by BJ James
“You’re my guest, Adams. There would never be any reason you aren’t welcome here,” she assured him with forced cheer as she ignored his glowering mood. “I was simply making conversation. In innkeeper’s language, my next comment would have been, ‘I hoped you slept well.”’
A commiserating shake of her head and a graceful lift of her shoulders accompanied a meaningful pause. “But judging from evidence to the contrary and an attitude suggesting you’ve come looking for a fight, I suppose I must presume your night was less than restful.”
“Then you would presume wrong,” he snarled with no improvement in attitude. “The night was fine. I slept fine. I’m fine. I didn’t come here looking for a fight.”
“Oh?” Eden muttered half under her breath. “You could have fooled me.”
This time Adams ignored her. “What I came looking for was a change of scenery.”
“Well then, the inn and its grounds can certainly offer that.” Calling on years of experience in smoothing the ruffled feathers of temperamental guests, Eden suggested placidly, “If that isn’t enough, the staff and I will do whatever we can to make your surroundings and your stay more pleasant. If we’ve left something undone, Adams, we’ll correct it. If you have some special need, we’ll try to meet it.”
“Save the spiel, Madam Innkeeper,” he groused. “You know damned well there’s nothing wrong with the service. Or the grounds, or the view, the cottage, my bed, or anything.” When Adams had ticked each off irritably, he stopped abruptly, his teeth clenched. A muscle rippled in his jaw, a rasping breath lifted his chest and strained the knit of his shirt. Then, as if that breath were a panacea, or perhaps had stirred the voice of reason, a rueful smile quirked the corner of his mouth as he ducked his head in mild disgust. “Ah hell, Eden, the truth is, I’m sick to death of my own company.”
Leaning back in her chair, Eden folded her hands in her lap. “So you came looking for different company.”
“No.” Adams’ denial was decisive, abrupt.
“No?”
“No!” In another flash of angry unrest, he lashed out. “Dammit, Eden, is there an echo in here?”
“I don’t think so, Adams.” Her low tone was mild, almost musical, and soothing. “At least I never heard it before today.”
“Enough!” Reaching over the small table to curl his fingers around the beveled edges of the arms of Eden’s chair, he braced his hands on either side of her. Leaning close, speaking deliberately, in carefully enunciated syllables, Adams spelled out his seething frustration. “I didn’t come looking for company, and I didn’t come to discuss how I did, or didn’t, sleep. Or damnable echoes. I came for you, for Eden Claibourne.”
“Why?” He was so close the expensive and too-proper scent that recalled boardrooms and mountains of paper assailed her. Her heart was racing. If she hadn’t clasped them tightly in her lap, her hands would have been shaking. Yet her gaze remained cool and unwavering, revealing nothing.
“Why?” he parroted. “Why?” This last he accompanied with a long, heated glare.
“Yes, Adams. Why?”
Throwing up his hands, he muttered, “Ah, hell, there goes that blasted echo again.”
Eden laughed, and was pleased at the natural sound of it. “I’m sorry. We do sound like echoes, don’t we?” Leaning forward, fingers laced and steady, she asked, “Now, what can I do for you this lovely morning?”
Unappeased by her apology, he bolted from the table and paced away. But only a little way before he turned back, his gaze riveted on her. “What you can do for me is stop avoiding me.”
“But I’m not. I haven’t.” The second the denials were spoken, Eden knew they were a lie. A lie she couldn’t let stand.
Trading the death grip of her clasped hands for the stability of the table, she rested her hands on the creamy linen tablecloth. Only a little less than candidly, she admitted her sin. “Okay, it’s true, I have been avoiding you. But only because I know this is a difficult situation for you and I felt you needed space and some time alone.”
“I don’t need space. I don’t need time. And I certainly don’t need to be alone. God knows, I’ve had more than enough of all three in the last week. More than I can stand, believe me.” He could have spoken of the loneliness of five years in prison. The gut-wrenching sickness of being lost and alone, even among the crowd of inmates. He could have said many things, but he didn’t. Adams had never spoken of that black hole of despair and torment to anyone. He didn’t think he ever could.
