by Tracy Sumner
“I can return them, if you don’t want them.”
“No.” Her cheeks reddened; her head lowered. “I mean, of course, I like them. I love them.” She touched the flowing green ribbon circling the box. “It’s just... I never... thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He shoved it beneath her hovering hand. “Go on, open it. Before I decide to pull you back into bed.”
She looked at him then, dead in the eye. Her hunger caught him by surprise, and he reached for her.
Grabbing her gift, she skipped to the side. “Oh, no, you don’t, Noah Garrett. Patience, you must have patience. Remember how you always used to preach the sacred value of patience?”
He flopped against the headboard, banging his shoulder on the rounded edge. “In the future, don’t listen to me.”
She smiled and climbed on the bed, settling Indian-style next to his feet. Her skirt hooked over her knees, gaping wide, giving him a wonderful view.
He knocked his head against the bedpost. “You’re killing me.”
She glanced down. A mischievous glint appeared as her gaze lifted. “Good,” she said, and loosened the elegant bow. Sliding the ribbon free, she set it by her side with care. “This one is prettier than the others.”
“Yes.” He swallowed and struggled to breathe normally. “The store wrapped it.”
She pushed the brown paper aside and stared at the silver jewelry box in silence. Wildflowers and roses embellished the casing. A touch of feminine nonsense, but he had guessed she would take pleasure from it. She outlined the ornate design, and he felt a moment’s unease, a pang of uncertainty. Dammit, he wanted nothing more than to make her happy, to give her anything she desired.
She opened the box, a whisper of air slipping past her lips. “Oh, Noah.”
He rocked forward, squinting to bring her expression into clear view. “Well?”
“Juste Ciel.” She lifted the ring from its perch. The round emerald caught a ray of candlelight and threw a blazing spark to the coverlet. “Oh, my,” she breathed, and slipped it on her finger, tilting her hand back and forth in the meager light.
“I looked and looked, searching for the perfect ring, one that felt right. But they were too fancy or too plain. Too big or too small. Too ugly.” He shrugged, his cheeks heating. “Until I found this one. The stone is the exact color your eyes turned the first time we made love. After the night on Devil, it was burned into my mind. And... I knew, I thought, I mean, you would like it.”
She launched herself at him with a cry of delight. “I love it. Oh, Noah. I love you.” She hooked her arms around his neck, feathering kisses along his jaw. “I always have, as you and everyone else in Pilot Isle knew.”
“Thank God.” He tightened his hold.
She laughed, sending a rush of warm air across his face. “Did you ever doubt it?”
“Once or twice.”
Her delight faded. “Do you have to go to Chicago soon? How will we... what will we—”
“Chicago? Good God, woman, what kind of marriage do you think this is going to be? I’m staying right here, in South Carolina. We’ll decide where to move after you graduate. You’re not getting away from me for one day. I rented a house large enough for a family of ten, just around the corner on Senate Street. Marty is thrilled beyond words to have me teach the next four terms. Coupled with a research project on population dynamics of planktonic systems and making love to you as much as I can handle, I’m going to be incredibly busy.”
“Marty? A house? Planktonic systems?” Her voice lowered. “Making love?”
“Never mind that, sweet.” He flipped her to her back and settled in to kiss her soundly. “Right now, I think we have more important issues to worry about. Issues on, what shall we say... the rise.”
She nodded. “History thesis due in two days. Biology exam next Thursday.”
Determined to win this round, he slanted his lips over hers, nibbling and licking until she moaned low in her throat. “I’m not sure I can help with the history thesis, but I am a fair science tutor.”
“Are you certain, Professor?”
“Positive, ma chere fille.”
And, as any good biologist would do, Noah set out to provide concrete proof.
The End
Author’s Note
Readers familiar with the Outer Banks may recognize Pilot Isle as Beaufort, North Carolina. Indeed, I loosely based my setting there, thanks in large part to information provided by the kind ladies at the Beaufort Historical Society.
