She was stunned. He had her just where he wanted her—on the verge of public humiliation—and now he wished to compromise? “I . . . I suppose that will do. Yes.”
“Very well, then. Does this mean you’re a lady again?”
“I’ll go change straightaway.”
“Not so fast,” he said, still clutching the scissors handles tight. He gave her a bold look. “Before you leave, you’ll do a service for me. Just like the other ladies are doing.”
Indeed, all around them the men and women of Spindle Cove were pairing off. As Diana busied herself with Lord Payne, the blacksmith made his way to the widowed Mrs. Watson and her shears. Finn and Rufus seemed to be arguing over which of them would be stuck with Sally.
“You want me to cut your hair?” Her mind’s eye went to that long, overgrown tail of hair always dangling between his shoulders, taunting her.
“As I said, no exceptions.” He pressed the shears into her hand. “Go on, then. I’m all yours.”
Susanna cleared her throat. “I believe you’ll have to kneel.”
“Kneel?” He snorted. “Not a chance, Miss Finch. There’s precisely one reason I will kneel before a woman, and this isn’t it.”
“Proposing marriage, I hope you mean.”
A devilish spark lit his eyes. “No.”
Awareness raced through her body. She glanced around them. All around the green, the business of clipping hair had occupied her friends and neighbors. This had become a private conversation. And a fortunate thing, too, considering what took place next.
“If you don’t mean to kneel,” she said, angling on tiptoe, “I don’t know how you expect me to cut your hair. All the chairs are in use. I may be tall, but there’s no way I can reach—oh!”
He framed her rib cage in both hands and lifted her into the air. The brute power in the motion thrilled her. This made two times in three days that he’d swept her off her feet. Three, if she counted yesterday’s kiss.
Why was she counting? She shouldn’t be counting.
He set her down atop the table, making her the taller of the two. “Steady?”
At her mute nod, he slid his hands from her waist. Now she was lost in memories of their embrace yesterday, the press of his body against hers . . . Their gazes clashed. The now-familiar sparks flew.
Susanna swallowed hard. “Turn around, if you will.”
Thank God. For once, he obeyed.
She took it in her hand, that thick, dark hank at his nape, bound with a bit of leather cord. His hair was lush, soft. Probably the softest thing on this man, she mused. Once it was cut, he would be all angles and sinew, hard all over.
“Why the delay?” he taunted. “Are you afraid?”
“No.” With a steady hand, she raised the shears. Grasping the queue of hair firmly in the other hand, she aimed . . . and snipped. “Oh dear.” She dangled the lopped-off coil before his face, then dropped it to the ground without ceremony. “Pity.”
He only chuckled, but she thought she caught a hint of bruised pride in his laughter. “I see you’re enjoying your chance to play Delilah.”
“You’d better hope I don’t decide to play Judith. I’m holding shears at the moment, and I’d advise you to be still. I need to concentrate.” Setting the scissors aside for a moment, she pulled back her own locks and wound them into a simple knot. Then she set about the work of clipping his hair, and they both went quiet.
And as she worked, the quiet deepened, grew profound. The task was so intimate. In order to cut his hair evenly, she had to sift her fingers through the heavy locks, lifting and angling them for the shears. She touched his ear, his temple, his jaw.
“Wouldn’t it be easier if you removed your gloves?” he asked.
“No.” At the moment, those thin leather gloves were the only thing keeping her sane.
A palpable, sensual tension had thickened the air surrounding them. His breathing was audible, a husky sighing in and out. Her fingers faltered for a moment, and she scraped his ear with one blade of the shears. She was horrified, but he seemed to take no notice. Only the tiniest drop of blood welled at the site, but it took all she had not to press her lips to the wound.
After a few more snips, she laid the shears aside. To test the cut’s evenness, she raised both hands to his hair and dragged her gloved fingertips over his scalp, slowly raking them from his hairline to his nape.
As her fingers made that long, gentle sweep, he made a sound. An involuntary moan. Or perhaps a groan. It originated not in his throat, but deep in his chest, somewhere in the region of his heart.
That rumbling sound was more than a sigh. It was a confession, a plea. With a simple brush of her fingertips, she’d called forth an expression of deep, hidden yearning. Her whole body ached with an instinctive response.
Oh goodness. Oh, Bram.
“Turn around,” she whispered.
When he obeyed, his eyes were closed.