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?