I incorporated artistic license in these areas, mostly calendar changes, which I hope the reader will forgive. In 1902, the second Federal fisheries laboratory in the United States was completed in Beaufort—still there to this day. Woods Hole, the first, was established in 1871, actually placing its construction before Noah’s birth. But I know he would have wanted to take part, so he did. The scholarship Elle received I based on the ones given by the American Association of University Women, founded in 1882. They bestowed their first loan, much as I described it, in 1901, three years after Elle received it.
The lifesaving program is a marvelous part of the Outer Banks history and well worth further research. Also, the University of South Carolina, in 1898 called South Carolina College, did admit female students. As an alumna, I wanted Elle to be one, too!
Read on for an excerpt from Tides of Passion
Tides of Passion
Chapter 1
Women can’t have an honest exchange
in front of men without having it called a cat fight.
~Clare Boothe Luce
North Carolina, 1898
Savannah knew she was in trouble a split second before he reached her.
Perhaps she should have saved herself the embarrassment of a tussle with the town constable, a man determined to believe the worst of her.
However, running from a challenge wasn’t her way.
She laughed, appalled to realize it wasn’t fear that had her contemplating slipping off the rickety crate and into the budding crowd gathered outside the oyster factory.
No, her distress was due to nothing more than Constable Garrett’s lack of proper clothing.
In a manner typical of the coastal community she had temporarily settled in, his shirt lay open nearly to his waist. She couldn’t help but watch the ragged shirttail flick his lean stomach as he advanced on her. Tall, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, his physique belied his composed expression. Yet Savannah detected a faint edge of anger pulsing beneath the calm façade, one she wanted to deny sent her heart racing.
Wanted... but could not.
Flinging her fist into the air, she stared him down as she shouted, “Fight for your rights, women of Pilot Isle!”
The roar of the crowd, men in discord, women in glorious agreement, eclipsed her next call to action. There, she thought, pleased to see Zachariah Garrett’s long-lashed gray eyes narrow, his golden skin pulling tight in a frown. Again she shook her fist, and the crowd bellowed.
One man ripped the sign Savannah had hung from the warehouse wall to pieces and fed it to the flames shooting from a nearby barrel. Another began channeling the group of protesting women away from the entrance. Many looked at her with proud smiles on their faces or raised a hand as they passed. They felt the pulse thrumming through the air, the energy.
There was no power like the power of a crowd.
Standing on a wobbly crate on a dock alongside the ocean, Savannah let the madness rush over her, sure, completely sure to the depths of her soul, that this was worth her often forlorn existence. Change was good. Change was necessary. And while she was here, she would make sure Pilot Isle saw its fair share.
“That’s it for the show, Miss Connor,” Zachariah Garrett said, wrapping his arm around her waist and yanking her from the crate as people swarmed past. “You’ve done nothing but cause trouble since you got here, and personally, I’ve about had it.”
“I’m sorry, Constable, but that’s the purpose of my p
rofession!”
He set her on her feet none too gently and whispered in her ear, “Not in my town it isn’t.”
As she prepared to argue—Savannah was always prepared to argue—a violent shove forced her to her knees. Sucking in a painful gasp, she scrambled between the constable’s long legs and behind a water cask. Dropping to a sit, she brushed a bead of perspiration from her brow and wondered what the inside of Pilot Isle’s jail was going to look like.
Fatigue returned, along with the first flicker of doubt she had experienced in many a month. Resting her cheek on her knee, she let the sound of waves slapping the wharf calm her, the fierce breeze rolling off the sea cool her skin. Her family had lived on the coast for a summer when she was a child. It was one of the last times she remembered being truly happy.
Or loved.
Blessed God, how long ago that seemed now.
That was how Zach found her. Crouched behind a stinking fish barrel, dark hair a sodden mess hanging down her back, her dress—one that cost a pretty penny, he would bet—ripped and stained. She looked young at that moment, younger than he knew her to be. And harmless.
