Tides of Passion

by Tracy Sumner

  Something else he would tell her if she wasn't looking so suspicious over there.

  "What can you give, Constable?"

  Everything. Instead of saying what would sound false to her in this distrustful mood of hers, he turned to study his crushed cigar, following the smoldering trail of smoke to the ceiling. "I want you to come home with me."

  "Because of the baby."

  "Because of everything."

  Shaking her head, she crossed the room. Running her hand over a shelf of leather-bound books, she selected one. "Shakespeare," she said, showing it to him with a wounded smile.

  What the hell?

  He answered his own question when she slipped a small key from inside the pages. On his feet and behind her in a flash, he slammed his hand against the door to prevent her from leaving. "You're not leaving here until we straighten this out."

  Glancing over her shoulder, she took the key and slipped it down the neck of her frilly shirt. Her eyes glowed, with what, he wasn't sure.

  A memory flashed through his mind of kissing her breasts and having her beg for more. "Is that an invitation, Irish?"

  "If it was, would that be enough for you?"

  He frowned. "Why do I feel like that's a trick question?"

  She turned fully then, slamming her bottom against the door. He felt the wash of her breath on his cheek, and his head pounded harder. "You called out for her when you were ill."

  Zach closed his eyes to her hurt expression and the pain in his head. Jesus, so that was the problem. Reaching up to rub the back of his neck, he said without thinking hard about it, "All I remember is waking up and asking about you." Clear as day, it was time to tell her he loved her. Whether she accepted it graciously or not. Counting to ten and back, he rehearsed a sincere admission. He felt it, deep in his bones. Saying it right there in those words should've been enough... but with women it never was. Attractive packaging mattered.

  Just when he felt ready, he heard her unlock the library door, then move across the room, her boots tapping against the floor and then the rug. "I'm in love with you, Zachariah. Much to my dismay at the moment. However, I assumed my leaving might help you understand how difficult it was to sit by your bedside, praying for your recovery, only to have you awaken and call out Hannah's name. It seems you've given me the truth on occasion, wrapped in a ribbon of lies."

  Zach thumped his head back against the door. He felt like throwing himself on the floor and having a fit that would make Rory proud. Blast, what timing the woman had. He'd be damned if hearing that she loved him didn't make him so happy he wanted to cry.

  But did she have to say it first?

  "What, Constable? No response?"

  Forcing his eyes open, Zach located her in the shadows. He could see her distress clear across the room. It felt as if a knife had been plunged into his heart when she looked at him like that. "Would you believe me if I told you that I'm in love with you, too? That I have been for a long time? Maybe since the first day? More than I ever loved Hannah, which, true as it is, has been eating me up with guilt?"

  She swallowed, her hands clenching into fists at her side. Her cheeks paled in rapid degrees, her lips pressing so tight they had to sting.

  Not exactly the reaction he'd hoped for.

  "Would you, Irish?" He took a step closer. "And that I'm so lonely without you?"

  She threw up her hand, panic sweeping her face. "I need time. I can't, this is too much."

  He hung his head, suddenly so tired. His head pounded in time to a ticking clock somewhere in the room. Each second more painful than the last. "Tomorrow," he promised, twisting the knob and yanking the door open. "We settle this then, Mrs. Garrett."

  Halting in the archway, he gave her one more piece of his soul. "No matter what you believe, believe this, Irish. I was lost until you came into my life."

  * * *

  Still up long after midnight, Zach figured he'd better do something or go crazy. Sorting through his suitcase, he stacked the books he'd brought with him on the floor and tossed his underclothes in the top drawer of the hotel room's shabby chest of drawers. Might as well unpack; no telling how long he would have to stay in this teeming mess of a city. Because if Savannah thought he was leaving without her—

  "Telling me she loved me first," he muttered and flung a pair of socks to the floor.

  They were the most incredible words she'd ever said to him. And he believed her. Of course, she didn't believe anything he said. Why did she think he had come anyway? Spending two days on a crowded train with babies spitting up on him and unattached ladies trying to strike up conversations. Thinking about her with every turn of the wheels, picturing what he would do to her when he got to her. Wondering why she left.