Raking his hand through his wealth of brown hair, thoroughly disturbing its usual order before his fingers curled into impotent fists, he strove again for a smile. An effort that fell short. “What I need now is a friend.”
Wearily, Adams Cade, dynamic entrepreneur, hardened alumnus of a brutal prison system, made an admission he never thought he would. “Dammit, I need you, Eden. I need to remember there’s still gentleness and grace in the world.”
“And you want this gentleness and grace from me?” Her mouth was dry, and her low tone had grown husky and unsteady, but in his agitation he didn’t seem to notice. For that small favor, Eden was most grateful.
“Who the hell else would I want?”
He was hurting. Eden knew the worst of his frustration was born, not of pain or even grief, but of a sense of utter helplessness. Men of Adams Cade’s sort, men of action and daring and unique accomplishment, couldn’t bear being helpless. Because he couldn’t, perhaps he did need company.
Perhaps he even needed her—an old friend from the past. But even in his need, Eden knew instinctively that the last thing he would tolerate was sympathy.
“Who else would you need?” Tapping a manicured nail on linen, she pretended to consider the problem. “Ah,” she murmured as if a solution had just occurred. “I have it.”
“What do you have other than the will to drive me over the edge by repeating everything I say?” Adams’ face was rigid and harsh. His temper hadn’t abated. Nor did it seem any amount of coaxing would help.
But she could try. She would try. “It occurred to me that I might have Cullen call a lady of the evening.” A delicate shrug lifted her shoulders, as she returned his heated look with an unruffled innocence. “I know it’s morning, and the time frame wouldn’t fit her job description, but surely he can find one who doesn’t watch the clock. Except when…well, you know when.
“She might shock the neighbors and even the guests. But, after all, this is Fancy Row, the avenue of homes that sheltered wealthy, philandering planters’ mistresses. It wouldn’t be the first time a needy man turned to—”
“Dammit, Eden! Stop babbling.” He’d spoken in a relatively low voice before, taking care not to disturb the diners beyond her quiet corner. Now his voice rose to an unmitigated roar. “I don’t need sex. But when I do, I can find my own. What I need this minute is you.”
Eden ignored the stares of startled guests. Risking one calm, reassuring glance for Cullen, who had abandoned his duties to watch Adams with chilling care, she questioned softly, “You need me…as a friend.”
“Yes,” Adams snapped.
“For my sweet, gentle voice of reason.”
“Yes, again.”
“You’re sure you wouldn’t rather have a lady?” She shouldn’t tease. She knew she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t resist.
“You are a lady.”
“Why, thank you, Adams. I didn’t think you’d noticed.”
Ignoring her, he turned away, glaring across the room at the river visible beyond windows framed by clusters of ancient live oaks. “Are you coming?”
Her look was innocent, masking the fact that she couldn’t look away from him. Even frustrated and bristling and still a bit too properly dressed, he was magnificent. “Coming where?”
“With me.” Half turning, he looked about him grimly, as if he couldn’t bear another minute trapped within confining walls. Poised to flee the massive, vaulted ballroom Eden had so skillfully converted into a d
ining room, he muttered bleakly, almost to himself, “Please, Eden.”
Eden’s lashes fluttered to her cheeks, hiding the hurt and the sparkle of tears in her eyes. This was Adams, once the reasonable peacemaker, slow to anger, quick to forgive. Adams, who hurt so badly he had lost the slow, easy smile and the infectious grin she loved. Adams, who needed her.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry I’ve been rude. I’m sorry I was angry. If I’ve offended you… What?” Adams interrupted himself abruptly. “What did you say?”
“I said yes,” Eden repeated softly. “Yes, I’m coming with you.” Wondering where her sense of self-preservation had gone, next she heard herself asking, “Where would you like to go, Adams? The river? The beach? For a sail?”
“You choose.”
He was in no mood for crowds, or strangers, or for chance encounters with curious old acquaintances. Or even to choose. She realized that completely. But she also realized that as vulnerable as she was, the last thing she needed was to be alone with Adams Cade. Today or any day. Not because she was afraid of him. She would never be afraid of Adams. Never! The person she must fear was Eden Claibourne.
