He approached the tent he knew to be Colin’s and softly cleared his throat. A rustle moved through the tent. There was a muffled banging noise, and one of the tent poles shivered. Good, he was awake.
“It’s Bram,” he whispered. “I need to speak with you about the artillery demonstration.”
No reply. No further movement.
Bram crouched and held his torch near the canvas flap, knowing the light would shine through. “Colin.” He nudged the canvas with his elbow. “Colin. We need to discuss the artillery demonstration. Sir Lewis has a new—”
Someone standing behind him tapped his shoulder. “What do you want?”
Bram jumped in his skin, nearly dropping his torch. “Jesus.” He rose to a standing position, turned, and lifted his torch to illuminate . . .
Colin.
His cousin stood next to him, the picture of nonchalance, dressed in an unbuttoned, uncuffed shirt and loose trousers. In one hand, he clutched a bottle of wine by its slender neck. “Yes, Bram? What can I do for you?”
Bram looked at Colin. Then he looked at the tent. “If you’re out here with me,” he said, waving his torch at his cousin, “then . . . who’s in your tent?”
“A friend. And I’d like to get back to entertaining her, if you don’t mind.” Colin uncorked the wine bottle with his teeth and spat the cork aside. “What is it that can’t wait for morning?”
“What the devil are you doing with a woman in your tent?”
He cocked his head. “Hm. Just how detailed would you like my answer to be?”
“Whoever she is, you’re marrying her.”
“I don’t think so.” Colin took a few steps away from the tent, motioning Bram to follow. Once they were some paces away, he lowered his voice and said, “It’s the only way I can sleep, Bram. It’s either a woman’s embrace or an interminable night awake. When I told you I don’t sleep alone, it wasn’t an expression of preference. It’s a statement of fact.”
“After all these years?” Bram lifted the torch to make out his cousin’s expression. “Still?”
Colin shrugged. “Still.” He lifted the bottle of wine to his lips and drew a long pull.
A pang of sympathy took Bram by surprise. He knew Colin had suffered nightmares and sleeplessness in his youth, after the tragic accident that took his parents’ lives. During Colin’s first year at school, a few boys in his dormitory had taken to teasing him over the nighttime shouts and tears. Bram—then the biggest boy in fourth form—had pummeled some sense into the bullies, and that had been the end of that. None of them had dared to tease Colin again, and Bram had assumed his cousin’s dreams eventually ceased.
Evidently, they hadn’t ceased. They’d persisted. For decades. Damn.
“So who’s in the tent?” Bram asked. A bat swooshed by his ear, and they both ducked. “Not Miss Highwood, I hope.”
“God, no.” Colin laughed a bit. “Miss Highwood is a lovely girl, no mistake, but she’s refined, innocent. And too delicate by far for my needs. Fiona and I . . . well, we understand each other on a more basic level.”
“Fiona?” Bram frowned. He didn’t even recall a woman named Fiona.
“Mrs. Lange,” Colin clarified, brushing past him. “You’ll thank me when her poetry improves.”
Bram caught him by the arm. “But she’s married.”
“Only in name.” He cast a peeved glance at Bram’s grip. “I hope you’re not planning to give me some sermon on morals. As many times as you’ve been skulking off to meet Miss Finch?”
Bram could only stare at him. Here he’d thought he and Susanna had been so careful, remaining beneath everyone’s notice. But evidently Colin had been awake. And paying attention.
“So don’t judge me,” his cousin said. “Fiona and I have a mature understanding. I may be a rake, but I’m not a total cad. I’ve yet to ruin an innocent girl. And I’ve never come close to breaking a woman’s heart.”
“I don’t mean to ruin Susanna,” Bram insisted. And hers isn’t the only heart involved.
“Oh, so you’re marrying her?”
He sighed heavily. “I don’t know.”
“Why not? Holding out for better?”
“What? God, no.” Better? Bram didn’t know a soul alive who could best Susanna for cleverness, courage, beauty, passion, or generosity of spirit. A better woman didn’t exist.
“Ah, so you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Of course you are. You’re human. We’re all scared, every last one of us. Afraid of life, of love, of dying. Maybe marching in neat rows all day distracts you from the truth of it. But when the sun goes down? We’re all just stumbling through the darkness, trying to outlast another night.” Colin downed another swig of wine, then stared at the bottle. “Excellent vintage. Makes me sound almost intelligent.”
“You are intelligent. You could be making something of your life, you know. If you weren’t so determined to waste all your talents, along with your fortune.”
“Don’t speak to me of wasting gifts, Bram. If that woman loves you, and you toss that away . . . I don’t ever want to hear another ‘life lesson’ from your lips.”
“Believe me, I’m not tossing anything away. But I don’t know that she loves me.”
“Please.” Colin waved the wine bottle at him. “You’re rich, and now titled as well. Granted, there’s that stiff knee to contend with, but you do have all your own teeth.” He raised an impish brow. “And assuming handsomely sized male equipment runs in our family line . . .”
Bram shook his head.
“Oh,” Colin said pityingly. “It doesn’t?”
“It does”—Bram made a fist—“not matter.”
This was absurd. Since when did his cousin dispense witty aphorisms and advice? Damn it, Bram was supposed to be the voice of wisdom in this relationship. “No matter how many inches are in a man’s trousers, no matter how many pounds are in his bank account . . . those numbers don’t add up to love.”
“I suppose you’re right. And more’s the pity for me.” Colin nodded thoughtfully. “Well, Lord Elevated-to-the-Peerage-for-Valor, here’s a wild notion. If you want to know if Miss Finch loves you, have you considered taking a firm grip on your bollocks, and . . . I don’t know . . . asking her?”