Tides of Love (Garrett Brothers Book 1)

by Tracy Sumner

  He stepped from the shed, a gust of wind pressing his shirt against his chest. He tipped his head, observing a blazing sunset of deep rose, blue and green.

  Emerald green.

  "Noah?"

  Wagon wheels clattered over crushed shell, and a dog yipped in the distance, but he heard only Elle's accented, dulcet whisper. The paintbrush snapped in two in his fingers.

  "You okay?" Caleb stripped a piece of bark from the tree he leaned against and sent Noah a worried frown. "How about coming inside and having dinner? I caught two flounder and four blue this morning. We can"—he coughed, shrugged—"talk."

  "How big are the blue?"

  "One's a good five pounds, at least. They were running like crazy in the edge."

  "Bleed and ice them yet?" Noah lifted his finger to his nose, forgetting his absent spectacles.

  "I'm not some blamed ocean scientist, but I think I can clean fish well enough to suit most folks."

  Noah forced his feet to move until he stood by his brother's side, registering the jolt of surprise as he realized the top of Caleb's head barely met his chin. "We'll see. Cleaning them never was your strong suit. Or cooking them, for that matter."

  "Heck, little bro', you can do the cooking." Caleb winked and strode along the worn path with the same reckless energy Noah remembered. Ejecting a labored sigh, he followed with the beleaguered step of one being coerced, but he could not deny the happiness in his heart.

  Noah flipped the fish and leaned back, a bubble of oil bursting in the sizzling iron skillet. A drop struck his hand, and he cursed, sucking the singed skin between his lips. Behind him, the screen door squeaked and a small projectile slammed into his legs, throwing him into the counter.

  "Oh, you're here," Rory said, the delight in his voice bringing a wide smile to Noah's face. "Uncle Caleb said you would never come here, ever again."

  Noah pressed Rory's cheek against his hip. "What does your Uncle Caleb know anyway?" A prickle of awareness intruded; he lifted his head. Elle stood in the doorway, her hair tousled by the wind or impatient fingers, her eyes dulled by exhaustion. He snatched his hand from his mouth and willed his heart to slow.

  Ignoring him, she smiled at Rory. "Go wash your hands. Wouldn't hurt your face to hit some soap, either."

  Rory lifted shining eyes and fairly danced in place. "Are you staying for dinner? Are you, huh? Guess what? I caught a sheepshead fishing with Jason. I told him what you said, about how they use those pointy teeth to chew barnacles off rocks. He called me a liar, so I slugged him."

  "Rory." Elle stepped forward and lightly swatted Rory on the behind. "Upstairs. Now. And, I think you should apologize to Jason tomorrow or your father is going to find out what happened today."

  Rory shuffled his feet. "Do I have to, Uncle Noah?"

  Noah lifted his head, his gaze seizing Elle's and holding. His fingers itched to slip the loose tendril brushing her cheek back into her hairclip. He turned before his regard strayed to other parts of her body.

  And that regard, in turn, affected certain parts of his.

  "Miss Elle's right. You will apologize to Jason tomorrow." He grabbed a spatula and scooped the fish from the skillet. "Just because someone doesn't believe something you've said is no reason to slug them. Hitting never solves any problems. Trust me."

  "Yeah, all right, I'll trust you," Rory said, clearly unconvinced. "But I still think Jason is a poop." Before Elle could get to him, he raced from the kitchen, his feet pounding on the stairs.

  Elle's step was light and brisk, the swish of her skirt gentle music to his ears. Let her go, he ordered. Let her go.

  "Elle, wait." He tossed the spatula to the counter and glanced over his shoulder to find her with one hand on the door, glancing over hers. "About yesterday." He snatched a dishrag from a hook and wiped his hands, his eyes everywhere but on her. "I don't know—"

  "Save your awkward apologies, Professor. Merciful heavens, it's clear you don't know."

  He knotted the rag between his fingers. "What do you want from me? I let myself get out of control. I take full responsibility, and I'm sorry."

  "I never asked you to take responsibility. Or be sorry. In fact, I told you not to be."

  "Well, I am." A rush of apprehension threatened to buckle his knees. "Aren't you?"

