Tides of Love (Seaswept Seduction Series)

by Sumner, Tracy

  "Now wait a blessed minute."

  Savannah glanced up as Zach's shadow flooded over them. Bits of dust drifted through the wide beam of sunlight he stood in, softening the intensity of his displeasure. No matter his inflexibility, the man was attractive, she thought.

  "A problem, Constable?"

  "You're damn right there's a problem."

  A soft gasp had him bowing slightly and frowning harder. "Beg pardon, Miss Lydia. I apologize for the language, but this doesn't concern you." He swung Savannah around on the desk, her knees banging his as he crouched before her, bringing their eyes level. "It concerns you, and I remember telling you I wasn't putting up with this foolishness." He stabbed his finger against his chest. "Not in my town."

  She drew a covert breath. Traces of manual labor and the faintest scent of cinnamon circled him. Savannah valued hard work above all else and never minded a man who confirmed he valued it as well, even if he smelled less than soap-fresh and his palms were a bit rough. Forcing her mind to the issue at hand, she asked, "Are we prohibited from visiting the factory, Constable?"

  "After today, you better believe you are."

  She arched a brow, a trick she had practiced before the mirror for months until it alone exemplified frosty indifference. "My colleagues, Miss Templeton and Miss Rutherford, will attend in my absence, then."

  "No."

  She scooted forward until the stubble dotting his rigid jaw filled her vision. "You can't stop them and you know it. In fact, I'm fairly certain you cannot stop me without filing paperwork barring me from Mr. Carter's property. That takes time and signatures, rounding up witnesses to the dispute. However, I'm willing to forgo this meeting. During the initial phase at any rate. For everyone's comfort."

  Sliding back the inch she needed to pull their knees apart, she decided that for all Zachariah Garrett's irritability—a trait she abhorred in a man—he smelled far, far too tempting to risk touching during negotiations. "Don't challenge my generosity, Mr. Garrett. You won't get more."

  "Are you daring me to do something, Miss Connor? Because I will, I tell you."

  "Consider it a gracious request."

  "You can take your gracious request and stick it...." Jamming his hands atop his knees, he rose to his feet. "Miss Lydia, will you excuse us a moment?"

  Lydia cleared her throat and backed up two steps. Before she left, she looked at Savannah and smiled, her eyes bright with excitement. Savannah returned the smile, knowing she had won that series if nothing else.

  "You must be crazy," Zach said the moment the door closed. "Look at the blood on your dress, the scrapes on your hands. Do you want Miss Lydia to suffer the same? The things you want her to experience are things her father has purposely kept her from experiencing and for a damn good reason."

  She gazed at the torn skin on her hands and the traces of blood on her skirt as she heard him begin to pace the narrow confines of the office. "It's a mockery to talk of sheltering women from life's fierce storms, Constable. Do you believe the ones who work twelve-hour days in that factory are too weak to weather the emotional stress of a political campaign? Do you believe Lydia cannot support a belief that runs counter to her father's? A child is not a replica of the parent. The sexes, excuse my frankness, do not have the same challenges in life."

  Watching him, his hands buried in his pockets—to keep from circling her neck she supposed—she couldn't help but marvel at the curious mix of Southern courtesy and male arrogance, the natural assumption he shouldered of being lawfully in control. "Engaging in a moral battle isn't always hazardous to one's health, you know."

  "Doesn't look like it's doing wonders for yours."

  "Saints be praised, it can actually be rewarding."

  Looking over his shoulder, he halted in the middle of the room. "Irish."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "You. Irish. The green eyes, the tiny bit of red in your hair. Is Connor your real name?"

  "Yes, why," she said, stammering. Oh, hell. "Of course."

  "Liar."

  She felt the slow, hot roll of color cross her cheeks. "What could that possibly have to do with anything?"

  "I don't know, but I have a feeling it means something. It's the first thing I've heard come out of that sassy mouth of yours that didn't sound like some damned speech." He tapped his head, starting to pace again. "What I wonder is, where are you in there?"

  "I'm right here. Reasonable and... and judicious. Driven perhaps but not sassy, never sassy."

