Tides of Love

by Tracy Sumner

  He dropped to his haunches and began to place shards of glass in his cupped palm, his firm bottom resting two inches above the floor. “All I’m telling you, dammit, simply asking you, is to think. Use your clever little mind. Be sensible for once. You’re too intelligent not to understand what I’m saying. We’re oil and water, Elle, we don’t mix.”

  Her heart shattered like the clock at his feet. “When have you ever known me to act sensibly, Professor?”

  “Exactly what scares me,” he said, the words hard-edged and determined.

  Gravely determined.

  Of course, she wasn’t an impartial judge, but her feelings seemed indisputably genuine, shades darker than those she’d experienced as a child. Yet, as she studied him, she realized his old-and-water theory might be true. He painstakingly selected a piece of glass, then paused to consider before selecting another.

  She would have swept them up without regard for anything.

  Despondent, she lifted his spectacles from her face and found him watching her, rotating a jagged shard between his fingers. A strange, almost fearful expression shaped his features. Then he averted his gaze, ending any argument she hoped to make.

  Dazed and unsure, she dropped his spectacles on the washstand, navigated a pile of research books in the living area, and descended the staircase, head high, posture rigid. Pausing at the bottom, she looked over her shoulder.

  Noah stood on the landing, hands gripping the railing, a wooden slat biting into his stomach. Water glistened on his clenched jaw.

  Tell me, she pleaded, struggling to decipher the emotions sweeping his face. Something, anything.

  In answer, he wagged his head slowly back and forth.

  Noah let her walk away, her aggrieved sigh yanking his stomach to his knees. He wanted to go after her, drag her into that sorry excuse for a bed, and make astounding love to her. He threw back his head and expelled a choked breath. Hand trembling more than he liked, he dug into his pocket and lifted the scrap of muslin to his nose: the ever-present earthy scent, a touch of lemon, honeysuckle.

  His sheets, hell, his entire bedroom, smelled of her. Couldn’t go there.

  The door slammed behind him. He tripped over a textbook, skidded across glossy pine, and sank into the chair he slept in most nights, where dreams of Elle slicked his skin to worn leather. Dreams that had him jerking awake and reaching for her.

  They had ballooned to intense proportions, incredibly vivid, although he was able to rationalize them, or at the very least, his reasons for having them. He had recently read a commentary by an Austrian psychiatrist who speculated that dreams revealed a person’s deepest desire in its most blatant form. This made sense, because having Elle naked and writhing beneath him represented Noah’s deepest desire at present. Nonsensical, but true.

  He sloped forward, hands going to his knees. Dreams he could dispute. Scientifically, if this psychiatrist was correct. The agony crowding his chest, he had no argument for. Even worse, he feared his feelings as he’d never feared anything in his life. When he’d turned to see his spectacles perched on Elle’s nose, her lovely eyes distorted by the lenses, it wasn’t desire that galloped through him like a high-kicking mule.

  Somewhere in the coach house, a branch slapped a windowpane. Tipping his head, he observed a spider spinning a web around the aged kerosene chandelier and realized he was in deep trouble.

  I’m falling in love with Elle Beaumont.

  Though precise classification would have been a blessing—he was not able confirm the assumption in definite terms. Besides love for his family, he did not completely fathom the emotion.

  Or welcome it.

  Just the same, there were far too many factual incidents for a scientist to ignore.

  He yanked the scrap of muslin in two and flung the pieces to the floor. Zach spoke the truth. Emotions were not rational. Love didn’t require precise classification. Hadn’t the past month—being with his brothers again and unearthing the affection hidden deep in his heart—taught him that lesson?

  It had, but familial love he wanted.

  Somehow, Elle had worked her way under his skin.

  Or, dear God, had she been there all along?

  He slumped, dazed. She loved sunrises and chocolate ice cream. He liked sunsets and vanilla. She thrived on chaos. He loathed chaos. She dreamed impossible dreams. He renounced impossibilities of any kind. He was boring and predictable; she fairly glowed with dynamism and vigor.