  She swallowed—a long, slow pull. "Of course."

  A pause. A full second pause. He had seen it. "You're lying," he said. "What did you do, Elle? Oh, God, you didn't. Did you wait for me to come to you last night?"

  In reply, a rosy streak grazed each cheek.

  Her blush mirroring his desire, he spun around, afraid to look at her, yet obsessed with imagining how she looked. She had waited... wanting him and knowing what it would lead to. "So, that's the smell."

  "Smell?"

  "A different scent on your skin. Perfume. Real perfume." He slapped the rag to the counter. "Roses?"

  "Honeysuckle. I usually put it in my shampoo."

  He gripped the counter edge and prayed for restraint. His mind was trying to fool him into believing it had been years since he'd touched her instead of hours. "Elle," he said tightly, "you play a dangerous game."

  "Yes, I've been told before."

  He had her by the shoulders before either of them spoke or breathed. "What do you mean?" If Magnus Leland—

  "My father. He... he told me that once."

  Noah closed his eyes, shamed and infuriated by his reaction. He inhaled, then wished to hell he hadn't. Who knew a man could be thrown off his feet by honeysuckle? "Elle, I wish things were different." He halted. The squeaky floorboard just inside the kitchen. Turning his head, he watched Zach pile into Caleb, who stood stock-still in the doorway, jaw so slack it touched his chest.

  Elle used both hands to brush past him. The door banged behind her. Noah glanced out in time to see her turning the corner, her hips swinging beneath another delightfully tattered dress. He pressed his brow to the rusted screen and sighed.

  "What the heck—"

  "—is going on between you two?"

  "Nothing." Then he dared his brothers to dispute him.

  8

  "At the time, however, it was merely an expression of individual opinion."

  ~ C. Wyville Thomson

  The Depths of the Sea

  A sunset blaze of red and gold had seized the sky by the time Noah made it to the dance. He hitched his hip on the skiff and slipped on the canvas shoes he had purchased the day before. He surveyed the crowd of people gathered round the campfires, some dodging the sizzling flash of dripping meat, others using driftwood to bury potatoes deep in ash.

  Lifting his head, he scanned the horizon, noting with a faint sense of unease the layer of mist drifting in from the east. As he glanced at the line of flower-bedecked skiffs, all waiting for steady hands to sail them home, his apprehension heightened.

  As he walked along the packed sand, music, laughter, and conversation flowed from a tent constructed of hastily sewn blankets and yards of mosquito netting. Couples floated by, silhouetted by the glow of oil lanterns swinging in time to the whim of the wind. Was Elle inside, dancing with Daniel Connery or some other young man? Her skin scented with honeysuckle, perhaps, or bright sunshine and damp earth? Plucking a scallop shell from the sand, he traced the ribbed edges and wondered if the hot flare in his chest was jealousy.

  In the three days since, there had been no mention of the passionate kiss or his brusque apology. In fact, there had been no conversation at all. An abrupt greeting in front of the post office and a lengthy stare across a packed mercantile shelf.

  Did the empty ache mean he missed her?

  Noah neared the tent, the hum of sound increasing. A group of drunken whalers dodged him, pouring from the V-shaped opening. Hesitating, he observed the joyful display of camaraderie with a sense of detachment. Here he was, a man of considerable means and education, yet he found himself seeking refuge in an emotional storm. Zach, Caleb, Elle. The three people in the world he had once b
een completely at ease with. Maybe that laid bare his childhood protection of Elle, not to save her but to save himself.

  Bunched sprays of daisies and carnations brushed his shoulder as he ducked inside. He looked merely for the sake of curiosity, searching the outer circle. His height made the task easy. That, and the undeniable cognizance he experienced whenever she was near. A whisper of air leaked past his lips, and his body warmed. She stood just inside the tent's triangular back entrance, a crush of people whisking by her.

  For days, he had been unable to erase this truth from his mind: she had waited for him. Put perfume on her skin and waited. Knowing he would take her virginity and... leave.

  Then again, Elle had the courage to grasp what she desired.

