Tides of Passion: Historical Romance (Garrett Brothers Book 2)

by Tracy Sumner

  Blinking, she shook herself, remembering their situation and Zach's probable rationale for feeling the need to compensate. "Thank you," she said softly, taking a deep breath and looking up. "But this isn't necessary."

  Alarmed by what he saw in her gaze, his thoughts scattered. He took a step back and down, hasty, awkward. "I saw you mooning over it." He shrugged, his spectacles slipping. "No real reason, I just thought you might like it."

  "I love it, but I can't possibly accept it." She thrust the gift, wrapping and all, at him.

  A spark of annoyance flickered in his eyes. "Can't accept it? Why not?"

  "It isn't proper for you to give me gifts, Constable."

  "Let me get this." He rolled his shoulder angrily, wincing from an apparent injury. "It's proper for me to take you to my bed but not to give you a silly, little present?"

  "It is not proper to give me gifts because of our relationship. Where does it end if we allow for the exchange of gifts?"

  "Control is a big issue with you isn't it?" He snorted, bumping his spectacles high. "Being careful to protect your reputation, and mine, doesn't mean we can't do anything outside of that damned coach house." He raked his hand through his hair, sincerely, she could tell, trying to see where he had blundered. "Would it have been better to give you the pen there? So you could walk home, stick it in a drawer, and wait until you got back home to use it?"

  Taking a step down, staring eye to eye, she jammed a finger in his chest, close to the shirt rip. "If we're allowed to speak outside the coach house, why didn't you ask me to the church dance?"

  Zach's lips worked, but no sound popped out.

  He had never thought of it, not once considered asking her. Savannah had convinced herself he didn't ask because he couldn't, not because he didn't want to. It was irrational, everything she was feeling, yet....

  Her blood surged. Red tinged her vision. She pressed her lips together until they stung, not trusting what would roll out if she opened them.

  Zach gestured in the direction of the sea in confusion. She could hear waves, faintly, crashing against the shore. "I never take anyone to that silly dance. Not since Hannah."

  "Who are you really protecting, Constable? You say it's me when I think it isn't me at all. Your wife is long gone."

  He stiffened, his gaze freezing like a shallow pond in winter. "I don't need any goddamn reminders, Miss Connor."

  Lightning struck close by, shaking a glass pane in Miss Vin's front window. They glanced at the darkening clouds, then warily, at each other. Like a crystal vase hurled against brick, the day's agreeable promise utterly shattered.

  Zach stared at her a minute, then stuffed the rumpled package into his pocket. Without a word, he turned and marched across the yard, the bicycle jaunt and their shared laughter forgotten. Slapping the gate wide, he stepped out and never looked back.

  She dropped to the top step, a burst of rain spilling from the sky and soaking her in mere minutes. She had planned on spending the evening in her lover's arms, listening to the ping of raindrops bouncing off the coach house roof as they made slow, sweet love.

  Instead, she sat alone in a humid downpour, a whispered apology sitting dully on her tongue.

  11

  One cannot be always laughing at a man without

  now and then stumbling on something witty.

  ~Jane Austen

  He was drinking too much, Zach thought, and raised his glass to his lips for what must have been the fortieth time that night. The ale was lukewarm and bitter, but not a bad remedy. His intake had gone beyond what it should, what he usually allowed it to. The unfamiliar vagueness in his mind and unsteadiness in his step were glaring indicators. The circle of men surrounding him knew it, too, if the amused glances thrown his way meant squat.

  They assumed his being rooked into asking Darnella Watkins to the dance was the reason for his testy mood. He hadn't voiced one word to correct the mistaken assumption.

  He had danced with her when he first arrived, then left her to giggle and chatter with the crowd of women circling the cake table while he drank with the men circling the ale barrel. All the while, furtively watching Savannah Connor strut back and forth across the sawdust-covered dance floor in Magnus Leland's arms. Eyeing her over the rim of his glass, he marveled at the anger he felt.

  She looked magnificent. Radiant. Like a star thrust into a dark box.

