Susanna gave a sharp gasp. She clutched Bram’s hand. Even through her gloves, her fingernails bit into his flesh.
“It’s all right,” he told her. “They’re made of India rubber at that age. She’ll bounce back up.”
He understood, in that moment, how keenly she felt it when any of her young ladies suffered the smallest humiliation or pain. When the situation demanded it, as was the case during Diana’s attack, she could be strong and collected and brave. But here with him, she didn’t hide her concern. She would allow him to comfort her. And perhaps, someday, she would listen patiently if a dark, dreary night found him well in his cups and he drunkenly confessed to still feeling scores of wounds that weren’t his own, but those of men under his command.
As they looked on, Mr. Keane helped Charlotte to her feet. The girl gamely brushed out her skirts. Fosbury offered a consolatory teacake, and everyone watching had a good-natured laugh.
“She’s unharmed.” He squeezed her fingers, only too glad for the excuse. “See?”
“Poor dear.” She didn’t withdraw her hand. Instead, she leaned into him, just a little. “But after that disaster with the tea shop, it’s good to see them all like this. The ladies and men together, enjoying each other’s company.”
“They’d best enjoy themselves now,” he said. “After this morning, there’ll be no time for amusement. Every soul in Spindle Cove will have a great deal of work ahead of him.”
“Or her,” she finished pointedly. “Right. We should go down and make the announcement. If we’re asking them to work together, I think it’s important we present a united front.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” he said, as they descended the circling stone staircase. He paused, just before they stepped onto the green. “Here’s an idea. Why don’t I introduce you as the future Lady Rycliff?”
Her eyes flew wide with panic. “Because I’m not?”
“Not yet.” But you will be. She ought to know he had no idea of abandoning his suit, only postponing it. He considered. “The future future Lady Rycliff, perhaps? Or I could just call you my mistress.”
“Bram!” She nudged him in the ribs.
“My illicit lover, then.” At her pained look, he said, “What? So long as you refuse to marry me, that’s exactly what you are.”