Tides of Love

by Tracy Sumner

  Relief flooded his mind, and he smiled.

  An experiment. So damned simple. Most of his torment the last week had been self-induced, pure conjecture. He had taken an instinctual sensual response of adolescence and transformed it into a man’s carnal desire. The images crowding him were not drawn from past experience. In all probability, they were as spurious as a storm cloud that never brings rain.

  Before he changed his mind, he dropped his satchel to the ground and turned to her. Elle flattened against the wall, chin angled high, frightened but defiant. She wouldn’t run. Not this woman.

  And for once, neither would he.

  The humming in his ears the only sign of his discomfiture, he leaned in, pressing his palms to the rough brick on either side of her head. He had no choice, no longer able to live at the mercy of his emotions.

  To expunge the temptation, he must yield to it.

  “Noah,” she said, half question, half plea. A warm breath skirted his cheek, one that smelled of apple. Her gaze skimmed his face, lingering on his mouth before lowering. She made a faint sound of protest.

  “Friends, Elle.” He lifted his hand and outlined her bottom lip. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the way the moist skin clung to his. Continuing to the curve of her cheek, the crescent of hair above each eye. Expelling a strangled sound, she stiffened and left his hand dangling before her face.

  “Friends,” he whispered before he dipped his head. He paused, savoring the scent of her. With her next apple-breath, he guided his mouth to hers.

  He felt her tremble. “Trust me, sweet.” He dug his palms into the wall, thinking only of his goal, intent on ending his fascination. Today, right this minute, he would find out.

  Find his dreams were simply dreams.

  On a sigh of surrender, a shared release of passion, her mouth parted. Seizing the opportunity, he plucked her bottom lip between his teeth. He moistened and suckled, skimming back and forth. Grasping his forearms, she groaned into his mouth, and his mission dimmed. He deepened the kiss, sensation pricking every nerve. The scent of scorched rose petals; the rough edge of her front tooth; her tentative effort to get closer. She edged up the wall, her breasts chafing his chest, her eager hands tangling in his bib straps.

  His heart slammed hard, out of control. “No,” he said, and twisted away from her.

  A rush of air shot between them, and Elle blinked, looking into his impossibly young, unguarded face. Eyes closed, his lips parted to allow a throaty breath free. She captured the image, realizing she would not see it again unless she caught him sleeping.

  Merciful heavens, he looked like the boy she remembered. Her first day of school, a classroom smelling of chalk and vinegar. Herman Stanley apologizing for making fun of her accent. Noah giving her a smile of acceptance and unwittingly propelling love between two beats of her heart.

  Just now, he had touched her with his beautiful hands before he touched her with his lips. Had stroked her face with the intent of enlightenment. Some of the gentle-hearted child had to be left inside him.

  She curled her fingers around his bib straps and tugged.

  This is your chance, Elle. Take it.

  She ignored his grunt of protest and bounced to the balls of her feet, thanking her father for the ballet lessons. Slanting her head as Noah had done, she fit her mouth over his. She would use him for her own purpose, just as he used her for his. She threaded her fingers through the damp curls at the base of his neck, and, not sure how to ask for more, touched her tongue to the corner of his mouth.

  Noah uttered a low groan of defeat and crowded her into the wall, his arms stealing around to cushion the impact. His heat scorched her skin; the taste of butterscotch filled her mouth. He had a sweet tooth, she remembered, dazed and dreamy.

  Raising his hands, he held her head steady as his mouth, finally, truly captured hers. Her body slumped, a gradual melting. Caution, fear, logic, her father’s cruelty, all liquefied, roaring like the ocean at high tide.

  Lightly at first, then using greater pressure, he teased, raising the point of pleasure. He angled his head, drew his tongue across her lips, showing her what he wanted. She didn’t care if the action was right or wrong, foolish or wise—she opened.

  And he took.

  The kiss was unlike any she had dreamt of. His mouth aggressive, his whiskered cheeks rough, his hands eager, gliding past her neck, her shoulders. Control slipped as he delved, bending, wrapping her in a gossamer web of need. His need. Of course, he would deny the lapse later. But right now, this minute, with his body joined with hers, she knew.

