Tides of Love

by Tracy Sumner

  Stark exhilaration raced through her, followed closely by sheer terror. Merciful heaven, against her wishes, or because of the thousands she’d once exacted, it appeared as if Noah Garrett meant to keep her.

  Chapter 18

  “After a careful consideration of the results of recent investigations, we are strengthened in our confidence.”

  C. Wyville Thomson

  The Depths of the Sea

  The first gift arrived the next day. A square bundle wrapped in brown paper and sitting on the top step. He’d scrawled her name across the front in his now-familiar script; a yellow ribbon, one she had inadvertently left on Devil Island, held the package together.

  She unwrapped the paper with trembling fingers, an autumn gust tugging at the loose knot of hair on her head. Her eyes stung from lack of sleep, from twisting and turning, from replaying everything Noah said to her and wondering if his words could be true.

  Deep inside, praying they were true.

  She opened the tin box, trying to deny the quiver of excitement. This was the first gift a man had ever given her, outside of a modest present or two for her birthday. Nudging the swath of velvet aside, her breath caught. Her mother’s brooch lay amidst the plush maroon folds. Hands shaking, she pinned the piece to her collar, blinking past the tears. She sold it the day before she left Pilot Isle, to help pay expenses. Promising to keep the heirloom in her family, Mrs. O’Neil, the jeweler’s wife, paid a fair amount.

  How had Noah known?

  Elle lifted the scrap of material to her nose, wishing his scent remained. She could visualize him arranging the velvet just so.

  A slip of parchment fluttered from the box. Heart racing, she grabbed the sheet.

  Sweet,

  This belongs to you, as I do.

  I love you.

  Noah

  Elle replaced the velvet and closed the lid. With wooden movements, she followed the hallway to her set of rooms and collapsed on her bed.

  She missed her morning classes.

  * * *

  Two days turned to four, four to six, six to eight. Her tension mounted with each package she found on the step, each hour that passed waiting for Noah to leap from behind a pine tree or pop his head from beneath her desk. As he had no doubt known would happen, her resistance melted, her love for him increasing each time she read one of his notes.

  First the return of her mother’s brooch. Then Noah’s pilot coat wrapped around a set of leather-bound books she had admired, weeks ago, in the mercantile window. A parasol with pink-and-green ribbon loops came the next day. Or was it the shot silk dress, trimmed with black-velvet bands and guipure lace? The loveliest item of clothing she had ever seen, one she plainly had no place to wear. Sighing, she set the hat on her head. This morning’s gift, trimmed with roses and a striped fabric, perfectly matched her parasol.

  Noah had wonderful taste in women’s apparel. With an angry kick, she scattered a pile of burnished leaves. Better to spend her time worrying about what she was going to tell him when he returned than imagining how he had come to have such good taste.

  I love you, and yes, I’ll marry you.

  No, no, that sounded brazen, as though her earlier rejection had been a feminine ploy. But, she needed to have an answer. Soon. He had begun asking her questions in his daily missives. Blatant queries, often underlined for emphasis. What church shall we say our vows in? Should we go back to Pilot Isle? His methodical certitude made her smile and laugh aloud, her classmates looking on in stupefaction. Who but Noah would think to champion his cause, fact by listed fact, while never even showing his face?

  And how had he known the tactic would work?

  Curiosity killing her, she rose one morning at dawn and watched Professor Stanford creep into the yard and place a gift on the step. Although she should have resisted, she leaned from her window and yelled to him. He lifted his head, his face turning colors in the dawning light. Now, he avoided her gaze in class and had not called on her to answer a question once.

  She expected to score a high mark in biology.

  A sudden gust tugged at the lapel of Noah’s pilot coat and sent a shiver down her spine. Elle shoved her hands in the pockets, drawing the wool close. She leaned her cheek against the material and sniffed. She punished herself by wearing the coat because it provided such an inescapable sense of closeness to him.

  He had probably anticipated her reaction. She had to remember the man did nothing by chance.

