Finch pistols. Standard issue for decades now.
The diminutive, eccentric Sir Lewis Finch was, in his own way, one of England’s greatest war heroes. Bram wouldn’t be exaggerating to say he owed the man his life. He also owed Sir Lewis his newly bestowed title, the opportunity to raise a militia, and this one slim chance at regaining his command. And he’d spent yesterday tussling with the man’s only daughter. Assaulting her in the cove. Pinning her to the bed with his naked limbs and groping her.
Blast it all. Susanna deserved better treatment. Sir Lewis deserved better treatment. And Bram probably deserved to be staring down the barrel of a Finch pistol just about now. Somehow he had to master his lust and refocus on his mission. If the menacing contents of this workshop didn’t help him in those struggles, nothing would.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he turned his gaze from the weapons adorning the walls to the room’s furnishings. Underneath the window lodged a long worktable, covered with soldering tools, measuring devices, rasps, and more. On a smaller desk, he found a disassembled flintlock mechanism. It was much like the standard firelock on most rifles, but the hammer was an unusual shape.
“May I?” he asked, reaching for it.
“Of course.”
Bram picked up the firelock and turned it over in his hands, inspecting the intricate bit of machinery.
“It’s meant to be an improved rifle lock,” Sir Lewis said. “I almost have it perfected, I think. But I’ve left it alone for the moment, to work on the blasted cannon again. I’ve been agonizing over this one for years.”
“A cannon?” He noticed the wooden scale model on the worktable. “Tell me about it.”
Sir Lewis mussed his hair and made a sound of frustration. “I’ve been tinkering with this idea on and off for decades. It’s a rifled cannon.”
Bram whistled through his teeth, impressed. All cannons had smooth-bored barrels. They were the artillery equivalent of muskets—decent range and power, but only middling accuracy. But if a cannon could be grooved inside, like a rifle barrel, its projectiles would not only fly farther and faster, but their aim would be much more accurate. A rifled cannon would give the British army a keen advantage in any siege situation. It could be just the ace Wellington needed to boot Napoleon out of Spain.
“I must have tried a dozen variations on the design,” Sir Lewis said, gesturing toward the miniature cannon on the tabletop. “And hundreds of concepts never left the drafting table. But I have a good feeling about this one.” He patted the model. “This is it. I feel it in my old, creaky bones.”
The older man smiled at Bram. “I understand you, Rycliff. Better than you know. We’re both men of purpose and action, in our own separate ways. Neither of us is ready to retire the field just yet. I know it’s difficult, being stuck in this quaint, tiny village while wars are being waged. Must be torture for you.”
“Torture pretty well describes it.” Sweet, freckled torture of the purest kind.
“Is my Susanna giving you trouble?”
Bram choked on his tongue. He felt his face heating as he coughed into his sleeve.
“Don’t worry, you can be candid with me.” Sir Lewis patted him on the back. “The dear girl means well, but I know she has a tendency to overreach. Clever as she is, she has the whole village hanging on her advice. She likes to help.”
Yes, Bram thought. He was beginning to understand that Susanna Finch was driven to care for those around her. Whether it meant offering food, encouragement, healing salve . . . or the sweetest, most generous embrace a man could ever hope to know.
You don’t have to attack me every time you wish to be touched. To be held.
He swallowed hard, trying to clear her taste from his mouth.
Sir Lewis went on, “But my daughter doesn’t always understand a man’s need to feel useful. To keep striving, working toward his goals.” He spread his arms, indicating the workshop. “Susanna would rather I give this up entirely. But I can’t do that, not a day before I give up breathing. I know you understand.”
He nodded. “I do.”
Bram did understand Sir Lewis perfectly. And it came as a great relief to finally feel understood. In the months since his injury, none of his peers—nor his superiors, for that matter—had sympathized with his unwavering determination to return to command. They all seemed to think Bram should be content, if not outright grateful, to retire and get on with the rest of his life. They couldn’t comprehend that this was his life.