  She had wondered the other night but now she knew.

  He wanted her.

  She did not mistake his need for love or consideration, kindness or respect. This blind ferocity, wild and undeniable, amounted to nothing more than overwhelming urgency.

  A tortured sound rumbled deep in his throat. His lips trembled, his hands snagging in her hair. Her knees weakened, and he steadied her, fit her to his body.

  Desire. Christabel had explained in vague terms what it meant to want a man so much you would do anything to have him.

  “Closer,” he whispered against her lips, his breath skimming her face.

  Juste Ciel, she wanted to get closer. Already, his back bowed to accommodate for their disparity in height. The notion burned: they would not have this problem in a bed.

  She stretched, trying. Almost... she almost—

  He caught her under the arms and settled her astride his thigh. Her dress snagged between her legs as his knee wedged against the wall. His lips never left hers. Not once.

  My, how ingenious, she thought.

  She explored everything accessible. The muscles in his arm had grown from hauling nets and icing fish, his chest seemed broader, harder. Her mouth traversed the edge of his jaw, nipped at the skin below his ear.

  How could a man who smelled of fish taste so wonderful?

  She wiggled on his thigh, heat pooling between her legs. Whatever she searched for, she couldn’t find.

  “Let me show you,” he breathed against her ear. Grasping her waist, he moved her forward, then back—a tantalizing abrasion. Oh, yes. She buried her face in his neck, a moan escaping before she could stop it.

  A rusty creak penetrated the haze surrounding them; she lifted her head. Noah’s mouth traveled to her cheek, to her lips. Elle fought the urge to close her eyes, drift on a cloud of moist, fervent kisses.

  A gentle cough. Then another.

  Elle pushed on his chest. “Noah.” She forced the word between breaths, finally taking his face in her hands. “We’re not... alone,” she said, mouthing the last. Gradually, the music from the Nook filtered in. His eyelids flickered, opened, widened. Smoldering, charcoal gray. His nostrils flared on a rush of released air.

  “Christ,” he whispered, throat clicking on a hard swallow, chest rising and falling as he fought for control.

  Bewildered, Elle could only stare, wondering if she looked as disheveled as he did. As appealingly undone. Gaze unfocused, lips swollen, hair plastered to his head in swirls of wet gold. Another burst of heat lit her. She wanted nothing more than to pull his mouth to—

  “Stop looking at me like that. Do you want to end up beneath me?” He spoke harshly, but he was slow to release her, even slower to lift her from his thigh. The whole time, he shielded her from view, waiting for her to stand as she braced her palm against the wall.

  Expelling a sigh, he slipped his spectacles on and turned.

  Elle peeked around him to find Christabel standing in the Nook’s doorway, hands fisted on her hips, her expression vacillating between amusement and curiosity. “Sorry to come across you in an indelicate state, but better me than some lonely fisherman.” She glanced over her shoulder. “You take the back way, Noah. Honey, you come through the kitchen with me.”

  “What the hell do you have to do with it?”

  “I’m the woman who’s going to keep every gossip on the Isle from making your life hell,
that’s what I have to do with it.”

  Elle laid her hand on Noah’s arm to diffuse his rigid stance. And, she couldn’t stand so close and not touch him. Not when he had brought her body to life.

  “Trust me, the men will be streaming in from the docks any minute, ready to drink now that the sun’s set. Some are already in there raising the devil. End of the week and pockets full of money. No need to advertise you’ve been here. Poor man’s bedroom, they call it.”

  Noah cursed beneath his breath and turned to Elle. His somber gaze captured hers as early evening shadows danced across his face. “I’m sorry, Elle. Sorry for this.”

  She stared at his lips as they moved, helpless to do anything but remember them covering hers. “I don’t want you to be sorry. I’m not sorry.”

  “You will be.” He stooped to grab his satchel. Frowning, he fiddled with the leather strap, his lips parting as if he would say more. His hand hovered near her bruised cheek. “I’m sorry,” he said, his hand dropping.