Which was as far from the truth as it got.
He shoved aside the sympathetic twinge, determined not to let his role as a father cloud every damned judgment he made. Due to this woman’s meddling, his town folk pulsed like an angry wound behind him, the ringing of the ferry bell not doing a blessed thing to quiet a soul. All he could do was stare at the instigator huddling on a section of grimy planks and question how one uppity woman could stir people up like she’d taken a stick to their rear ends.
No wonder she was a successful social reformer up north. She was as good at causing trouble as any person he’d ever seen.
“Get up,” Zach said, nudging her ankle with his boot. A slim, delicate-looking ankle.
He didn’t like her, this sassy, liberating rabble-rouser, but he was a man, and he had to admit she was put together nicely.
She lifted her head, blinking, seeming to pull herself from a distant place. A halo of shiny curls brushed her jaw, and as she tilted her head up, he got his first close look at her. A fine-boned face, the expression on it soft, almost dreamy.
Boy, the softness didn’t last long.
Jamming her lips together, her cheeks plumped with a frown. Oh yeah, that was the look he’d been expecting.
“Good day, Constable,” she said. Just like that, as if he should be offering a cordial greeting with a small war going on behind them.
“Miss Connor, this way if you please.”
She rose with all the dignity of a queen, shook out her skirts, and brushed dirt from one sleeve. He counted to ten and back, unruffled, good at hiding his impatience. What being the lone parent of a rambunctious little boy would do for a man.
Just when he reached ten for the second time and opened his mouth to order her along, a misplaced swing caught him in the side and he stumbled forward, grasping Savannah’s shoulders to keep from crashing into her. Motion ceased when she thumped the wall of the warehouse, her head coming up fast, her eyes wide and alarmed.
And very, very green.
He felt the heat of her skin through the thin material of her dress; her muscles jumped beneath his palms. Her gaze dropped to his chest, and a soft glow lit her cheeks. Blushing... something he wouldn’t have expected from this woman.
Nevertheless, he stared, wondering why they both seemed frozen.
Zach was frozen because he’d forgotten what it felt like to touch a woman. How soft and round and warm they were. How they dabbed perfume in secret places and smiled teasing smiles and flicked those colorful little fans in your face, never really realizing what all that nonsense did to a man’s equilibrium.
It was the first time he’d laid his hands on a woman since his wife died, except for a rescue last year and the captain’s sister he’d pulled from the sea. She had thrown her arms around him, shivering and crying, and he’d felt for her, sure he had. Grateful and relieved and humble that God had once again shown him where the lost souls on the shoals were.
He hadn’t felt anything more. Anything strong.
This wasn’t strong either, nothing more than a minute spike of heat in his belly.
Nothing much at all. He didn’t need like other men. Like his brothers or his friends in town. He had needed once, needed his wife. But she was dead. That life—loving and yearning and wanting—had died with her.
“Your mouth is bleeding,” Savannah said and shifted, her arm rising.
Don’t touch me, he thought, the words bubbling in his throat.
Cursing beneath his breath, the full extent of his childishness struck him. She would think he’d gone crazy. And maybe he had. Stepping back, he thrust his hands in his pockets and gestured for her to follow, intentionally leading her away from the ruckus on the wharf.
Buttoning his shirt, he listened to her steady footfalls, thinking she’d be safe in his office until everything died down.
“I’m sorry you’ve been injured.”
Dabbing at the corner of his lip, he shrugged. He could still hear the rumble of the crowd. No matter. His brother Caleb would break it up. They’d argued about who got what job in this mess.
Zach had lost.
“What did you expect, Miss Connor?” he finally asked. “People get heated, and they do stupid things like fight with their neighbors and their friends. Hard not to get vexed with you standing up there, rising from the mist, preaching and persuading, stirring emotion like a witch with a cauldron.”
