by Tracy Sumner
"Home? Mother?" Annie scooted forward on her bottom, her gaze seeking, searching. A thin band of light slashed her face, highlighting the darkening circle around her eye and the streak of blood on her chin. A brawny fist had matted her hair close to her head. She rested a hand on her protruding belly, glanced at Noah, and whispered, "I had to run, Professor. My baby. He'll kill my baby."
Noah's fingers curled into a fist behind his back, but the hand he offered Annie did not so much as quiver. "Of course, you did. Come on, now. You're not doing the baby any good sitting here on a cold, damp floor." With careful movements, he lifted Annie's tattered shawl from her waist to her shoulders. "Elle brought clean clothes for you to change into. Come upstairs. I'll light the parlor stove, warm it up, nice and safe." Moving prudently, he leaned in, slipped his arms beneath her. "I won't hurt you," he whispered, lifting her high against his chest.
Elle stepped aside as he maneuvered his swaddled bundle through the doorway. She mounted the staircase, searching the overgrown shrubs for a wild-eyed man with whiskey on his breath. At the top, she rushed inside and slammed the door, flipping the metal latch. Crossing the room, she watched Noah brush a pile of papers to the floor and settle Annie in a towering leather chair. The girl's bones seemed to melt, and she slithered to a half sit, head lolling, arms dangling.
Elle knelt before her, tucking a lock of hair behind Annie's ear. "Noah?"
He appeared by her side, light from the gas lamp in his hand shimming in his pupils. "I have few medical supplies here. Do you think I should get Dr. Leland?"
Unchecked, she flicked a glance at his right hand, the knuckles marred by gashes from Magnus's teeth. "No, um, I don't think Annie would want to involve him. I can handle this."
"Fine. What do you need?"
"Blankets, a towel, soap, water." With a gentle touch, she probed the swollen skin circling Annie's eye. "Liniment?" she asked, catching his gaze.
He paused, reviewing the list in his mind, then nodded. Placing the lamp on the desk at her side, he left the room.
Elle tugged Annie's ruined dress from her shoulders and hurled the rag to the floor. The one she had snatched from the clothesline would hang on her student's gaunt frame but at least it was dry. And absent of bloodstains. Elle swallowed her rage, lightening her touch as she slipped the peach cotton over Annie's head and smoothed the material past her thickening waist. She finished securing the bone buttons, then chafed her Annie's hands until her own stung, pleased to hear the girl's whimpers quiet to soft mews.
Noah reentered, a serving tray in his hands, a frayed towel looped over his arm, the scent of coffee clinging to him. He shoved the towel and tray at her. In a moment, he returned with a patchwork quilt, which he wasted no time in tucking around Annie. Forcing her to drink the coffee, Elle heard drawers being opened and turned to find Noah standing behind his desk, raising a corked bottle like a trophy.
"Got it." The flickering light reflected red-gold on the metal instruments and glass beakers cluttering his desk, blue-black on the tidal charts and detailed oceanographic maps tacked in neat alignment to the wall behind him. "Alcohol." He thrust the bottle toward her. "I couldn't find liniment."
Setting the mug aside, Elle jerked the cork loose and soaked the grayed edge of the towel, the sharp scent stinging her nose as she swabbed Annie's lacerated skin. Using the soap and water Noah had provided, she washed Annie's face, her neck, her arms and hands, slipped the ribbon from her own hair and secured the girl's in a damp lump. Abrasions doctored, she forced Annie to drink the rest of the coffee. The girl blinked sleepily, winced in pain, then slid into a restive slumber.
Rain began to plink against the window, a comforting distraction. Elle glanced at Noah, who sat quietly by her side. His calm facade didn't fool her in the least. His unlaced leather boot tapped in rhythm to the mantel clock, and his breathing sounded harsher than required when sitting still. Arms hooked around the back of the chair he straddled, a pad of paper in one hand, a gold-tipped fountain pen in the other, he frowned in concentration and scribbled, paused. Light bounced off his spectacle lenses as he tilted his head to stare at her through round wire rims. His gaze was thoughtful and shrewd... and held the slightest edge of anger.