  A rational solution must exist.

  He snapped his fingers and strode to his desk. Squinting, he shoved aside the latest Sierra Club Bulletin and an empty specimen bottle, grabbed his notebook, and flipped to the first blank sheet. He plundered through papers and located the fountain pen he had received for five years service with the fisheries commission.

  Walking backward, his legs bumped the chair, and he dropped into it. He brought the notebook close to his face and drew a line down the sheet. Things he admired about Elle went on the right, things he despised on the left. He began writing, his hand sweeping the page. Dismayed when the right list grew considerably longer than the left, he ripped the sheet out and wadded the paper into a ball. It hit the floor with a crinkle.

  He tapped his pen on the notebook and decided to approach the problem from a different angle. In the same fashion he would a research project where the conclusion was certain but procurable by various methods. Outcome: mind free of Elle Beaumont. The pen moved swiftly, until he had two pages of concise clarification and a systematic strategy for avoiding Elle—thereby reducing his engrossment, as he politely termed it.

  Fine. Good. He had listened to the warning signs—like any decent researcher—and devised a plan. He would throw himself into his work and spend time with his family. No more kisses. Blessit, no more anything that involved touching her. No more daydreams—actual dreams he couldn’t hope to control. No more considerate gestures. Eating dinner with her or repairing her shutters was forbidden. He had been planning to mow her grass; he would ask Caleb.

  Also, he thought discussing the situation with Caroline might help. Perhaps, he could secure her assistance. Glancing at the plank-and-beam ceiling, he pictured the tangle of fragrant sheets covering his bed. His fingers tightened around the fountain pen. He lifted the notebook and scribbled one last notation.

  Maybe it wasn’t crucial, but he listed it anyway. Less urgency to tell Elle, which, remarkably, he found he really wanted to do. After all, what purpose would it serve to tell her that the astounding taste of her, the exquisite feel of her, had erased any sexual experiences in his past like chalk dust from a blackboard? He snapped his notebook shut.

  No need to tell her. No need at all.

  Chapter 14

  “I believe we have a simpler explanation.”

  C. Wyville Thomson

  The Depths of the Sea

  Her mother’s cameo caught a spark of sunlight as Elle pinned it to the collar of her percale blouse. Her father’s solicitor, Mr. Hobbs, never realized this piece of jewelry served as the sole legacy from a devoted father to his wayward daughter.

  Mr. Hobbs would be surprised, and her father angered, to know she had nullified the codicil two days before the reading. Reaching into her trouser pocket, Elle touched the scholarship-acceptance letter. She had telegraphed her agreement and had received a reply from Savannah this morning. The committee anticipated her arrival in New York City in no later than seven days. There were applications to submit, a lesson of study to organize, and an awards luncheon to attend. The largest responsibility would be preparing Savannah to manage the school during her absence.

  This activity might keep her mind from straying to impossible dreams, even if her heart seemed captured for life.

  She leaned against the staircase railing outside her father’s office and tipped her face to the cloudless blue sky. A familiar voice filtered past the thud of ships edging the dock. A wave of heat—totally unrelated to the sun beating down on her back—lit her from the
inside out. Closing her eyes, she strained to hear his words.

  “...quantity and size. Blessit, Zach... need both. You volunteered... stupid questions.”

  Warm laughter traveled the distance. Lids lifting, she watched Zach pitch a fish at his brother’s head. In turn, Noah pivoted, stuffing a thick book beneath his armpit, and snared the fish with one hand. “Nice try,” she thought she heard him say.

  She stared, wishing he stood a little closer, wishing fewer people crowded the street. Wishing the memory of his body pressing down upon hers would leave her mind for one blasted minute.

  Noah poked inside the barrels circling the Nellie Dey’s gangplank and turned to scribble in his book. A lock of hair fell into his face, and he flicked it back. Zach yelled a number, which he noted with a slight incline of his head and another furious scratch. An image of those long, sun-kissed fingers trailing over her shoulders, teasing her breasts and hauling her hips to his, forced her to wedge her knees against the wooden railing. To add to her humiliation, her nipples pebbled beneath her shift, an abrasive reminder her of her weakness.

