“Christ Almighty,” Thorne muttered. “What have you done to yourself?”

Miss Taylor touched a fingertip to her earlobe and bravely blinked tears from her eyes. “It will grow back. It’s only hair.”

It’s only hair.

Bram’s heart pinched in his chest. She reminded him so much of Susanna that day on the green, bravely offering her long, lovely hair if it meant keeping Finn and Rufus off the volunteer rolls. If only he’d listened to her.

Where was she? He was growing desperate to see her.

“Lord Rycliff,” Miss Taylor said, “there are others, too. Everyone’s gathered at the Bull and Blossom.”

“The Bull and Blossom?”

“The tea shop,” she explained. “And tavern. Since it’s both now, the Fosburys made a new sign. Anyhow, what with the goings-on at Summerfield, we thought it best to move tonight’s party there. And most of the village has assembled this morning. Everyone’s waiting on your command.”

“It’s really not necessary,” Bram said, halfheartedly.

“Perhaps not,” said Aaron Dawes. “But maybe we want to see it through anyway.”

What an idea. To go forward with this militia review and grand party today, not for Sir Lewis’s pride or for Bram’s—but for Spindle Cove’s.

“We’ve all worked so hard, and looked so forward to today. We want to do it for ourselves, and for Finn. And for you, Lord Rycliff.” Miss Taylor plucked at her sleeve. “Miss Finch said you’d be coming back, and we must be ready to do you proud.”

“Susanna said that?”

“Yes.” The girl clasped her hands in delight. “Oh, Lord Rycliff. I just knew the two of you were in love. I knew you couldn’t leave her.” She bounced on her toes. “This is all going to be so very romantic.”

“With all that cooing, no one will take you for a boy,” Bram said, chuckling. Truthfully, he was trying not to bounce on his own toes with excitement. “Where is she now?”

“She’s gone home to have a rest and a change of dress, but she promised to meet us at the castle.”

Straightening his coat and running his hands over his hair, Bram looked to the other men. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

“Where is she?” Hours later, Bram stood impatient at the castle gateway, scanning the path for any sign of Susanna. All morning long, folk had streamed up the ancient road, traveling by cart, on horseback, on foot—some coming from ten or more miles away to watch the review. But none of them were the one woman Bram wanted to see.

“Most likely she fell asleep,” Thorne said. “She worked hard all night.”

“Perhaps I should ride down to Summerfield.”

“I’ve already stalled for time as much as I can,” Colin said. “If it were just a matter of the crowd, I’d say hold off. But generals and dukes aren’t used to being kept waiting. And perhaps Miss Finch needs her rest.”

Bram nodded his reluctant acknowledgment. The review itself wouldn’t take long. If Susanna hadn’t arrived by the end, he’d ride over to Summerfield straightaway.

Striding to the center of the green, he motioned for his men to fall in line. He surveyed them with no small measure of pride—his cadre of willing volunteers, all fitted out in their new uniforms and assembled to serve his command. What a band they were. Shepherds, fishermen, clergymen. A smith, a baker—no candlestick maker, but a boy, a young woman . . .

And a lamb. Dinner stood at his knee, tricked out in a jaunty red ribbon and bell.

Make no mistake, this was Spindle Cove.

Under festooned canopies, the visiting dignitaries and the ladies of the Queen’s Ruby sat ready to observe. The assembled villagers and country folk lined the castle’s perimeter. Children too short to see over the crowd had climbed atop the walls. Gaily colored banners flew from each turret.

With everyone in place, Bram mounted his horse and addressed his men. And woman. “I want you all to remember, we’re not alone when we take to the field. There are others counting on us to succeed. All the ladies of the Queen’s Ruby. Finn. And Miss Finch. Their faith in us—it’s sewn into the linings of our coats, rolled into every powder cartridge. And it’s in every beat of our hearts. We will not let them down.”

He looked from one solemn, determined face to the other, making eye contact with every last one of his men. To Miss Taylor, he gave a smile.

“Vicar, say us a blessing, if you will.” Bowing his head, he muttered, “We’re going to need it.”

Between the catastrophe yesterday and the subsequent lack of sleep, Bram wasn’t sure how the men would perform. But despite his misgivings, the drill went surprisingly well. The wheel maneuvers that had given them such fits in recent weeks came off smoothly—even the backward one. There was a bit of a misstep with the obliques, due to Fosbury’s persistent confusion of right and left. But with the firings, they ended on a high note. Thanks to Susanna’s tutelage, the men fired in swift, impressive unison—by file and as a company.

As planned, they capped the display with a feu de joie. All the men lined up in a single file, loaded their muskets, and fired in quick succession—much like opera dancers rippling kicks down the line. The wave of smoke and fire swept from one end of the file to the other.

When it cleared, the crowd broke into cheers and applause.

Bram looked from man to man. He could only imagine that they, like he, were quietly bursting with pride and relief. Only one thing could make this moment brighter.

“Bram!”

And that was it. Susanna’s voice. She’d come. She was finally here, and she’d arrived in time to witness her friends’ triumph.

“Bram!” she called again. Her voice was breathless. She sounded as excited as he felt.

