A Night to Surrender

Page 49

Bram had almost lost her, too. He hadn’t truly allowed himself to consider what that would mean, earlier. He’d been too focused on the next spoonful of tea, the new change of wound dressing, the fresh cloth for her brow. But now that her fever had broken, and Daniels had given her excellent odds for a full recovery . . . Jesus. The possibilities swept through him like a freezing, gale-force wind. A blast strong enough to strip the earth of everything warm and green.
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?”
“Neither. About my commission.”
She gasped. “Bram, you didn’t. You didn’t resign.”
“Hush,” he warned, squeezing her fingers. “Very calm, completely dispassionate. Remember?”
She nodded, pausing to draw a cautious breath.
“I didn’t resign.” His thumb traced a circle on the back of her hand. “I accepted a promotion I was offered some time ago. I’ll be assigned to the War Office, making sure the infantry regiments have the supplies they need at the front. It’s not field command, but it’s important work.”
“It is. Oh, and you’ll be brilliant at it. You’ve spent so much time at the front. Who knows better than you what they need?”
“There will be some travel involved. But for the most part, I’ll be working in Town. So I’ll need a house there, I suppose. I’ve never bought a house before. When you’re well, I’m hoping you’d help me choose one. And then, I was hoping you’d help me make it a proper home. You know, with upholstery. And draperies. And . . . perhaps babies, eventually.”
“Oh. Babies.” A helpless giggle rose in her throat. “Do you plan to send over samples of those?”
“Don’t laugh.” He shushed her, putting a hand to her shoulder to keep her still. “Don’t laugh.”
“I can’t help it.” She stifled the impulse as best she could. Then, with a trembling hand, she wiped tears from her eyes.
Panic overtook his expression. “Bloody hell. Now you’re crying. Daniels will kill me.”
“It’s fine,” she assured him. “It’s fine. The laughter, the tears . . . they’re worth any pain. I’m so happy. Just miserably, painfully full of joy.”
His dark eyebrows lowered, and beneath them his eyes went very grave. “You”—he squeezed her hand in both of his—“gave me the scare of a lifetime.”
“I was frightened, too,” she admitted. “But you helped me through it. And here we are. If we can survive that, I imagine we can come through anything.”
He didn’t respond, save to give her a long, affectionate look.
Surely he loved her. He didn’t even have to say it. His every action—from accepting the promotion in London, to the cool cloth he now swiped over her brow—told her so.
He didn’t have to say it. But she was growing terribly impatient to hear the words, just the same.
He snapped straight and began adjusting the bed linens around her. “You need rest. Or tea. Or something. I don’t know, you’re the healer. If you were me right now, what would you do?”
“That’s simple. I would go inform Daniels that his patient is awake. And then I would have a proper meal and a good, long sleep. And a bath and a shave. And I would not worry about anything.”
He brushed a fingertip over her nose. “Little liar.”
“But the very first thing I would do? Is give my future bride a kiss.” When he hesitated, she cast him her most encouraging smile. “You’ve already broken all the other prohibitions. Don’t go honorable on me now.”
He leaned close, brushing the hair from her temple. “I never could resist stealing a kiss from you. Not since that very first day.”
His lips touched hers.
And just like that first kiss, it was warm and firm, and then . . . it was over. Curse him, he was a model of restraint.
“Bram,” she whispered, unable to resist, “do you think you could love me, just a little?”
He laughed. “Good Lord, no.”
“No?” Susanna bit her lip, cringing inside. “Oh.”
Oh dear. She dropped her gaze to his lapel, assessing her options. Could she bring herself to marry him, if he didn’t love her at all?
Of course she could. The alternative flashed before her eyes—a future that appeared hopelessly lonely and grim. She couldn’t picture it too clearly, but she sensed it would involve a great many cats and peppermints.
Never mind love. She could make do with lust, or admiration, or whatever he offered her. Even tepid affection was better than fuzzy peppermints.
He touched her cheek, drawing her gaze back up to his strong, handsome face.
“No, Susanna,” he said. “I cannot love you just a little. If that’s what you want, you must find a different man.” His green eyes were breathtaking in their intensity. His thumb brushed her bottom lip. “Because I can only love you entirely. With everything I am, and everything I ever will be. Body, mind, heart, soul.”
Her heart soared. “Oh,” she finally managed. “That’s better. So much better.” She pulled him close for a kiss.
He held back. “Are you sure?” he asked, looking serious now. “Think on it, love. Be certain you want this. I’m offering you everything I am. And if I do say it myself, I’m a lot of man to handle. I’ll protect you fiercely, challenge you daily, and want you nightly—at the least. You won’t be able to manage me the way you manage other men.”