Tides of Love

by Tracy Sumner

  Noah mumbled in his sleep, and she glanced back. He looked so young. Worry lines smoothed by slumber. He was the only man, besides her da, who wanted to help her and didn’t seem to want her body in return.

  He had never touched her in a disrespectful way. At first, Noah’s reticence hurt, because she’d come to understand men wanted her or else they didn’t know she existed. Somehow, over time, Noah’s view of her had become her own.

  Caroline liked Pilot Isle, the picturesque avenues and earthy smells. Reminded her of Solitude, with friendlier people. They didn’t scrunch up their noses when she smiled at them. Besides, Chicago had lost some of its charm, and more important, Justin would love the town. He hated the boarding school in Michigan. He wanted her and, gracious, she wanted him. In Pilot Isle, she could have him. What she wanted most in the world was to be a true mother to her illegitimate and much-loved son.

  She glanced out the window as a young woman walked up the drive, a boy about Justin’s age holding her hand. Her gaze lifted, and even from a distance, Caroline saw her eyes, green as the grass beneath her feet and spiked by long lashes. Not sure why, she moved out of sight. Through a slit in the curtain, she witnessed the play of emotion across the woman’s face. Confusion, anger, and ultimately, love.

  Evidently, this was Marielle-Claire Beaumont. The description matched well enough. A beautiful little thing. Exquisite face, lavish body. Caroline laughed softly. She could have made a fortune in the Pink House.

  She looked back at Noah, his chest rising and falling beneath a bleached sheet. Frayed holes dotted the edge. She sighed. Men.

  She remembered what little Noah had told her. Beaumont’s daughter was a part of the discovery of his illegitimacy. Maybe he didn’t want to have anything to do with the girl because of it.

  She looked back to find the yard empty, the sun sinking low and throwing all kinds of vivid colors against the clouds. She saw more of the sky here than she could in Chicago.

  She liked that.

  Caroline knew from personal experience that small towns bred rumors faster than an alley cat bred kittens. A walk about town, a smile, a subtle question or two. She would ascertain enough to know if she’d made a mistake coming here.

  * * *

  Elle did not anticipate having Jewel Quattlebaum crash into her as the reporter tripped down Zach’s front steps. “Merciful heavens, what’s gotten into her?” Elle asked as Jewel strode down the path without issuing an apology.

  “Noah, that’s what.”

  Elle glanced back to find Zach leaning against the screen door, a yawn parting his lips.

  “You look exhausted.”

  He stroked his bearded chin. “Frustration over tangling with a six-foot-two baby.”

  “That bad?”

  “You won’t believe what he told Jewel. She came here looking for details about the accident. Said Noah was a hero. Make a good story for the Messenger and all that. I assumed he would at least talk to her.”

  “And?”

  Zach scowled, thoroughly disgusted. “He told her to climb on her gnawed-off pencil and ride it straight to hell.”

  Though she knew it would anger Zach, Elle laughed until her eyes smarted. My, she had not felt like laughing in days.

  “It’s not funny, Ellie, he’s driving us crazy.”

  She nodded, struggling for breath, trying to agree.

  “Go talk to him. Please.”

  She straightened, the laughter dying in her throat. “No.”

  “What have you got in your hand?”

  “The book you asked me to bring from the coach house. The one you said Noah needed.”

  “Talk to him. I beg you. Before I kill him or Caleb does. They’ve been going at it as fiercely as they did when they were children. I’m ready to run away from home.”

  “Zach, I—”

  “I really believe you’re part of this temper tantrum he’s having. You haven’t been by since the day of the funeral. Not that he’s said anything, you know Noah. I told him you ask after him, and he just grunts.”

  “Me? Why would he care if—”

  “What are you going to do? Avoid him until he leaves because of this woman? We don’t know what to make of her, Ellie. Maybe they’re good friends.”

  She hugged Noah’s book to her chest, her father’s file tucked inside. Good friends, indeed. “How is he?” she asked, unable to stop the question.