  Closing her fingers around the apple in her pocket, she brought the fruit to her mouth and took a healthy bite. Mrs. Holden really needed to hire someone to clean the yard—

  Elle stumbled to a halt, the apple dropping from her hand. She spun in a small circle. Where was he? A black-and-white cat crossed the street at a dawdling pace, a grocery cart rolled past, the driver lifting his hand in greeting. Kicking the fruit from her path, she walked forward. Carved in the trunk of the only tree in the yard: Noah loves Elle. Not deep etching, like Christa’s. This was a hasty attempt. She brushed the letters and raised her hand to her face. A raw scent clung to her skin; her fingertips glistened. Moist, the bark was still moist.

  Calling his name, she completed another turn, even tipped her chin, and searched the copse of branches above her head. A sudden burst of emotion... longing, trepidation, inevitability. He was close; she could feel him. She sprinted across the yard, grass snagging in her bootlaces, leather soles skimming the scattered leaves. She watched a gust of wind suck the lace curtain inside her bedroom window.

  She had closed the window before leaving for class.

  The air was cooler in the hallway, a pale burst from an electric bulb lit her way. She tiptoed to her door. Something different.... She sniffed. A cloying odor, syrupy and floral. Hair on her arms rising, she twisted the beveled knob, and the door swung in without a murmur.

  Candles covered every vacant surface, flames wavering in the open window’s breeze. Rose petals, red and yellow, littered the heart-pine floor and the unmade bed. Elle closed the door and slumped against it. A faint sound, a whistling release of breath. She turned her head.

  Noah sat in a chair in the far corner, arms folded over his stomach, feet propped on the rattletrap desk she and Mrs. Holden had moved from the attic. She stepped closer, saw he slept deeply. Candlelight lit every angle of his whiskered cheeks, silhouetted the gradual rise and fall of his chest. His frock coat lay in a tangle on the floor; his fingers gripped his neckpiece. The edges of his waistcoat curled, revealing a snowy white shirt open past the point of decency, and, oh... a wealth of chest hair showed.

  Drawing the wrinkled cloth from his hand, she unbuttoned his collar, and dropped it to the desk. He murmured and sighed. She brushed his hair from his brow, slid his spectacles from his face, and placed them on a shelf above his head. Only after she had covered him with a thin woolen blanket, making sure his feet did not poke out, did she take a long, leisurely examination. She perched on her bed and she stared, marveling at her good fortune. Noah rarely let anyone view him like this—splendidly ruffled, utterly undone. She could look all she pleased, caress if she chose to. The notion of touching him sent a molten rush through her.

  The candles dripped wax in melting plunks; the world retreated behind lace curtains and dying sunlight. The low flames bathed them in warm brilliance, creating an island of solitude and understanding. How had she ever imagined living without him? Pride, her damnable pride. Simply because he had not discerned his love as promptly as she would have liked. True, he had rejected her impassioned ardor at one time. But he had also been her closest confidant, her strongest ally. Wasn’t that worth its weight in gold?

  She placed her lovely hat on the floor and curled into a ball, sinking into the feather mattress, rose petals sticking to her skin. She blinked, yawned. In response, Noah mumbled her name, once, softly. Beautiful. Beautiful and brilliant, and he claimed to love her. She started to rise, to go to him, thinking to slide her hands inside the gaping neck of his shirt and
press her lips to the tender area behind his ear, an act which never failed to drive him wild. She wanted to drag him to her bed and shock him with the strength of her desire.

  She shook her head, determined to observe him until he woke.

  They had time enough for everything.

  * * *

  For a long moment, Noah stood beside the bed, staring at the woman who meant more to him than life itself. The sun had set, leaving only a few sputtering candles to caress her skin, her hair, a glorious, rusty spill across the cream sheets. Funny, now that he had let her love into his heart, he could not bear to live another second without it.

  When had Elle come to belong to him so completely? The first time he saw her, in the schoolyard? From that day forward, she had certainly thought he belonged to her.

  Curled on her side, she stretched, innocently raising her skirt, baring a slender thigh he knew the shape of very well. Her cambric drawers did not hide much. No, not nearly enough. He remembered her legs wrapped around his waist, firm muscle tensing with each thrust. Groaning, he raked his hand over his face. He had to keep his mind free, clear. He needed to talk to her, wanted... oh, God, to explore the exceptional bond between them. He wanted to hear an accounting of every minute of her life.