He'd collected himself, she noted, taking a hasty sip of Annie's coffee. Hair finger-straightened and shoved off his brow, wrinkled shirt buttoned and tucked in. He wore no belt. Before she looked away, she noted that his trousers were faded at the knee, frayed at the waist, and probably threadbare in the seat.
Hands shaking, she tried twice before managing to jam the bottle cork in place. Juste Ciel, for a room sealed tighter than a water cask for two years, a room that should have smelled of dust and decay, it smelled fresh and alive, of pine needles, salt air, and him. The scent swam past her defenses and made her, for a brief moment, imagine racing into Noah's arms, pressing her cheek next to his heart, her lips to the hollow beneath his ear. She wanted to accept the protection he had offered another woman and hold it close.
Making room beside an aromatic horseshoe crab carcass and a textbook opened to the last page, Elle placed the bottle on the desk. She had to remember her objective—to face Sean Duggan if he came looking for Annie. She had to handle him.
Somehow, she had to.
Giving her skirt a casual shake, Elle shoved the bloodied towel at Noah. Courage, she reminded herself, sometimes felt a great deal like fear.
"Don't even consider it." Noah yanked the towel from her and threw it to the floor.
"Consider what?"
"You're not going to wait for her husband alone." His voice lowered to a hoarse whisper as he glanced at Annie. "Look what that bastard did to his wife. Do you want him to get his hands on you? Have you completely lost what's left of your mind?"
How had he known? Frowning, she kicked the towel underneath the desk. She hated when he used undeniable logic and left her with nothing to say.
He slammed the raised legs of his chair to the floor. "Blessit, do you think I'm stupid? Do you think I would let you walk into a situation like that without, God help us both, my devoted protection?"
"Never in my life have I thought of you as stupid."
His face flushed.
Elle had to curl her fingers into a fist to keep from cupping his cheeks, the charming blush making him look all of sixteen. Her heart remembered what it felt for him then, because it started thumping eagerly, reminding her of a time when she would not have hesitated to touch him.
"So, her husband has beaten her before." He slapped the pen and paper to the floor as he straightened, lamplight playing over the muscles in his shoulders and his chest. With a gleeful flutter, Elle realized her mediocre cooking had chased some of the hard edges from his frame.
Lifting her thumb to her mouth, she nibbled the nail, directing her attention to the pad of paper sitting by his feet.
He nudged it beneath the desk with the toe of his boot. "Not the first time you've come between Annie and her husband, either, is it?"
She nibbled harder, wondering how to avoid this line of questioning. A sensible, rational explanation might do. She tilted her head. Maybe she could say—
"Quit trying to concoct a suitable reply."
Flustered, Elle promptly forgot her objective. "Twice. It's happened twice that I know of. Sean twisted her arm behind her back the first time, which left some nasty bruises on her wrist. The second"—she lowered her hand, felt a frown tug—"he split her lip, knocked a tooth out and loosened another. I begged her to go home, to her family. I offered to pay for the ticket to Atlanta. Or to let her stay with my friend Savannah, in New York, if she'd rather not go home. But Annie had just figured out she was pregnant... and he frightened her so." Sean Duggan had made threats she wasn't about to repeat to anyone—especially a man who had turned out to have a surprisingly ready temper.
When he continued to stare, she snapped, "To state this plainly, because I can see you're waiting for me to dig a ditch and crawl in, everything I've done fo
r Annie has been against her husband's wishes. Including teaching her to read and write."
Noah bumped his spectacles up, drawing his knuckles across his eyes. Laughing, he said, "Just like you to make an enemy of every bully you encounter. Congratulations. That makes two this week."
"You think I'm still that silly little girl, don't you? Getting into one predicament after another. How incredibly insulting."
"You slip into trouble as easily as a warm bath, Elle. Be insulted if you like, but yes, that's what I think."
"For your information, Professor, not every problem has a solution. Sometimes people go by gut instinct, sheer, candid emotion. Fight fires when they catch a whiff of smoke, not wait until they trip over the burning building. Maybe my actions are a tad precipitate." She bent down, jerked the towel from the floor, and snapped the cloth into sloppy folds. "But at least I know how liberating it is to act without planning every move."