  The reason, him calling out to Hannah, had never entered his mind. Not once.

  He laughed ruefully, closing the case with a snap. It didn't take a genius to see he was in love. After all, Caleb had noticed. And everyone in town knew Noah was the genius in their family. But Cale?

  If that one noticed, he had it bad.

  Tracing his finger down the spine of a legal text he'd been meaning to read for some time, he sighed. Getting his wife to cooperate presented a big challenge. He needed to talk to her. Touching her might be a good idea, too.

  He needed privacy to do that right.

  Irish. He smiled, replaying her words for the hundredth time. Savannah Connor—Savannah Connor Garrett, he revised—loved him. That sassy, gorgeous, fascinating woman loved him.

  What had he done to deserve it? When he had held her off from the beginning, promising nothing but pleasure and friendly companionship. Telling her he could never marry again.

  He settled on the edge of the bed, ignoring the noisy springs. A forgotten pair of suspenders dangled from his hands as he stared at the patched wall, the look on Savannah's face the last time they made love filling his mind.

  The spike in his heartbeat didn't elude him. For the first time in a long time, he was excited about the future. Excited about spending remainder of his life with her. To walk to town with her and hold her hand, to watch her be a mother to Rory, who loved her to distraction already. To raise their baby together. To make slow love all over their house when the children were away.

  He guessed the same thing had happened to her that had happened to him. Falling in love wasn't something you planned. It had hit him like that tree limb upside his head.

  Except that Savannah had said she was dismayed, yeah that was it, dismayed to be in love him. Zach wound the suspender around his fist and stretched it until it popped. Dismayed wasn't too encouraging. In spite of that, she'd also said she felt dismayed at the moment.

  Could be a hint of encouragement there.

  Rain pelted the glass panes of the only window in the room in a steady ping. A dim stripe of illumination from a streetlight shot through a hole in the faded curtain. It was the only hotel that wouldn't send him to the poorhouse.

  Shrugging into his jacket, acting on impulse, which was a rare thing for a man like him, Zach gave the room a quick glance as he left. All scarred wood, shadows, and dust, Zach rather liked it.

  It fit his mood.

  He slammed the door, whistling to himself as he took the stairs at a jog. If his plan to get Savannah back worked, he'd be packing up and going home tomorrow.

  With a warm, willing wife in tow.

  Now, on the walk to the warm, willing wife's sprawling mansion, all he had to do was come up with a plan.

  * * *

  Savannah had never felt such contradictory emotions in her life. Joy, fear, exhilaration.

  The man who loved her.

  Whirling in a circle in the middle of her bedroom, she held back her shout of ecstasy. Head spinning, she collapsed to the feather mattress. Zach loved her. Not like or even lust, which were excellent feelings indeed. But love. Love. It gave her the faith she needed to leave her hometown and go back with him, to be a true wife to him.

  Maybe guilt explai
ned why it had taken him so long to figure out his feelings. Guilt was a powerful inhibitor.

  I was lost until you came.

  Heavens. What a thought. She had been lost, too. Hardnosed, structured Savannah Connor, freedom fighter and rally organizer, had been so far astray. She simply couldn't imagine going back to her old life.

  While visiting the women's league offices today, she had said good-bye to her colleagues without actually saying good-bye. Because in her heart she had known he would come. If he loved her. Unspoken, that conviction. Once you loved someone with the depth she loved him with, all else paled. Her life might be harder in North Carolina, but she didn't care.

  She wanted that life.

  With Zach and Rory and their unborn child.

  A sweeping glance took in every corner of her childhood bedroom: the mahogany wardrobe, the velvet curtains, the Wilton rug, the crystals cologne bottles sitting atop a marble-topped vanity. Framed prints from an artist of world renown graced the walls. Zach's home had none of these luxuries. In fact, it was in desperate need of a woman's touch. Placing her hands on her stomach, feeling an intense connection with the baby inside, she gazed at the wallpapered ceiling, complete and content. This world, one she had imagined held everything she needed, didn't seem so perfect anymore.