  Zach sipped slowly, judging. Candlelight from the multitude of sconces cascaded over her, highlighting her gleaming mane of hair and the lovely pendant circling her neck. Gazing into Magnus's face, she said something and laughed, her lips pulling back from her teeth in a smile pretty enough to bring a preacher to his knees.

  Zach felt a reactive tightening in his gut, one the likes of which he had tried repeatedly to kill in the five long days since their argument on Miss Vin's porch.

  If you could call that confused tangle of heat, fury, and remorse an argument.

  Quietly, he ducked outside the tent and leaned his hip against a nearby tree. Eyes closed, he listened to the steady pulse of the night. The rustle of leaves on the branches above his head, and the chirping crickets in the azalea bushes lining the church's walkway.

  It had terrified him to see her tears. Swimming in her eyes and making them shine like a pond after a storm. He had felt as shocked as he would if an oar caught him across the back of the head. The fountain pen had been an impulsive bit of, of nothing. He never imagined it would touch her.

  Lifting his face to the moon, Zach drained his glass. A faint headache pulsed; his spectacles were a dead weight in his pocket. Somehow, crazy as it seemed, wearing them reminded him of her.

  Damn, he was losing his mind.

  Losing his mind and allowing guilt to eat him up.

  He couldn't bring Hannah back. For himself or Rory. Couldn't change what had happened during their marriage or change how she had died. He had been a lousy husband, in the later years. Not patient or prudent enough. Still, Hannah had loved him, and he had loved her.

  He had.

  But they hadn't been alike. How better could he explain it, even if he'd never admitted it to anyone but himself? When he had come home from piloting and suddenly had such responsibility, he had dug a hole and settled in. He and Hannah hadn't discussed the future until they were knee-deep in it. If memory served, he recalled catching her a time or two staring at him across the kitchen table with a quizzical look on her face.

  As though she wasn't sure who he was.

  As though she wondered where her Zachariah Garrett had run off to. The boy she'd loved. He should have told her that life changed a man. Responsibility changed a man. Love changed a man. Years changed a man. All of those things had turned him into something she didn't recognize. They had not shared common interests, simple though that may be. Most especially, his need had been frightening to her, almost unwelcome. Wearisome.

  He wondered if Hannah would have been happiest with the pristine purity of their childhood affection. It was nothing like the raging passion he shared with that Irish hellion.

  Regretful memories stiffened his spine until bark dug painfully into his back. He shook out his shoulders, telling himself to let it go. Savannah was right, even if her way of enlightening him wasn't the best.

  He needed to forgive himself. His life was far from over. However, in the process of self-pardoning, he didn't want to go and fall in love.

  Wouldn't that be a hell of a mess?

  It had just been so long since he'd had a relationship like this with a woman: sex and friendship, a reasonable amount of caring, extreme respect, laughter, and sharing. The mix worked well if a man kept his wits about him. That was the key. Rational, sound decision-making.

  Savannah certainly had a firm hold on her wits.

  Or so he'd thought until that bout of near-tears.

  The ale he had drunk swam in his head as he wrestled with a question he had found no answer to in the past five days.

  What would he do if Sav
annah—a woman he would have bet his meager savings wasn't one susceptible to base emotion—fell in love with him? It didn't seem possible, did it? He wasn't good enough, clever or wealthy or handsome enough.

  Jesus, what would it be like to feel that strongly about a woman again?

  Feel like it about a woman who fit him like a glove.

  He shook his head. No. As long as he and Savannah continued on this course, both of them happy with what they had, he felt sure he could handle it. But if the scales tipped in either direction?

  He wasn't at all sure about that.

  "Zach, you'd better get in here," Caroline whispered urgently, peeking around the opening in the tent and beckoning him with a curved finger. The dim light cast shadows across her face, but he could see she was frowning.

  Sighing, Zach shoved away from the tree. He never settled more disputes than at a church dance.

  "What it is?" he asked when he got closer.

  Caroline shrugged, fiddling with her skirt and shaking her head.