  She laughed and tossed her head, exposing the lithe arch of her neck. Smooth and sweet beneath his lips, he remembered. She tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear, and he marveled at his witlessness. Elle Beaumont was radiant, validated in the golden wash from the oil lamp by her side. It was not wholly physical, this radiance. It flowed from her lively green eyes, from the hands she moved so exuberantly in conversation, from the confident stride that carried her along the boardwalk.

  Noah admired her vivacity, her sincerity, yet he hated the loss of control being near her brought.

  Averting his gaze, he corrected his thought: he feared it.

  Immaculate black canvas in a sea of dirty leather and sandy buck. Elle concentrated on those shoes as they moved through the crowd. She laughed during the appropriate pauses in conversation and nodded her head often, hearing absolutely nothing.

  With covert glances, she peeked. Noah spoke to each man who stopped him with a slap on the back or a punch to the chest. He accepted the gestures of friendship, a calm facade hiding his bewilderment. She recognized his discomfiture as if it were her own.

  "Elle, dear, what do you think?"

  Startled, Elle glanced at the women surrounding her. She forced a smile. "That would be lovely, of course."

  Heads bobbing, they agreed.

  When the conversation lagged, Elle searched. Her fingers curled, nails digging into her skin. Meredith Scoggins stood next to Noah, her hand on his arm, her head lifted toward his. Blatant interest. A group of Meredith's friends circled, shifting Noah's cohorts to the outer circle.

  A hulking, red-faced seaman tapped Meredith on the shoulder and she turned, giggling in delight. Noah's charcoal gaze immediately captured Elle's. He shoved his spectacles up, a scowl crossing his face.

  What? Elle shrugged with a passiveness she didn't feel.

  Stop staring.

  Me? She patted her chest.

  His gaze lowered then jerked to her face. Yes. You.

  I'm not staring. Elle gestured to the oblivious, jabbering group of women.

  He pursed his lips—an appealing pout, part-boy, part-man. A wave of desire swept from the tips of her fingers to her knees. Elle glanced around, frantic. The women chatted and fluttered, never noticing the color in her cheeks.

  Daniel Connery, in the most fortuitous action of his life, chose that moment to ask her to dance.

  She raced into his arms.

  "See the way she stares at him, Doc. All dopey-eyed." Stymie shifted a wad of tobacco from one side of his jaw to the other, his watery gaze focused on the dance area. "Loony woman still loves the professor better than Peter loved the Lord."

  "Shut up, you old fool," Magnus said and stalked off.

  Stymie scratched his head and spit. "Wonder what put him in a stew."

  Henri Beaumont linked his fingers over his bulging stomach, recording Leland's exit. Unfortunately Henri could not argue with the stinking fisherman's verdict.

  For he had also recorded his daughter's impassioned display. Mon Dieu. She still looked at young Garrett like a lovesick pup. A blind pup. It made Henri realize he had been too lenient. By half. Waiting for his daughter to properly secure a promising future. Absurd to imagine a woman making a choice, any choice, and choosing well. Twice, he'd allowed her to go against his wishes. Against his better judgment. Evidently, a weakness of paternal love. University, for God's sake. What good had that done? His second mistake had involved allowing her to act as housemaid to a crotchety old woman.

  What did Marielle-Claire think? That he would live forever? Provide for her after she came to her senses and moved back home? Didn't she realize she needed a man to guide her? Protect her? Didn't she realize he, Henri Beaumont, wanted grandsons?

  Now this. Merde.

  He had prayed the boy would never show his face on Pilot Isle again. Though he would have gladly kissed young Garrett's feet if he had shown an inkling of interest in marrying Marielle-Claire. Unquestionably the most handsome member of his family. Intelligent. Successful. Upon hearing of the boy's return, Henri had made it his business to discover which of the circulating rumors were true. Discreet inquiries.

  Henri watched young Garrett shrug free of a clutching female hand. A marine biologist. True. He taught biology at a well-respected institution in Chicago. Furthermore, he had completed research aboard a government fishing vessel and written essays for a scientific manual.

  Tapping his fingers on his belly, Henri struggled to recall the description the investigator used. Ah, yes: a rising star in his field. A rising star would have suited Marielle-Claire very well indeed. Exceptionally bright his daughter. And she had never lacked beauty.

