by BJ James
The denial echoed in his mind. If there was another man in her life, she would never have made love with him.
“Indeed, he has. I’m thankful it was him.” Sadness had flown from Eden. Now her smile was natural and unforced.
“One wonders why,” Adams mused.
“When you see him, you’ll know.”
By Adams’ calculations, the walk to the gatehouse was less than two miles. If this innovation wasn’t exactly at the midpoint of the landmass, it didn’t miss by far. Their way had been meandering and filled with interruptions, as he lingered here and there to marvel at the changes.
“When we came here as kids, there were only two homes. Now there are six. But given the surge in buying and selling coastal properties, I suppose it’s good fortune there are only six.”
“McGregor is responsible for preserving the island as it is,” Eden said as she scuffed along in heated sand, enjoying the familiar rasp of it against her toes and heels.
“McGregor, king of low-country asphalt?” Adams looked down at her as she strolled by his side. Contrary to her teasing, she’d slipped into the terry dress he’d rescued from the tide.
“He may be king of asphalt, but he fought hardest to ban it on Summer Island. In fact, he sees to the maintenance of the old shell path that winds through the dunes and along the shore.”
“It traverses the length of the island as it always did?” The path of shells—or road of shells, as some called it—was one of the attractions that had drawn Adams and his brothers to the island in the few lazy days of summer Gus allowed them. Though most of the houses were fairly new by area standards, the path had meandered among the dunes for as long as anyone could remember.
Scholars touted it as the work of ancient natives. Perhaps the Chicora, who were known to congregate on the beaches as early as the sixteenth century. To hunt, to fish, to gather the plentiful oysters, clams and mussels.
A number of shell rings built of their rubble still survived centuries later. Even as a boy playing pirates and Indians on this lonely shore, Adams had wanted to believe the path was a part of that history. He wanted to believe it now.
“It remains the only thoroughfare reaching from one tip of the island to the other,” Eden explained. “McGregor fought the only plan for a modern road, and he tends the old one with the greatest care. An unusually high or rough tide, or a hint of a storm, and he’s here with his crew, making the necessary repairs.”
Scooping up a sand dollar, she dropped it in the pocket of her dress. “The shell base must be quite deep, in all the years I’ve been back in Belle Terre, his repairs have been minimal. Accretion along the shore hasn’t hurt in that respect.”
“Who decided there would be only six houses?” Adams asked as he caught her hand in his. “Dare I suggest McGregor?”
Eden was breathlessly aware of her palm nestled in his and of the gentle strength in the fingers that held hers willingly captive. The same strength that had borne her to the deck of Sea Watch. The gentleness that had guarded his lovemaking.
Caught in her reverie, she lost the thread of conversation. But his clasp tightening drew her back to the present. As he led her past a fallen palmetto washed from another shore, she remembered Adams’ question. “When an investor known for overdeveloping properties started poking around the island, McGregor swooped in and bought all the available land on both sides of the river. Then, with a plan for the preservation of the island, he began a limited development of his own.”
“A very limited and preserving development, indeed,” Adams observed. “Only six houses scattered over three or more miles of beach, with a ferocious, mysterious guard at the gate.”
Eden chuckled at Adams’ description of the guard. “I’ll tell him you called him ferocious. It will make his day.”
“Not exactly Arnold Schwarz-his-name, I take it?”
“Hardly,” Eden agreed. “But he’s quite good at his job.”
Pulling her hand from his, she dashed to the water’s edge. Once again she caught a shell tumbling in the surf. After inspecting it carefully, she held it out to him. “Perfect.”
The perfect find was an angel wing, both arcing shells still attached by the fragile membrane. A rare find, looking exactly like the lost wings of a tiny angel.
“A beauty,” Adams murmured with scarcely a glance at her treasure. For she was the beauty, her face alight with the pleasure of her discovery. As she stood with the surf swirling about her ankles, a breeze that traversed the shore from land to sea molded the terry fabric of her dress to her. In the subtle swirl, the sensible garment became as provocative as the most revealing satin or lace. It didn’t help Adams’ physical state one bit to remember that beneath the cloth clinging to the rise of her breasts and the line of her hips and thighs, she was as naked as the image he carried in his mind.