  Forcing her legs to move, she shot down the stairs. Between swaying carts loaded with casks and piles of lumber, she caught glimpses of the man she had worked diligently to ignore.

  Something seemed different. His trousers were wrinkled. Sloppily rolled sleeves capped his elbows and dirt soiled his knees. And his hair, curling about his head, lacked hat or pomade, and needed cutting. His appearance didn’t keep Meredith Scoggins from yelling his name and crossing the street with an eager stride.

  For eight days and fourteen hours, they had avoided each other. Except for one collision. Four days ago, leaving the post office as he entered. He had grabbed her arms and stared for a strained, impassioned moment into her face. Then, they jerked apart and departed in opposite directions.

  At least she had gotten her mail.

  Worming her way through a crowd of fishermen entering the Nook, she stumbled into a foul-smelling body. Her gaze traveled from mud-caked brogans to patched bib trousers. Sean Duggan, legs thrown wide, rage mottling his cheeks. His hands flexed into fists by his side. “I’ve been waiting to talk to you, Miss Ellie,” he said. Ale rode the breath buffeting her face, a repulsive comrade to the liquor seeping from his clothing.

  He swayed on his feet, and a chill streaked down her spine. “What can I do for you, Mr. Duggan?”

  He seized her wrist and squeezed hard, until she feared her bones would snap. “You scrawny little bitch.”

  She grimaced and breathed through her mouth, pain swimming up her arm. Her knees trembled, but she stared into his red-rimmed eyes, ignoring the discomfort and the stench, daring him to do more than this on a public street. He did not have the privacy of his home to lay an abusive hand on a woman half his size.

  “You’d better step away, Mr. Duggan. I’m about to scream bloody murder. The noise is certain to alert Zachariah Garrett. His office is just across the street. Family friend, if you recall. He wouldn’t take kindly to this brutality.” She yanked her arm, but he held tight.

  Sean’s gaze flicked toward the constable’s office. He released her, but did not back up, instead slapping his palm against the post above her shoulder. “ I know where Annie went. And you helped her.”

  “Excuse me, but I think you’d better do as Miss Beaumont requested, or I may scream as well. I live in Chicago, among many desperate souls, so I guarantee I’ve had more experience. Besides, I love to draw an audience.”

  Elle edged around Sean.

  “Never look a rabid dog in the eye, darling,” Caroline said with a calm smile.

  Elle linked her arm through Caroline’s and whisked her down the boardwalk. Their heels clicked on the planks, the only sound for several minutes. Halting in front of Tilly’s Nets, Elle jerked free. “Why?”

  Caroline raised a brow, her gloved fingers closing around the package in her hand. “Why?”

  Elle threw her hand out. “You’ve been trying to befriend me all week. Suffering cats, you’ve come to my house, stopped me on the street and... and today, you help me out of a disagreeable situation. Why?”

  “Because I like you.”

  “Like me? You don’t know me.”

  Caroline smoothed her hand over her frilled bodice. “I know Noah well enough, and he likes you. Quite a good recommendation in my book.”

  Elle felt the pounding in her head lower to her chest.

  “And you love him, so you think you must hate me.”

  A group of sailors shuffled by, singing in slurred voices and stamping their feet; the first lazy days of spring were upon them. Elle watched the Nook’s swinging doors swallow them up, then she turned toward home, neglecting to ask if Caroline wished to accompany her.

  “What did I witness back there?”

  Elle increased her pace. “Just another reason for me to leave this place.”

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Darling, you must tell someone what happened. That man is a menace.”

  Elle halted, apprehension streaking through her. “You mustn’t repeat anything about this, Mrs. Bartram. Nothing. Sean Duggan’s problem is with me and no one else. I don’t want—” Closing her mouth, she marched away.

  Caroline’s shoulder brushed Elle’s as she stepped in beside her. “You don’t want Noah getting involved.”