  He wanted to drink her into his soul.

  As if she witnessed his struggle, and wished to destroy his good intentions, her mouth parted on a sigh, her tongue sneaking out to touch her bottom lip.

  Ah, what was a man to do?

  He pressed his knee into the mattress and it sank deep. Feathers, he realized, and smiled. He had never made love on a feather bed before. With a gentle sprawl, he lay behind her and pulled her against his chest. Elle was, if he remembered correctly, a very deep sleeper. Proving that, she shifted, crowding her buttocks into his groin, all the while humming low in her throat, her sensual kitten growl. The sound, and the press of her bottom, shattered the last of Noah’s noble intent.

  Nudging her hair aside, he placed feather-soft kisses along the nape of her neck, searching for, and finding the hidden nook behind her ear. He caressed her jaw, her temple, traced her arched brows with his lips. The scent of her drove him wild. The faintest hint of lemon and crisp autumn. And roses, he thought, smiling as he peeled a petal from her cheek. He unfastened the buttons on her practical blouse, wondering if she had worn the dress he had given her. He would have liked to give her lace-trimmed underdrawers, something secret and naughty for him alone. He had no word for the piece of clothing he pictured her wearing for him.

  His breathing starting to escalate, he tugged her sleeve past her wrist, set his lips to her shoulder, his hand rising to cup her breast, heavy and warm in his palm as his thumb searched. She wore a corset, strangely enough. Stiff and unyielding, he pondered how to go about getting it off.

  “Let me help you,” she whispered, and turned her head, her mouth finding his, her tongue stroking, begging for entry. She tasted of apple, sweet and ripe. Knocking his hand away, she worked the ties on her corset, jerky movements that sent her elbow into his ribs.

  He harbored no denial, only concerned with the quickest way to get inside her. There would be time for finesse and kind words later, time to remove every piece of clothing and pay homage to her body. Now, he needed her surrounding him, tight and moist and hot. Needed her badly. Her moans and sighs, delicious sounds of entreaty, convinced him rapidity would work for her as well.

  He tore his mouth away and rolled her beneath him. Her thighs spread, and his hips slid into place, a consummate fit. “I’m sorry,” he said, his lips pressed against the side of a freed breast and moving higher. “I want you too much to wait.”

  She laughed, which set her nipple quivering beneath his lips. “Wait? Merciful heaven, Professor, I don’t want to wait. Hurry up and get your clothes off.”

  “Oh, sweet. A little clothing never hurt anyone.” In impatient fistfuls, he drew her skirt to her waist, dismayed to find more than one layer. Her drawers were simpler, the matter of a knotted tassel or two. Promising to buy her new ones, he snapped the ties he could not easily undo.

  Cooperative and eager, she went right to the heart of the problem, loosening the buttons on his trouser fly. Their lips met, their fingers trembling and slipping over buttonholes and ribbons. She removed fabric, grasping him, hand curled. Her teeth sank into his shoulder as she roamed the length of him... and back. Delirious with desire, he closed his eyes, his weight held on his elbows as he traced the curves of her body. Had he taught her to touch him in this fashion: a firm, assertive glide from tip to juncture? He must have, but he could not recall.

  Right now, he could scarcely recall his own name.

  Hand pressed to the small of her back, he angled her hips. Lowering his lips to her ear, he instructed her to wrap her legs around him and hold on.

  With a sweep of her thumb over the rounded tip of his arousal, a daring stroke that came close to ruining his fine purpose, she let him go. His hand drifted between her thighs, found her moist, swollen, and warm. He dipped deep, plunged, preparing her. He wanted, no, he needed to see her need match his. She tipped her head, throat muscles jumping as she swallowed. He glanced at the door, closed, but who knew how much sound would travel through it?

  In a sudden movement, she raised her hips, bumping against the heel of his hand. The moan started deep, threw her eyes wide, rendering them dark, dark green. Acting quickly, he captured her groan of pleasure with his lips and entered her in one smooth stroke.