  Henri followed Noah's progress through a sea of simpering pouts, fluttering eyelashes, and teasing smiles. Yes, young Garrett would have forced the hand. Henri's grandsons would have been assured of possessing intelligence and good looks.

  In this instance, his daughter had been an excellent judge of character. She'd recognized the boy's value long before the others. Yearned for him when he was no more than an ashen, bespectacled lad.

  Henri exited the tent and headed for poor Leland, who stood with his back to the festivities. Henri wished he were home drinking a glass of Bordeaux instead of standing outside a homespun tent, sand lodged beneath his fingernails, sweat adhering his tailored shirt to his skin. Mon Dieu, how he hated the ocean. If not for his business interests, he would move inland as far as he could get.

  Tonight's performance showed that young Garrett didn't want Marielle-Claire, would never want her. Oh, Henri didn't doubt the boy lusted after her; she probably threw herself at him. If Henri had devised a way to force the issue of marriage, involving the woman his investigator had located would have been unnecessary. Regrettably, the situation grew dire and required him to utilize the information he possessed.

  Strange, but Henri found it hard to believe the boy had a married lover. He did not object; celibacy was reserved for feeble men and unmarried women.

  His daughter, for example.

  His fingers clenched over his paisley waistcoat. He would be damned before he let her make a mistake that would ruin her future.

  As Daniel laughed and spun her through a wide turn, she returned his laughter. He liked her, she supposed. She also recognized....

  Elle chewed on her lip, trying to remember the word Christa had mentioned to her. Horny. Daniel was horny.

  But what did that matter? He was safe. He made her feel attractive without consequence. If he held her a little closer than she liked, it wasn't close enough to cause the church committee members to titter behind their hands. Moreover, he didn't make her heart miss even a beat. Hence, carelessly confident, she flirted.

  Until she caught sight of Noah leading Meredith into the circle of dancers. The girl giggled and simpered, seeming to shimmy in her satin slippers.

  Truly, she found it hard to record one man's movements while locked in another's arms, but she managed. Noah bestowed a slow, sweeping smile upon his dance partner, his fingers splayed across her back. Elle observed and pondered and felt sick inside.

  "Daniel, can we stop for a moment? I need a breath of air."

  "Sure, Ellie." Cupping her elbow, he escorted her outside the tent.

 
The night was pitch-black, the crescent moon's glow dulled by a layer of fog. The wind kicked at her skirt as she searched for a source of light. Saffron flames from one of the campfires, a ray of moonlight, anything. Worrying her lip between her teeth, she began to think she might have made a mistake asking a horny man to walk alone with her.

  "Um, Daniel—"

  "Excuse me, I'm afraid there's a problem with the flowers."

  Elle turned, stumbling over a burrow in the sand. "Flowers?"

  "Come along, flower girl." Noah grasped her wrist and yanked her behind him, contradicting his absurd pretext by dragging her away from the tent and any flowers to be found. When they neared the dunes, he halted and flung her hand away. "Elle, do you have any idea how long that man has been confined to a ship? With no women in sight."

  "Six months, I believe he told me. I know, I know"—she dipped her toes into the sand—"he's very horny."

  Noah's head whipped around. "What?"

  Elle shook sand from her foot. "He's horny. Christabel told me it's the same as being lonely, except a special way a man is lonely. She said this feeling makes men confused."

  "Dear God," Noah said beneath his breath.

  "Well, does it?"

  He dropped to the dune with a resigned sigh. "Yes."

  Elle plopped beside him, crossed her arms behind her head, and rolled flat. Noah sighed again, but after a moment he followed.

  For some time, they lay gazing into a sky absent of stars, listening to the warble of locusts and the wash of the ocean, the sand cool and solid beneath them. The moment seemed perfect, frozen in time. She feared a movement, a sound, a breath, would shatter it. The completeness flooding her heart was a delusion. Surely, it was a delusion.

  "Shut your eyes," he whispered, close to her ear. "Listen. There's so much."

  She did as he asked, opened her mind to the enchantment of a peaceful night, the allure of the sea. She wanted to witness the world through him. "I hear a bird."

  "An oystercatcher. She's sounding an alarm because someone is nearing her nest."