God help him, he was two men in one where Eden was concerned. There was the irrational one, who thought only of his own needs. Who wanted to tear the dress from her that he might see her, every splendid inch, leaving nothing to be imagined. The madman who wanted to touch her, caress her and bear her down with him to the surf, in the sand, as if it was the first time.
And there was the man of reason, who struggled against his desire and the lust that burned like a flame. A man who realized there was no future for Eden with him. She was too civilized for a hardened ex-con. Too fragile for a brief affair with a man without a home. A man exiled from all he loved.
Yet every argument the reasonable side of Adams Cade offered, none had kept him from making love to her. None kept him from wanting her now.
“Dammit, Adams Cade, you made love to her once before and left her. This time can be no different.” The condemning curse was muffled by the whisper of the surf. “Think of what’s best for her. Twice was twice too much. Don’t make it a third time, or a fourth.”
“I’ll leave this here while we make our visit, then pick it up on the way back to Sea Watch.” Eden laid the shell carefully on the palmetto. Unaware of his muttered turmoil, her smile was tender. “This will be the best of my collection. You’re my lucky charm, Adams. It was because of you that I found it.”
“I’m not anybody’s good luck,” Adams denied shortly. “Especially not yours.”
“You’re angry.” The light in Eden’s gaze faded.
He took her hand back into his, wishing he could undo so many things. Wishing he was a different man, a better man. The man Eden thought him. “I’m not angry. At least not at you.”
“Then what’s wrong?” Had he remembered that in mutual and wild sexual need she’d stumbled over his question of protection? She wanted to explain about Nicholas. She needed to explain her strange, tragic marriage—and the mindless, unthinking risk a woman who might be barren had taken today in a moment of ecstasy.
But not on a day that had been all she’d dreamed a day with Adams could be. Surely the truth could wait.
“Nothing’s wrong. Just a mood.” He strove for a contrite grin. “I do have them, you know. As recently as this morning, if you’ll remember.”
“A mood.” Doubt scored her face. “And you aren’t angry.”
“Never at you.” Looping an arm around her, he drew her to his side. Burying his lips in her windblown hair, he whispered, “Let’s put this behind us, visit your friend and go home.”
Home. A word Adams avoided. Eden wondered if he was aware he’d called Belle Terre, even River Walk, the forbidden name.
Hoping that was a sign he’d grown comfortable there with her, Eden wrapped an arm around his waist. Nestled within his embrace, she walked with him to the bridge.
“Quite a structure.” Adams paused between the rambling lawns of the houses flanking the entrance to the island. Except for the view from a few docks on the riverside, this was the best perspective of the bridge. “Not exactly what I expected.”
“Everyone who owns a house here lives in Belle Terre. Some come by car, some by launch. Most sail. No one wanted the
hassle of a drawbridge. So…” Eden indicated the handsome combination of steel and concrete embellished by carvings of stone. “On misty days it looks like a fairy’s path, beginning and ending in clouds. The gatekeeper’s cottage is small, but as well-done.”
“So the mystery man lives in comfort?”
“As comfortable as he can be.” Leaving Adams to interpret her comment as he would, Eden led him onto the bridge.
At the highest point of the arch he stopped her. Looking down on the swiftly moving current, he asked, “Do you remember when we jumped off the old wooden bridge that stood here?”
“And ended up knee-deep in silt?” Leaning against a stone figure, Eden looked back at the island. “That was the first time you let me come with you. Jumping from the bridge was a test. To scare me off.”
“Nothing scared Robbie, did it?”
“I was scared. I just wouldn’t show it.”
“And now, Eden?”
“Hello, on the bridge.” The voice, soft and Southern, but laced with the ring of authority, cut neatly through his question.
The elderly man hobbled toward them. “Eden, is that you?”
“Yes, Hobie.” She faced the guard. “I’ve brought someone to see you.”
