He had their attention. He’d given the call. Now would be the ideal time to summon some motivational words, he supposed. “Let it be understood, England is at war. I want willing and able soldiers. Men of courage, prepared to fight and defend. If there are men among you who wish to be challenged, to become part of something larger than themselves . . . let them come. If there are men who desire to use their God-given strength in service of a noble cause . . . let them come. If there are men in this ‘Spinster’ Cove who want to be real men again . . . let them answer this call to arms.”
He paused, expecting some sort of red-blooded, rallying cry in return.
He got silence. An interested, attentive silence, but silence nonetheless.
Well, if inspirational speeches weren’t his strength, Bram still had one incontrovertible argument on his side. He straightened his coat and said the rest. “Drill and training will last a month. Uniforms, firearms, and other supplies will be provided, and there will be wages. Eight shillings a day.”
Now that caught their attention. Eight shillings was more than a full week’s pay for most workingmen, and more than enough to overcome any reluctance. Murmurs of excitement swept the crowd, and several men began to move forward.
“Fall in line,” he told them. “See Lord Payne for enrollment, then Corporal Thorne for outfitting.”
There was a bit of a crush as the men made their way to the enrollment table, but Finn and Rufus Bright took the head of the line, no contest. Bram joined Colin behind the table.
“Names?” Colin asked.
“Rufus Ronald Bright.”
“Phineas Philip Bright.”
Colin dutifully inscribed the names. “Date of birth?”
“Eighth of August,” Finn said, looking to his brother. “Seventeen ninety-ei—”
“Seven,” Rufus finished. “We’re over fifteen.”
Bram interrupted, fixing the boys with a stern look. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, my lord.” Finn stood tall and slapped a hand over his heart. “I’m over fifteen. May the devil take me if I’m telling you false, Lord Rycliff.”
Bram sighed to himself. No doubt they’d stuffed scraps of papers with the number fifteen in their shoes. Oldest trick in the shiftless army recruiter’s sack. With that scrap of paper beneath their heels, the lads could say with all honesty that they were “over” fifteen.
Susanna was right, the boys were obviously lying. And they were boys yet, not men. He regarded their matching, fresh-scrubbed faces that wouldn’t know a razor’s scrape for years. But if their birthdays truly were in August, that put their actual fifteenth birthday only a few months away. He surveyed the queue of men behind the twins, performing a quick mental tally. They numbered just under twenty, all in all. Not good. To form a company that would appear remotely impressive in formation, he needed twenty-four.
“Well?” Colin asked, looking up at Bram.
“You heard the lads. They’re over fifteen.”
The boys grinned as they completed the questions for Colin and proceeded to Thorne’s table for measuring and firearms. Bram didn’t even feel a twinge of guilt about putting muskets in the boys’ hands. If they didn’t already know how to handle a weapon and shoot, it was high time they learned.
One by one, the men worked through the line, giving Colin their names, ages, and other vital information before proceeding to Thorne to be measured for coats and issued firearms. As the morning progressed, Bram’s knee began to ache. Then it started to throb. Before long, the damned joint was screaming with pain—so loud, he was surprised no one else could hear.
When Colin finished with the next recruit, Bram nudged his cousin aside. “You’re too slow. Go help Thorne.”
Lowering himself onto Colin’s vacant campstool, Bram winced. He performed a surreptitious flex of his leg beneath the table, trying to ease the pain and focus on the enrollment list before him. He took his time dipping the quill.
“Now, then. Name?”
“Finch.”
Ten
Bram froze, quill poised above the paper, praying his ears deceived him.
“That’s F-I-N-C-H,” she spelled helpfully. “Finch. Like the bird.”
He looked up. “Susanna, what the devil are you doing?”
“I don’t know who Susanna is. But I, Stuart James Finch, am volunteering for your militia.”
Gone was that frothy, leaf-green muslin frock he’d admired in church. In its place she’d donned a pair of nankeen breeches that fit her surprisingly well, a crisp linen shirt cuffed at the wrists, and a cobalt-blue topcoat that oddly enough did lovely things for her eyes.
And gloves, of course. Men’s gloves. Heaven forbid Miss Finch appear in public without her gloves.
She went on, “My birth date is the fifth of November, 1788. And that’s the God’s honest truth, my lord.”
Her hair was bound in a tight queue, and she was dressed in man’s clothing, but there was absolutely nothing that wasn’t feminine about her. Her voice, her bearing . . . God, even her scent. She couldn’t fool a blind man.
Of course, she didn’t mean to fool Bram. The interfering minx simply wanted to make a point. And she intended to make that point in front of scores of people. The entire village crowded around them, men and women alike, eager to see how this scene would unfold. They all wondered, who would emerge the victor?
He would. If he let her get the better of him today, he would never have the men’s respect. What’s more, he wouldn’t deserve it.
“Write my name,” she urged.
“You know I won’t. Only men are eligible to serve.”
“Well, I’m a man,” she said.
He blinked at her.
“What?” Her voice dripped with mock innocence. “You took Rufus and Finn at their word. Why can’t you take me at mine?”
