A row of Brown Bess muskets lined one side of the tower. To the other direction, cannonballs and grapeshot were stacked. A few newly constructed shelves on the far side held kegs of powder. And by them, with his back to her, stood Lord Rycliff.
He’d undressed on arrival and now wore only a loose shirt, breeches, and boots—no coat or cravat. The pale linen gleamed in the dim light, stretching over the muscled contours of his arms and back. Susanna wasn’t a doctor, but she knew human anatomy well enough. Well enough to recognize what an excellent specimen of it he was. Without the hindrance of a coat, for example, she could appreciate that his backside was particularly well formed. Tight and muscled and . . .
And a completely inappropriate object of her attention. What was happening to her? She pulled her gaze upward, allowing a moment to compose herself before she called his attention. His hair was a long, dark queue, bound with twine. Its end hung just between his shoulder blades, where it curled like a fishhook, baiting her.
“Lord Rycliff?” she ventured. He did not turn. She took a deep breath and tried once again, putting some force into her voice. “Lord—”
“I know you’re there, Miss Finch.” His voice was quiet and controlled as he remained with his back to her, bending over something she could not see. “Hold your peace a moment. I’m measuring powder.”
Susanna took a step into the room.
“There now,” he murmured, low and seductive. “Yes. That’s the way.”
Good heavens. The sultry rasp in his voice had persuasive force. It moved her center of balance, rocking her from her toes to her heels. She took a step in reverse, and her back met the wall of ancient stone. A cool ridge calmed the place between her shoulder blades.
Without turning, he said, “Well, Miss Finch? What is it you’re wanting?”
What a dangerous question.
She realized she was still hugging the wall. Pride propelled her two steps forward. As she advanced, something bleated at her, as though chastising her for trespassing. She stopped midstep and peered at it. “Did you know there’s a lamb in here?”
“Never mind it. That’s dinner.”
She gave it a smile and a friendly pat. “Hullo, Dinner. Aren’t you a sweet thing?”
“It’s not his name, it’s his . . . function.” With an impatient oath, he turned, wiping his hands with a cloth. His palms were dusted with charcoal-colored powder, and his eyes, so dilated in the cool, dark stillness, glittered black as jet. “If there’s something you mean to say, say it. Otherwise, be on your way.”
She growled to herself. He was such a . . . Such a man. Crooning sweetly to his weaponry, then barking at her. As her father’s daughter, Susanna understood that an ambitious man could seem married to his work. But this was ridiculous.
She squared her shoulders. “Lord Rycliff, I have an interest in maintaining village harmony, and I’m afraid we’re not off to a neighborly start.”
“And yet”—he crossed his arms over his chest—“here you are.”
“Here I am. Because I won’t be treated this way, do you see? And I won’t let you terrorize my friends, either. Despite the awkwardness of our initial meeting, I have tried to be friendly. You, on the other hand, have been a perfect beast. The way you spoke to me last night. The way you behaved down in the tea shop. Even right now, this moment . . . I can tell by your gruff tone and that stern posture you mean to seem intimidating. But look.” She gestured at the lamb. “Not even Dinner is frightened. I’m not, either.”
“Then you’re fools, the two of you. I could make a meal of you both.”
She shook her head, stepping toward him. “I don’t think so. I know you didn’t expect to take up residence here, but people always come to Spindle Cove to get well. If I may say it, Lord Rycliff, I think you’re hurting. You’re like a great shaggy lion with a nettle in its paw. Once it’s plucked, your good humor will be restored.”
A prolonged pause ensued.
One dark brow quirked. “You mean to pluck my nettle?”
Flushing with heat, she bit her lip. “Not in so many words.”
With a hollow chuckle, he stepped back, pushing a hand through his hair. “You need to leave. We can’t have this discussion.”
“Is it so very painful?” she asked, in a quiet voice. “Are you haunted by some tragedy? Did the ravages of war embitter you toward your fellow man?”
“No.” He wiped the powder measure clean and banged it on a shelf. “And no, and no. The only thing paining me right now”—he turned—“is you.”
“Me?” Her breath caught. “That’s ridiculous. I’m not a nettle.”
“Oh no. You’re something far, far worse.”