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

by Tracy Sumner

  "That bad?" Savannah dropped her face to her hands. "Heaven, why did I have to do this in the smallest town I could find?"

  "It never happens in a good place. At least it hasn't for me." Caroline gave her hand a squeeze, then helped her search for hairpins and a piece of underclothing she'd yet to locate.

  As they walked home, using side streets and back alleys as Caroline had promised, she got an earful. At least the advice was coming from a woman who'd seen and done more than she had.

  "It doesn't matter what Zach said before the fact, missy. He's far too respectable to let this lie like sleeping dogs and the rest. You must realize that." She nudged her front gate aside with the toe of her boot. "There's no help for it. It's the whole lot of them, honorable as preachers. Even Caleb, though he likes to imagine he's the wild one."

  Savannah did realize it. That was the thought making her knees wobbly. "I explained to you all that it was Zach's morality in danger of defilement, not mine. I don't give a rip, as Rory says, what anyone in this town thinks of me. I won't be here long enough to care. If I can make sure Ellie's school survives the scandal—and I will—then everyone will be fine."

  Caroline glanced back as she opened the front door. Unlocked, of course. Her eyes were sad, troubled. "What about Rory?"

  Savannah squinted, blocking a broad ray of sunlight with her hand. "I don't understand."

  Crooking her finger, she escorted Savannah down the paneled hallway and into a darkened back bedroom. Two small bodies lay huddled beneath a thin sheet, cooled only by the breeze floating in the open window. Rory was lying with the sheet half over his face, his lips twisted into a lopsided smile. Perspiration dotted his nose and cheeks. His chest rose on a stuttered breath that might have been a sigh, falling into a childish snore.

  Savannah's heart pounded hard as she stood there wrestling with the terror of being trapped.

  "You and Zach might be okay, but what about him?" Caroline had stepped beside her, her hand going to brush her son's hair from his face. "Trust me, honey. The sins of the father fall to the child. I should know. My boy is just starting to recover from mine."

  Savannah's hands trembled, and she bunched them into fists. She sank to the settee in the corner, a tear welling and trickling down her face. "It won't work. He'll never have room in his heart for anyone but Hannah." She scrubbed her cheek and gave a clicky swallow.

  Caroline sat beside her, kicking her feet up on a tasseled ottoman. "So that's the trouble."

  "Not really. It's simply an assessment." She closed her eyes, dropping her head back when her stomach threatened to crawl into her throat. "We had an agreement."

  Now didn't that sound stupid?

  "Unfortunately, dear, agreements are usually null and void when you're found in a compromising circumstance."

  Savannah waved the statement away like she would shoo a fly. "We talked about the possibility. Zach said he wouldn't ask me to marry him if we were found naked in the middle of Main Street."

  "Old Starchy said that, did he?" Caroline gasped, laughing so hard she choked. "And you believed him? Lordy, that's a good one." Slapping her thigh, she struggled for breath. "Naked in the street."

  It was a good one, wasn't it?

  Curling into a ball, Savannah tucked her fist beneath her chin. The sound of crickets chirping outside the window and Rory and Justin's gentle snores lulled her nearly to sleep. She felt a blanket cover her, fingers skimming her brow. Murmuring her thanks, she slid low, hoping to dream of Zach looking at her as he had the night before. With uncomplicated desire and anticipation in his slate gray eyes.

  Instead, she dreamed of his cherished wife and unborn child.

  And the love he could never give.

  Fear had him by the tail and was dragging him along, kicking and screaming.

  Leaning his shoulder against the door frame, Zach settled his gaze on the woman sleeping on Caroline's settee. Her arm had spilled free of the covers, her fist tucked beneath her chin. Her hair had long ago come loose from that little flower clip she'd had it in last night. It flowed over her shoulder and chest, the wispy ends brushing the floor in startling contrast to the blazing yellow carpet.

  She looked lovely lying there: innocent and young.

