A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(47)
Author: Tessa Dare

“This isn’t amusing.” Her hands flew to her hips. “Did you know they were planning this?”

At her accusing tone, his posture became defensive. “No, I didn’t know they were planning this. I’ve spent the past thirty hours knocked cold. Someone dosed me with enough laudanum to drop a horse.”

“No, Bram. Someone dosed you with the appropriate amount, and your battered body took the much-needed opportunity to rest. I was looking out for your well-being. And now I’m looking out for the well-being of my friends.” She gestured toward the tea shop. “We have to put a stop to that scene. Those girls in there, they’re unused to this sort of attention. They’re going to make more of it than they ought.”

“You’re the one making too much of it. It’s only a bit of dance and drink.”

“Precisely. To a man like yourself, that’s just harmless carousing. But these are delicate, sheltered young ladies. Their hearts and hopes are vulnerable. Too vulnerable. Not to mention their reputations. We have to intervene.”

Together they looked to the tea-shop-turned-tavern. Loud music and laughter drifted out to them on the breeze, along with the sound of clinking glass.

“No.” He shook his head. “I’m not going to put a stop to that scene, and neither are you. What’s going on in there is important.”

“Public drunkenness is important?”

“Yes, on occasion. More than that, fellowship. Brotherhood within a band of soldiers, and the duty those men are charged to carry out. It’s all important. It’s called pride, Susanna, and those men are getting their first taste of it in a long time.”

“What do you mean, their first taste of it? They are decent, honorable men, all. Or at least they were.”

“Come along. Before I arrived in this village, you and your muslin-clad minions had them reduced to mending lockets and piping icing on teacakes. You don’t understand. Men need a purpose, Susanna. A worthy goal. One that we feel in our guts and our hearts, not just in our heads.”

“Men need a purpose?” She sighed, exasperated. “Can’t you understand women are the same? We crave our own goals and our own accomplishments, our own sisterhood as well. And there are precious few places we can find it, in a world ruled by the opposite sex. Everywhere else we are governed by men’s rules, live at the mercy of male whims. But here, in this one tiny corner of the world, we are free to be our best and truest selves. Spindle Cove is ours, Bram. I will fight to my last breath before I let you destroy it. Women’s needs are important, too.”

He put both hands on her, tugging her away from the buildings and onto the green. Soon he had her ensconced beneath the canopy of an ancient willow tree. She’d always loved this tree, and the way its protective, low-hanging limbs made a sort of separate world. A green, fresh, gently tickling shelter that allowed just the right amount of sunlight through, yet kept out all but the heaviest rain. She’d always felt comfortable and safe under its branches.

Until now. The hungry glint in his eyes was danger itself. When he spoke, his voice had darkened. The whole night had darkened.

“I’ll tell you what’s most important of all. It’s this.” He flexed those barrel-like biceps, drawing her body flush against a solid wall of muscle and heat. “Not women, not men, but what lies between two people who want each other more than air. You can argue with me all you want, but you can’t fight this. I know you feel it.”

Oh yes. She felt it. Hot, electric sensation hummed through her whole body, all the way to the beds of her toenails and the roots of her hair. Between her thighs, she was molten with it.

“This is important,” he said. “It’s the most vital, undeniable force in Creation. You can’t deprive the whole village of it just because you’re afraid of losing control.”

Laughter burst from her throat. “I’m afraid to lose control? Oh, Bram. Please.”

This, from the man so desperate to order someone—anyone—about, he was paying shepherds and fishermen exorbitant wages just to march at his command. Let it not be forgotten, he’d bombed a flock of sheep.

He was the one afraid of losing control. Terrified to his core. And she would happily remind him of all this—perhaps even admit she found it oddly endearing—if only he’d permit her the use of her lips and tongue.

But no. The impossible man had to conquer those, too.

He swept her into a kiss so wild and unrelenting, she had no choice but surrender.

Her mouth softened, and his tongue swept between her lips, probing deep. She accepted the challenge, parrying his thrusts with her own, enjoying the way they sparred so equally. He moaned with satisfaction, and she smiled against his lips. Apparently, she was good at this. She loved the way he brought out new strengths in her; talents she hadn’t known she possessed.

He covered her neck with kisses, grinding his hips against hers in a crude, delicious manner. “God, how I’ve been aching for you. Have you any idea what kind of dreams laudanum gives a man?”

“Did you dream of me?”

“Frequently.” Kiss. “Vividly.” Kiss. “Acrobatically.”

Laughing softly, she pulled back to meet his gaze. “Oh, Bram. I had dreams of you, too. They all involved very high cliffs and very sharp rocks.” She touched a hand to his cheek. “And sea monsters.”

He smiled. “Little liar.”

Perhaps she should have been offended, but she was too busy being stupidly thrilled. No one ever called her “little” anything.

“And just look at you,” he said, stepping back and skimming his possessive hands over her waist and hips. “I don’t even have words for how beautiful you are. You wore this for me, didn’t you?”

“Predictable arrogance. I always dress for dinner.”

“Ah, but you thought of me as you dressed. I know you did.”

She had. Of course she had. And though she always dressed for dinner, she seldom wore anything this fine. Tonight she’d selected her best. Not because she planned for him to see it, but for a much simpler, more selfish reason. He’d made her feel beautiful inside, and it only seemed fitting that her outward appearance should match.

“And these bits of your hair, curling down . . . They’re for me, too.” He caught a stray lock and wound it about his fingers. “You can’t know how I’ve been dying to touch your hair. Even softer than I dreamed.” His touch dipped to her neckline, where he eased the violet silk aside to reveal a pale sliver of her white chemise. “Look at this,” he said, fingering the neatly hemmed edge. “White and crisp and new. It’s your best, isn’t it? You wore your best for me.”