  A stone smacked her window with a dull thump. She jolted to a sit, clasping her dressing gown together beneath her breasts. Another stone struck, harder this time. Scrambling off the edge of the bed, she raced to the window. Sliding it high, she leaned out, suspecting who stood outside.

  Zach stood in the glow of a streetlamp, the world fading to black around him. He wore his spectacles and new suit of clothes, albeit slightly rumpled this time. She watched pleasure seize his face as his gaze centered, locating her a floor off the ground. His lips lifted in a wide smile. There were no chirping crickets or gentle ocean breezes, no surges of the sea in the distance. Nothing familiar to her now except this man. She wanted to go home. And she wanted to tell him that. Now.

  "Come down and talk to me," he said, an urgent thread to his words. He blinked once, rapidly. She could see quite clearly that his eyes were strained at the edges.

  He thinks I'm still fuming.

  "I miss you, Irish," he added when she failed to respond right away. "Please, please come down."

  It would be nice to see what he had planned. He had made love to her for weeks without expressing his feelings.

  Of course, if she were truthful, so had she.

  Shaking her head, she decided that it served him right if she made him grovel for a few minutes. No longer than, say, ten. Gesturing her agreement, she backed into the room. In her closet, the first item of clothing her hand hit was a dress she only wore for making rally signs. Spotted with black paint, it would have to do.

  Unable to help herself, she tugged a brush through her hair and dabbed rose-scented water behind each ear. It was the least she could do when meeting her husband for the first time with love uniting them.

  Easing her bedroom door open, she crept down the hallway. Her footfalls echoed off the paneled walls. She avoided the third and eighth stairs, ones that creaked the most, fondly remembering that long-ago tree outside her bedroom window that had once made escape easy. At the front door, she reached for a shawl that wasn't there, resolving to brave the weather without it rather than slink back to her bedroom.

  Waiting in the shadows beneath an elm tree in the modest front square her father called a courtyard, Zach rocked back and forth on his heels, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looked tired and anxious.

  And determined, she noted as she moved closer.

  The man had yet to retreat from any challenge she presented. She halted a foot away, nerves rapidly taking hold.

  "Nice dress," he said, seeming to search for words. He swallowed, his gaze falling to the ground. "You look lovely."

  She peered at him, then at herself, patting her still-tangled hair with a trembling hand. He thought she looked pretty? He looked wonderful, as usual, even more so in his sleep-rumpled state. But he thought she looked good that way, too? Her heart soared. "Zachariah, I—"

  "No." Ripping his hands from his pockets, he took a fast step forward, stopping just before he touched her. "Not here. I have a place." He threw up his arms in surrender. "I just want to talk to you. Somewhere I can think."

  "But Zach, I—"

  Before she could object, he was there, holding her, kissing her, whispering meaningless words against her lips.

  Warm, safe, and wonderful.

  They knew each other so well that passion gained an immediate foothold. Leaning her head back, she let him deepen the kiss until her world, no longer of this place, tilted and spun.

  Curling his fingers around hers and holding tight, he groaned and stepped out of the embrace. Shrugging from his jacket, he slipped it over her shoulders. His scent and the heat from his body enveloped her. Not a bad conclusion to their kiss.

  Silently, he led her down the narrow brick path. When they reached the street, he looped his arm through hers and drew her close to his side. He also placed himself nearest the street, something he never failed to do at home. A simple courtesy in the event a carriage or automobile came along and splashed mud on her skirt. Yet it was a courtesy rarely extended. Or rarely extended to her. Perhaps men of her acquaintance had assumed such a durable woman could handle a little mud.

  To think, Zach had sought to protect this old rag she wore.

  "I love you," she whispered, pulling him to a stop at the next corner they approached.

  Zach moved her aside as a boy scampered past with a sack of newspapers slung over his shoulder. He gazed into her face for a long moment, looking pole-axed, to use one of the Caleb's favorite expressions.