  The door hinge squeaked as Zach stepped inside the house. “You’ve asked me a hundred times.” He smiled at her through the torn screen. “This time you’ll have to find the answer yourself. By the way, he’s out back.”

  “Thanks a lot.” A fine wind scattered her hair, tugged at her divided skirt. For a moment she considered leaving the book on the stoop and riding away on her bicycle. Except, she couldn’t leave that despicable report for just anyone to stumble upon. For purely malicious reasons, she had decided to let Noah stumble upon it.

  I really believe you’re part of this temper tantrum.

  Had her avoidance hurt him? Was that possible? Elle figured Mrs. Caroline Bartram would keep him entertained.

  “Oh, the nerve of the man.” She would give him his blasted book and then some.

  Sunlight and dew sparkled on the blades of grass she crushed beneath her boot. A bout of rain the night before had cleared the air and hastened the transformation of spring. The scent of the ocean lingered, and through an open window she passed, the aroma of bacon and browning butter.

  She rounded the corner of the house and halted, her fingers sticking to the book’s leather cover. Noah sat in a rocking chair beneath the oak they had climbed as children, in a stretch of shade provided by a copse of branches. Wavering bursts of shadow and light swam across his profile, the pensive tilt of his lips, the taut line of his jaw. A table sat next to him, piled high with papers and books, and the box of metal instruments she had delivered two days earlier.

  His hand swept the page of his notebook with rapidity she found hard to follow. He nudged his spectacles, then tapped the pencil against his straight, white teeth, staring into the distance. As she stood there, torn between love and dismay, Noah stiffened, the pencil sliding from his fingers. He cocked his head and looked directly at her, his reflective, unguarded mien hardening into the detached one she knew well. For a long moment, he stared, the expression on his face almost anticipatory.

  Then he blinked and glanced down, a shrug of indifference his only reply.

  Elle tipped her hat back and filled her lungs with a strong dose of courage. The wind shook the thicket of branches as she stepped beneath them and flattened a stray curl against his brow. She swallowed. He’d fastened nary a button on his shirt, leaving an open tangle of faded, blue cotton trailing past his waist. White gauze circled his ribs and a swatch of hair, darker than the hair on his head, peeked out above and below.

  Juste Ciel, she thought, a pool of heat unfurling in her belly. Stunned, she dropped the book to the ground and plopped her rear end upon it.

  Eyes still glued to his notebook, he asked, “Which one of my textbooks are you sitting on?”

  She didn’t answer, just watched the wind ruffle his hair and lift his floppy shirttails, exposing more of a man’s body than she had ever seen except for an intermittent fisherman on the docks.

  He snatched his pencil from the grass, then drew a hissing breath.

  She rocked forward, the stance bringing her between his outspread legs. The scent of rubbing alcohol and soap filled her nose. “Noah?”

  He lifted a finger, jaw flexing, face pale.

  “Do you want me to—”

  Before she could finish the question or rise to her feet, he had her by the wrist, his grip strong and convincing, his gaze centered on her. “No. Don’t go.” He glanced at his hand and abruptly released her.

  She sat back, missing the book and bouncing to the ground. She tried again and said, “Depths of the Sea, I think it’s called. Isn’t that the one you asked for?”

&nb
sp; “Yes. First textbook on oceanography published in English—1873.”

  “Mercy, I’m sitting on that.” She tugged the tome from beneath her bottom and thumped it on the table.

  Noah dropped his head and laughed. “Oh, Elle.” He dragged his fingers through his hair, his pale gaze traveling from her jersey gaiters to the feather sticking from her hat.

  A leisurely stroke that set her skin aflame.

  “What is this outfit you have on?” He propped his chin on his thumb and forefinger.

  She glanced down. A calf-length divided skirt, a double-breasted jacket edged in black braid, a white blouse with detachable collar, a man’s necktie. She would admit to affecting a masculine appearance, although the style was quite fashionable. Her father had berated her once too often, and she had hidden the clothes in the bottom of her wardrobe, forgotten, until she found them yesterday while packing. “I rode a bicycle here and traditional clothing doesn’t work... because of the spokes.” She shrugged, her cheeks heating. “I know they’re a bit outlandish.”