She rushed to catch up to him, and he slowed his deliberately forceful stride. “Those women work twelve-hour days, Constable Garrett. Twelve hours on their feet, often without lunch breaks or access to sanitary drinking water. And for half the pay a man receives for the same day’s work. Some are expecting a child and alone, young women who think they can disappear in this town without their families ever finding them. Their lives up to this point have been so dominated and environed by duties, so largely ordered for them, that many don’t know how to balance a cash account of modest means or find work of any kind that doesn’t involve sewing a straight stitch or shucking oysters.”
She stomped around a puddle in their path, kicking at shells and muttering, nicking her polished boots in the process. “If you can reconcile that treatment to your sense of what is just, then we have nothing more to discuss.”
Zach halted before the unpretentious building that housed Pilot Isle’s lone jail cell, getting riled himself, an emotion he rarely tolerated. He didn’t know whether he should apologize or shake the stuffing out of her. “I’ll be glad to tell you what I reconcile on a given day: business disputes, marriages, deaths, shipwrecks, the resulting cargo and bodies that wash up on shore, and just about everything in between. What you’re talking about over at the oyster factory has been going on forever. Long hours, dreadfully long.
The men may well get paid a higher wage—I couldn’t say for certain—but they labor like mules, too. Do you think Hyman Carter is begging people to come work for him? Well, he isn’t. It’s a choice, free and clear.” Reaching around her and flinging the door open, he stepped inside and, by God, expected her to follow. “What the hell can I do about that?”
Her abrupt silence had him turning. Savannah Connor stood in the doorway, bright sunlight flooding in around her, again looking like a vision of blamelessness, of sweet charity. She even smiled, closing the door gently behind her. Troubled, Zach reviewed his last words, racing through them in his mind.
“Oh no,” he said, flinging his hand up in a motion his son knew meant no, flat out. “I’m not getting involved in this campaign of yours. Except to end it, I’m not getting involved.”
“Why not get involved?” she asked, the edge back. “Give me one worthy reason why. You’re the perfect person to request a review of the factory’s processes.”
Ignoring her, he slumped into the chair behind his desk, dug his cargo ledger out of the top drawer and a water-stai
ned list out of his pocket, and began calculating entries. He was two shipwrecks behind. The town couldn’t auction property—funds they desperately needed—until he, as keeper of Life-saving Division Six, completed the sad task of recording every damaged plank, every broken teacup, every sailor’s shoe.
Work was good for the soul, he had always thought; it had saved his a couple of years ago.
Besides, maybe Miss Connor would quit talking if he didn’t look at her.
Moments passed, the only sound the scratch of pen across paper and the occasional crunch of wagon wheels over the shell-paved street out front. When the cell’s metal door squealed, Zach started, flicking ink across the page. He sighed. “I’m almost afraid to ask what you’re doing.”
Looking up from plumping the cot’s pillow, she flashed a tight smile. “Getting ready for a long night, Constable Garrett. You’re writing”—she pointed—”a summons for me in that little book, correct? What will it be? Disturbing the peace? Instigating a mutiny?” She shrugged, clearly unconcerned. “I’ve been charged with both of those before.”
The fountain pen dropped from Zach’s fingers. “Arrested? Ma’am, I’ve no intention of—”
“Thirteen times if you count the incident in Baltimore. That time, the police took us to a school instead of the local station. They didn’t have a separate holding area for women and felt it would be inappropriate for my group to share quarters with common offenders.”
Thirteen. Zach coughed to clear his throat. “I’m not arresting you. I only brought you here until things calm down on the wharf.”
Savannah smiled, relief evident in the droop of her shoulders. “Then you’ll help me. Thank goodness.”
Gripping the desk, he shoved back his chair. “No way, no how. Are you deaf, ma’am?”
“Are you, sir? Did you hear those women out there today begging for equal rights? Women under your protection I might add.”