The old man lurched forward a pace, his faded gaze peering, when Adams said in fond recognition, “Hello, Mr. Verey.”
“Adams?” Hobie took another step. “Adams Cade?”
“Yes, sir. Adams.”
“Well, damn boy.” Hobie grabbed the hand Adams offered, pumping it vigorously. “It’s about time you came home.”
“This isn’t home, Mr. Verey. Not anymore,” Adams said as Hobie stepped back a pace. “I’ve only come for a visit.”
“Whatever your reason, it’s good for these old eyes to see you.” Hobie shrugged away Adams’ explanation. “Come on over to the gatehouse for a real visit. I’ve just made a brand-new pitcher of lemonade. Too much for me, since Tessa’s not here.”
The old man didn’t wait for an acceptance. He simply stumped away, as if he never doubted Eden and Adams would follow.
“Once you spoke, I knew it was you. Would have known it blindfolded. None of the boys but the Cades called me Mister. It’s a known fact none of the Cades would be mistaken for each other.” With a sigh, Hobie leaned his hunched, arthritic back against the faded upholstery of his lounge chair.
Drawing an easing breath, he spoke with renewed vigor. “No siree, I don’t think I’ve ever seen four brothers so different or so alike. In some ways Gus did good by you boys. In most he was a damned fool.”
Adams and Eden listened, sipping lemonade and nibbling chocolate-chip cookies Kate O’Hara had baked. They said very little as Hobie Verey rambled and reminisced.
The old man was lonely and he was very fond of Adams.
“I always knew there was something fishy about the night Junior Rabb got his skull cracked. Not your style, Adams. In all your brawling days, you never hit a man from behind. A dozen witnesses would testify to that. But you never said a word, did you? Not one word in your own defense during the whole trial.”
Slowing for another breath, then taking a sip of lemonade, Hobie patted Adams’ knee. “Mayhap, now that you’re home, you can spend some time setting the record straight.”
“There’s nothing to set straight, Mr. Verey,” Adams said. “It was set straight as it needs to be thirteen years ago.”
Hobie Verey turned a suddenly keen and piercing gaze on Adams. “You mean as straight as you want it to be, don’t you?”
“No, sir.” Adams put his lemonade aside. “I meant it exactly as I said it. Everything about that night is as straight as it needs to be.” His voice softened. “But I thank you for your confidence and trust, however misplaced it is.”
“Ain’t a case of misplaced trust,” Hobie said as softly. “Just another Cade too stubborn for his own good. You need to stay, do what’s right for yourself and this little girl.”
Looking over the spectacles he’d perched on his nose when they’d come inside the cottage, he sent a stern look at Eden. “Now that you’re older and, I hope, wiser, I assume you choose more suitable places than my favorite fishing hole to go skinny-dipping.”
Eden laughed, even as she blushed. “Now that I know which is your favorite, I do.”
Hobie’s spectacles slipped lower as he raised his brows. “Impudent chit. I suppose that means you do still skinny-dip.”
“Every chance I get.” Eden had left her chair. She leaned over Hobie to kiss his balding head. “Every single chance I get.”
“Then I suggest you beware of this scalawag.”
“Oh, I will, Hobie. I will.” Another kiss fell on his scalp. “Just not too much.”
“That’s good, then.” Hobie didn’t try to rise. He made no excuses to Eden for the lack of old-world courtesy once so much a part of him. She, better than most, understood his crippling arthritis. “Just remember, he’s a good lad. No matter what folks say he’s done or what blame he’s taken, he’s a good lad.” Hobie’s grimace was painful. “Gus Cade’s a fool. Anyone else would welcome such a son home with open arms. No matter what he claims to have done.” The old man’s faded gaze turned piercing once more as it lifted one last time to meet Adams’. “Especially for what he claims to have done.”
Adams said nothing for a moment as he stepped forward and laid a hand on the thin shoulder, so frail and misshapen beneath the immaculate uniform. “Thank you, Hobie. I’ll never forget that you believed in me.”
