“Put them to use,” he answered. “In my militia, all volunteers must have short hair. Above the collar in back. At the sides, above the ear.”
He looked to Susanna. She paled a shade, and those freckles fairly danced off her face.
Turning to the recruits, he made a sweep of his arm. “The ladies have chosen their weapons. Men, choose your lady.”
The women exchanged surprised glances. Equally stunned, the men hung back. Some pairings were obvious, of course. A woman he reckoned to be Mrs. Fosbury already had her husband by the collar, tugging him over to sit on a stump and submit to the will of her shears. But the unmarried men and women of Spindle Cove stood about regarding one another in silence. Like Quakers at meeting, waiting on some signal from above. Good Lord, he needed to teach these men to take some initiative.
Bram turned to his cousin. “Aren’t you always the one to start off the dance? Do the honors now.”
Colin shot him a look. “I’m not a volunteer.”
“No, you’re not. You’re indebted and compelled. You have no choice whatsoever.”
Colin rose slowly, pulling down the front of his waistcoat. “Very well. As you say, I do like to have first pick of the ladies.” He strode forward, doffing his hat with a broad, theatrical sweep and coming to kneel at Miss Diana Highwood’s feet. “Miss Highwood, would you be so kind?”
The fair-haired lady blushed. “Er, yes. Certainly, Lord Payne. I would be honored.”
The ladies tittered among themselves, surely interpreting this as partiality on Colin’s part. Susanna was right about the matrimonial fervor. They’d be rumoring an engagement by noon. If only there were a bit of truth to it. Colin was welcome to enter an engagement, and then he wouldn’t be Bram’s problem anymore.
His current problem tilted her lovely, freckled head. “You were supposed to keep your men apart from my ladies.”
“Need I remind you who broke that agreement first?” He picked up the pair of scissors on the table—the ones Thorne had been using to cut the measuring tapes. “Well?” he asked loudly. “What will it be, Finch?”
She stared at the scissors, wide-eyed. “Above the collar, you say?”
“Oh yes.”
“Every volunteer in the militia?”
“No exceptions.”
Her eyes pleaded with him. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “They’re boys. Finn and Rufus, I mean. Their mother is anxious for them. Try to understand.”
“Oh, I understand.” He understood that she was ostensibly trying to shield those boys from harm. But he also understood her other purpose—clinging to her position of power in this village. On that score, he could not let her win. “Perhaps neither you nor I wanted it, but I’m the lord now. My militia. My village. My rules.” He held out the scissors. “Shear or be shorn.”
After a long moment, she removed her borrowed hat and set it aside. Reaching both hands behind her neck, she unbound her long queue of hair, then shook out the locks with a sensual toss of her head. The newly freed hair tumbled about her shoulders in lush, golden-red waves that shimmered in the sunlight, dazzling him into a near stupor.
In that instant, Bram knew he’d made a grave tactical error.
With a resigned sigh, she met his gaze. “Very well. It’s just hair.”
It’s just hair.
Good Lord. That molten bronze aura framing her face was most definitely not “just hair.” It was living, flowing beauty. It was a crown of glory. It was . . . like the righteous breath of angry angels. Some kind of religious experience, and he was probably damned just for daring to look upon it.
A faint, wistful noise scraped from his throat. He covered it with a cough.
Let her cut it, he told himself. You have no choice. If she wins this battle, it’s all over. You’re done for.
“Let me have them,” she said. “I’ll do it myself.” She reached for the shears.
He gripped them tight. “No.”
“No?” Susanna repeated, trying not to betray her panic. A brave front was important here.
She truly didn’t want to cut her hair—“that hair,” as her cousins had less than affectionately cursed it. Wild and unfashionable as it might be, it suited her now, and it was one thing she had of her mother’s. But Susanna would make the sacrifice, if it meant keeping Finn and Rufus safe.
If it meant besting him.
It would grow back, she told herself. It had all grown back once before, after that dreadful summer in Norfolk. Only she wanted to cut it herself this time. Quickly, and with as little thought as possible. She didn’t think she could bear to stand still while another held the shears.
“Just give me them.” Growing close to desperate, she tugged on the scissors handles. “I’ll do it now.”
He wouldn’t let go.
“Finn and Rufus.” He spoke low, only to her. “I’ll make them drummer and fifer. They’ll be in the militia, attend drill and draw wages. But they won’t be armed. Will that suffice?”