  "You're full of piss and vinegar, all right. And some powerful determination to cause me problems when I have more than I can handle." He halted in the middle of the room. "And here I thought Ellie was difficult. Opening that woman's school and teaching God knows what in that shed behind Widow Wynne's, putting husbands and fathers in an uproar. Now you're here, and it's ten times worse than it ever was before."

  "Do women have to roll over like a dog begging for a scratch for men to value them?"

  "That and a pretty face work well enough for me."

  She hopped to her feet, her skirt slapping the desk. "You insufferable toad."

  "Better that than a reckless nuisance."

  "There's nothing wrong with feeling passionate about freedom, Constable Garrett. And I plan to let every woman in this town know it."

  "If it means causing the kind of scene you caused today, you'll have to go through me first."

  Savannah laughed, wishing it hadn't come out sounding so much like a cackle. "I've heard that several hundred times in the past. With no result, I might add."

  "Guess you have." Halting before a tall cabinet scarred in more places than not, he went up on the toes of his boots and came back with a bottle. Another reach earned a glass. "With thirteen detentions, I can't say I'm surprised." She watched him pour a precise measure, tilt his head, and throw it back. "Did any of them happen to figure out you were working Irish underneath the prissy clothes and snooty manners?"

  She lowered her chin, quickly, before he could spotlight her distress. Working Irish. A term she hadn't heard in years. Every horrible trait she possessed—willfulness, callousness, condescension—her father said came from the dirty Irish blood flowing through her veins. Her mother had been the immigrant who had trapped him in an unhappy marriage.

  A marriage beneath his station, thank you very much.

  And he had never let his family forget it.

  "Would you like a medal for your perspicacious deduction, Constable?" she asked when she'd regained her composure.

  He laughed and saluted her with his glass. "Heck, I don't even know what that means."

  "Astute, Constable. Which you are. Surprisingly so." She closed the distance between them and took the glass from his clenched fist, ignoring the warmth of his skin when their fingers touched.

  "May I?" she asked and drained the rest, liquid fire burning its way down. Looking at him from beneath her lashes, she smiled. "The Irish like the taste of whiskey on their tongues, did you know that? O'Connor was my mother's maiden name. Her grandfather changed it to Connor when he came through Ellis Island. When my father asked me to vacate his home the first time, I claimed the name because he said if I must disgrace the family, I could disgrace her side of it. So I did."

  She handed the glass back. "Now that you know one of my secrets, I should know one of yours."

  He went very still, the arm that held the bottle dropping to his side. Before he pivoted on his heel, his face revealed such wretched grief that she felt the pain like a dart through her own heart. It wasn't enough to offer an apology for the offense.

  How could she when she wasn't sure what ground she had trespassed on?

  * * *

  "After she got released from jail, we had coffee she bought specially in New York City. About the best coffee I've ever tasted, too. And these hard, bready cookies that Savannah"—Lydia cupped her hand around her mouth—"I call her that now you know, said she has to go to a place called Little Italy in New York City to buy. C
an you imagine? And I'm to be her co-leader. My goodness, I never would have thought anything this exciting would happen in Pilot Isle. Not in my lifetime."

  "Your father?" Sallie Rutherford asked in a hushed whisper, pleating her skirt with shaky fingers.

  "Oh, he'll shoot me dead when he finds out." Lydia fanned her warm cheeks, trying hard not to envision her father's certain fit of temper. "But I'm strong enough to handle him. Resilient, yes."

  "And you're still planning to go tomorrow morning?"

  She nodded. "With you."

  "Oh dear me, no. Dwight looks like he's sucking a lemon most days as it is. Do you want him to move back to his mother's for good?" Dwight Rutherford had married Sallie Smithe on the eve of his fortieth birthday and any disturbance on the calm sea of life sent him running back to his boyhood home and the welcoming arms of his mother.

  "Savannah said there's nothing wrong with helping your fellow woman, Sallie. Why should we expect the men in this town to be happy about it, can you tell me that? It's a man's world; laws are men's laws; the government a man's government. We're merely set on changing that."