  His hand shook as he tugged it through his hair; his stomach churned. Four shots of whiskey—Caleb's remedy for damn near everything—hadn't done much to relieve his mind. He felt a mite less panicked but other than that, not much.

  Liquor never really provided any answers. Hadn't he preached that to both his brothers on more than one occasion? Noah most especially, when he was falling in love with Elle. Caleb, on the other hand, tended to let rage lift the glass to his lips.

  Love never seemed to bother that Garrett.

  Love. Zach reached to the side, pulling a leaf from an overflowing ivy-looking plant and spinning it between his fingers. He watched Savannah's chest rise on a whispery breath, a frown weighing her lips. She murmured and shifted, the fist beneath her chin clenching. A nightmare? Zach let out a rush of air between his teeth, his shoulders tensing with the effort to resist going to her.

  If he married Savannah Connor, she would be his responsibility.

  To comfort, in sickness and health. To love, or do the best he could to reach that place. He understood exactly what it meant to be married. Maybe he'd never explained it to her in a good way, a way she would really sit down and chew on. Really think about without getting her hackles up about the lack of independence.

  Hell, they hadn't exactly talked about their pasts as much as he had come to think they should. He knew next to nothing about her.

  Maybe he should have explained to Savannah this morning that he agonized because he knew what it was like for God to place another's life in your hands. Marriage was a life-long, fundamental commitment. A vow that brought misery and bliss, belonging and loneliness, freedom and imprisonment. So many wonderful things, so many frightening ones.

  He remembered the anguish of failing all too well. Once burned, twice shy, was that the saying? Not that he'd failed in the actual marriage, but in holding someone so dear you didn't let them suffer. Or die. He had slipped up somewhere. Hannah had paid for his sins. It wasn't a rational thing to think, but he did just the same.

  His son, by God, was not going to pay for them. That much was certain. And Savannah could be pregnant after last night, whether she realized it or not. She wasn't going to pay for his sins, either. He'd taken her virginity, and now it was time to settle up.

  Zach rested his head on the doorframe, steadying himself with a deeply drawn breath. He did not want to marry again. For lots of reasons. Many he wasn't keen on picking apart, but there you had it. No matter. Another duty, a fascinating, infuriating, gorgeous duty, was about to fall to his shoulders.

  He had spoken to the minister about a ceremony early next week.

  There was no choice; everyone in town knew where he and Savannah had been found this morning. Zach felt a slow sizzle of fury, visualizing what would happen when he got his hands on Magnus Leland.

  He would; that was a fact.

  If he weren't so pole-axed by the turn of events, he would have almost enjoyed the wide-eyed glances thrown his way from the women he'd passed on the street.

  The spark of interest in their gazes.

  Virgin when he married Hannah, his behind. At least people wouldn't continue to think he was perfect. Saint Zachariah. Protecting that image took too heavy a toll on a man.

  Savannah whispered an incoherent something in her sleep. His gaze drifted back to her. Truly, his knees got weak every time he looked at her. That seemed like a good thing for a man on the verge of marriage to be feeling. Instead, he'd rather feel nothing—stone-cold nothing. Because he wasn't going to love Savannah Connor. He wasn't going to, that was final. Hannah had been his wife; another woman would always come in second. Besides, if someone he loved slipped away again, he didn't think he could take it.

  Considering how Savannah mixed him u
p and drove him to the brink, and loved him more passionately than any woman in his experience had, maintaining a tough heart around her promised to be hard.

  She thought the problem was standing before a judge and saying the words. Words? Who gave a damn about words? What about sleeping in the same bed every night, touching a toe or a wrist. Simple, devastating contact when it was too hot to spoon? What about sitting in companionable silence every morning in a warm, coffee-scented kitchen? What about sharing the load of raising a growing boy? Seeing him change and mature?

  Seeing each other change and mature?

  Zach swallowed, tears pricking his lids and making him blink.

  God, he was scared. Bone-deep, the kind of fear a man can't shake off like a jacket. He needed some time to figure on this, come to terms with having a wife again.

  Without love this time around.

  Although it wasn't all gloom and doom.