  She gasped and together they found a fast, sure rhythm. Her legs tensed, then tensed again, her nails digging into his back.

  “I love you,” he said, his mind shutting down. Pulling her close, he thrust once more, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, and uttered a hoarse cry, flooding her with everything in his heart and his body. Every muscle strained and snapped like a taut band, leaving him limp. He kissed her, weak and clumsy, not certain if she responded. Still clasping her to his chest, he rolled to his back, moisture slicking their skin, their harsh breaths filling the room.

  Elle slumped across him, her arm a dead weight beneath. He stretched, found his trousers circling his knees, snarled and damp. His shirt hung off one shoulder. Rose petals matted his cheek. And, oh yes, he thought and shifted with a groan. Elle had clawed his back to ribbons.

  “Juste Ciel. I’m dying,” she said, her voice cracking. She plucked at her skirt. “Good heavens, I still have my clothes on.”

  He smiled, pressing a kiss to her brow. “Actually, I ripped your drawers off. Ruined them, I’m afraid. I’ll buy you a new pair, I promise.”

  “Drawers? Who cares about drawers? I can’t even feel my arm.”

  Noah laughed and lifted enough for her to pull her limb free. Not wanting to let her go, he gripped her waist, and brought her atop him. A dazed look ruled her face. Her lids slipped low as her head flopped forward. “Sleepy,” she mumbled.

  He tightened his hold, cherishing the secure weight of her. “It’s all right. I’ll be here.”

  “Love you,” he thought he heard her whisper between a sigh and a yawn.

  He checked the urge to kiss her. A stray tear he could not check streaked down his cheek. “I love you, too.” Mere words did not even begin to describe what he felt. “Too much.”

  She hummed in response, a drowsy, sated vibration.

  Footsteps echoed in the hallway; Elle tensed against him, lifted slightly. “Hush, sweet. I locked the door.” He brushed his lips over her head, curls catching in his whiskers. “Besides, we’re getting married. With this going on, I figure the sooner, the better.”

  She brought her hand to his chest, trailed her fingers through the hair she appeared to like so much. “When?”

  He sank into the mattress, exhaled in relief. “How about this Saturday?”

  “Saturday?”

  “Preacher Ellis has been notified, the church in Pilot Isle reserved. Caroline’s arriving on Friday afternoon. Christa’s baking some kind of cake and throwing us a party or
something. I bought our train tickets last week and—”

  Elle reared, snatching a pillow from the bed and cuffing him in the face. “You planned all this, never even bothering to ask me first?”

  He jerked his trousers to his waist and buttoned his fly. “Yes. I did. I told you I wasn’t waiting any longer. Chrissakes, after this”—he gestured to the tangled sheets and scattered rose petals—”how can you argue? It’s the only sensible option.” Uh-oh. He realized after he said it that this would never be a good argument to present to Elle Beaumont.

  “Why, you... oh!” She rolled to the floor and started pacing by the bed, hands fisted on her hips.

  Noah rested against the rosewood headboard, beginning to enjoy this. The sight of her stomping around the room, bottom swinging beneath wrinkled satin, bosom bouncing beneath nothing at all, caused a miraculous erection to spring forth.

  She glanced at him, glared actually, her gaze sliding down his body. She came to a sudden, shuddering halt. “Oh, no, Professor. Not again. Not as long as you’re making all the decisions and not even asking me what I’d like to do. Stubborn, arrogant....”

  He laughed and leaned over the side of the bed. Straining, he slipped his thumb inside the ribbon surrounding the box he’d hidden.

  She raised her head from drawing her sleeves to her shoulders, her blouse still gaping, breasts rising on each furious breath. Her eyes widened when she saw what he had in his hands, her lashes fluttering. A flush of excitement crossed her cheeks as her fingers danced down her stomach to her waist. A rush of pleasure warmed him.

  So, she’d liked his gifts.

  Grinning like a lovesick fool, he nudged the tiny package toward the edge of the mattress. “This is the last one.” He winked and crossed his ankles. “This week, anyway.”

  She took an eager step forward, a shy half step back. “You shouldn’t have bought me all those gifts.”