  Turning into Widow Wynne’s front path, she kicked the gate open, and crossed the yard. Caroline stayed right with her. Frustrated and confused, Elle snatched her skirt and took the porch steps at a gallop. She turned to find the annoying woman standing on the bottom step, grinning at her.

  “What?”

  “You’ve got dash, darling. And Noah needs someone with dash.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, Mrs. Bartram, but Noah isn’t going to bother with anything without gills. You see, my father wasted his money.”

  Caroline’s smile dimmed. “I never took any money from your father, Miss Beaumont, and I never intended to. I came for my own reasons, mostly.”

  “I’m sorry. Noah told me about the two of you being... friends.” Glancing at her feet, Elle scrubbed mud off the toe of one boot with the heel of the other. “I’ve confused the issue enough. I don’t need to speak without thinking and make the situation worse.”

  “Darling, how have you confused the issue?” Caroline shifted her skirt and perched on the step.

  Elle settled beside her. “I keep mistaking the boy I knew with the man I don’t. That’s all I meant.”

  “Are the boy and the man so different?”

  Elle plucked a withered blossom from the azalea and twirled it between her fingers. Different? Right now, the man was all she thought about, raw desire darkening his eyes, his lips parting before covering hers. “Sometimes I look at him, and I think my childhood friend is still there. Other times, the way he stares at me, the way he touches me, the bitterness on his face. I don’t recognize him.”

  “I recognize him: a man who wants to love you and is fighting loving you like the very devil.”

  Elle crumbled the bloom between her thumb and forefinger, pollen dusting her skin. “Considering all the women he’s been, well, you know.” She cleared her throat. “Why does he get angry for thinking about that with me?”

  Caroline covered her mouth, but not soon enough to keep the laugh from escaping. Noah Garrett had never looked twice at any woman. Of course, handsome and successful, women naturally flocked to him. He was considered an eligible bachelor in Chicago’s elite circle. Beyond doubt, he had accepted an indiscreet offer or two, but nothing matching Miss Beaumont’s presumption. Nothing at all. Poor dear, Caroline thought, and struggled to hide her smile.

  “Laugh if you want.” Elle ripped another bloom from the bush, her voice dropping to a whisper. “But he’s very experienced. I don’t know why it seems to disturb him to lust after me.”

  Caroline gulped for air, propping her head on her knees.

  “I’m glad to be
a source of amusement for you.” She waved, rebuffing Caroline’s apology. “Don’t worry, I’m used to the teasing. My feelings for Noah have always been nothing but a joke. They say I left because of him, too, I guarantee.”

  “Are you planning a trip, Miss Beaumont?”

  Elle’s hesitated before shaking her head.

  “I’m sure you don’t need my advice, or want it for that matter, but if you love him, you’d better stay and fight for him. You won’t be the first woman who had to, I can assure you. No man on earth wants to admit falling in love, darling. No man I’ve yet to meet, anyway. They all need a kick in the seat of the trousers to set them in motion.”

  Elle murmured.

  Caroline leaned in. “Again, please.”

  “Noah doesn’t love me, I said.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure!” She exploded off the steps and began pacing in front of Caroline, the hem of her cycling trousers bumping her ankles. “He thinks we don’t mix. Like oil and water, he said. I’m too frivolous, too foolhardy. And believe me, I tried, at least I did years ago, to conceal my impetuosity. Think first, act later, that sort of thing. Aim to plan before do.” She dropped to her knees beside a tilled square of soil, picked up a rusted spade, and stabbed it in deep.

  “Try to put yourself in his shoes, Miss Beaumont. After all that happened here, Noah is overly cautious. What he reveals and what he hides are important decisions for him. To me, he’s this little boy protecting a precious vase. He’s so afraid the beauty of it won’t last, he smashes the vase to bits just to ease his trepidation.” She lifted the package of embroidered handkerchiefs to her lap and considered giving Elle one to wipe the smudge from her nose. “You mustn’t take his word, all those silly reasons you two don’t mix, gracious alive, as scripture. If you want him—”