His cousin remained a troublemaking idiot.
The entire tavern had been cleared of chairs and tables. Colin stood with his back to the door, directing men in two opposite corners of the room as they hoisted some sort of soldered frame toward the ceiling, using an elaborate network of pulleys and ropes. Bram had no idea what they were doing, but he knew it couldn’t be good.
“Hold your ropes, now,” Colin ordered, motioning with both arms like an orchestra conductor. “Thorne, pull it a hair or two closer to your corner. Not too far! That space will get smaller once the stage curtains are hung, and we need to leave the fair Salome plenty of room for her dance of the seven veils. Can’t have her skimping and only giving us six.”
Bram cleared his throat.
Colin wheeled in a brisk half turn. His countenance was purposely, studiously blank.
Bram could tell his cousin meant to look innocent.
He wasn’t fooled.
“Salome and her seven veils? What, precisely, is going on here?”
“Nothing.” Colin shrugged. “Nothing at all.”
Behind him, the two men strained and sweated to keep the frame immobile. He viewed their guilty faces. Scheming bastards wouldn’t even meet his gaze. He looked from Thorne, to . . . “Keane?”
The clergyman’s face flushed red.
Bram glared at his cousin. “You’re dragging the vicar into debauchery now? Good God, man. Have you no shame?”
“Me? Shame?” With a gruff noise, his cousin directed the men to secure their ropes. Then he turned back to Bram, wearing a resigned expression and scratching the back of his neck. “Bram, you weren’t supposed to be here until tomorrow.”
“Well, judging by this scene, it’s a bloody fortunate thing I came early.”
“I give you my word. Nothing untoward is going on here.”
Fosbury walked into the room, wiping floury hands on his apron. “All finished with the cake, my lord. She’s a work of art, if I do say it myself. Used almond paste for the skin tone; came out lovely. Nice, big bubbies of puffed meringue. Had a difficult time deciding whether to use pink rosettes or cinnamon drops for the ni**les, though. When it comes to those, a man does have his individual tastes, you—” The man finally took note of Colin’s frantic “shut it” gestures. His gaze snapped to Bram, and he gulped with recognition. “Oh. Lord Rycliff. You’re . . . here.”
Bram fixed his cousin with an accusing gaze. “Nothing untoward?”
Colin raised his open palms. “I swear it on my life. Now if you’d only—”
At that moment, a breathless Rufus dashed into the room. “Lord Payne, your delivery’s arrived. Where did you want the tiger?”
This time, Bram didn’t bother waiting for a denial. He lunged forward and grabbed Colin by the lapels. “Didn’t you learn your lesson after that first debacle? This is precisely why I won’t give you a penny to live on elsewhere, you worthless cur. If you wreak this much havoc in quiet little Spindle Cove, the devil only knows what mischief you’d be up to somewhere else.” He gave his cousin a shake. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Planning your stag night. You dolt.”
Bram froze. Then frowned. “Oh.”
“Satisfied? Now you’ve ruined the surprise.” Colin raised a brow. “Had it not occurred to you that your men might want to give you a party? Or had you forgotten you’re getting married in a matter of days?”
Bram shook his head, chuckling to himself. No, he hadn’t forgotten he was marrying Susanna in a matter of days. He’d spent the past month thinking of little else. And having only just returned to the neighborhood after spending a week in London, he was growing damned well desperate to hold his bride.
What the hell was he doing holding Colin, then?
Bram released his cousin’s lapels. “Very well. I’m going to back out of this room the way I came. And pretend I never saw this.”
“Excellent.” Colin gave him a helpful shove to start him on his way. “Welcome back. Now get out.”
Bram abandoned the long, curving lane to Summerfield and decided to walk overland instead, cutting directly across the bands of farmland and gently rolling meadow.
Just a week since he’d seen Susanna last. Lord, it felt like a year. How had he ever imagined he’d be able to leave her behind while he went to the Peninsula?
Despite the lingering pain in his knee, he picked up his pace as he crested a sloping, grassy hill. Here his path dropped into a little green valley, traversed by a stream. He cast his eyes downward, in order to choose his steps with care.
“Bram!”
Whomp.
Out of nowhere, something launched at him. A soft, warm missile that smelled like a garden and wore a sprigged muslin frock. He was caught off balance on his bad leg, and down they tumbled. He performed some heroic gymnastics to make certain he took the brunt of the fall, hitting the hillside with a dull oof.
She landed atop him. They tangled together on the ground, here in this small depression. The valley’s low ridges walled out any distant landscape. His whole world was blue sky, green grass . . . and her.
“Susanna.” Grinning like a fool, he wrapped his arms around her middle and rolled a bit, so that they faced each other, lying on their sides in the tall grass. “Where did you come from?” He skimmed a touch down her ribs. “You’re not hurt?”
“I’m fine. More than fine.” Gentle fingers smoothed the hair from his brow. “How are you?”
“I don’t know. I think I’m seeing double. Two lips, two eyes . . . a thousand freckles.”
“Nothing a little kiss won’t mend.” A smile curved her sweet lips. Then those sweet lips touched his. “I heard you were down in the village, and I couldn’t wait to see you. Why didn’t you come to Summerfield straightaway?”
“I had to stop in the village first. Had some business with Colin and Thorne. And then I stopped by the forge.”
“You went to see the blacksmith before coming to see me?”
He held up his hand between them and waggled his fingers. “Had to fetch this.”
Her gaze fixed on the ring stuck firmly at the second knuckle of his little finger. She gasped. “Goodness.”
She reached for it, but he teased her by holding the ring back. “Say you’re sorry for doubting me.”
The iris-blue hue of her eyes was sincerity itself. “I never doubted you, not for a second. I was merely impatient. Whether you go to the forge or to London or all the way to Portugal, Bram . . . I know you’ll come home to me.”