Colin snorted. “Proof positive that this place was named by dried-up old maids. No man—hell, no woman with a lick of experience—would ever look at that and call it a spindle.”
Bram released a slow breath. He had no patience for his cousin’s adolescent humor today. The sun was warm on his back. The sky and sea were having a contest to out-blue each other. Wisps of white dotted both, sea foam mirroring the clouds. Watching the gulls soar on the wind, he felt his heart pulling against its tether, floating in his chest. The water looked cool and inviting, buoyant.
And his knee felt like a collection of glass shards, encased in flesh. Never in the eight months since his injury had he walked this far without his brace. He shouldn’t need the brace anymore, damn it. What was a mile or three across the fields, anyhow?
Tell that to his ligaments. His whole leg throbbed with fiery pain, and he wasn’t sure at all how he’d make it back to the castle. But he would. He would lead them all the way home, and never betray a wince.
The pain was good, Bram told himself. The pain would make him stronger. Next time, he would push himself a bit farther, and it would hurt a bit less.
A bright flutter down in the cove caught his eye. “What’s that?”
“Well, I am growing dangerously out of practice,” Colin answered. “But they look like ladies to me.”
His cousin was right. The ladies—and Bram was certain he recognized Susanna Finch’s tall, slender form among them—were picking their way along the shore. They paused as a group, removing their bonnets and wraps and draping them on the branches of a twisted, scrubby tree. As their headwear came off, Bram caught a glimpse of golden-red flame, and desire kindled to life inside him. He’d know that hair anywhere. It had played a rather vivid role in his dreams last night.
As they reached the shingle beach, the ladies disappeared from view. The curve of the inlet guarded them.
“What do you suppose they’re doing?” Colin asked.
“It’s Tuesday,” Bram said. “They’re sea bathing.” Mondays are country walks. Tuesday, sea bathing. Wednesday, we’re in the garden . . . That promise of gardening gave him hope. God, perhaps tomorrow he’d finally have a chance of escaping Susanna Finch and her maddening sensual distractions. As if it weren’t bad enough watching her climb the hillside yesterday, now he had to suffer the knowledge that somewhere not too far below, she’d soon be wet to the skin.
The Bright twins set aside the drum and fife and joined them at the edge of the cliff.
“It’s no use craning your necks from here,” Rufus said. “They’re well hidden when they change into their bathing costumes.”
“Bathing costumes?” Bram snorted. “Leave it to Englishwomen to civilize the ocean.”
“If you want a better view, the best place to peek is down the ridge a bit,” Finn said, gesturing toward the tapering point of land. When Bram raised an eyebrow, the boy’s cheeks flushed red. “Or so I hear. From Rufus.”
His twin gave him an elbow to the side.
By now the rest of the men had gathered, clustering around the edge of the bluff.
“Tell me about this path,” Bram said.
“Just there.” Finn pointed. “Steps, cut into the sandstone by pirates in our grandfather’s day. Once was, at low tide you could climb all the way from sea to bluff. The path’s eroded now. Breaks off halfway. But follow it down a bit, and you have the best view into the cove.”
Bram frowned. “You’re certain no one could climb up this way? If spies or smugglers learned of it, this path could present a true risk.” He turned to the fishermen volunteers. “Are your boats available? I’d like to have a look at these bluffs from the water.”
The vicar rushed to his side. “Oh, but my lord—”
“But what, Mr. Keane? It’s a fine enough day. High tide.”
“The ladies have their sea bathing, my lord.” Keane wiped his reddened face with his sleeve. “Miss Finch wouldn’t like the intrusion.”
Bram huffed an impatient sigh. “Mr. Keane. The purpose of this militia is to protect Miss Finch—and all denizens of Spindle Cove—from unwanted intrusions. What if a French frigate sailed into view this moment, setting course for this cove? Or an American privateer? Do you think they’ll hold off on invading merely because it’s Tuesday? Are you going to postpone fighting them, simply because the ladies have their sea bathing?”
The blacksmith scratched his neck. “If any ship’s stupid enough to set course for this cove, we’ll all sit back and watch the rocks chew her up.”
“There aren’t so many rocks right here.” Bram looked over the edge. In the patch of aquamarine water directly below them, very few boulders littered the surface. A decent-sized rowboat could make its way right up to the bluff’s edge.
“Anyway,” Fosbury said, “there’s no French frigate on the horizon today. Nor any American privateers. We’ll leave the ladies to their privacy.”