  Lydia felt sure Savannah would have been pleased to hear her parroting with such accuracy.

  "Well, what about Dwight? And your father?"

  "Oh, posh." Lydia chewed the last of her iced fruitcake with renewed enthusiasm. "They can take a big old leap off Pearson's dock for all I care."

  "But the quilting meeting is—"

  "Hang Nora and her weekly quilting meeting! I need you to get past the men your uncle will undoubtedly have guarding the gate. Plus, he won't curse too much with you in the room." Lydia dipped her linen napkin in a finger bowl on the table and patted the cool cloth against her lips. She ignored the beads of perspiration rolling down her back. Insufferable summers. "After the historical society calamity last year, you owe me. How can you even consider refusing?"

  "Why, I never," Sallie sputtered with all the indignation of an affronted peacock.

  Lydia drew a deep breath, testing the air to see if the roast she was cooking for dinner needed checking. "Savannah's going to unpack the rest of her belongings today. Books, pamphlets, materials to make signs. Paint and paper, all the way from New York. She also has badges for us to wear. Red with the words Freedom Fighter in gold emblazed across it."

  "Gold?"

  "If you help us with this, you'll be a bona fide member of the Pilot Isle Ladies Freedom Fighters."

  "My...." Sallie sank back against the plump cushions, a wistful look entering her eyes.

  Lydia released a pent-up sigh, less frightened than good sense should allow she knew. Savannah and the rally and the chance to live life for herself just this once was too rare an opportunity to let slip away. Besides, Zach Garrett wouldn't let them dilly-dally for more than a day or two.

  She needed to have her amusement now.

  "I'll do it," Sallie surprised her by saying, quite clearly and without additional arm-twisting.

  Lydia clapped her hands and giggled, giddy to the tips of her patent leather boots. "That is fine news. I'm thrilled and relieved. Gracious, now that that's settled, I must tell you what else happened at the jail. I shouldn't, but I simply must."

  Sallie vaulted to a rigid position, eager for gossip.

  "I really shouldn't say—"

  "Oh no, please do! It's been so dull around here since Noah Garrett ran off with that crazy Elle Beaumont."

  Too true, Lydia thought. The entire town had hungrily monitored the antics of Zach's youngest brother and Elle Beaumont, who, eccentric as she seemed to be, had snared the man she'd wanted since long before anyone could remember differently. It made her think of... well, today, at the jail, the way Zach had looked at Savannah, just for a hint of a moment when he thought no one was looking.

  Not with interest, no, no, no. More as though he had been wound up like one of those new-fangled toys she'd seen in the window of Dillon's Goods in Raleigh.

  Agitated was a good word for it. Which was all well and fine because women often roused men to a fever pitch.

  Everyone knew that. It was just the way life operated.

  Except it never seemed to operate like that for Zachariah Garrett. Even when his beloved wife was alive, he'd been calm and capable and strong. Why, if Lydia felt half a heart in love with him it was because she'd never witnessed anything but calm, capable, strong Constable Garrett.

  She had never seen him agitated. Never.

  Lydia wouldn't have guessed he had it in him.

  Maybe there was something to this independence craze if it made a man sit up and take notice.

  "Of course, this cannot go any further than this parlor," she finally said, tucking a wisp of damp hair beneath her bonnet. "And again, I shouldn't say, but I have to tell you that I've never seen such fire in Constable Garrett's eyes as I did today."

  "Fire? Zach Garrett?" Sallie swallowed a bite of iced fruitcake too quickly and choked. "Are... are you sure? Why, he's so collected."

  "Without a doubt. Fire," Lydia assured her friend. "And Savannah Connor lit the match."

  Chapter 2

  Remember, all men would be tyrants if they could.

  ~Abigail Adams

  Having dinner at Constable Garrett's home the day after her detention, as he so elegantly referred to it, was the last thing Savannah wanted to do.

  The very last, she amended as she leaned her bicycle against the front gate and did a quick review to make sure her clothing was in order. Damp from the ride, certainly, but in order. The evening promised to be awful enough without realizing midway through dinner that a bunched-up jacket had exposed the waistband of her bloomers to the constable's critical eye.