“There’s a place on Summer Island where another branch of the river flows into the sea,” she heard herself say. Certain she’d suddenly lost her mind, she reached deeply within herself to resurrect the normally sensible, levelheaded businesswoman she’d been for all the rest of her adult life.
But even that most sensible, most levelheaded woman struggled for control against impossible odds. Even as the sensible Eden whispered dire warnings that the island would be virtually deserted and dangerous, the daredevil Eden of old was saying aloud, “With only six houses scattered over three miles of beach and most of them unoccupied this early in the season, we would hardly be caught in a crowd.”
“Sounds like a winner.” He was only a little less gruff.
“We can take the launch or we can sail. Whichever you would like, Adams.”
“Fine.” Now that she had agreed to spend time with him, he didn’t care where they went or how they got there. Any place, any way would do, as long as there was a change of scenery and Eden.
Wisely choosing not to make an issue of his nonanswer, Eden asked, “Have you eaten?”
“Merrie brought me a tray.” Scowling, he lifted a dismissive shoulder. “But no, I haven’t eaten. I wasn’t hungry.” Which, translated, meant he couldn’t face another meal alone.
Eden wasn’t surprised by his lack of hunger. He was too restive to be anything but frustrated. “Maybe you’ll want something after a sail and a walk on the beach. I’ll ask Cullen to have a picnic basket prepared while I change.”
Checking her watch, she judged her time. “Both the basket and I should be ready in fifteen minutes.” Giving her a minute or two in the bargain to ease Cullen’s worries. “I’ll meet you at the boathouse then. All right?”
“Right.”
Eden almost smiled, for they’d switched from sounding like an echo to a good imitation of a broken record. Gathering up the paperwork that really needed her immediate attention, she headed for the hall and the stairs.
“Eden? You are coming back?”
Her heart skipped at the raw need in his voice. Pausing, not daring to glance back for fear she would go to him and take him in her arms, she murmured, “I’m coming back.”
“Promise.”
“I promise, Adams.”
The River Lady, the inn’s single-masted sloop, was ready. Adams had changed into khaki shorts and a col-larless knit shirt and was pacing the dock when she hurried down the boardwalk.
“Sorry I’m late. Troubles,” Eden explained. “A minor crisis in the kitchen. A lost order, meaning no pistachio crust for the baked red snapper tonight.”
“So you improvised.” Exhibiting surprisingly little sign of being disturbed by the delay, Adams took the heavily laden basket from her. Setting it aboard, he came to assist her.
“With almonds,” Eden said, more for something to say than for Adams. Busy words, a pitiful sop for the apprehension that wouldn’t be still.
“Good choice. Almonds always work.” Catching her by the shoulder, not caring if there were pistachios, almonds or red snapper, Adams slid his palm down the length of her arm. “Ready?”
Nodding and suppressing a tremor, with her hand clasped securely in his, Eden bounded on board. Something she’d done without assistance more times than she could remember. But Adams was feeling helpless enough. If the observance of this small courtliness eased even a second of his frustration, what would it hurt if she played the lady to his gallant gentleman?
Desperately determined not to go where the truth of that question might lead, once she regained her equilibrium, Eden assumed the routine duties of crewman. Keeping her gaze from him, not daring to allow even a moment of admiration for his dark masculinity, she dealt skillfully and almost too diligently with lines and rigging.
Once the sloop was ready and all gear stowed away, Eden offered him the helm. First as a boy, then a teen and finally, briefly, as a young man, Adams had navigated this course regularly. So regularly he could have done it in his sleep. But through the years, battered by time and tide and the occasional hurricane, the river’s path had altered. On a hand-drawn chart kept scrupulously current, Eden traced the best route, pointing out snags and shoals and nesting grounds.
Then, with all things in order and sails aloft, there was nothing for her to do but sit back and leave the navigation to Adams. Leaning on the coaming, her cheek resting on her folded arms, she watched the river and Adams, hoping the changes in the channel would offer the challenge he needed.
