A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(88)
Author: Tessa Dare

He’d almost lost her. If this hellish ordeal had taught him one lesson, it was to never allow his pride to come between them again.

“You’re right, Bramwell.” The old man’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I know you’re right. I can only hope she’ll find it in her heart to forgive me.”

“Of course she will, good as she is. But hoping for her forgiveness is not the only thing you can do, Sir Lewis. You can try to deserve it.”

The bed linens rustled, and he whipped his gaze to Susanna. Her bronze lashes fluttered against her cheek.

Forget birds singing, bells ringing, brooks quaintly babbling over rocks. Choirs of angels could go hang. Her voice, even scratchy and weak, was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.

“Bram? Is that you?”

Susanna’s eyes fluttered open to what seemed just another lovely dream. Bram was there, beside her. And they had a proper bed, at long last. She’d had quite enough of loving him in coves and arbors.

“Bram,” she whispered.

“It’s me.” He pressed a firm kiss to her hand, and several days’ growth of whiskers scraped her skin.

She started to rise up on her elbow, but then some mischievous imp set the mattress spinning like a top.

“Don’t try to sit up,” he said. “You’re weak yet.”

She nodded, closing her eyes until the room stopped whirling.

“Do you want water?” He reached for a glass.

“In a moment. First . . .” With great effort, she turned her head. “Papa?”

Her father’s work-roughened hands clasped hers. “I’m here, dear girl. I’m here.”

She squeezed his fingers. “I want you to know I love you very much, Papa.”

“I—” His voice broke. “I love you too, Susanna Jane.”

“Good.” To hear those words from her father was unexpected, and unexpectedly freeing. She drew a deep breath. “Now would you go down to the kitchen and ask Cook for some beef tea?”

“I’ll send Gertrude right away.”

“No, Papa. I’d prefer for you to fetch it. I’d like some time alone with Bram.”

Her father sniffed and nodded. “I see.”

“Thank you for understanding.” She waited until he rose from his chair, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, and made his way to the bedchamber door. When she heard the door latch click, she turned to Bram.

“Did you hear much of that conversation?” His gaze was wary.

“Enough of it. Oh, Bram. You were wonderful. I can’t even tell you how much I wanted—”

He clucked his tongue. “Time enough for that later. For now, drink.” He held a glass of water to her lips, and she took several cautious sips. “Are you in terrible pain?”

“Not too terrible,” she answered, once he lowered the glass. She tried for a smile. “It only hurts when I breathe.”

His answer was a stern rebuke. “Don’t joke. It’s not funny. I can’t stand to see you in pain.”

Dear, sweet man. “I’ll be fine. Truly. The pain’s so much better than before. How’s Finn?”

“Recovering well, Daniels tells me. He’s in a great deal of pain, but it’s mitigated by a great deal of female attention.”

She smiled. “I can imagine. What day is it?”

He rubbed his face with one hand. “Tuesday, I think.”

Tuesday. There was something important about Tuesday.

“Oh no.” She pushed herself up on the pillows, wincing. “Bram, your orders. The ship. I thought it left today.”

He shrugged. “It probably did.”

“But . . . you didn’t leave.”

“You didn’t die.” Finally, he smiled a little. “One kept promise deserves another.”

He sat there, at her bedside, unmoving. As he likely had remained for days now. And she lay there, gazing at him in the warm light of day—his hair askew, shirt rumpled, jaw unshaven, and eyes rimmed with red. Only a man could be so unkempt and manage to look more endearingly handsome than ever.

“Goodness,” she said with sudden horror. She reached up with one hand to investigate her hair. Just as she’d feared, she found it a hopeless tangle. And after all those days of illness—the blood loss, fever . . . “I must look a perfect fright.”

“Are you mad? Susanna, you’re alive and awake. You’re the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

She pressed her cracked lips together. “Then why don’t you touch me? Hold me?”

“It’s not for lack of wanting to.” He reached one hand toward her face, then hesitated for a moment—before finally brushing a single fingertip down her cheek. “Love, you have at least three cracked ribs and a chest wound. I’m not permitted to hold you. In fact, Daniels put me under strict orders if you awoke. I’m not to hold you, kiss you, touch you. I’m not to make you laugh, make you cry, make you angry, or excite your emotions in any way. Which means”—he inched his chair closer to the head of the bed—“that if we’re going to talk at all right now . . .”

“Of course we are.”

“. . . we have to make this a very calm, completely dispassionate conversation.”

She nodded, making her tone serious. “I can do that.”

“You see . . .” He tenderly clasped her hand. “I have a question to ask Miss Finch.”

“Oh.” She adopted a formal tone. “And what would that question be, Lord Rycliff?”

“I’m wondering if you, Miss Finch, with your keen eye and discerning taste, would be so good as to help me choose some fabrics for upholstery.”

She blinked at him. “Upholstery?”

He nodded. “I think it would be a safe enough occupation for you, while you convalesce. I’ll have some samples sent over.”

“Very well,” she said slowly. “Is that all you mean to ask of me?”

“No. Of course not. If all goes well and your recovery permits, by next week perhaps you can advance to draperies.”

“Draperies.” She narrowed her eyes. “Bram, I know you’ve been forbidden to provoke me. But did Mr. Daniels say nothing about the dangers of confusing me?”

“I’ll start again.” He paused, staring down at their linked hands. “I’ve written to my superiors.”

“About upholstery? Or draperies?”