  He cared about her. Watching the light play across her face, he felt that ache in the pit of his stomach that told him he cared.

  And he certainly desired her like no other woman. Ever. Too, he truly wanted her to be happy. Wanted to protect her, which wasn't an unusual sentiment for him.

  Weren't those important things? He could make her happy. Maybe. Possibly.

  If he tried.

  If they didn't discuss things too deeply.

  He and Hannah hadn't discussed important issues like love and marital relations and the future. If he and Savannah followed the same route, they might survive this marriage without killing each other.

  13

  Any intelligent woman who reads the marriage contract and then goes into it, deserves all the consequences.

  ~Isadora Duncan

  The ceremony passed in a blur, like gray images flickering across the screen in the darkened picture theatre on Fifth Avenue that Savannah often visited. With only an hour's practice at being a wife, she stood at the edge of a boisterous crowd, greeting guests while scanning the crowd. A robust floral aroma wafted from the bouquet clutched in her hands. Wrinkling her nose, she held back a sneeze, not wanting to hurt Elle's feelings by admitting she suffered from allergies.

  When Elle arrived on the train from South Carolina and noted how little Savannah had accomplished for the wedding, she had rushed about, organizing everything. Tables covered with a stunning variety of food sat just outside the tent used for the church dance. After hearing the gossip, Reverend Tiernan had left the tent standing, realizing, even if Savannah and Zach did not, that this wedding would be the most exciting and well-attended event to occur in Pilot Isle in years.

  Hurry up with that wine, Noah, she thought, nodding her head and smiling as another well-wisher paused to offer advice about how to keep Constable Garrett happy. These comments had helped her decide to capitulate to weakness and drink until she forgot whose wife she was.

  The last time she had seen him, Zach appeared to be employing a similar approach.

  She had lost sight of him some time ago amidst the backslapping and congratulatory toasts. At least with every drink, his smile seemed less forced, his stance less rigid.

  What in the world had she done by agreeing to this?

  She had questioned herself over and over since the moment she stood next to a man she desired above all but did not love—and was sure would never love her—and repeated vows before God.

  Marriage. To Zachariah Garrett.

  Saints' blood, what a frightening thought.

  A dizzying, exhilarating, terrifying thought.

  Savannah bowed her head and stepped away from the endless line of guests waiting to speak to her. She smiled and wagged her bouquet, letting them know she would return. Her veil slid off without much fuss, allowing the moist air to caress her face for the first time all day.

  Elle, Caroline, and Christabel had done a wonderful job of decorating. Blooming flowers of a variety she did not recognize cascaded gaily from woven baskets. Unlit candles sat in sconces waiting for the sun to set.

  The grass beneath her feet rippled in the late afternoon breeze as she strolled toward the sea. Caroline had helped her find a suitable gown in record time, with able assistance from the town's seamstress. In fact, everyone in Pilot Isle had offered to help with more enthusiasm than the future bride or groom had shown.

  A wedding! What merriment!

  Savannah sighed and shook out her skirt, deciding it was a rather lovely, if not entirely appropriate, selection. A voluminous tea gown with a wide lace collar and flowing gigot sleeves, it was buoyant enough to be comfortable in the oppressive heat. Although she had worn more beautiful clothing or nothing at all on occasion around her hus—Zach—she had witnessed a spark of approval in his eyes when he saw her walking down the church's narrow aisle.

  Had she banked her significant appreciation? Perhaps.

  No need to give him the upper hand.

  Savannah brushed aside the stalks of sea oats and crossed the dune. Never had a man looked more attractive than he did this morning, dressed in a light linen jacket, striped trousers, crisp white shirt, and shoddily knotted Derby tie.

  Tall and proud and capable.

  If she wasn't careful, Zach would begin to look like the hero the rest of the town thought him to be.