He lowered his voice and leaned forward over the table. “Because in this case, I have firsthand knowledge that contradicts your word. Would you like me to tell all these people precisely how I know you’re a woman?”
“Be my guest,” she whispered through a tight smile. “If you’d rather be planning a wedding than a militia.” She cast a glance to either side. “In a village this small, filled this chockablock with ladies, an announcement like that is sure to incite matrimonial panic.”
They stared one another down for a long moment.
“If you accept Finn and Rufus,” she said, “you have to accept me.”
“Very well,” he said, dipping the quill again. He would see just how far she was prepared to take this. “Stuart James Finch, born November fifth, 1788.” He turned the paper and shoved it toward her. “Sign here.”
She took the pen in her gloved hand and made a flowery signature, complete with flourish.
“Next,” he said, rising from the table and gesturing toward Thorne, “we’ll need to measure you for a uniform.”
“But of course.”
Bram walked her over to the second table and ripped the measuring tape straight from Thorne’s hand. “I believe I’ll see to this recruit myself.” He held up the tape for Susanna’s inspection. “You have no objection, Finch?”
“None at all.” She hiked her chin.
“Remove your coat, then.”
She complied without argument.
He found himself without words.
Sweet heaven.
Bram wasn’t fond of ladies’ current fashions, with their high, empire waists and draped columns of skirt. While he approved of the way such designs served up the bosom for a man’s appreciative view—what man didn’t appreciate a nice view of plump breasts?—he didn’t like the way they obscured the remainder of a woman’s body. He liked shapely legs, trim ankles, generous hips. He had a particular fondness for a round, cuppable arse.
Who could have guessed that gentlemen’s attire would perfectly hug Susanna Finch’s every last feminine curve?
Her borrowed waistcoat wouldn’t button at the top, due to the ample swell of her breasts. It did, however, fit snugly around her middle, emphasizing her slender waist and the sweet flare of her hips. Her breeches ended at the knee. Below them, white stockings clung to every contour of her long, lean calves and ankles.
“Turn around,” he croaked.
She obeyed. And as she turned, she flipped her long queue of hair forward, giving him a clear view of her back . . . and backside. Those nankeen breeches stretched tight over a sweet, round arse. God, she was made for his hands. And stubborn, headstrong thing that she was, she’d given him the perfect excuse to touch her.
He began with her shoulders, placing the measuring tape at one shoulder and stretching it slowly across her back to the other. He took his time, allowing his touch to skim along the elegant slopes and ridges of her shoulder blades. As though he were touching her not for tailoring purposes, but for his pleasure and hers.
Her shoulder trembled under his touch. His heart kicked.
“Seventeen inches,” he read aloud.
He measured her arm length next, beginning at the top of her shoulder and stretching the tape down the length of her arm, all the way to her wrist, before reading aloud the measurement.
“Stand tall, Finch.”
As her shoulders squared, he fitted one end of the tape at the nape of her neck, just at the top of her collar. Then he stretched the narrow strip of marked fabric down the length of her spine, touching each individual vertebra. Then dipping lower, halfway down the delectable curve of her backside. He heard her sudden intake of breath, and it echoed in his groin.
“Twenty-six inches, for the coat length.” As he stood, he pulled on the front of his own coat, hoping no one would notice he’d gained several inches in his personal measurements. This scene had him so aroused, he’d completely forgotten the pain in his knee.
“Face me, Finch.”
She performed a slow, sensual about-face. Almost as though they were dancing.
“Arms up,” he directed. “I’ll measure your chest now.” His blood heated at the mere thought of sliding his hands around the circumference of that lush bosom.
Her eyes flashed, and she crossed her arms, impeding him. “I believe I know that measurement. It’s thirty-four inches.”
He sighed gruffly. “Perfect.” Damn, how he wanted to feel that body under his again. Yearned for it.
“Are we done?” she asked, shrugging back into her coat.
“Weapons next,” he said, struggling to regain his composure. “I’ll need to issue you a musket, Mr. Finch.”
If she hadn’t balked at the public measurements, perhaps forcing her to handle weaponry would do the trick. Even though her father invented the things, most gently bred ladies were reluctant to touch firearms, if not outright terrified of them.
He selected a musket and held it out to her.
“This is a flintlock,” he said, ladling out his words in slow, patronizing increments. “The ball shoots from this barrel, see? Here is the trigger, in the middle. And the other end fits against your shoulder, like this.”
“Is that so?” she said wonderingly. She reached for the weapon. “May I try?”
“Slowly there.” He moved behind her. “I’ll show you how to hold it.”
“That won’t be necessary.” She smiled. “Your instructions were so lucid and crisp.”
And then as he—and Thorne and Colin, and the entire population of Spindle Cove—looked on, Susanna Finch took a cartridge from the table, ripped it open with her neat, straight teeth, and spat both paper nub and ball to the ground. Setting the gun at half cock, she sprinkled a bit of powder in the pan and closed the frizzen. Then she poured the remainder of the powder charge down the barrel and tamped it down with the ramrod.