  The snap of shells beneath his brogans rang hollow and final in his wake. The mystical appeal of the alley departed with him, leaving only a slight chill, deepening shadows, and the stink of whiskey and fried fish.

  “I waited as long as I could, but you don’t need anybody seeing you tangled up like that,” Christabel said.

  Elle had no idea what being caught tangled up with a man was like. Although Christabel was right, of course. It wouldn’t be good. Well, wouldn’t be wise. Her father, Zach, Caleb. All of them would find out. She dropped her head to her hands. Her skin smelled of him, her mouth tasted of him.

  How did a woman get past that?

  “I didn’t think he would stalk outta here. Boy, he has a nasty temper. Sure is a Garrett, that one. Do you reckon he remembers I carved Elle loves Noah into all those tree trunks?”

  Elle laughed through her laced fingers. “Oh, Christa, however this ended, he wasn’t going to handle the situation well. For a brief moment, the appalling happened, and he lost his beloved control. It’s not your fault he’s—” Scared. Stubborn. She wagged her head, frustrated to the core.

  “Do you want to come inside? Have a cup of coffee? I make a mean pot.”

  “No.” She glanced at Christabel. Blond and robust, she carried a lot of responsibility on her shoulders. Elle never underestimated her wisdom, no matter the packaging. “Thank you. I realize you did what you thought best. And you’re right. I know that, too.”

  “Makes no difference if I’m right. Doesn’t lessen the wanting. Anyway, no need to fret. I’ll take care of him when he comes in tonight.”

  With a feeble half-turn, Elle swayed against the wall. “What?”

  Christabel gave her a sympathetic look. Never had the contrast in their upbringings been more apparent. “He’ll be back. Not a man alive who can walk away from what he walked away from and not seek a little relief.” She winked. “And unless he comes knocking on your door, I provide the only relief in town.”

  Jealousy shot through Elle, vicious and unwelcome.

  Christabel snorted and slapped her hands together. “Oh, honey, not that kind of relief. Whiskey is all I’m talking about. Sure, he could find the other if he wanted, but Noah’s not that kind of man. Trust me, I can spot the scamps a mile off.”

  Elle chewed her lip, her suddenly tight clothing making her hot and itchy. “I didn’t mean, that is to say, without doubt, I don’t care what he does. This was simply a—a slip.”

  “A slip? What proper women call almost making love in an alley? Okay, honey, a slip.” Christabel flapped her apron, her lips pressed to hold in a smile. “Now, get going. And, just in case Noah decides to slip with you again, dabble some toilet water between your breasts and put on a pretty dress. Maybe comb your hair.”

  Christabel’s laughter, and her blasted advice, needled Elle the entire walk home.

  Chapter 7

  “Forms of representative species are similar, often

  only to be distinguished by critical examination.”

  C. Wyville Thomson

  The Depths of the Sea

  Elle angled the paper into a shaft of moonlight and read the letter for the fourth time.

  April 2, 1898

  My Dearest Friend:

  I have enclosed an application for the scholarship program I mentioned in my previous letter. As you can see, each year the fund lends money to permit a promising young woman to attend college. Our last recipient chose Cornell. I know you considered returning to Bryn Mawr, but just look at the marvelous number of universities included in the program.

  I admit to rallying behind you at the scholarship meeting last month, and dearest Elle, you are so deserving. Many on the committee feel your extremely high entrance scores are an added benefit as well as your proven dedication to furthering women’s education. I am confident a completed application is all that is standing in the way of your dream.

  Now, my friend, I can see you shaking your head and telling yourself the school cannot survive without you. Actually, Elle, I have felt a fair measure of discontent lately, an urge to accomplish more than I can in New York City. I hope you consider my offer to manage the school in your absence a serious one. I would be proud to work with your students.

  I am speaking at a reform meeting tonight and hope to encourage the audience members to contribute generously.

  To friendship,

  Savannah

  The scholarship provided a grand opportunity to change her life, Elle thought, folding the letter and slipping it into her pocket. The application lay on her marble-top washstand, four pages of essay questions and personal queries. If she found additional means of income, even meager, she could survive.