  Sinking to the velvety sand, her thoughts got more depraved by the second. Tossing aside her bouquet, she pressed her hands to her flaming cheeks and tried to think of something else. But oh, she loved his touch. The feel of his hands on her body, his lips and teeth sucking, biting. The smell of him, of them, clinging to the coach house sheets, her hair, and her clothing. Since their relationship had been exposed, moments alone had been few and far between. And any, quite honestly, had been consumed with furious arguments. Zach had proven to be insufferably formidable. And tenacious. Once his mind was set, Savannah's proven tactics hadn't budged him one inch in her direction.

  She laughed, digging her fingers into the sand. The tactics her opponents in New York had feared worked for naught in Pilot Isle. It was preposterous, and a little frightening, when she considered that her adversary was now her husband. Gracious, how would she prevail in any battle if he understood her stratagem so well?

  During their most recent skirmish, she had tried to sway him by igniting their ever-present passion, using every brilliant trick he had taught her.

  Accepting what she offered, he had taken a little more than she counted on giving in Caroline's parlor. Delighted, she'd had a glimmer of hope that she might get herself out of this mess when he abruptly pushed her away, telling her with a clever smile that more would come after the ceremony.

  And not a second before.

  So here she was, living in Pilot Isle, North Carolina, new stepmother to a seven-year-old boy, and wife of the most handsome, exasperating man she had ever met. Throw in two brothers-in-law who treasured her, they said, for bringing their brother back to life, and you had a full family.

  She could resist accepting them, accepting this life, when in reality her choices had been limited. Because she had married Zach for Rory's sake; and she could not resist him. Somehow, that sweet little boy had slipped into her heart without her knowing it. Heavens, the way he'd looked at her in the church as he held her hand and waited for his father to finish repeating his vows.

  Too, she had also done it for Zach, since character and honor meant so damn much to him.

  And finally, yes, secret of all secrets, she had done it for herself.

  Stacking her hands behind her head, she settled back, the sand warm and soft and soothing. A furtive smile crossed her face, one she hadn't allowed to show all day. She didn't love Zachariah Garrett.

  She didn't.

  But—and this was something she had told no one, not even Elle—she wouldn't have married him if she knew without a doubt that she could not love him. It hadn't happened; of that she was certain. But she felt... something.

  And at the oddest times.

  When his lips lifted in a frustratingly smug smi
le; when he gestured with his hands about a subject that excited him; when he looked at her as though he—

  She closed her eyes. When he looked at her as though he accepted her for who she was.

  That in itself was most unusual.

  What exactly did she feel for him? How could she tell when he infuriated her half the time and the other half they were naked?

  The kiss was gentle.

  Relentless. Wet. Light, then increasing in pressure. Coaxing, teasing.

  Savannah woke in gradual degrees, tasting salt and sunshine and the smoky trace of liquor. The featherlike brush of his tongue, slow and languid. Again. And again, until her hands lifted to find him, fingers burying themselves in his hair. He murmured or sighed against her lips, his body warm and solid by her side.

  She blinked, rousing herself from the dream. Dying rays of sunlight flooded around the man hovering above her, throwing his face into indistinguishable shadow. But she knew from the sound of his breathing and the scent lingering on her lips.

  "How long do we have?" Hand cupping the nape of his neck, she drew him back to her.

  Zach's mouth was warm and firm, persuasive enough to have her trembling and demanding more. "Not long. The toast." For a moment, he lost the battle, pressing her back into the sand. The hand cradling her head tightened, lifted, bringing her deeper into the kiss. "Sleepyhead."

  "I've missed this," she said against his lips.

  "Tonight," he returned after a moment.

  Her lids fluttered as she settled back. Golden light surrounded him, searing her eyes. It almost felt like she sought to capture a sunbeam.

  "Tonight?"

  He smiled, that much she could see. "Did you doubt it?"

  She had. He seemed to have an ideal for a wife in his mind, in his heart. One she was sure didn't hold any resemblance to her.

  How could she possibly tell him that?

  "Irish, if you think you'll be in my bedroom for more than five minutes and still have a stitch of clothing on, you sadly miscalculated." His lips trailed down her neck to her collarbone, where he lay a possessive kiss.