“Privacy?” Bram echoed. “What privacy? You’re all standing up here leering at them while they flip and float like mermaids.”
Of course, he was no better than the rest. They all stood in silence for a long minute, as one by one the ladies took to the water, rapidly submerging themselves up to their chins in the sea. He counted them. One, two, three little spinsters . . . All the way up to eleven, and Miss Finch—with her unmistakable head of hair—made twelve.
By God, Bram would welcome a swim right now. He could all but feel the water surrounding him, cool and sensuous. He could all but see Susanna in his mind’s eye, swimming alongside him. Stripped to a wet, translucent shift and wreathed with that glorious, unbound hair. She lay in the shallows, tracing lazy circles with her arms while foamy waves lapped at her br**sts.
Focus, Bramwell.
Milk-white br**sts, just the perfect size for his hands. Tipped with pert, rosy ni**les.
Focus on something else, you addled fool.
Lowering his weight to a nearby boulder, he began working loose his boots. Once he had them both off, he rolled his sleeves to the elbow. Clad only in breeches and shirt, Bram walked to the extreme end of the rocky ridge where it jutted out over the sea, gripping the sandstone surface with his bare toes.
“Wait,” Colin said. “Just what are you doing? I know this militia isn’t going how you’d planned, and the only thing this set of pathetic souls have in common is shriveled, pathetic sets of their own. But surely matters aren’t that dire.”
Bram rolled his eyes at his cousin. “I’m just having a look at this path for myself. Since the thought of a rowboat survey has everyone in such a tizzy.”
“I’m not in a tizzy,” Colin said. “But I’m not stupid enough to go walking that cliff’s edge, either.”
“Good. I think we could use some time apart.” Bram walked out as far as he could and investigated. As Finn and Rufus had told him, the cut-stone steps descended a ways down the bluff before crumbling into nothingness. No one could ascend this cliff face without the help of ropes and pulleys. Maybe wings.
Having satisfied his curiosity, he turned on his boulder perch and faced the men. He wasn’t wearing his officer’s insignia, but he mustered the mien of authority and voice to match.
“Listen sharp, all of you. When I give an order, it will be followed. Today is the absolute last instance in which I will tolerate a moment’s hesitation, on any man’s part. Hemming, hawing, hedging, and fidgeting—and most especially ‘ask-Miss-Finch-ing’—will heretofore be grounds for immediate discharge, without pay. Am I understood?”
A mumbled chorus of agreement rose up.
He jabbed a thumb into his chest. “I’m your lord and commander now. When I say march, you march. When I say shoot, you shoot. And no matter what Miss Finch would think about it . . . if I tell you to take a flying leap off this cliff, you will damned well leap with a smile.”
Before he alighted, he allowed himself one last glance down at the cove. All the ladies bobbing and floating in that cool, enticing, blue-crystal sea. One, two, three little spinsters . . .
He stopped. Frowned. Concentrated and looked again. And then his heart left his chest and tumbled straight off the cliff.
He counted only eleven.
Twelve
“What’s Lord Rycliff doing up there?” Charlotte asked, pointing up at the bluff. “Peeping at us? Where are his clothes?”
“I don’t know.” Squinting as she continued to tread water, Susanna watched the barefooted Bram inching closer to the edge of the bluff.
“He looks very dire and serious.”
“He always looks that way.”
From high above, she heard Lord Payne call out. “Don’t do it, Bram! You have so much to live for!”
The ladies shrieked as Rycliff, apparently ignoring his cousin, flexed his legs—and jumped.
“Oh God.” Horrified, Susanna watched his long, perilous dive into the sea. “He’s done it. He’s seen how hopeless the men are, and it’s driven him to suicide.”
A mighty splash announced his impact with the water. She could only pray it wasn’t the prelude to an impact with something else. That area was rocky. The entire cove was rocky. More likely than not, he’d struck his head on a boulder and would never surface.
“Go for help,” she told Charlotte, hitching up the skirts of her bathing costume. “Call to the men up there and tell them to follow the path around to the beach.”
“But . . . but I’m not dressed. Whatever would Mama say?”
“Charlotte, this is no time to be missish. This is life and death. Just do as I say.”