He dismounted his horse and whirled on his boot heel, searching the crowd for her.

There she was, standing in a ruined archway near the gate. The previous night’s trials had worn on her. She was pale, and shadows pooled under her eyes. Her hair was disheveled. Her Indian shawl drooped to the dirt. If someone had painted him this exact picture a year ago and said, Someday, you will want to kiss this woman more than you want your next breath . . . Bram would have laughed, and made some joke about artists and opium.

But today, it was the truth.

“Susanna.”

As he approached, she leaned against the stone arch. “Bram.”

“I’m sorry.” He had to get those words out first. “So sorry. I should never have said what I did. I shouldn’t have left. I was an idiot, and you did just the right thing for Finn. Thank you.”

She didn’t respond. Simply stood there in the doorway, looking pale and stunned. Was a ready apology from his quarter truly that much of a shock?

Perhaps it was. He could be a stubborn fool.

He took a few more slow steps in Susanna’s direction, stopping less than an arm’s length from where she stood. It was killing him, not to take her in his arms. “I should have come to Summerfield earlier, just to say that. But Miss Taylor said you’d wanted to see this through . . .” He motioned around at the festivities. “Everyone’s worked so hard, and . . . And they did it all for you, Susanna. It went brilliantly, and it was all for you.”

She swallowed hard and pressed a hand to her side. She was silent for so long, he began to worry.

For good reason, apparently.

“Bram, I—” Her eyes went wide, and she drew a sharp, gasping breath. Where she clutched her side, her knuckles went white. “Bram, I feel so strange.”

“Susanna?”

It was a fortunate thing he’d come within an arm’s length of her. Because when she collapsed, he had only an instant to break her fall.

Twenty-eight

Susanna loathed being ill. Absolutely despised and feared this sense of being out of control of her own body. And this . . . episode, or illness, or whatever it was . . . was worse than anything she’d felt in years.

The discomfort had been coming on all night, but it had worsened sharply after she’d left Summerfield. At one point, she’d stopped to sit by the side of the road, uncertain whether her feet could even carry her forward. But then she’d heard the sounds of the review floating down to her. Drumbeats, rifles firing in unison.

Bram.

Encouraged by the sounds, she’d somehow managed to gain her feet and stumble the rest of the distance up the path. But once she reached the archway, she couldn’t take one more step.

She couldn’t breathe. Her chest hurt, so very much. She’d forgotten this kind of pain existed. Pain that seemed a tangible entity all its own. A monstrous thing, made of sharp edges and bright colors.

But Bram was there. And despite his angry words at their parting, he had managed to look at her again. With a smile and apologies, even. His arms were around her, and his soothing whispers stroked away some of her fear.

“It’s all right, love. It’s all right. Just rest and let me help.”

They carried her beneath a canopy and laid her on the ground. Cool grass and springy turf crushed beneath her weight. She opened her eyes. The slanting patterns of the canopy’s striped canvas both amazed and overwhelmed her.

This couldn’t be real. She couldn’t be dying. Not now.

But perhaps she was. She heard people discussing her. That’s what people did, when they thought you were dying. Discuss you, while standing right nearby. She’d been through this before.

“Poor Miss Finch. What’s happened?”

“Perhaps she’s just overtired. It was a hellish night.”

“Miss Finch, overtired? I can’t believe that, not her. She’s too strong.”

Well, if she had to die, at least it would be here—in her beloved castle, with Bram at her side, surrounded by so many people she loved. She could feel their concern, wrapping around her like warm cotton wool.

“I’m a surgeon,” some newcomer said. He spoke with a Northern accent. “If you’d all clear out, I’d like to have a look.”

Oh God. Not a surgeon. Bram’s heat receded, and she clutched at his hand. Don’t leave me.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Last night,” she forced out, squeezing his hand. Every breath was pure, stabbing pain, made worse by how hard she had to fight for the torturous privilege. “By the stables, I . . . fell.” Another painful gasp. “My ribs, I think.”

“Her ribs,” Bram said. “She says it’s her ribs.”

“Let me have a look, then.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a black leather satchel being opened. The very image made her want to scream. Nothing good came out of those satchels. Only pain, and more pain.

Someone cut, then tore her bodice into two halves. She felt so exposed. The instinct to struggle seized her.

“Be calm, love. Be calm.” Bram stroked her hair. “This is Daniels. He’s a friend of mine, and a brilliant field surgeon. He’s the one who saved my leg. You can trust him. I do.”

You can trust him. No, she didn’t think she could. She tried to stay calm, drawing quick, shallow breaths as this Mr. Daniels listened and prodded and assessed. All the while, panic raced through her veins.

“You say you suffered some injury to your ribs, miss?”

She nodded. “Last night.”

“But at the time, the pain wasn’t this severe.”

She shook her head.

“What’s wrong with her?” Bram asked.

“Well, if you want my guess . . .”

“No, I don’t want your guess,” Bram said angrily. “I want the damned answer.”

Mr. Daniels was unruffled by this outburst, which gave Susanna some reassurance. He and Bram truly must be close friends.