  Noah stroked his finger across his lip, studying her. “I like them.”

  “You do?”

  “Very practical, trousers. For a bicycle trip, certainly.”

  “Yes, yes, they are.”

  “The hat is nice, too.”

  Independent of her mind, her hand rose to touch. A burst of pleasure bloomed in her chest. “It’s new.”

  “Ah,” he said, and raised a brow.

  Suddenly bashful, she pulled a weed from the ground, trying to think of something clever to say.

  “Where have you been, Elle?”

  She peeked at him through her lashes. He studied the pencil in his hand as earnestly as she studied the weed in hers. “Been?”

  “I assumed you would stop by more often.” He shrugged, then slid forward in the chair, rubbing his chest.

  “Quit squirming.” She rose to her knees.

  He clamped the tattered end of his bandage between his teeth and struggled to untie the knot below his ribs.

  “Here, let me help you.” She leaned in, brushing his hands aside. She tapped his lips with her finger, and he parted them enough for the tattered end to fall into her palm. “Too tight, hmmm?” She loosened the knot as carefully as she could. “I bet Caleb tied this one.” Her eyes met his as her hand settling over his heart. His intense gaze captured her, clear into her being. Her fingers curled in response, sinking into the hair on his chest.

  She lowered her eyes and loosened the bandage. Hands shaking, she struggled to retie the knot. “I thought... you were sick and”—she swallowed—”I thought I’d wait for you to get stronger.” For me to get stronger.

  “Your cheeks pinken when you lie.”

  “I don’t lie.” She jerked the knot, avoiding his scrutiny.

  “You just did. And I don’t know why.”

  She drew a breath, the desire to touch him nearly overwhelming her meager supply of common sense. “Thank you for”—she glanced into solemn eyes difficult to delude—”for bringing in my father. I know... I know there was no way to save him. Magnus told me everything. He said you were helping them when you got hurt. He told me he apologized to you. I’m glad he did.”

  “Are you all right, Elle?”

  She slid to the ground and let her hands dangle between her knees. Blades of grass pricked her through her skirt. She recorded the rush of waves to the shore and the mad dash of a squirrel along the branches above her. “My mother used to tuck me into bed and tell me how special I was. Her dear girl, ma chere fille. She told me she had prayed for me. And I believed her. Then she died and my entire world twisted inside out.” With her pinkie, she recorded the plodding progress of a ladybug. “I tried to love him as much as I’d loved her. Heaven, I wanted to love him that much. But he never let me get close enough. I was a useless female, undeniably silly. Always, no matter how hard I strove to be responsible—” She halted, lacking a way to describe the person she had attempted to become.

  Sighing, he reached for her. She pulled back in time to avoid the touch.

  “Don’t.” She lifted her chin. “Truly, I don’t need you confusing the issue by touching me and listening to my problems, making me think I can depend on you.”

  His eyes flared. “You can depend on me.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” She leaped to her feet and paced forward, pinching the bridge of her nose.

  A baffled expression crossed his face, so little-boy-lost her knees threatened to give way. His lips parted, and he appeared to search for words. “You can depend on me.”

  “I can depend on you to leave. The lab is nearly finished. I’ve seen it.”

  “Be fair, Elle,” he said hoarsely.

  She wasn’t being fair: accusing and belittling when she planned to leave as well. “You’re right—” A whisper-soft tread rustled the grass behind them. Elle turned, her heart plummeting to her toes.

  “I hope I’m not intruding. I’m Caroline Bartram, an old friend of Noah’s.”

  Noah glanced between the two women and experienced a nip of unease. Caro could be quite mischievous if presented with a suitable opportunity.

  “And you must be Marielle-Claire. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Elle jerked her watch from her pocket and spared it a nonexistent glance. “I’ve got to go. Teaching a reading lesson in ten minutes.” She nodded to Caroline. “Mrs. Bartram, I left something of yours in Noah’s book.” Looking frightfully composed, she stalked across the yard, her stride, in his mind, comparable to a panther’s.