He lowered his hand, the spectacles resting on his brow stark against his sun-kissed skin. His left lid sagged slightly, giving him a reckless, rakish, thoroughly undeserved air. "How liberating"—his gaze traveled the length of her and back—"does it feel, sweet?"
"Don't call me that," she said and swallowed hard. Trapped. She felt trapped, her ankles chained to the floor. When he stared at her, grave and probing, she forgot her avowals of indifference.
Damn and blast! She didn't love him, this tall, well-formed man gripping the chair with bulging knuckles, his square jaw tense with frustration. If she loved anyone, it was the boy who had wiped tears from her face and blood from her knees.
She certainly didn't love this enigmatic, unreachable man.
Sometimes, she didn't even like him.
She lifted her chin, prepared to tell him, but her lips parted and no sound passed. His expression had gone hot. She couldn't think of another way to describe it. Eyes dark as a stormy sky, nostrils flaring as they caught a scent. Her scent? His hands uncurled, and he lifted his body enough to bring their faces in line.
Her fingertips tingled, her arms inching toward him.
Noah met her halfway, his breath hitting her cheek. She made a low sound in her throat, and he stilled. Cursing once, he shoved from the chair. It rocked from side to side and finally flipped with a crash. Before she could recover, he was standing by the door, holding a coat in his hand.
"Put this on," he growled.
"But—"
"You can't go running around in"—he tossed the coat over her shoulders—"your underwear."
"I'll be back—"
"I'm going with you."
"Annie—"
"She's safe here. Safer than you are at Widow Wynne's." He grabbed a rumpled fishing hat from the hall tree and stuffed it on her head. "This door will be cinched as tight as any on Pilot Isle. I should know, I installed the lock."
She tipped the hat, glaring at him from beneath the stained brim. He glared right back. Gritting her teeth, she said, "Now look here—"
"I have the only key, Elle. I'll be watching the coach house. That bastard won't get past me. And he won't get in here, I promise you."
"But—"
"If you say no again, I'll sit on your front step and wait for him. Do you want that?"
"No, of course n—"
"Keep the hat pulled over your face." He placed his hand in the middle of her back and gave a firm shove. "All I need is for someone to observe you leaving here in the dead of night."
She stumbled onto the landing, "All... all you need? Do you think it would do wonders for me, Professor?"
He swung her to face him. "Thought we had a promise," he said, his fingers cupping her jaw. "No more. I don't want you to call me that." She watched his lips settle against his teeth, and she opened her mouth to reply.
And inhaled his breath.
A teasing scent. Peppermint.
His half smile settled into a flat line. "You don't have to agree, sweet. Just move it." He jerked the coat lapels close to her chin, took her hand, dragged her down the stairs, and across the dew-slick grass.
She stammered, French tangling with English and gibberish coming out. Noah ignored the chatter, flinging her hand from his as soon as Widow Wynne's door closed behind them. Resigned to his interference, she fought a fierce surge of anger and prayed she would get through the night without killing him.
Look what my damned illogical protectiveness has gotten me into this time, Noah thought, flicking the maroon-velvet drapery aside and glancing into a sober night.
Restless, he prowled the length of Widow Wynne's gaslit drawing room, wishing his thoughts were as surefooted as his stride. What had happened in the coach house? Definitely wasn't a belated sense of duty that had made his body heat like a skillet over a flame. He'd simply been watching the wheels in Elle's mind spin, cataloging the emotions crossing her face because he could, and then something, a tender, warm expression had sent a jolt of raw need right to his heart. Making matters worse, he'd inhaled her scent, and goddammit, leaned in to kiss her.
The longing to touch her had all but brought him to his knees.
He fingered a frayed hole in the sleeve of his shirt, distancing his mind from his body. The wind shrieked outside, rattling the windowpanes and shooting a draft of moist air across his face. He brushed his fingers past his cuffs, checking the buttons. These were work clothes, not ones he generally wore in the company of women. Then again, Elle had not even thought to throw a coat on over her nightdress. His coat—the one neither of them had the nerve to discuss—would have done well enough.