  In her entire life, she had only wanted one thing more than she wanted an education. She glanced at the darkened window of the coach house and realized no hope of that remained.

  Reclining on the grass, she hooked her arms beneath her head and stared into a sky ripening from pitch-black to predawn blue. Birds had started to twitter, the only noise besides the distant roar of the ocean. No, not the only. She tilted her head, the thump of barrels being unloaded on the dock and a bell announcing a ship entering the harbor.

  She rubbed her hand across her nose, the fragrance shooting a dart of chagrin through her. Sentimental absurdity to dab perfume between her breasts and behind her ears. A lone tear trailed down her cheek, and she scrubbed it away. How could she do this? Hadn’t she learned her lesson years ago?

  For her, Noah Garrett would always mean heartache.

  He was not coming home, that was obvious. Elle could not picture Noah dousing his confusion in whiskey and cheap cigars. Nonetheless, Christa understood men better than she did.

  Frankly, she was surprised he had not removed his possessions from the coach house. Fled to safer ground, as he would in preparation for a deadly hurricane. Losing control posed as grave a disaster in his mind. Perhaps he’d deemed it too much trouble to move the multitude of glass tubes, research books, and curious gadgets. In a sorrowful testament to her weakness, she knew they still littered every vacant surface. Darkness had provided the courage to climb the flight of stairs and peer inside. Unfortunately, a shift in wind startled her, causing her to knock a jar filled with murky water and a piece of gnarled driftwood from the landing. The driftwood she had put back in its place, the jar lay in pieces in the bottom of her garbage bin. She hoped she had not ruined an important experiment.

  What had she been thinking? She twisted the damp edge of her dress in her fist. To let him kiss her as he whispered “friends” in her ear, to kiss him back, starved for his touch. Exposed, her mouth eager and open. This didn’t make sense. She let him go the other night, stressing she would not fall in love with him, telling herself she was finished with men.

  In fact, she told Daniel Connery the same thing not a day before. And she meant it.

  Rejecting Noah had never occurred to her. She had raced into his arms. A reckless, gullible fool hoarding a vestige o
f absurd hope—imagining a twenty-seven-year-old man was innocent. Oh no, not after, not after the little—she groaned, but the memory loomed, terribly clear—rubbing incident. He had known exactly where to focus his energy, setting her atop his hard thigh, grasping her waist, and....

  Where had he learned such a thing? And how many encounters had it taken to perfect his technique?

  The image of Noah touching another woman made her queasy. He had obviously touched many. Mrs. Bartram of the scented letters, for one. He understood a woman’s body too well. Living in a depraved city, who knew how many shared his bed? Elle closed her eyes, a sharp pain seizing her, riding hard from her toes to her head.

  She rested her cheek on the prickly cushion of grass, images of Noah’s hands upon her spinning round her mind like the phonograph in Christabel’s parlor. The kiss represented a trifling part of what they could do. Even in her ignorance, she realized that. Too, she understood he had done much more at some point in his life. The presumption only made her sob and bury her face in her hands.

  Damn and blast, she didn’t need to wallow in the dirt when she owned only three decent dresses, and the one she wore represented the best of the lot.

  Tears had never come easily or often, and they dried quickly. Crying answered no questions, abated no fears. Swabbing her face, she rolled to her back as the first delicate streaks of red and gold spread like a blush along the horizon.

  I wish Noah was here to share this with me.

  “I still love him,” she whispered. “You fool, you still love him.”

  Sitting up, she pressed her hand to her chest, willing her heartbeat to return to normal. Oh, blast. I still love him.

  A man armored against emotion.

  She slipped her hand into her watch pocket and fingered Savannah’s letter with a renewed sense of anticipation and dread.

  * * *

  The pounding ripped Zach from sleep. Shoving to his elbows on the bunk, he drew a hitching breath and let his head flop back. The muscles in his arms quivered; his heart raced. The dream returned in a series of flashes. Blood staining the sheets... Hannah’s shrill, weak cries... his lungs burning as he went for the doctor... lifeless blue eyes and cold, stiff fingers.