  She lifted the covered plate from the bicycle's basket and started up the brick path, the front door looming before her. She halted at the bottom of the porch stairs long enough to record the sound of crickets in the bush beside her, and in the distance, the rhythmic slap of waves against the shore. A peaceful place, Pilot Isle, beautiful and serene. If she didn't know herself better, she might imagine settling down in a town like this.

  She sighed, and stood straight and tall. It made no sense to wait for a measure of comfort that clearly wasn't going to show.

  Her first knock was more forceful than necessary. The second sounded about right.

  "Ma'am?"

  She looked down as the door swung wide... and her heart dropped.

  Constable Garrett's son. The boy was thin, towheaded, and smiling fiercely. The kind of smile that spoke of capturing fireflies and dipping your toe in muddy puddles. Innocence of a kind Savannah didn't remember and felt supremely uncomfortable being around.

  "Coming in?"

  "Why, yes, I am," Savannah said and edged around him. "Rory, isn't it?"

  "Yep," he replied around a mouthful of what looked to be yellow taffy. A scruffy-looking dog stood idle guard just behind him. "Everybody's here already, in the kitchen. Smell that? It's collards. They're good, but they stink." He closed the door and gave her a little nudge down the hallway. "Pa said I could have a piece of candy before supper if I promised to eat all my string beans. Don't you reckon that's fair?"

  Savannah halted beside a glowing gaslight. In return, Rory paused, tilting his head back and gazing at her through eyes identical to his father's. "Don't you reckon, huh?"

  "Yes, well...."

  "Pa said you don't fight fair, but you sure look like you do to me."

  Savannah laughed softly, not bothering to cover it behind her hand.

  And surprise of surprises, Rory laughed with her. When of course he had no idea what she found so amusing.

  It felt, for the moment, somewhat comfortable. A new experience for a woman who had never had the opportunity to be around children.

  The kitchen was warm and sweet-smelling, even with the underlying sour odor of cooking greens. The windows were open, yellow curtains with tiny daisies sucking in and out like a deep breath. Savannah stood on the threshold as long as she dared, lett
ing Rory take the dish from her hands.

  The scene shattered quite a few preconceived notions, starting with the revelation that her best friend, Marielle-Claire Garrett, a dedicated activist, was happily married. To a man unrelated to the cause. A professor of marine science, no less.

  In fact, Elle lay sprawled on her husband's lap, his arms wrapped round her waist as she struggled to rise. She laughed and punched his shoulder, fairly glowing with love. He grabbed her apron as she got to her feet and tugged, forcing her to bend for a light kiss.

  So it was true: she was happy.

  Savannah glanced around the room and zeroed in on her nemesis. Zachariah too had an apron tied around his waist, one lined with pink rosettes and yellow stitching. In his hand he held a spatula, which he used to flip cornbread cakes and accentuate every third word or so. Hair a shade too long flicked his collar as he looked down when Rory slid Savannah's apple pie along the counter at his hip.

  Zach glanced back then and caught her staring.

  And stared back.

  He had a smudge of flour on the tip of his nose, a streak of it on his cheek. His clothes were pressed; Sunday attire, she guessed. His hair, black as night, shone from a recent combing. Had he actually dressed up for this evening? He must love Elle something awful, Savannah surmised.

  She shifted from one foot to the other, hating to acknowledge what the sight of him, surrounded by his family and standing in a kitchen that smelled so wonderful it made her yearn, did to her insides.

  "Constable." She moved toward a table scattered with an assortment of pots, pans, and toys, making sure to keep her distance and her composure.

  "Miss Connor," he said, the twist in his smile letting her know what he thought of their spending an evening together. In his home, with his son.

  No more than she thought, which she would thoroughly enjoy telling him. Except that Elle had planned this evening to introduce Savannah to everyone in her new family, and as a friend, Savannah must follow through.

  She glanced in Elle's direction, discomfited to find all eyes trained upon her.

  And upon Constable Garrett.