Now, blessit, she had both of his coats.
Suddenly, a vision of Annie spreading her hands over her swollen belly flashed in his mind. The smell of blood lingered in his nostrils. Returning to the window, he searched the dark street again, almost hoping for a sign of Sean Duggan. If that bastard ever got his hands on Elle, Noah would kill him. And Annie, dear God, what would happen to her if they didn't get her away from Pilot Isle? Somehow, they must. Noah had seen what years of abuse did to a woman, eroding her confidence and her dignity, leaving a vacant, pitiable shell. Caroline Bartram had denied her husband's mistreatment for years because she had felt indebted to him. Her previous occupation had not garnered many proposals, and the first one she received, she accepted. She had denied Noah's offer of assistance, until she finally understood that her husband would destroy her if she did not leave him.
Annie's situation seemed chillingly similar.
The door clicked shut, and he glanced back, releasing a relieved breath. Elle had changed into decent clothing, thank God, although the blouse looked fit for the rag box, too wash-worn to do more than cling to her lush bosom. The skirt was much the same, hanging in temptingly gentle folds from her hips. Why the hell couldn't she wear all those layers that normally kept a man from seeing a woman's true shape?
"Any sign of Sean?" she asked, her voice surprisingly controlled. He had to hand it to her—the woman was made of stern stuff.
"No." On his second pass around the parlor, he paused by the mantel, a dab of color catching his eye. "What is this?" He plucked a faded yellow ribbon from a brass hook.
"Oh, that." Elle cleared her throat and from the teasing scent invading his senses, took a step closer. "A suffrage bazaar ribbon. Widow Wynne let me put some of my things in this parlor when I moved from my father's house. He offered to keep them there but... I didn't trust him with, well, not with that."
"World's Congress of 1893, Department of Women's Progress. New York City." Noah turned the ribbon over and back. "Where did you get this?"
"At a rally."
"You've been to New York?"
Stepping forward, she took the ribbon from his hand. "I was a student delegate, not a full member."
He considered, trying to firm his slack jaw muscles. "Student?"
"Yes." Crisp as a fresh bill, no hint of inflection.
"You went to university, Elle?"
Bringing her mouth close to the mantel, she pursed her lips, a
nd blew dust from a ceramic clown figurine. "For one year." Their arms brushed; the hem of her dress flapped against his ankles. She drew a breath, and he wasn't sure if he heard it or felt it. Or both. "There was trouble at the rally"—she gestured to the ribbon—"the university called my father and... that was that."
"Trouble?"
She slipped her watch from her pocket and checked the time. "I got arrested."
"Arrested?"
She snapped the cover and returned the watch to her pocket. "For two hours. The police herded us into the rear compartment of three wagons, not much more than grocer's carts. They only quarantined us to clear the streets they said, quite apologetically. The jail cells were clean. Not bad if you ignored the things etched on the walls." She frowned, remembering something unpleasant. "And the catcalls."
"A jail? With bars?"
"Yes, a jail cell. With bars. I wasn't scared. I knew from the astounded look on the lieutenant's face that he had no idea what to do. I feared my father's reaction much more than I feared a stranger's. Silver badge or no." She turned toward the window, thrusting the velvet curtain back as he had. Then she laughed, the sound both anguished and amused. "Actually, I found the experience rather exciting. A once-in-a-lifetime event."
"You call being arrested an event?"
She rubbed a scratch on the glass and shrugged. "I can't explain it, but I felt an incredible sense of freedom. Watching the crowd of women marching along Fifth Avenue, I realized life offered more if I only had the courage to grasp it. For the first time, Noah, I altered my destiny. My life finally took a turn I had chosen. A turn that did not require my father's sanction. Or society's." She rubbed harder at the scratch, weighing what she would reveal to him, he could tell. "Though the situation did not end well."
"Your father forced you to leave the university?"
"Oh, heavens, yes. He telegraphed the dean after the rally, threatened them with endangering my safety. They were glad to see me go, and I can understand. Many universities hesitate to start women's programs because of the additional responsibility." Elle cut her eyes his way, the pain in them making him wonder if she had talked about this with anyone else.