  Caroline followed Elle’s progress as she made an angry pivot around the corner of the house. “Well, well. A little firebrand.”

  Noah knocked his head against the back of the chair. “What the hell was that about?”

  Caroline presented an impish grin and settled by his feet. “For such an intelligent man, you can be terribly dull-witted.”

  “Dull-witted?”

  “Severely preoccupied, blissfully ignorant.” She tugged her gloves from her hands, finger by finger. “Please, choose what fits.”

  He rolled his head to look at her. She smiled in reply, a flash of white teeth and sympathy.

  “Read what’s in your little book, Noah. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I can guess what it is.”

  Hefting the volume to his lap, he flipped through the pages. Near the middle, a folded sheet caught his eye. He shook the paper open and read, line after glaring line. In the distance, the roaring tryst of land and sea called to him. How he wished he were there instead of here. An image of turbulent emerald eyes, agony and disbelief spilling from them, stained his vision.

  Noah hurled the paper at her feet. “She thinks we were lovers.”

  Caroline smoothed the letter over the cushion of grass and bent her head to read it. “No, darling, she thinks we are lovers.”

  “Jesus,” he said, and rubbed the spot on his chest that burned from the brush of her fingers. “Now I understand why she didn’t come to see me. She’s had this sordid report since the day her father died.”

  “Or, it could be because she walked while I sat by your bedside, holding your hand.”

  He blinked, a stunned expression settling on his features.

  “Why, darling, if I didn’t know you better, I would think you actually cared about this girl.”

  “Of course, I care about her. She’s been an unofficial part of my family since she was ten years old.”

  “Sounds like more than childhood affection to me.”

  “I’m not in love with her if that’s what you’re trying to intimate. Nothing even close.”

  “Intimate?” Her brow arched. “Is that the same as hinting at?”

  He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Yes.”

  “Then I will admit to intimating you are in love with Miss Beaumont.”

  “I’m not.” He dug his heel in the dirt. “Don’t you think I’d know?”

  Caroline licked her fingertip and smoothed a wispy curl on her head. “
Unfortunately, no, I don’t. In any event, would it be so bad if you were? She’s a lovely woman. Absolutely lovely. Wild-eyed. Somewhat ferocious in a kittenish way. And, darling, if you could only see how she looks at you.” Caroline’s lashes fluttered. “I would give my soul to have a man look at me the way that little hellcat looks at you. Hot enough to turn wood to cinders.” She laughed. “Stumbling upon the two of you, I admit to feeling the voyeur.”

  Noah’s heart gave a violent twist. How had Elle looked at him?

  In answer, an image surfaced. Elle, kneeling in the grass, her skirt spread around her, one delicate, stocking-covered ankle exposed. Her jacket molded to her breasts.

  “Poor, darling, you have it bad.”

  A scowl tightened his lips. “I might, depending on your precise definition, but I’m not in love with her.” Through gritted teeth, he said, “And quit grinning.”

  Her lips curled, her gaze straying to the front of his trousers.

  A fever-hot flush swept his face; he shifted the book to his lap. “Blessit, Caro, surely you, of all people, understand the difference.”

  Caroline lifted a slim shoulder, an elegant shrug. “Fine. You don’t love the little hellion. Perhaps, then, you should consider... other offers. The offer in her eyes. A woman like that could challenge a man’s imagination. Tempt his mind. Rouse his soul.”

  “Stop reciting poetic verse, please. I don’t want my imagination challenged.” To his surprise, he lied, having pictured Elle in this fashion many times. No less than a hundred torturous times. Impulsive nature. Unrestrained enthusiasm. Instinctive sensuality. What would a woman like Elle do to a man? Brand him for life?

  Noah couldn’t afford to be branded for life.

  “Afraid to take her up on it, darling?”

  A gust of wind blew in from the sea, ripping at his stiff collar. “Completely terrified.”

  Caroline emitted an unladylike snort of laughter. “Oh, Noah, I like this girl. She’s the first woman I’ve ever seen twist you in a knot. Gracious, the first I’ve even seen you look twice. Saints be praised!”