  With a flash, he knew. Savannah. Trouble. Did two words ever fit together as wonderfully as those?

  His angry oath reached her about five seconds before his firm grasp on her shoulder did.

  Savannah turned at the insistent touch, pasting a smile on her face. "Hello, Constable. Mr. Carter and I were just discussing a point he isn't willing to negotiate."

  The men standing around her laughed; the women tittered nervously. Someone in the crowd that sounded a lot like Caleb called out asking if Zach could handle her.

  Zach ducked his head, his hot gaze finding hers. "One night? One night of peace? Is that too much to ask?"

  Free to study him closely for the first time that evening, truly the first time in days, she couldn't help but see the exhaustion chalking groves alongside his mouth and eyes, the shadows beneath his dark lashes. He looked drained but handsome enough to light a fire in the darkness.

  "Where are your spectacles?" she asked.

  "To hell with my spectacles." With a nod to Hyman, he dragged her outside the tent and into the night. He didn't let her go until they'd reached a storage shed of some sort.

  The cool air slid over her, lifting damp strands of hair from her brow. She couldn't contain her sigh of relief.

  "You've been drinking," he said, sounding like her father, reproachful and disappointed.

  "Yes. Is that permitted, Constable?"

  "How the hell should I know what's permitted?"

  Watching anger brighten his eyes, she couldn't help but note that the emotion seemed at odds with his calm expression. "Are you incensed about my choice of escort? Is that the problem?"

  "I don't care who escorts you anywhere, Miss Connor. Although Magnus is a complete ass, if you ask me."

  It was what she expected him to say, but it hurt just the same. Plucking a piece of moss from the wooden wall at her side, she twirled it in a slow circle. "Oh, yes. I remember. No rules, except discretion and honestly."

  "Exactly," he agreed, his voice low and furious.

  She waited a beat, letting his scent drift her way. Ale, if she wasn't mistaken, and the ever present hint of smoke. He smelled like a slice of heaven, and in addition, he looked splendid. His navy trousers and crisp white shirt were obviously store-bought. Dr. Leland's tailored wear should have appealed in comparison, but dear heaven, Zachariah looked leagues better, and would if he had showed up in a potato sack.

  "Can you swear you'll go back in there and behave, Irish?"

  Brushing the moss across his cheek, she watched his eyes darken, felt the fingers still clutching her arm tighten. She wondered what she could do to get him to meet her at the coach house after the dance. "There is one minor point I need to clear up first. Am I to understand that I can go to bed with the complete ass tonight and still meet you at the coach house, say, tomorrow evening? Is that permissible?"

  The kiss came out of nowhere.

  His lips covered hers as his arm snaked around her waist, effectively shutting out the sounds of the night and the cool caress of the sea breeze. She arched into him, tilting her head and allowing him boundless access. Her hands were on him, under his shirt and skimming his back with light scratches in less time than even she knew she needed.

  He backed her into the shed wall and reached for her breasts, cupping and lifting, his thumbs seeking her nipples through thin layers of cloth. Finesse often departed when faced with this degree of hunger, she had come to understand. They had passed the point of taking forever to get past the kissing.

  "Not here," he whispered against her lips, his hands sliding up her neck, cradling her face and tipping it high. His lips traveled past her jaw, nipping and kissing and sucking. The sensitive spot behind her ear, the tender patch below her left shoulder.

  She shivered, the ground dissolving beneath her feet. Swaying into him, she felt his arousal pressing against her hip. It lay at an angle she recognized beneath his trouser buttons; it was a heady thought to realize how well she had come to know him.

  Every tantalizing inch of him.

  And if that was not truly the case, she was willing to investigate further. "Where?" she asked, her sigh of pleasure nearly obscuring the question.

  "Jail." His breath washed inside her ear as he lifted her by the waist, nestling his erection between her thighs and rocking his hips from side to side.

  She whimpered, sliding her legs as far apart as she could with her skirt hindering her. It wasn't far enough. "When?" Her voice sounded petulant even to her own ears.