  "Say it again," he finally said.

  She laughed, lifting her hand to trace the scar on his temple. "I love you, Zachariah Dalton Garrett."

  His eyes blazed, but he didn't say a word, just seized her hand and dragged her down the street.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Somewhere familiar. I can't do this, tell you what's in my heart, on a damned street in the middle of this madness. I'd go crazy."

  Glancing over each shoulder, she saw a street vendor preparing for a busy morning. In the distance, a train rumbled and a dog yapped. A man rode past on a sparkling new bicycle. She would have to look into getting Rory one. Other than that, silence. "Why, there's no one awake yet. This is hardly madness."

  He grunted, his stride increasing. "If I could come out here in the middle of the night and not see a soul, I'd be happy, that's all I can say."

  It amused her to realize how unimpressed he was with the most impressive city in the world. Wondering where he had found comfort here, she followed, skipping to keep up. She would follow him anywhere. He didn't have to lead her or hold on so tight.

  He wound his way down an alley that smelled of garbage and across a set of railroad tracks, obviously knowing where he headed. "You've traveled these streets, I see."

  Another grunt. "Yeah, misery makes a man feel like exploring," he said, sounding exactly like Rory when she wouldn't buy him taffy before dinner.

  Savannah smiled and ducked to hide it.

  "Here," he announced, squeezing between two barrels sitting at a warehouse entrance.

  "Are we allowed—"

  "It's okay. They know me."

  They know you?

  She watched in bemused silence as he escorted her into the inner workings of a shipping yard. The stink of fish surrounded them. The ground was slick and grimy beneath her slippers. Men scurried about with rope hanging from their fists and bundles of netting looped over their shoulders. A few nodded to Zach; one tipped a ragged hat at her. "How do you know these men?"

  He hummed a vague reply, then said, "They recognize a seaman, that's all."

  A lumbering bear of a man approached them, a huge grin splitting his ruddy face. A thin scar ran from the edge of his lip, down his neck and i
nto the collar of his shirt. With a sly wink, he elbowed Zach in the ribs. "You found her, all right, mate?"

  "I reckon I did, friend."

  He chuckled, bobbing his head. "Good, good. Your man's been down her brooding the best of the night. Like a lost pup I had once. Ralph was his name. Poor beast." Laughing outright at Zach's scowl, he added, "Best take care of that hurting, ma'am. A man's heart is a fiercesome prideful thing." Then he saluted them both and marched away.

  She shook her head, gazing up at Zach. "What a strange world you've stumbled upon, Constable."

  "Oh, no." Turning between two buildings, he led her onto a narrow pier. Walking to the end of it, they gazed across the Hudson River. A tugboat chugged past, twinkling pinpricks of light from the cabin window sparking on the water's surface. A faint touch of pink lit the horizon, beneath that a hint of gold. "This is so recognizable to me that it makes me yearn. Homesick, right in the pit of my stomach. I was drawn here, well, like I was drawn to you."

  Turning, he grasped her shoulders, bringing her closer. She shivered beneath the warmth of his coat. A moist, heavy breeze fluttered the hair on his head, bringing his scent to her in a gentle caress. "I couldn't do this without the sea at my back. I just couldn't."

  She tilted her chin, questioning.

  He squirmed, looking like his clothing had abruptly shrunk two sizes. "I couldn't ask you to marry me."

  She sputtered, half laugh, half gasp. "We are married. Or did that crack to your head do more damage than Dr. Leland led me to believe?"

  Digging in his pocket, his trousers riding high on one side, he extracted a square, dark box. Handing it to her shyly, he rocked back on his heels as he often did when he was nervous. "I want a marriage nothing can tear apart. One you chose. One that"—he sighed—"isn't chosen for you. I know you. You take responsibility on your shoulders about as easily as I do. And you're loyal. But I want more than your loyalty; I want more than your love." He nodded to the box.

  Staring at him, the flickering streetlamp above their heads spilling ivory into the gray pools of his eyes, Savannah realized that she would do anything to have him.