At first there was a sense of ferocity in him. An intensity that made him impatient and awkward. A silent anger that knotted his shoulders and set his teeth grinding with the force of a vice. Once he’d played the current like a virtuoso, now he fought its quirks, rather than used them. He was a man at war, not the man who loved the sea.
Eden watched and hurt for him. There were times she yearned to help, to advise or make suggestions. But even on the verge of despair, she said nothing.
He was like a long-distance runner learning to walk a rutted road when what he wanted and needed was to race the wind.
For a while bitter impatience continued to defeat him. Then the ferocity faded. Intensity ebbed. Teeth unclenched and muscles began to flow in perfect coordination beneath the smooth, dark skin.
Gradually, with the return of remembered skills, the river and the subtle tranquillity of sailing worked their magic. The restlessness gathered within him like a wild tumult slowly quieted. Impatience turned to resolution, awkwardness to agility. Adams’ love for the savannahs, the tidelands and the sea was reborn.
For Eden, watching the transformation was like stepping back in time. If only for a little while. If only for this day.
He didn’t speak. Neither did she. But it became the silence of peace, of old friends reliving treasured times. Once he pointed out an eagle high above the river on the loneliest part of the channel. Eden remembered there had been no eagles in this part of the low country when he’d been taken from her. But fearful of breaking the spell, she would wait for another time to explain that now nearly a dozen of the majestic birds hunted the river.
There were other sightings. Deer with new fawns. Turtles sunning on limbs jutting above the surface of the river. Gators, as still as carved images, lying in wait for careless prey.
Even a shy wood stork posed for his pleasure. The gangly, comical bird was followed by grace personified—a flock of egrets, shining in the sun like polished ivory.
With each discovery, Eden saw his pleasure mounting, the troubles of his mind easing. Minute by minute the rigid perfection he’d worn like a shield was easing. And Eden knew that no matter what it might hold for her, she would never regret this journey.
They were moving smoothly now. Soon the channel broadened as it spilled into the estuary. In deeper water, as billowing sails ca
ught the sea breezes, the River Lady sped along almost unattended. And Adams relaxed for the first time in years.
Nothing had changed. His father was still desperately ill, he was still an ex-con, still a disgrace to his family, and it was still likely he would never see Belle Reve again. He knew he couldn’t forget, but he could ignore the heartache for the duration of the sail.
With a what-the-hell grin, he shucked his shirt, drew a ball cap from the back pocket of his shorts and angled it low over his forehead. Daring the wind to sweep it away, grasping the wheel again, he set the final course for Summer Island.
As the Lady skimmed through the surf, at starboard miles of calm, empty sea stretched endlessly, with distant white caps gleaming against an azure horizon. Port side, barrier island after barrier island slipped by with white sand sparkling like snow and jutting dunes overgrown with swaying sea oats.
One by one the sloop skimmed along their shores. One by one it passed them by, until they lay in the wake like a string of jewels.
Adams recalled that there were sixty-odd charted islands scattered along the coast bordering the outskirts of Belle Terre. Some were inhabited. Most were not. If tide and storm surges had been kind, Summer Island would be among the larger land masses.
With the tarnish of grief and guilt falling from his eyes, for the first time Adams realized that in the low country, spring had begun the first of its evolution into summer. In a matter of a week, the sun was brighter, the days warmer. The sea was bluer, the colors of the earth more intense. In salt-laden breezes whipping the sails and teasing his skin, there lay the whispered promise of lazy summer days to come.
“If only…” he murmured, then shook away the ache of nostalgia. He wouldn’t be here in summer, when the days moved like warm, sweet honey, and the nights were magic in indigo. He couldn’t be. But he wouldn’t let regret for what he couldn’t have destroy what he had.
What he had was this day. A day with Eden and the promises of a lady called Spring.
There was tranquillity in her promises, and with them a contentment that was contagious. All he was feeling was in the exuberance of the smile he flashed over his shoulder at Eden. And in the silent invitation in the hand he extended to her.