  He pulled back slightly, his gaze dazed but shrewd. "Tonight. After the dance." His lips were a wet, urgent whisper across hers, then were gone. "Unless you have a previous engagement with Dr. Leland. I can always see if Darnella is available."

  "Or Prissy. She makes a terrific red velvet cake," he whispered and slid into another, deeper kiss.

  Savannah dug her nails into his shoulders, pleased when he burrowed into her with a muted groan, pressing her harder against the wall. She didn't love this game of his, but she would play. "I'll kill you if you touch her. Either her." This much she felt was true. "Although you can eat all the red velvet cake you'd like."

  He smiled, his eyes very dark in the moonlight. "Then we agree. I would hate to injure the only doctor we have in Pilot Isle."

  She rubbed herself against him, closing her eyes on a purr of pleasure. His trousers pleasantly chafed, his shaft throbbing against her. If she could only move an inch to the left, life would be perfect. "Hmmm... I can't have you harming such an important citizen, now can I? What kind of citizen would that"—she nipped his lower lip and sighed—"make me?"

  "The jail," he repeated, settling back into another kiss as if he'd forgotten his earlier admonition. "Midnight."

  When she left him standing in the shadowy night, she was humming.

  "You're late." She sent the chair into a gentle twirl, dragging it to a stop before him.

  Zach would have collapsed like a house of cards at her feet if he'd had his spectacles on. As it was, he stumbled to a halt, squinting to see what little she wore.

  Her chemise.

  No stockings, no dress, no shoes, no petticoats. Hair trailing down her shoulders. A sliver of moonlight exposed her chin and one round breast, her nipple stabbing through the gauzy material. She grinned like a cat, sliding forward in the chair.

  His obsession with her nipples had evidently not gone unnoticed.

  Dropping her arms over the sides of the chair, she welcomed him with a shameless smile.

  Reaching back, he fumbled with the lock. The dull clunk echoed in the tiny enclosure. Crossing the room, he unfastened his shirt buttons, shrugged out of it and the undershirt beneath. He held off unbuttoning his trousers; Savannah liked to do that.

  Crouching before her, he rubbed his thumb along her lips. "What's with the chair?"

  Leaning in, she sucked the tip into her mouth. "Remember the dream I told you about last week? The one that you, well, interrupted the telling of?" She
chewed on his knuckle. "Noah's desk."

  He nodded, unable to utter a coherent response with her lips wrapped around his thumb. He didn't need to reply anyway. As if he would ever forget knocking Noah's books to the floor, propping her up on the desk and—

  "We were in a chair in the dream," she whispered, a crimson blush coloring her cheeks. "I wasn't sure it was possible."

  "It's possible."

  "Have you ever?" She gestured to the chair.

  "Not in this one."

  Her eyes flared. Equal parts envy and interest. "I'm open to being tutored, if you have the time."

  "I have time." He popped the snaps on the chemise, leaving the material in a silken sprawl open to her waist. Ignoring her gasp, he stayed her hands on the chair arms. Dammit, she wasn't going to direct his every move this time. She was good at orchestrating the entire process, he would give the woman that. Her blessed books had helped, he supposed.

  "Let me take my chemise off." She fought his hold, but he didn't let her win.

  He shook his head, bending to press a kiss to the underside of her breast. It had been days since he'd touched her. His hunger—and hers—could wait.

  He wanted to explore.

  "Zachariah," she said on a sigh.

  He lifted his head, arching a brow.

  "Zach." She jerked at his grasp to no avail. "Zach, please."

  He smiled, feeling wonderfully cheerful. Generous even. "Did you let him kiss you?" He intentionally directed his exhalation in the general direction of her nipple. "Touch you?"

  Dropping her head back, she rolled it wildly against the back of the chair. "Of... course... not."

  He leaned in, seizing the material in his teeth and drawing it away from her breast. His lips bumped the erect nub once, not intentionally. She moaned, but it hurt him as much as it hurt her.

  "Ohhh, you're going to tease me, I see."

  "Actually," he mumbled around the cloth, "I'm feeling rather charitable."