“Don’t thank me for the truth.” Shaking off the belligerence he used as a shield, as his farewell Hobie murmured, “Come back again, Adams. Before you go. If you go.”
The walk back down the beach was subdued and silent, each lost in thought, considering Hobie’s comments. By unspoken agreement and because the hour was growing late, together they gathered up their gear. And while Eden checked on the house, Adams stowed it away on the River Lady.
He was sitting at the helm, his face carefully without expression, when she jogged to the dock. The sloop was under sail and well on her way to the inn, when Eden spoke.
“You were always his favorite.”
“Hobie?” Adams didn’t look away from the channel as he navigated a tight turn. “I know.”
“He’s never thought you were capable of harming Junior Rabb unprovoked or provoked. He still won’t.”
“When a gentleman like Hobie Verey has a soft spot for someone, he never gives up.”
“Neither do I, Adams.” There were unanswered questions in her voice and in her eyes.
Questions, Adams knew, she wouldn’t ask.
“I know,” he murmured softly, and held out his hand to her.
When she twined her fingers with his, he pulled her close. She smelled of sea mist and sunshine. And underneath it, something exquisitely exotic, something he couldn’t define but had come to accept as another enchanting part of her.
As he held her, breathing the mysterious scent, the terry sundress was as nothing beneath the caress of his fingertips. That she had come so naturally into his arms made him ache with need. Made him want to find a quiet cove, anchor the Lady just offshore and spend the night making love to her.
Yes, he’d made love to her already. And restraining himself at this late date didn’t mitigate the sinfulness of his heedless greed. But he hoped one thoughtful, final abstinence would make the inevitable parting easier. At least for Eden.
Please, Adams prayed, at least for Eden.
The remainder of their journey was spent in a silent embrace. The sloop was making the last turn that would bring the inn into sight when he leaned toward Eden, his arms tightening about her as he whispered, “No matter what happens to me, no matter where I go, I’ll never forget you, or this day.”
Eden knew then that he wouldn’t do as Hobie asked. As soon as the problem with Gus Cade health was resolved, no matter what the resolution, Adams would leave Belle Terre.
For Eden the air was suddenly
cloying and damp. The threat of a gathering storm lay heavy in the night. And everything was changed.
Adams had been a gentle, considerate lover, but consummate and complete. She ached from head to toe. A sweet ache. A guilty ache. An added complication to his life. Eden couldn’t believe what she’d done, that she’d been such a wanton. Teasing him, seducing him with the beguiling peace and contentment of Summer Island.
Had she planned this day? In her secret thoughts had she schemed to steal another passionate liaison to hold like a precious memory in her heart? Was creating a memory the worst of what she’d done?
Eden didn’t know. She couldn’t think. Doubt made her fearful of the truth and guilty for the complication she might have added to Adams’ life. Yet beneath the guilt there was the bittersweet truth that, for a little while, Adams had loved her.
Nothing could take that away from her. Not guilt, not doubt. Adams would weather what he must, as he must, with the uncommon strength of a man who had been tested by fire. Then he would go. He would be safe. He would be free.
Eden would be left with a secret joy nothing could sully.
But as the River Lady negotiated the final twist of the channel and Adams guided her with an expert hand to the dock of the inn, a grim welcoming committee awaited them. One that swept both joy and guilt and dreams from her mind.
As her bleak gaze moved from the stony faces of Jefferson, Jackson and Lincoln, then finally returned to Adams, a shuddering wave of dark premonition descended over her.
“It’s bad.” She heard Jefferson say in a low and urgent voice as he reached from the dock to clasp Adams’ outstretched hand. “He’s asking for you.”
Five
Belle Reve. Beautiful dream.
Drawing his horse to a halt at the end of an avenue of live oaks, Adams Cade looped the reins around his fingers and leaned on the pommel. As he looked around, he drew a deep breath, catching the scent of flowers. On a breeze, mingled with the familiar incense of the marsh and the river beyond, lay memories of stories he’d heard all his life.
